by Graham Ison
Glass’s chin dropped on to his chest as he considered the predicament in which he now found himself. After a moment or two of deep introspection, he looked up again. “Can you like keep it to yourself, if I tell you, guv’nor?”
“Names?” said Fox brutally.
Glass sighed. “Sailor Pogson,” he said.
Fox laughed outright. “Sailor Pogson?”
“It’s the truth, so help me,” said Glass, fearful that his latest statement had also been disbelieved.
“Oh, I believe you, Bertie. I haven’t had such good news in years. And now you can tell me who Skelton’s other associates were. Apart, that is, from your good self.”
“What?”
“Who did he run with, Bertie?”
“You’re asking me to get topped meself,” said Glass miserably and again, he lapsed into a mood of deep depression.
“I think you’d better start putting the papers together for the Crown Prosecution Service, Kate,” said Fox, turning to the woman detective who throughout the interview had been sitting in a chair slightly behind Fox, and watching Glass carefully. “Think about the murder of Robin Skelton. For a start.” He turned back to Glass. “I hope you don’t regard that as a threat, Bertie,” he said. “I was merely giving instructions to my detective constable here.”
“I know he ran with Wally Proctor,” said Glass hurriedly. “And there was some bloke called…” His brow furrowed as he did his best to recall the name of a man who had entered, briefly, into the business affairs of his late employer. “Got it. Some bloke called Povey. Kevin Povey.”
“Never heard of him,” said Fox, betraying no sign of the interest he had in the man whom Glass had just mentioned. “Who was he then?”
“Dunno really. But he was a bent bastard.”
“How unusual,” murmured Fox, “That you should be mixing with such people.”
“Well, he was Australian, wasn’t he,” said Glass and shot an insolent grin at Kate Ebdon, well knowing that he was out of danger now. At least, as far as she was concerned. “You watch your mouth,” said Kate.
“Australian, was he?” asked Fox. “How did you know that?”
“Well, he talked like her,” said Glass, nodding in Kate’s direction.
“Where did he live?”
“Dunno. I never went there. But I think Rob said he had a pad down Clapham way. Stockwell maybe.”
“But you don’t know the address.”
“No.”
“Or his phone number, perhaps?” asked Fox.
“No. Well, I never had nothing to do with him, see. I met him the once, down Rob’s place.”
“And when exactly was this?”
Glass looked thoughtful. “Must have been just after Wally Proctor copped it.”
“You don’t happen to know whether this Povey was an engineer, do you, Bertie?”
Glass looked puzzled. “An engineer, guv? Nah! He was into nicking tomfoolery, wasn’t he. Same as Rob and Wally.”
*
“Mr Fletcher, it’s Janet Mortimer.”
“Hallo, Janet. What news?”
“I’ve had a word with my girl, Mr Fletcher, and she’s very unhappy about all this.”
“Understandable,” said Fletcher.
“But she’s willing to have a chat with you. I’ve told her you’re straight and she’s got nothing to worry about.”
“All right, Janet. Where and when?”
“I don’t want her coming round here,” said Janet. “Nor you too often. I’ve booked a room in a hotel. You can meet her there. Here,” she added, “I don’t suppose your firm’d be willing to pay for it in the circumstances, would they?”
“The room or the girl?” asked Fletcher with a chuckle.
“The room, of course.” Janet laughed too.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“And another thing, Mr Fletcher. She don’t want none of your women detectives there.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll bring another man, Janet. And you’d better be there, too.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mr Fletcher. I’m not letting her out of my sight.”
“Right then, shall we say about seven this evening?”
“That’ll do fine,” said Janet. “By the way, it’s the Agincourt Hotel in Park Lane. Room 203.”
“Is it indeed,” said Fletcher. “Well, well,well.”
Twelve
Matthew Hobson was a seasoned detective constable who had been on the Flying Squad for four years. Despite the strict rule regarding postings after three years, he had somehow managed to avoid the notice of the personnel department. But he had resisted the temptation to sit the promotion examination for fear that being made a sergeant would most definitely result in his transfer. Consequently, he was quite happy to get involved in whatever the criminal fraternity, or Tommy Fox, threw at him. But this evening, it was Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher who had called on his services.
The two detectives made their way to Room 203 at the Agincourt Hotel and Fletcher tapped lightly on the door.
“Hallo, Mr Fletcher, come in.” Janet Mortimer, wearing another of her black satin creations – this one had acquired a slightly “rusty” look about it – closed the door firmly behind them.
“This is Matt Hobson, detective constable of this parish,” said Fletcher and glanced at the raven-haired girl who was sitting on the bed, leaning back on her hands with her legs crossed.
“Nice meeting you, Mr Hobson, I’m sure,” said Janet, sounding more like the wife of a provincial mayor than the madam she was. “This is Karen.” The girl on the bed was about nineteen and soberly dressed in an elegant black suit. Her skirt reached to mid-calf and her white silk blouse was buttoned high to the neck. She wore black stockings and good-quality high-heeled shoes. She was not, Fletcher thought, the sort of girl to be found in Shepherd Market, much less in the King’s Cross area. This, undoubtedly, was an expensive whore.
“Hallo.” Karen spoke listlessly. She had obviously not been looking forward to this encounter and, by the nature of her profession, was apprehensive of the police.
“Evening, Karen.” Fletcher held out his hand.
After hesitating briefly, Karen shook hands with the detective. “I don’t like this, you know,” she said.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” said Fletcher. He was surprised at the girl’s cultured, educated voice. “I just wanted to have a chat with you about this bloke you were with the other night.”
“Yes, Mrs Mortimer told me.” Karen toyed with her gold bracelet and looked down at the carpet.
“I don’t suppose you’d be prepared to give me his name, Karen.” Fletcher gave the girl a reassuring look.
Karen glanced at Janet Mortimer as if seeking her permission. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “I mean, he’d know who’d told you, wouldn’t he?”
“Not necessarily.” Fletcher moved an upright chair from under the writing table, swung it round and sat down so that he was facing the girl, but not too close. He knew about the intimidating effect of invading someone’s personal space and, right now, he wanted the young prostitute’s confidence. “We would make discreet background enquiries about him and only interview him when we had something other than Gordon Povey to talk about. Then we would get him to volunteer the information.” He smiled. “We’re quite good at it, you know. There’s no way that he’d link our visit with you.”
But still the girl hesitated. Then she looked at Janet.
“What d’you think, Mrs Mortimer?” she asked.
“I’ve known Mr Fletcher for a long time, Karen,” said Janet. “He’s not like ordinary coppers. I’m sure he won’t let us down.”
“Are you the only girl who’s been with him, Karen?” asked Fletcher.
“No,” said Karen. “He’s been with two or three of us, but he always asks for me. Only I’m not always available. We don’t like him much. He’s an oily little creep. As a matter of fact the girls call him the Fat Luvvy.”<
br />
“What does he do for a living? Any idea?”
“He’s a company director of some kind, I think. He’s got a big BMW and wears expensive suits. He’s very generous, though, and always gives us a little something extra.”
“How d’you know he’s got a big BMW, Karen? I thought you only met him in places like this.”
“Yes, I do normally, but sometimes he gives me a lift afterwards.”
“I see.” Fletcher leaned forward, linking his hands together between his knees, and waited. He was an expert interrogator and knew that a young girl like Karen, when asked to reveal information that to a prostitute was sacrosanct, would need time.
“His name’s David Rice.” Karen spoke softly, almost as if hoping that she would not be heard.
“How old is he?”
“About fifty, I should think.”
“And have you any idea where he lives?”
“I can give you all that,” said Janet Mortimer. “At least, a phone number.”
Fletcher nodded. “Fine,” he said. He knew that Janet had known the man’s identity all along. But he also knew that Karen’s madam respected the girl’s professional status and if the information was going to be given to the police, it had to come from the prostitute’s own lips.
“Thanks, Karen,” said Fletcher, standing up. “We won’t let you down, but I expect that Mrs Mortimer told you how important it is that we should speak to this man.”
“Yes, she did.”
“Well, perhaps I can buy you both a drink.”
“You can buy me one, Mr Fletcher,” said Janet, “but Karen’s got an appointment.”
Karen stood up too. “Don’t remind me,” she said. “It’s Moby Dick again, isn’t it?”
“Why d’you call him Moby Dick?” asked Fletcher, a grin on his face.
“Because he’s from Wales and he’s got a big willy,” said Karen, and for the first time since Fletcher and Hobson had arrived, she smiled.
*
Fox strolled back and forth across his office, humming a little tune as he read the statement which Kate Ebdon had taken from Bert Glass following their latest interview with him.
“Excellent. Oh, excellent.” Fox dropped the sheaf of statement forms on his desk and smiled at Kate. “That, I think, is good enough to stitch up Master Pogson,” he said and rubbed his hands together. “I’m looking forward to this,” he added.
“Are we going to nick him, sir?” asked Kate.
“Most definitely,” said Fox. “But he’s a crafty bastard, is Sailor. I think we’ll do this by the book. Nip down to Bow Street, Kate, and get warrants for Pogson’s arrest and, to be on the safe side, search warrants for his office and his address in…” He paused. “I think he’s got a drum in Bromley. Sounds right. Bit of a social climber, our Sailor. But check it before you go for the briefs. Oh, and ask DI Evans to see me, will you?”
*
A subscriber check on the telephone number that Janet Mortimer had provided for David Rice revealed that the man Karen called Fat Luvvy had a flat in Pimlico. Fletcher called the number once or twice during the day, but there was no answer. And no answerphone. Enquiries continued.
He had told Fox about the interview with Karen in the hope that the detective chief superintendent might have allocated resources to set up a surveillance on the girl’s client. But DI Henry Findlater was still engaged at Barnes, attempting to discover the identity of Julie Lockhart’s boyfriend, the man Rosie Webster and Kate Ebdon had seen when they had called on the dentist’s wife. Consequently, Fletcher had been left to solve the problem himself.
He and Hobson found the flat in Pimlico where British Telecom had said Rice’s phone was installed and kept watch. At about seven o’clock, they saw a man fitting the description of Rice get out of a large BMW and let himself in.
Two hours later, they saw Karen alight from a taxi and knock at the door. She did not emerge again until a quarter past seven the next morning. Having assessed the girl as a high-quality tom, Fletcher came to the conclusion that Rice had a lot of money. A night with Karen, he reckoned, would have cost upwards of five hundred pounds. At eight-fifteen, Rice came out, got into his car, and drove the short distance to Fulham. He parked in a reserved bay in the forecourt of an office block and strode in, cheerfully acknowledging the salute of the doorman with a wave of his Daily Telegraph.
“Got the bastard,” said Fletcher.
*
Fox sent DI Gilroy and his team to Bromley and had taken Denzil Evans’s team with him to Sailor Pogson’s office near City Road. The two raids had been timed to coincide.
Fox mounted the stairs, two at a time, followed by Evans, Kate Ebdon and two or three other Squad officers, and pushed open the door of Pogson’s office so violently that it hit the filing cabinet behind it.
“What the bloody hell—?” Pogson leaped up in alarm.
“Hallo, Sailor. I’ll bet you didn’t expect to see me again so soon.”
Pogson surveyed the head of the Flying Squad and the officers who stood behind him. “What the hell’s going on, Mr Fox?” he asked.
“I recently had a long and interesting conversation with a man called Bert Glass,” said Fox.
“Should that name mean something?” Pogson sat down again, trying his best to look unconcerned at the sudden invasion of his office by the Heavy Mob.
“Oh yes.” Fox looked around the office with apparent interest before turning his gaze on the accountant. “He was Robin Skelton’s runner.”
“Am I supposed to know all about Skelton’s staffing arrangements then?” Pogson’s outward bravado did its best to disguise his innermost feelings of panic. Something told him that his days as Fox’s informant were over.
“Mr Glass has made a statement in which he says that on several occasions he delivered items of jewelery to you at the said Skelton’s behest. Stolen jewelery. Furthermore, he says that you took it from him without question and placed it in your peter.” Fox glanced significantly at the large safe standing in the corner of Pogson’s office.
“Does he really? Tell a lot of lies, does he, this man Glass?”
“Yes, lots,” said Fox, “but on this occasion I happen to believe him, Sailor. Therefore, it would greatly oblige me if you would open that safe of yours so that we could see if you’re holding any stock of questionable ownership.”
Pogson smiled. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” he said. “You see, it contains clients’ confidential papers.”
“Thought it might,” said Fox and produced a sheaf of forms from his pocket. “Here we have,” he continued, “a search warrant issued by the Bow Street magistrate this very morning, Sailor, together with – and this will be of paramount interest to you personally – a warrant for your arrest.”
That news clearly disturbed Pogson, but he did not intend to give in easily. “I’m afraid that an ordinary search warrant doesn’t cover such things as my clients’ confidential papers,” he said. “You see, Mr Fox, the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, with which I’m sure you’re familiar, specifically excludes such documents.”
“So it does.” Fox withdrew another sheet of paper from his pocket. “I almost forgot,” he said. “I envisaged the possibility that you might have such papers mixed up with unlawfully acquired goods, Sailor, so I sent Detective Inspector Evans here to see a circuit judge. One of the more understanding circuit judges, I may say, and he very kindly granted Mr Evans a warrant to search for what is called excluded material.”
“Oh!” said Pogson and threw a bunch of keys on to the desk. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“Practice makes perfect, Sailor,” said Fox, “and I’ve had a lot of practice.” He picked up the keys and handed them to Evans. “By the way,” he went on, “the same magistrate and the same circuit judge also issued warrants for the search of your house in Bromley.”
“What?” Once again, Pogson rose from his chair, his face suffused with anger. “But my wife will—”
“Your wife will be quite safe, Sailor.” Fox paused. “If, of course, my officers find any stolen goods there, the question will arise of whether your wife had guilty knowledge.” He waved a hand airily. “But that’s a matter for the courts, as I’m sure you understand.” He turned towards the officers who now had the safe and the filing cabinet open. “How are we doing, lads?” he asked.
“I think you might be interested in this, sir,” said Detective Sergeant Roy Buckley, handing Fox a bulky docket that he had just removed from the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. “Seems to contain a few familiar names.”
“And there are these, sir,” said Denzil Evans, emptying the contents of a large brown envelope on to the desk.
Fox gazed at the jewelery now sharing the desktop with a dirty cup and saucer, a pot of ballpoint pens, a diary and heaps of files. “Isn’t that amazing?” he said. He glanced at Pogson. “And there was I thinking that you were an accountant, Sailor.” He shook his head in wonderment and addressed Evans. “Where’s the nearest nick, Denzil?”
“City Road, sir.”
Fox sniffed. “I don’t like City Road,” he said. “Take Sailor to Charing Cross. You meet a better kind of custody officer there.”
By comparison, the search at Pogson’s house in Bromley revealed very little. The first estimate of the property taken from Pogson’s City Road office was twenty thousand pounds, but the safe at the Bromley house yielded only a necklace that was unlikely to net more than about a thousand. Mrs Pogson swore it was hers, and was promptly arrested. But as Fox frequently said, it is not possible to come first in all contests.
*
“Well,” said Fox when Sailor Pogson had been placed in a cell at Charing Cross police station, “a very successful morning’s work.”
“Want me to charge him, sir?” asked Evans.
“No, not yet, Denzil. I am by no means satisfied that the jewelery we found in Sailor’s possession had been unlawfully obtained.”
“But, sir—”
Fox held up a hand. “No, Denzil, be fair to the chap. He may have a perfectly acceptable explanation for it being in his safe. And Mrs Pogson did say that the necklace found at Bromley was hers, according to Jack Gilroy, anyway. No, Denzil, We must make further enquiries. In fact, I think I’ll tell Sailor that. He may just feel inclined to assist us in those enquiries.”
