Rough Diamonds

by Graham Ison

  “Because you’re the daughter of an earl, and that impresses my lot. And because you’re an attractive woman.”

  “D’you think so?” Jane smiled as she fished for the compliment.

  “Well, that’s what Jack Gilroy told me,” said Fox, “And, as I said, he’s a good detective.”

  Jane laughed and threw a cushion at Fox. “You can be an absolute bastard at times, Tommy,” she said.

  “Not all the time. I came here specifically to take you out to dinner.” Fox glanced at Jane’s casual attire. “But not in that rugby shirt,” he said, “so go and put on a frock and we’ll find a decent restaurant somewhere.”

  Fifteen

  Detective Inspector Henry Findlater’s motley crew of surveillance officers discovered what Jeremy Ryan purported to do for a living within an hour of setting up their observation. At nine o’clock in the morning, Ryan left his house and drove to a one-roomed office over a shop in the center of Wimbledon. Just inside the street door, at the foot of the stairs, there was a small sign which stated “Jeremy Ryan, Insurance Broker”.

  Fox smiled archly when Findlater reported this information to him. “Be interesting to discover how many of his clients have had their jewelery stolen, Henry,” he said.

  “The only way I can think of is to get a search warrant, sir,” said Findlater.

  “And that’ll have to be from a circuit judge, I suppose,” said Fox. “Yet again. No, Henry, there’s an easier way. At least, to start with.”

  Findlater looked slightly puzzled. “There is, sir?”

  “Yes, indeed, Henry. Go and have a word with the local VAT office. If you talk to them nicely, they may well tell you what Master Ryan is about. Unofficially, of course.”

  “But he may not be registered for VAT, sir.”

  “Highly likely, Henry. Highly likely.” Fox grinned. “But in my experience of VAT officers that minor problem merely serves to whet their appetite. And they will be able to tell us the state of his business.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “If he appears to be doing very little, then we’ll pounce. With a warrant.” Fox gave Findlater another evil smile. “I’ve got a feeling about this, Henry,” he said.

  *

  “Kevin Povey, sir,” said DC March.

  “Have you arrested him, Ted?” Fox beamed expectantly at the young detective.

  “No, sir,” said March nervously. “I’ve been at St Catherine’s House.”

  “Yes, I know. Any joy?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. There’s no trace of Kevin Povey having been divorced either in that name or in the name of Don Fortune.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” said Fox gloomily. “Anything else?”

  “Just for good measure, sir, I went through the marriage records and he doesn’t seem to have been married either.”

  “That would account for his not having been divorced then, I suppose.”

  “And there’s no trace of his birth either, sir. I went back fifty years, and there’s nothing.”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t exist,” said Fox hopefully. For a moment or two, he reposed in deep thought. “Ask DS Crozier to see me, will you?” he said at last.

  Detective Sergeant Ron Crozier had once let it be known that he spoke French. He had also let slip that he had been an actor, albeit unsuccessful, before joining the Metropolitan Police some twenty-four years previously. As a consequence, Fox always picked him for any job that required one or other of these attributes. Today, it was Crozier’s linguistic ability that had influenced Fox’s decision to select him for a distant enquiry.

  “You wanted me, sir?” Crozier approached Fox’s desk with apprehension.

  “Ah, Ron. D’you remember that job we had in the South of France?”

  “In the South of France, sir?” Crozier looked genuinely puzzled. He knew that Fox tended to ignore constabulary boundaries when it suited him, but the South of France was stretching the limits of his authority a bit far.

  “Yes, yes. That job where we found the wrong body in a coffin somewhere, following a jewelery heist in the West End. Surely you remember that.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Of course.”

  “I went over there and made contact with some Frog copper in Nice, and then you went over and brought back some woman. Jane somebody, yes?”

  “Yes, sir. I remember now. It was Inspecteur Principal Pierre Ronsard.”

  “That’s the fellow. Pop over and have a word with him, will you? See what he knows about the French police interviewing the Poveys after the houseboat murder at Shepperton. When this enquiry started Mr Semple at Eight Area said that the Poveys were on their yacht in Cannes when it happened.”

  “But Cannes is about thirty-two kilometers from Nice, sir,” said Crozier.

  “Really? What’s that in English, Ron?”

  Crozier calculated quickly. “Twenty miles, sir.”

  “Well, there you are then, Ron. Go and see what you can find out.”

  “But Ronsard was at the Police Urbaine in Nice, sir. It’ll have been someone in Cannes who did the enquiry.”

  Fox nodded in agreement. “I’m sure you’ll sort it all out, Ron.” He glanced at the clock. “I reckon you could get over there in time for dinner.” For a moment, he paused before adding his usual caveat. “And don’t spend too much of the Commissioner’s money, Ron.”

  *

  Detective Inspector Denzil Evans had been deputed to accompany Sailor Pogson to his safety deposit box and recover the wrappings in which the mysterious parcel of jewelery had arrived at the accountant’s office. Being cautious enough to think that it might one day be required as evidence, Pogson had sealed it in a plastic bag, but when it was examined by the forensic science laboratory at Lambeth, the experts there were unable to find anything that might further Fox’s investigations. The box and the paper in which it had been wrapped were of a common brand and easily obtainable from almost any stationer. There was nothing that would enable the police to trace the supplier. Needless to say, there were no fingerprints on either the paper or the box, and the only indication of the parcel’s source was that it bore a Maidstone, Kent, postmark.

  “Interesting, that, sir,” said Evans when he reported the laboratory’s findings to Fox. “I understand that the Poveys were married in Maidstone. I wonder if there’s a connection.”

  “Only if the parcel’s been lost in the post for thirty years, Denzil,” said Fox. “Or was that another of your Welsh jokes?”

  *

  Henry Findlater was shown into the office of the principal in charge of the Wimbledon VAT office and explained his problem, emphasizing, as Fox had told him to, that his enquiry was very likely connected with three outstanding murders.

  “I thought about joining the police when I left school,” said the VAT officer.

  “Really?” said Findlater without much enthusiasm. “What stopped you?”

  “Don’t like working nights. Now then, you wanted to know about Jeremy Ryan.” The civil servant opened a slim file. “Well, there’s not much here. We followed up an advertisement that Ryan had put in a local paper, offering competitive insurance rates. So we paid him a visit…”

  “And?” Findlater took his pocket book out.

  The VAT officer grinned. “You won’t need that,” he said. “Ryan was in such a poor way of business that it was a miracle he was surviving. He’d had practically no business at all. And we went through his books from the day he’d set up.”

  “And when was that?”

  “About three years ago.” The VAT officer closed the file. “Incidentally, we had queries from two or three of our other offices around the country. It seems that Ryan had advertised in their local papers too, and they wondered if he was on some sort of fiddle. They thought that he might have been advertising away from home so that we wouldn’t notice.” He grinned and closed the file. “Have to be sharper than that to avoid the Revenue, I can tell you, Inspector.”

  *

  Detectiv
e Sergeant Ron Crozier had not bothered Pierre Ronsard at Nice, despite Fox’s suggestion that he should do so, but had telephoned the Police Urbaine at Cannes direct.

  When his aircraft touched down at Nice Côte d’Azur Airport, an Inspecteur Principal Victor Lasage of the Sûreté Urbaine was waiting to meet him and drive him the twenty miles to Cannes.

  Lasage spoke excellent English and Crozier vowed not to tell Fox that, in this case, his ability to speak French was not required. Despite his apparent reluctance whenever he was assigned a task by his chief – a standard police reaction – Crozier enjoyed the rare occasions when he could escape to France. And from Fox.

  However, the moment that Lasage and Crozier arrived at the former’s office the following morning, a detective held out the handset of a telephone. “There is a flying fox on the telephone for you, m’sieur,” he said. “I think.” The man looked utterly baffled by the experience of receiving a call from Fox of the Flying Squad, an experience not aided by the fact that he spoke little English and Fox spoke no French.

  “Crozier, sir.”

  “Ah, Ron, it’s you. Fox here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve just spoken to some half-wit who didn’t understand a word I said. He seemed to be speaking some foreign language.”

  “Most of them do over here, sir.”

  “Yes, well. Now then, how are you getting on?”

  “I’m just about to start on the paperwork, sir.”

  “Good heavens,” said Fox, “What have you been doing?”

  “Getting the lie of the land, sir. Background stuff. Looking at the harbor. That sort of thing.” In fact, Crozier and Lasage had spent the whole of the previous evening over dinner. In common with most Frenchmen, eating was a near-religious experience for Lasage and nothing, save the most dire cause, was allowed to interfere with it.

  “Good, good,” said Fox. “Well, don’t waste your time, Ron. There’s plenty for you to do back here.” There was a click and the telephone went dead.

  “Trouble, Ron?” asked Lasage.

  “It’s my guv’nor,” said Crozier. “He’s mad.”

  The Frenchman gave a Gallic shrug. “It’s the same in France,” he said. “Now then, you want to know about Gordon Povey, yes?”

  “Yes,” said Crozier. “About five years ago, you were asked by Scotland Yard to interview Mr and Mrs Povey on their yacht here in Cannes.”

  Lasage nodded. “Perhaps,” he said. “What about?”

  “Their son, a Kevin Povey, was wanted for questioning in connection with a murder which took place on a houseboat in England. At a place called Shepperton.”

  “I was not here at that time,” said Lasage, “but I will look in the records.” The French inspector turned to a junior detective and issued a string of instructions. Minutes later, the man returned and laid a file on Lasage’s desk.

  “Here we have it,” said the inspecteur and flicked open the docket. For the next few moments he turned pages, scanning each one rapidly. Then he turned to face Crozier. “It is as you say. A request was received from Scotland Yard to interview Gordon and Rachel Povey on their yacht in Cannes harbor. They were on holiday…” He paused and smiled. “But it was a long holiday. They had been here for some months, avoiding the English weather, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Very sensible if you can afford it,” said Crozier.

  “Oh, I think they could,” said Lasage. “The officer who interviewed them said they seemed to have plenty of money.” He shrugged again. Lasage did a lot of shrugging. “But then if you own a yacht in Cannes harbor, you have to have plenty of money.”

  “What was the outcome?”

  “Gordon Povey was fifty-two years old and looked very ill, according to the officer. He told our man that he had heart trouble and was taking much medication.”

  “That would be right,” said Crozier. “He died shortly afterwards of a heart attack.”

  “D’accord,” exclaimed Lasage. He pulled out a packet of Gauloise cigarettes and offered one to Crozier.

  “No thanks,” said Crozier. “But did he know anything about his son Kevin?”

  “Not according to this.” Lasage dropped ash on to the open file and brushed it off, leaving a smudge on the page. “He said that he had not seen him for some years, and that even when he and his wife…” He paused and looked up. “That is Gordon Povey and his wife. Even when they were in England, they did not see him. The detective said that they did not seem to know about the murder and were visibly upset…” He paused again. “That is the right expression, Ron?”

  Crozier laughed. “I should think it probably is,” he said.

  “Mrs Povey began to cry when she heard the news and the officer said that they started arguing, but that they were speaking so fast that he didn’t understand what they were saying. He seemed to think that Mrs Povey was blaming her husband for what had happened to their son.”

  “Did the officer ask them how long exactly it was since they had last seen their son?”

  “Yes.” Lasage glanced at the file again. “They merely said two or three years.”

  “We have been told that Gordon Povey was a diamond merchant. Is that confirmed?”

  Again, Lasage looked at the file and eventually nodded. “Yes, that is so. But he had retired two years before because of his ill health.”

  “And that’s about it, I suppose.”

  “That, as you say, Ron, is about it.” Lasage closed the file with a gesture of finality. “Time for a glass of pastis, I think,” he said, and stood up.

  *

  “Jack, have you had any luck with the Brighton police about Povey?” asked Fox.

  “No, sir, not as yet.” Gilroy had been confronted by Fox in the corridor outside his office. “I had a word with the local DC I down there and he was going to make some enquiries around the marina, but I somehow doubt that Povey’s still in the area. Knowing that Mrs Carter frequently visited yachts, he’d have to be mad to stay there.”

  “Or cocky, Jack,” said Fox. He straightened a notice about the Flying Squad dinner-dance that was pinned to the social activities board. “I hope that Lady Jane doesn’t get to hear about that,” he said.

  “Too late, sir. The commander mentioned it to her at the senior officers’ dinner the other night.”

  “Wonderful!” Fox looked displeased.

  “She said that she would try to persuade you to take her, sir.” Gilroy grinned.

  “Is that so? Well, Jack, if the Brighton police don’t come up with something about Povey, you and I might be down there that night. Making some local enquiries at the marina.”

  *

  “How the hell did you spend this much?” Fox looked up from the expenses claim that Crozier had submitted on his return from France, a contrived look of horror on his face. “And all we got for that was what we knew already.”

  “I suppose we could have found that out by making a phone call, sir,” said Crozier.

  “Yes, we could,” said Fox. “You should have thought of that.” He signed the form and tossed it into his out-tray. “You used to be an actor, didn’t you, Ron?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Crozier, sighing inwardly.

  “Good. Got a little job for you. The story is this. You are a very rich man.” Fox paused. “Well, you will be when that comes through.” He waved a hand at the expenses form. “And you are seeking to insure your valuables. Trot down to Wimbledon and see this Ryan finger and tell him all about it. Make up some fanny about all this jewelery you’ve got, and your expensive car. Ryan advertises competitive rates for insurance, and I’m anxious to see what he comes up with. Mr Findlater has been making enquiries of the local VAT office and they seem to think that Ryan’s existing on fresh air and little else. I suppose he’s living on his wife’s income. Apparently she’s a departmental manageress at some big store in central London.”

  Sixteen

  Detective Sergeant Crozier had done his homework. He had obtained from Henry Findlate
r details of the newspapers in which Jeremy Ryan had advertised his services, and had selected one that circulated in the Chelsea area. Armed with the newspaper, and a carefully prepared cover story, he visited the Wimbledon office of the insurance broker.

  “Can I help you?” Ryan looked up from some papers that were spread out on his desk and gave Crozier a reassuring smile.

  “I wanted to see Mr Ryan,” said Crozier. He had examined the surveillance photographs that Findlater’s team had taken of Ryan, but did not wish to appear too well informed about the man’s identity.

  “That is I,” said Ryan. He stood up and shook hands. “Do take a seat, Mr…?”

  “Crozier, Ronald Crozier.” The detective looked around the office as though assessing the probity of its tenant.

  “And what can I do for you, Mr Crozier?”

  “I’m looking to insure my mother’s flat,” said Crozier. “But I’m astounded at the high rates of insurance these days.”

  “Ah, yes.” Ryan shook his head sadly. “The rising crime rate, hurricanes, floods…” He reeled off a list of recent disasters. “All pushed the rates up, you know. But we do our best to find an underwriter who gives credit to those who take care. After all,” he went on, warming to his subject, “why should you pay for the carelessness of others?”

  “Absolutely,” said Crozier, although he failed to understand how being the victim of a hurricane, for example, could be regarded as carelessness. “My mother has been living in France for the past ten years,” he continued. “But now that she’s into her seventies, she wants to move back here, and I think I’ve got her a flat in Chelsea.”

  “In Chelsea, eh?” Ryan nodded approvingly and tapped his teeth with his bail-point pen. “Problem with Chelsea,” he said, “is that it’s in a high crime area.” He dropped the pen and, opening a drawer in his desk, took out a bulky folder. “However, we’ll see what we can do.” He drew a printed form towards him. “What’s the address of this flat?”

  Crozier gave Ryan details of a flat that was to let in a modern block in Chelsea, which he had found in the same paper as Ryan’s advertisement. “It’s not confirmed yet, of course. My mother still has to see it, but she’s a widow and quite willing to leave all this business to me.”