by Graham Ison
“She’s very lucky to have a son who’s so caring,” said Ryan patronizingly. “Now, what sort of value are we talking about? Contents, that is.”
Crozier looked thoughtful for a moment and then quoted a figure that would indicate a rather rich old lady. “And then there’s her jewelery,” he added.
“Oh!” Ryan glanced up sharply.
“Is that a problem?” asked Crozier innocently.
“Not a problem, but it does tend to push the rates up, depending on the value of the jewelery in question, of course.”
Again, Crozier appeared to be thinking. “I suppose it must be about thirty thousand pounds,” he said eventually. “But it might be more. I really ought to get her to have it valued. I’ve tried, several times, to persuade her to put it into a safety deposit box at the bank, but she won’t hear of it.”
“Always a difficult thing to do,” said Ryan.
“What is?”
“Persuading elderly people not to keep their valuable possessions at home with them.” Ryan sighed. “But there we are.” He referred to the folder and, after punching a few figures into a calculator, scribbled an amount on a scrap of paper. “I think that’s the best I could offer you, Mr Crozier,” he said. “It’s very difficult getting the rate down when a substantial amount of jewelery is involved, particularly in an area like Chelsea.”
Crozier glanced at the figure that Ryan had written down. It was a good fifteen per cent above the rate that a detective sergeant on the Fraud Squad had obtained for him from a reputable underwriter. “It is a bit high,” he said.
Ryan nodded understandingly. “I can only advise you to shop around, Mr Crozier,” he said, standing up and holding out his hand. “I like to see clients getting the best deal, even if it is with another broker. But if you can’t do any better, do come and see me again, or give me a ring. Obviously, we can’t do anything until you can confirm that your mother’s actually moved in, but once she has, I can offer immediate cover from that very moment.” He made it sound as though he was doing Crozier a favor.
*
“I gather from the DAC on Eight Area that the Squad’s virtually taken over this Proctor enquiry, Tommy.” Commander Alec Myers gazed at Fox through a haze of cigarette smoke.
“Much of the enquiry is centerd here now, sir,” admitted Fox reluctantly. He knew what was coming next.
“Apparently Jim Semple’s been complaining that you’ve left him with nothing to do.”
“First time anyone’s ever said that about me, sir,” said Fox, a look of regret on his face.
“Right then, that’s it,” said Myers. “I’ll tell DAC Eight Area that he can release Semple and you can move the incident room here. How’s the damned enquiry going, anyway?”
“We’re getting there, sir,” said Fox, by no means certain that that was the case. “But it’s not really a job for the Squad.”
“If that’s a last-ditch attempt to shunt it back to Eight Area, you can forget it, Tommy,” said Myers. “It’s yours and you’re stuck with it.”
“It is rather holding up everything else.”
“Simple answer to that,” said Myers. “Solve the bloody thing.”
*
“I’m going to take a chance on this one,” said Fox to the assembled Flying Squad officers. Several of his audience quietly confided to each other that there was nothing new in that. “It’s looking increasingly likely that the murders of Proctor and Skelton are down to Kevin Povey, who’s also in the frame for the Shepperton houseboat job. Now we have another runner, namely Jeremy Ryan, self-professed insurance broker. I say self-professed because he doesn’t seem to want any business. Ron Crozier went to see him yesterday on a fanny. Ron, you have the floor.” Fox made a sweeping gesture to indicate that the detective sergeant should join him at the front of the room.
Crozier stood up. “The quote he gave me for my fictitious widowed mother’s fictitious flat and fictitious jewelery,” he began and received a few sarcastic comments, “was way above anything else on the market. A mate of mine on the Fraud Squad told me that I could have got a lower rate almost anywhere else. The obvious conclusions are that Ryan has set up this so-called business as a front simply to glean information about rich widows with a fair amount of tomfoolery. At a guess, I’d say that he passes that information on to the likes of the late Proctor and Skelton, and possibly even Povey, who then do the business. And I’ve no doubt that Ryan gets a cut of the profit once the gear’s been unloaded on to a fence.”
“Thank you, Ron,” said Fox, resuming center stage as Crozier sat down again. “Anyone got any points?”
“Why don’t we set up this flat that Ron propped to Ryan, guv’nor,” said Percy Fletcher, “and see if we get a bite?”
“What, act as agents provocateurs, Perce?” said Fox. “What a positively disgraceful suggestion.”
The audience dissolved into laughter and young Ted March asked his neighbor what the joke was.
“No, Perce, it would take too long, and it might not come off at all. Well, it might, but it would probably net the wrong fish. Povey must know he’s in the frame for the Proctor and Skelton toppings, and he’s probably lying low until the dust settles. We’ve wasted enough time on this already and I don’t want to tie up a team staffing an empty flat in Chelsea, just to see if some smart Alec comes knocking at the door. Even if he did, he’s only got to say that he’s called at the wrong address and it’s a blow-out. Our clever little friends in the Crown Prosecution Service would wet their pants if we suggested that that amounted to a conspiracy to commit murder and other nefarious offences.” Fox’s audience laughed again, long and loud.
“What’s the plan then, sir?” asked Kate Ebdon.
“The plan, Kate,” said Fox, smiling at the Australian detective, “is that we spin Mister Ryan’s drum for him, and his office. Rattle him a bit and see what drops out. I’ve a feeling that he has one or two files in his possession that will tell us a lot.”
*
It took forty minutes of persuasive argument in chambers before Fox was able to convince a circuit judge that his application for a warrant to search Ryan’s office was justified. Even so, the judge was only just convinced and granted the warrant with a certain measure of reluctance.
“All this talk of people being murdered in taxi-cabs and on houseboats, and stolen jewelery arriving anonymously through the post, is all very well, Mr Fox,” said the circuit judge, “but it seems to me that you’re embarking on a fishing expedition and that you don’t really have any evidence with which to charge this man Ryan.”
“Good heavens, Your Honor,” said Fox, “No thought was further from my mind. The facts of the matter—”
“Ah, some facts, at last,” said the judge mildly.
“The facts, Your Honor, are that the man Ryan purports to trade as a broker offering competitive rates of insurance. It would appear, however, that he has no intention of selling a policy, but has merely set himself up for the purpose of gleaning information about those better-off members of our community who are naive enough to consult him, with a view, subsequently, to robbing them of their hard-earned possessions.”
“Yes, yes, you’ve said all that several times, Mr Fox, but how do you know this?”
“One of my officers, a Detective Sergeant Ronald Crozier…” Fox leaned across the desk and prodded one of the sheets of paper that were spread out in front of the judge. “His statement is there, Your Honor. Crozier visited Ryan on the pretext of seeking insurance cover. The quote he was given was about fifteen per cent above the going rate, a clear indication in my view that Ryan has no intention of selling insurance.”
“But that is speculative—” began the judge.
“And furthermore,” Fox went on hurriedly, “I am reliably informed that VAT officers visited Ryan’s office and found that he appears not to have made sufficient money even to pay the rent.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Information received, Yo
ur Honor,” said Fox vaguely.
“Mmm!” The judge toyed with the papers. “And how long has he been trading, Mr Fox?”
“Approximately three years, Your Honor,” said Fox, and then put in the poison. “In fact, since the date of his last conviction.”
The judge smiled blandly. “You shouldn’t have mentioned that really, Mr Fox, but now that you have, perhaps you should tell me about it.”
“He was convicted of stealing documents from an insurance broker for whom he worked, briefly. Two of the documents were records of policies issued to widows, one in Chiswick, the other in Earls Court, who were subsequently relieved of jewelery to the collective value of one hundred thousand pounds.”
“I see,” said the judge, and unscrewed the cap of his fountain pen.
*
Most detective chief superintendents would have assigned a detective inspector to carry out the search of Ryan’s office, but Fox did not count himself among the majority of his colleagues. Consequently, he decided to join Jack Gilroy, DS Crozier, and DCs Bellenger and Tarling in their examination of the insurance broker’s dubious business.
“Good morning,” said Fox, as he pushed open Ryan’s door.
“Good morning to you, sir,” said Ryan, rising from behind his desk and flashing a confident smile at his visitor. But the smile changed to a look of concern as the remaining members of Fox’s team followed him in. “Er, what exactly…?” he began and then caught sight of Crozier. “Oh, it’s Mr Crozier.” He gave the detective a puzzled glance.
“Detective Sergeant Crozier as a matter of fact,” said Crozier and grinned as the broker’s jaw dropped.
“My colleagues and I have a warrant to search these premises,” said Fox, casting an interested gaze around the small office, “but it looks as though there are too many of us. Never mind, we’ll take it in turns.”
“What’s this all about?” asked Ryan, doing his best to put a brave face on the sudden arrival of the police.
“What this is about, Mr Ryan,” said Fox, “is that we have been granted a search warrant by a circuit judge who shares my apprehension about your business and the reasons for its existence.”
“Who are you then?”
Fox smiled. “I am Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox… of the Flying Squad,” he said.
“But I don’t understand,” said Ryan, still attempting to maintain an air of injured innocence.
“Don’t worry, Mr Ryan, we’ll explain it all as we go along.” Fox turned to Gilroy. “Right, Jack, see what you can find.”
“Just a minute,” said Ryan. “Can I see this warrant?”
“Of course.” Fox held out his hand and waited until Sean Tarling had produced the document from his pocket. “There you are, Mr Ryan. Impressive, isn’t it?”
“But I still don’t understand.” Ryan sank down into his chair and shook his head.
Fox turned to Crozier. “See what you can do with that, Ron,” he said, pointing to Ryan’s personal computer. “Not that I think Mr Ryan’s likely to have recorded anything incriminating on it.”
Sean Tarling opened the bottom drawer of the office’s sole filing cabinet and took out a locked deed box. “You got the key for this?” he asked Ryan.
“You don’t really want to see in that, do you?” asked Ryan. “It’s only personal stuff. Letters I don’t want my wife to see.” He winked. “Know what I mean?”
Tarling leaned threateningly over the broker and glared at him. “Hand it over, mister,” he said in his rich Irish brogue, “unless you want me to strip-search you.”
Ryan gulped and put his hand in his trouser pocket. “It’s that one,” he said, singling out a small key from the ring he handed Tarling.
The detective put the box on the desk and unlocked it. Inside were about seven or eight files unlike any of the others that the police had found in Ryan’s office. He riffled through them quickly and then turned to Fox. “These might be of interest, guv,” he said.
“Yes, they might indeed,” said Fox. “Pop down to the nick and make a few phone calls. You know what we’re looking for, don’t you?”
“I reckon so, sir,” said Tarling with a broad grin and raced away to the police station. By the time he returned, the remainder of the team had finished their search and were waiting for him before leaving.
“Well?” Fox stood up and raised an eyebrow.
“Have a word, sir?” said Tarling. “Outside.”
“What have you got, Sean?” asked Fox when they were at the bottom of the stairs by the street door.
“Out of the eight names and addresses on these files, sir, three have been the victims of theft of jewelery in the last year or so. Same MO as those we’ve already looked at, or so it seems. Inexplicable burglaries with no sign of forcible entry.”
“What an extraordinary coincidence,” said Fox and retraced his steps to the office on the first floor.
By now, Ryan had recovered much of his composure.
He had sensed that the police had found nothing incriminating, but then he did not know what they were looking for. “Satisfied?” he asked truculently as Fox entered the office.
“I am now,” said Fox. “Mr Ryan, I am arresting you for conspiring with others to steal jewelery. Anything you say will be given in evidence.”
“What on earth are you talking about?” Ryan stood up, an anguished expression on his face. “I don’t know anything about any jewelery.” He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets and stared at the group of police officers. “I warn you,” he said. “I’m going to sue you for every penny you’ve got.”
“It’s actually every penny that the Commissioner’s got,” said Fox. “You see, he trusts me implicitly and he always pays my bills if anything goes wrong. However, on this occasion you may find that this is regarded as an Act of God. I should read the small print, if I were you.” And with that he turned to Gilroy. “Show Mr Ryan to the car, Jack, there’s a good fellow.”
“Which nick, sir?” asked Gilroy.
“Charing Cross, of course, Jack. I’ve always found that at this time of year Wimbledon nick tends to get full up with bustle-punching clergymen who have tired of watching the tennis.”
Seventeen
Fox had been driven to Charing Cross police station in his own car and he had detailed Crozier and Tarling to escort Ryan. Since his brief exchange with Tarling, Ryan had been apprehensive of the brash Irish detective, and the journey was completed in total silence.
At the police station, the custody sergeant had filled in the plethora of forms that result from an arrest and then placed Ryan in one of the interview rooms.
His salesman’s bonhomie abandoned, Ryan had become surly. He had been arrested once before and even though his appearance at court had resulted in his being placed on probation, it was not an experience he wished to repeat. “I want to know what this is all about—” he began.
“So do I,” said Fox with a disarming smile as he sat down and lit a cigarette. “Perhaps you’ll tell me.”
“I’ve got nothing to say.”
“Oh dear,” said Fox, “I’ve just lost my bet.”
“What?” Ryan looked puzzled by the detective chief superintendent’s comment.
“I bet Mr Gilroy here that your very first utterance would be a demand for a solicitor.”
“What do I need a solicitor for? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“How original,” said Fox. “But, Jeremy, old fruit, what about these?” He produced the eight files that had been taken from Ryan’s deed box, and spread them on the table.
“What about them?”
“You didn’t insure any of these people, did you?”
“That’s not a crime, is it?” asked Ryan with a sneer. “A lot of people consult me but don’t take out policies.”
“I’ve noticed that,” said Fox. “Rather strange, isn’t it?”
“Happens all the time,” said Ryan.
“Then why did you keep these files and lo
ck them in a box that you were disinclined to allow us to see?” Fox smiled benignly at the bogus insurance broker.
“I keep lots of files about people who never took out policies.”
“Yes, but they were in the ordinary filing cabinet in your office, and they were indexed on your computer. But these weren’t.” Fox indicated the eight files with a sweep of his hand.
Ryan hesitated as his brain searched furiously for a convincing excuse. “They had details of substantial amounts of clients’ jewelery,” he said. “Not the sort of thing to leave lying around the office.”
“But they weren’t clients, Jeremy, old thing. On your own admission, none of these people took out a policy, so why not destroy the files? Much safer even than keeping them in your deed box.”
“I’d forgotten they were there,” said Ryan churlishly. “I’d been meaning to have a clear out, as a matter of fact.”
Fox grinned. “What a shame you hadn’t done so before we arrived,” he said. “It’s now much more difficult for you, isn’t it?”
“What d’you mean?”
“What I mean, Jeremy, is that of these eight clients – or non-clients, I suppose you’d call them – three have lost the substantial amounts of jewelery which you’ve recorded.”
“Just as well I didn’t arrange for them to be underwritten then, isn’t it?” snapped Ryan.
“When you worked for the broker in Chelsea…” Fox changed the subject with a swiftness that alarmed Ryan, “And were nicked for thieving some documents—”
“That was all a mistake.”
Fox ignored the interruption. “Two of the documents which you nicked related to widows in Chiswick and Earls Court respectively.” He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back in his chair. “And would you believe, they both had jewelery stolen. They were quite substantial amounts too. About one hundred K to be precise.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” Ryan was unhappy at the direction the questioning was taking, and he began to realize that this sarcastic detective opposite him appeared to be well informed.
