Rough Diamonds

by Graham Ison

  “Oh no!” Michelle put a hand to her mouth. It was a theatrical and somewhat artificial gesture.

  “You probably read about it,” said Fox.

  “Yes, we certainly did, didn’t we, Paulie?” Once again, Michelle glanced at Paul White.

  “Your mother told me that she first met Dangerfield, or Proctor as we prefer to call him, last year when she was staying at your villa in the South of France.”

  “Never did like the guy,” said White, swinging his legs off the recliner so that he was sitting sideways-on and facing Fox.

  “What particularly didn’t you like about him, Mr White?” Fox suspected that White had just come to that conclusion in the light of what Fox had told him. Either that or he had seen in Proctor a like image and may have been afraid that he was muscling in, perhaps on his own wife, Michelle. Fox had already concluded that Paul White was a bit of a con man himself.

  “I don’t know. There was something about him. Something that didn’t ring true.”

  “Did you express those fears to your mother-in-law, Mr White?” Fox knew damned well that he had not.

  “Well, no. None of my business really, was it? Wouldn’t have been any point, anyway. When Linda gets it into her head to do something, no one on God’s earth will stop her. It would have been a waste of breath, quite frankly.”

  “I see. Tell me, how did Mrs Ward meet this man?” Fox’s gaze encompassed both Paul White and his wife.

  Paul White answered the question. “Our villa’s about eight or nine kilometers from Cannes,” he said. “Halfway between there and Miramar. The minute Linda gets there, she’s away to the casino in Cannes. She loves playing the tables. Apparently she met this Dangerfield chap…” He paused. “What did you say his real name was?”

  “Proctor,” said Gilroy.

  “Yes, well, she met him at the roulette tables one night. Then she met him again the next night. Need I go on?”

  “No, I think I understand,” said Fox. “I imagine there are quite a few Proctors hanging about the casinos in the South of France.”

  “Oh, believe me, there are,” said White.

  “Did Mrs Ward remain friendly with him the whole time she was there?”

  “Yes, she did.” Michelle White smiled. “I wasn’t as doubtful about him as Paulie,” she said. “He seemed a very nice man. Very personable, and he had beautiful manners.” Her husband snorted. “He was a bit younger than Mummy, but that doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “You met him then.”

  “Oh yes. Mummy asked if she could bring him to the villa. Naturally, we said yes. He was awfully nice. Brought me a beautiful bouquet of flowers and a huge box of chocolates. We spent all day round the pool, just swimming and lazing and talking.”

  “Around the pool?”

  “Yes. We’ve got one at the villa as well. Paulie indulges me, you see.” Michelle smiled across to where her husband was sitting, a sullen expression on his face.

  “I’d have spotted him as a con man a million miles away,” said White. “Written all over him. Know what I mean?”

  “Did he mention jewelery at all, while he was at the villa, Mr White? Or perhaps suggest that he was hard up? Money tied up in shares? Anything like that?”

  “No. Well he wouldn’t, would he? Too clever by half, these guys. It’s all softly-softly with them. Well, he proved it, right? Waited damned nearly a year to relieve Linda of her sparklers.”

  “Did you meet him at all, once you were all back in England?” Fox was still trying to get a picture of Wally Proctor. And more particularly, any associates he may have had. So far, he had not had much luck.

  “No,” said Michelle. “When Mummy telephoned, she said that she’d met him once or twice in London. Then suddenly, she wasn’t mentioning him any more. But I dropped in on her one day when I went into town to do some shopping at Harrods. I must admit that I had a bit of a nose around. There was an electric razor in the bathroom and a man’s dressing gown hanging up in Mummy’s bedroom.” She shrugged. “I just put two and two together.”

  “Did you tackle your mother about it?”

  “Sort of,” said Michelle. “I asked if James had moved in. Frankly, I thought, well, good luck to you, Mummy.”

  “James?” Fox knew who she meant, but wanted to confirm it.

  “Yes, James Dangerfield. Who turned out to be this Proctor man you mentioned.”

  “What did your mother say?”

  “She told me to mind my own business.” Michelle giggled. “Well, a nod’s as good as a wink, isn’t it?”

  “So they say,” said Fox. “So they say.”

  *

  Fox went to see Linda Ward again.

  “Mrs Ward, how long did Proctor, or James Dangerfield, as you knew him, live with you?”

  “How dare you.” Linda Ward was clearly outraged at Fox’s question. But he knew that she would be, however he framed it. And that was why he had brought Rosie Webster with him. “What business is it of yours, may I ask?”

  “I’m not interested in your private life, Mrs Ward. But I am very interested in Proctor’s private life, and as the two of you appear to have had a close association, I must ask these questions.” Fox smiled at the woman opposite him. “I’m investigating three murders, Mrs Ward, and that means that I have to ask a lot of questions, some of which may well be embarrassing. But you have my assurance that anything you tell me will not go beyond this room.” He glanced at Rosie and nodded. Rosie ostentatiously closed her pocket book and dropped it into her handbag. Fox had told her not to take notes, but to have the book out so that she could make this gesture of confidentiality.

  Mrs Ward appeared somewhat mollified by Fox’s words and Rosie’s actions. “Well, I suppose you are just doing your job,” she said. “But it’s still a shock to think that James turned out to be some cheap criminal.”

  “He wasn’t all that cheap,” said Fox. “My officers have been making enquiries all over the place and I now know that at least five other women were relieved of their jewelery in the same way that you were.”

  Linda Ward looked up, the expression on her face implying that she did not believe the detective. Then she shrugged her shoulders and sighed. “And I suppose they were all silly old women like me.” She stared at the empty fireplace.

  “I wouldn’t call you silly, Mrs Ward,” said Fox and, with a smile, added, “And certainly not old. In fact, you’re a very attractive woman.”

  Rosie Webster thought what a smarmy bastard her chief was and made a mental note to regale the other sergeants with this latest piece of Tommy Fox lore.

  For the first time since their arrival, Linda Ward smiled. “I don’t suppose you’d like a cup of tea, would you?” she asked. “Or perhaps something stronger?”

  “A cup of tea would be fine, Mrs Ward.”

  Once Linda Ward had made the tea and the three of them were settled again, Fox resumed his questioning. “Did you ever meet any of Proctor’s friends, Mrs Ward?”

  “No, I didn’t. We went out from time to time, but only for dinner, usually at some exclusive restaurant. I think he was as much a stranger there as I was. You can always tell, you know. Head waiters tend to know you if you’re a regular. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

  “Oh I do, Mrs Ward,” said Fox warmly. “Indeed I do. So you never met anyone who seemed to know Proctor.”

  “No, no one. But there was a rather strange phone call for him one day.”

  “Oh? Who from?”

  “I don’t know, but oddly enough, the voice sounded familiar.” Linda Ward put her head to one side as though it would aid her memory.

  “He didn’t say who he was then?”

  “No. And he sounded quite aggressive. Well, not so much aggressive but rather that he was trying to disguise his voice.”

  “What did this caller say, Mrs Ward?”

  “I told him that James wasn’t here, and this man on the telephone said something like, Well, tell him I’m coming for him.”r />
  “D’you mean that he meant he was going to collect him? Pick him up in a car, or something like that?”

  “Oh no. He sounded much too angry. I thought he meant he was going to get him. You know, like these thugs you see on television.”

  “And not only on television,” Fox muttered. “And what did Proctor say when you relayed this message to him?”

  “I didn’t. You see, James had already left me by then.”

  “As a matter of interest, Mrs Ward, why didn’t you tell me all this the last time I came to see you?”

  “I’m sorry, but I’ve only just remembered it.”

  *

  “Well, Rosie, what did you think of that?” asked Fox as they reached the car.

  “Looks like a case of a lonely sex-hungry widow being had over by a sharp con man who eventually got his come-uppance, sir,” said Rosie with a grin.

  “You do have a way of summarizing things rather neatly, Rosie.” Fox paused and glanced across the road. “I suppose you’d rather have had a gin and tonic than that cup of Lapsang Souchong.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So would I,” said Fox and, leaving Swann to fester behind the wheel of the car, steered Rosie Webster across the road to the nearest pub.

  Nine

  “You know when we nicked Skelton, sir…”

  “Yes, Jack.” Fox stirred absently at his tea.

  “I got the fingerprint lads to go over his Notting Hill flat, just for the hell of it,” said Gilroy.

  “Of course,” said Fox.

  “They’ve come up with a partial.”

  Fox placed his teaspoon carefully in the saucer. “Has it been identified, Jack?”

  “Well, as I said, it’s only a partial and they couldn’t get enough points off it for proof, but they’re as sure as hell that it tallies with the unidentified marks found in Skelton’s Bayswater flat after his murder, and on the houseboat following the Jason Bright killing.” Gilroy grinned at his chief.

  “Povey?”

  “Looks like it, sir.”

  “In that case, Jack, we shall have to find this Povey. He’s rapidly becoming a pain in the arse. What’s more, he’s getting in the way of an honest bit of thief-taking. D’you realize, Jack, that there are villains marauding all over London while we’re wasting our time on this tosser? Get hold of Percy Fletcher for me, will you?”

  Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher was renowned for his string of informants, most of whom had been cultivated during Fletcher’s period at West End Central police station. “You wanted me, guv?” he asked when he ambled into Fox’s office mintues later.

  “Yes, Perce. We need to find Kevin Povey. Get out and beat on the ground. See what comes up.”

  “Right, sir.” Fletcher nodded gloomily.

  “And give Mr Evans a shout on your way out.”

  Detective Inspector Denzil Evans was clutching a file when he entered Fox’s office. “Identified the jewelery, sir. Well, at least, some of it. Most of it belongs to Mrs Ward. The police report reckoned that Proctor had had about seventy grand’s worth off her. The rest is an equal split between Mrs Bourne and Mrs Harker.”

  “Splendid, Denzil. Any not accounted for?”

  “Each-way bet, sir.”

  Fox raised his eyebrows at Evans’s unusual lapse into race-course jargon. “Would you care to elucidate, Denzil?”

  “Yes, sir. Not all Mrs Bourne’s and Mrs Harker’s losses have been recovered, and some of the gear that was found hasn’t been tied up with a loser yet.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Fox. “Well, keep at it, there’s a good chap. And when you’ve got a minute, send someone round to the Agincourt Hotel. Tell them to see that hall porter fellow. What was his name?”

  “Buck, sir. Brian Buck.”

  “That’s the chap. Show him the photographs of Skelton and Povey. Show them to the staff as well. See if anyone recognizes either of them as the finger who deposited the despatch case.”

  “Briefcase, sir,” corrected Evans.

  “Matter of opinion, Denzil. It despatched Wally Proctor, didn’t it?”

  *

  Detective Inspectors Gilroy and Evans were both known to have informants and they too were instructed to put out feelers in the search for Kevin Povey. And Fox went after his own favorite snout.

  Spider Walsh’s idea of discretion was about as subtle as a charging rhinoceros, and Fox, sitting in the downstairs bar of the Cat and Fiddle public house in Belgravia, watched with amusement as the old informant entered.

  Walsh oiled his way round the door and stopped. He peered first at the bar, giving his lips a cursory lick, and then stared around the room until he sighted Tommy Fox sitting in a corner with his back to the wall. “Hallo, Mr Fox.”

  “I do wish you’d give up these arcane approaches, Spider.”

  Walsh looked hurt. “I’ve never done drugs, Mr Fox,” he said. “You know that.”

  “Sit down,” said Fox. “I’ve got you a stout.”

  “Oh, ta, Mr Fox.” Walsh seized the pint of Guinness and thirstily took the top off it. He wiped the froth from his upper lip with the back of his hand and sighed. “Dunno if I can help you this time, Mr Fox,” he said.

  “You haven’t heard the question yet, Spider.” Fox took a sip of his Scotch. “I’m anxious to interview a man called Kevin Povey, and I’m equally anxious that he does not learn that I wish to interview him. Got the drift?”

  Walsh nodded thoughtfully. “Ain’t never heard of him,” he said. “What’s his MO?” In common with most people on the fringe of the criminal fraternity, Walsh knew the Latin phrase modus operandi. In fact, it was probably the only Latin phrase that he knew, with the possible exception of sine die, a term bandied about in the courts to indicate that a case was being remanded to a date yet to be fixed.

  “His MO, as you so succinctly put it, Spider, is that he goes about murdering people.”

  Unfortunately, Spider was taking his second draught of Guinness at that point and promptly coughed and spluttered and spilt a liberal quantity of stout down the front of his raincoat. “Oh, my Gawd,” he said, when eventually he had recovered his composure.

  “That’s very expensive stuff that Guinness, Spider,” said Fox mildly. “Shouldn’t waste it.”

  “I don’t know nothing about no toppings, Mr Fox.” Walsh peered around the bar as if lining up an escape route. “Who’s he done, this Povey?”

  “I reckon there’s three down to him, Spider. But you’ll remember two of them.” Briefly, he told Walsh about the deaths of Proctor and Skelton.

  “I heard about that geezer in the flounder, Mr Fox. Very nasty.”

  “Murders always are, Spider, but particularly ones in taxis. Tends to upset the hackney-carriage trade, that sort of thing.”

  Walsh drained his glass and looked hopeful. “I’ll see what I can do, Mr Fox, but I ain’t making no promises.”

  “Get yourself another stout, Spider, seeing that you wasted half the first one.” And with an uncharacteristic display of generosity, Fox placed a ten-pound note on the table before leaving.

  *

  “Mr Gilroy’s looking for you, sir,” said a detective constable as Fox put his head round the door of the Flying Squad office. “Something about a pawn shop in Staines apparently.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In his office, I think, sir.”

  “Right,” said Fox. “Tell him I’m back.” He walked down the corridor to his office and started, reluctantly, to sift through the files that had appeared on his desk during his absence.

  “Got a call from the local Old Bill at Staines, guv’nor,” said Gilroy as he entered Fox’s office. “Don’t know whether there’s anything in it, but they thought there might be.”

  “Go on then.”

  “Seems a bloke tried to hock some gems in a pawn shop in Staines. The assistant didn’t like the look of the sparklers or the bloke who was trying to pledge them. And he told this finger that they were paste and he w
asn’t interested.”

  “What happened?”

  “The bloke left and the chap in the pawn shop rang the law, but by the time they got down there, our hero had taken it on the toes. No trace of him in the vicinity.”

  “Was it paste, Jack?”

  “No, it was the real thing apparently.”

  “What did he reckon this tomfoolery was worth then, Jack? Did he say?”

  “The local law reckoned he put a value on it of about ten grand, sir.”

  “Why the bloody hell didn’t he hang on to him then?” asked Fox.

  “They won’t take the risk these days, sir,” said Gilroy. “They’re frightened of getting stabbed. And I don’t blame them. Half these blokes are on drugs. Anyway, the bloke would probably get a pound out of the poor box if we’d nicked him and the pawnbroker’d finish up getting done for assault.”

  Fox shook his head. “Things have come to a pretty pass, Jack. Description?”

  “The usual, sir,” said Gilroy, which meant that the description would have fitted half the male population of London, “but there was one point about him…”

  “Which was?”

  “He had a tattoo on the back of his left hand. The pawnbroker’s assistant is pretty sure that it was a heart with an arrow through it.”

  “How distasteful,” said Fox. “Anyone ever heard of this chap?”

  “Enquiries are in hand, sir.”

  “Good. Give Dickie Lord a bell. He might know this finger.”

  Gilroy paused, his hand resting lightly on the handle of Fox’s office door. “Why are we interested in this bloke, sir?”

  “According to Dickie Lord, the late Mr Proctor, and to a lesser degree Skelton, weren’t above doing a bit of fencing, as well as thieving. Given that both are now permanently out of circulation, this poor sod’s likely roaming the streets trying to find a buyer for his ill-gotten gains. It’s worth a try, Jack, but don’t waste too much time on it.”

  *

  One of the Flying Squad’s strengths is that it manages to acquire some very good detectives, and one of the attributes of a very good detective is that he, or she, has a very good memory. In this case, it was Detective Constable Kate Ebdon, the recently recruited Australian who had cut her teeth on the villains of Leman Street, who came up with the answer to Fox’s query.