by Graham Ison
“I don’t like coincidences,” said Fox and glanced at Gilroy. “That’s a well-known fact among the criminal fraternity, isn’t it, Jack?”
Gilroy nodded gravely. “It is indeed, sir,” he said.
Fox returned his gaze to Ryan. “And I began to wonder how it was that a total of five rich widows, all of whom had files which you either held at your office, or which you saw during your brief period of employment at Chelsea, should all have had their sparklers nicked. Funny business, isn’t it, Jeremy, dear boy?”
“You can’t prove anything.”
“That’s a pious hope,” said Fox mildly. “I’m very good at proving things. You ask around when they bang you up in the Scrubs, or wherever else Her Majesty is pleased to have you sent.”
Ryan did not like the sound of that. “I want a solicitor,” he said.
“Ah!” said Fox. “I thought you said you’d done nothing wrong.”
“I haven’t,” said Ryan, “but you’re trying to stitch me up.”
Fox scoffed. “Stitch you up?” he said. “I haven’t even begun yet.” He leaned forward confidentially. “What I really wanted to talk to you about, Jeremy, are the murders of Wally Proctor and Robin Skelton.”
Ryan’s face paled quite dramatically. He somehow knew that the police would get around to that eventually. “I’ve never heard of them,” he said.
Fox nodded, a serious expression on his face. “I see,” he said. “D’you mean to tell me that you don’t read a newspaper or watch the television news, Jeremy?”
“Sometimes.”
“And you know nothing about the man who was murdered in a cab at Hyde Park Corner?”
“Oh that!” Ryan sounded unconvincing. “Yes, I saw something about that.”
“Well, there we are then.” Fox brushed lightly at his sleeve. “Now I know that you passed information to both Proctor and Skelton about rich ladies who had unwisely responded to your advertisements and innocently told you all about their jewelery. And Messrs Proctor and Skelton later paid you for that information.” It was a guess, but Fox was certain that it was not too wild a guess.
“Rubbish!” responded Ryan.
“But that doesn’t interest me too much, Jeremy, because I have much greater worries than that.”
“So?”
“Let me outline my theory to you, if you’ve got a minute to spare, that is. You had been feeding these two icemen with this very useful information, without which, I may say, they would have been unable to steal all this lovely jewelery—”
“That’s a pack of lies,” said Ryan.
“No, no, do let me finish, Jeremy. But you suddenly decided that they weren’t paying you enough for all your hard work. So you decided to murder them.” Fox sat back and smiled.
“You’re bloody mad,” said Ryan, jerking upright in his chair. “I didn’t kill anyone. For Christ’s sake, d’you think I’m crazy or something?”
“Well, if you didn’t, who did?”
“How the hell do I know?” Ryan’s face was working with anguish now.
“How about Kevin Povey?”
“Who?”
“Oh, don’t ponce about, Jeremy,” said Fox. “You know perfectly well who I’m talking about.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
Fox appeared to mull over this piece of information for some time. Then he lit another cigarette. “Oh, I’m sorry, do you?” He pushed his cigarette case towards Ryan.
“No.” Ryan shook his head.
“I find that very odd, you know,” said Fox eventually.
“What, that I don’t smoke?” asked Ryan sarcastically.
“No, that you’ve never heard of Kevin Povey.”
“Well I haven’t.”
“D’you mean to say that Julie Lockhart’s never mentioned his name?”
Ryan looked stunned. “What?” he muttered. “Who?”
“What an appalling memory you do have, Jeremy. Let me refresh it for you. Julie Lockhart, nee Strange, is the dentist’s wife who lives at Barnes, and you, old son, take advantage of his absence to give her a seeing to. And she was the woman who witnessed the murder of one Jason Bright on a houseboat at Shepperton about five years ago by a man police firmly believe to be Kevin Povey. Do you still say she hasn’t mentioned the incident to you?”
“How d’you know all this?”
“Because, Jeremy, two of my officers were interviewing Mrs Lockhart when you made an unheralded appearance in her sitting room, wearing nothing more than a dressing gown. Furthermore you were seen warmly greeting Mrs Lockhart, who at the time was wearing next to nothing, shortly after her husband had departed for Amsterdam a few days ago.”
“Have you been following me?” Ryan leaned forward, an expression of fury on his face.
“My word, you do catch on fast,” said Fox. “But I repeat the question. Did Mrs Lockhart not mention Kevin Povey to you?”
“No,” said Ryan and slumped back in his chair.
Fox turned to face Gilroy. “I think we’d better send Sergeant Webster down to Barnes again, Jack,” he said. “Get her to ask Mrs Lockhart if she’s ever mentioned Kevin Povey to our Mr Ryan here. And while she’s at it, tell her to pop in and see Peter Lockhart, explain the situation and ask him if he’s ever met Mr Ryan and whether he’s heard of Kevin Povey.” He turned back to Ryan. “Now, where were we?” he asked.
“All right, all right,” said Ryan. “So she did mention him, but that’s all. I never met the guy.”
“Oh well, that resolves that,” said Fox and stood up. “Oh, one other thing. When were you last in Maidstone?”
“Maidstone? I’ve never been to Maidstone in my life,” said Ryan.
“Good. You can go then.”
“Go?”
“Yes,” said Fox. “Why not? I shall admit you to bail to return to this police station in twenty-eight days’ time. Unless, in the meantime, you hear from us that your attendance is not required.” He waved a hand airily in the direction of the door. “The sergeant will deal with all the paperwork. Bit like the insurance business, really. Everything has to be written down.”
“Can I have my files back?” asked Ryan, pointing at the documents still spread on the table.
“Don’t push your luck,” said Fox.
“Was that a wise move, sir?” asked Gilroy, once Ryan had left the station.
“No option really, Jack.” Fox stacked the files into a neat pile and handed them to Gilroy. “That’s pretty flimsy stuff to base a charge on, much less to get a remand in custody.”
“Are you just going to let him go then, guv’nor?”
“Not quite, Jack. Henry Findlater and his merry men were waiting outside the nick for Ryan’s departure. Just to see what he does next.”
“Couldn’t we get an intercept put on his phone, sir?”
“For a dodgy conspiracy to steal, Jack? There’s no chance that the Home Secretary would grant a warrant for that. Not unless we could prove that some MP’d had his tomfoolery lifted.”
*
Lady Jane Sims had announced her intention of going shopping in the West End and she had asked Fox if he would go with her. “You’re very good at picking clothes for me, Tommy,” she had said.
“I can’t just knock off to go shopping with you,” Fox had said. “But I will meet you for lunch.”
Now, at just past one o’clock, Fox and Jane were seated in an Italian restaurant within handy distance of Scotland Yard.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t come with me this morning,” said Jane. “I wanted your advice.”
“What about?”
“I’ve bought a new dress for the dinner-dance.”
“What dinner-dance?” Fox furrowed his brow but, deep down, he knew.
“The Flying Squad one that Alec told me about.”
“Alec Myers?” asked Fox with a pretence at innocence. Jack Gilroy had mentioned that Myers had told Jane all about the forthcoming function and Fox had sworn to himself that he would
have words with his commander.
“Yes, of course. You will take me, Tommy, won’t you?” Jane leaned forward, a pleading look on her face, and placed her hand over Fox’s.
“I’d love to, Jane,” Fox lied, “but it’s very difficult to make firm arrangements when I’ve got so much on.”
Fox detested the annual dinner-dance and had only attended it in previous years because he was the operational head of the Squad. And each year, he had taken a different partner, although there had never been any romantic attachment. But he had known Jane Sims for almost a year now, longer than any of his previous women friends, and felt disinclined to expose her to the sometimes bawdy environment of detectives at play.
But Jane was not going to accept a refusal without a fight. “When I first met you, Tommy, you said that I should never let work interfere with my social life. And, what’s more, you said that you never did.”
“But I’ve got two murders on my plate, Jane.” Work had never stopped Fox enjoying himself before, but he was searching, lamely, for excuses.
“You had a murder on your plate then. My sister.” Jane Sims looked sad as she recalled the reason for their meeting and wished she had not mentioned it. It was unfair.
“All right then.” Fox capitulated. Although he was a hard-nosed detective, and scourge of London’s villainry, he realized that he was fast reaching the point where he would happily give in to the woman opposite him. But he still wasn’t sure whether he liked the idea of the permanent relationship that seemed to be developing. “But it’ll be nothing like the hunt ball, you know,” he said.
“I should bloody well hope not,” said Jane and smiled.
*
“You remember Mrs Carter saying that she couldn’t recall the name of the yacht that she had delivered cleats to, sir…”
“What the hell are you on about, Jack?” asked Fox Gilroy sighed inwardly. It was rare for Fox to forget anything, but he was quite often in a perverse mood. “Mrs Elaine Carter,” he began patiently, “had her jewelery spirited away by Kevin Povey, calling himself Don Fortune.”
“Yes, I know,” said Fox.
“And she met him when she delivered some cleats to his yacht, or the yacht he was crewing on.”
“Where’s all this leading, Jack?” asked Fox with a tired voice.
“I decided to ring the yacht chandlers she worked for, sir, to see if they could trace the order—”
“And?” Fox suddenly looked interested.
“They found it, sir. The yacht’s called Windsong.”
“How original,” said Fox. “There must be dozens of yachts called Windsong.”
“There are, sir, but it was the name of the yacht which Gordon Povey owned and which was moored in Cannes harbor when the French police interviewed the Poveys following the murder of Jason Bright.”
“Is that it?”
“Not quite,” said Gilroy. “There is no central yacht register, but I made some enquiries in the yachting world through a mate of mine in Special Branch—”
Fox sniffed. “Wonderful,” he said.
“And he was able to track down the Windsong that was owned by Gordon Povey.”
“Was he now?” said Fox. “I take back that sniff about SB,” he added with a grin. “What can you tell me about it? Where is it, for instance?”
“I’m waiting further particulars, sir, but I can tell you where the yacht is not.”
“Oh?”
“It’s not in Brighton Marina, sir. Not any more.”
“Jack,” said Fox, “you never cease to amaze me.”
“I thought…” began Gilroy tentatively.
“Well, that’s a start,” muttered Fox.
“I thought that you might like to have a word with the navy, sir.”
“Why should I want to talk to the navy, Jack?”
“Perhaps they could be persuaded to keep watch for it, sir. Let us know if they sight it. Their Provost Marshal is a lieutenant-commander, name of—”
“A lieutenant-commander?” Fox looked horrified at the suggestion. “I shall speak to an admiral, at the very least. What’s the telephone number of the navy, Jack?”
Eighteen
“Did you manage to get hold of an admiral, sir?” asked Gilroy.
“Didn’t bother eventually, Jack,” said Fox. “I came to the conclusion that if their top brass is anything like ours, I’d’ve been wasting my time. So I spoke to a commander – one of theirs, not one of ours – who seemed to understand what I wanted.”
The truth of the matter was that Fox had been unable to find his way through the labyrinthine Ministry of Defence switchboard. After a frustrating twenty minutes, he had eventually taken advice from a sergeant in the Murder Office who put him in touch with the naval officer who acted as liaison between the police and the Royal Navy. “The situation now is that Windsong is on the navy’s list and any sightings they make will be reported to me. With any luck, we’ll capture this bastard before he’s very much older.”
*
Jane Sims was already dressed when Fox arrived to take her to the Flying Squad dinner-dance. “I’ve poured you a Scotch,” she said as they entered the sitting room of her Knightsbridge flat.
Ignoring the whisky for a moment, Fox kissed her warmly and then held her at arm’s length. “Let’s have a proper look at you then,” he said.
Jane broke free, took a step back and turned round slowly. The halter neckline of her emerald green dress flattered her shoulders and emphasized her long neck. And the full, calf-length skirt showed off to advantage her slender, dark-stockinged ankles. Fox’s sharp detective’s eye recognized that the black velvet high-heeled shoes were those she had worn to the Squad dinner.
“Well?” Jane spoke quietly, holding her head on one side. As she moved, the light caught her diamond loop earrings.
Fox nodded approvingly. “My God, you scrub up well,” he said with a grin.
Jane wrinkled her nose at him. “I suppose, coming from you, that’s a compliment indeed,” she said.
Fox took a sip of whisky. “No, seriously, you look great,” he said moving closer to her and taking her left hand. “They are real diamonds then,” he said, as he examined Jane’s wrist-watch.
“D’you know,” said Jane, “For one moment, I thought you were going to kiss me again.”
Fox gave the girl a perfunctory peck on the cheek and then fingered one of her earrings with his free hand.
“Have you got an ear fetish or something, Tommy?” asked Jane, quite brusquely.
“Not particularly,” said Fox, failing to sense her sudden hauteur. “I was checking the ice.”
“The ice?” Jane looked confused. “What on earth are you talking about now?”
“Diamonds are known as ice in the trade,” said Fox, stepping back and relinquishing his hold of her hand.
“Oh, I see. Well, thank you for adding to my criminal vocabulary.” There was still a tiny element of sarcastic hostility in Jane’s voice that Fox should bring his work into their personal life yet again. “Yes, they’re diamonds all right. An eighteenth birthday present from Daddy.”
Fox nodded slowly and thoughtfully. “Got much of it, have you?” he asked. “Jewelery, I mean.”
“A fair amount.”
“Where d’you keep it? Not here, I hope.”
“Of course not,” said Jane tersely. “Do give me some credit, Tommy. There’ve been far too many burglaries in this area for me to keep it at home. Most of it’s in a safety deposit box at the bank. I keep one or two small items here, those I’m wearing this evening, for instance. But why all the questions?”
“I’ve had an idea,” said Fox mysteriously and placed his empty glass on a side table. “Shall we go?”
“I suppose so,” said Jane. Suddenly her earlier delight at the prospect of an evening’s dancing seemed to have dissipated.
Since the senior officers’ dinner, word had spread down through the ranks of the Flying Squad that Fox had found himself a gir
lfriend who was not only an absolute stunner, but an earl’s daughter as well. The less prurient of Fox’s subordinates suggested that his motive was financial, believing, in their naivete, that a title was automatically accompanied by great wealth. Whatever else his friendship with Lady Jane Sims had achieved, it had certainly resulted in an increase in the sale of tickets for the dinner-dance. Wives and girlfriends did not intend to pass up the chance of meeting someone whom several of them had described as “A lady in her own right”.
Fox’s table was in the center of the room opposite the band, and because he was head of the Squad, he was obliged, as a matter of duty, to share it with the Commissioner, the Assistant Commissioner, the DAC, and Commander Myers and their respective wives. Fox groaned inwardly as he acknowledged his dinner companions and accepted that the company, combined with Jane’s inexplicable coolness, meant that it was not going to be a good evening. He almost hoped that an officer would rush in, in about ten minutes’ time, to tell him that Povey had been arrested. But then, looking around the ballroom, he decided that he would rather not leave Jane to the mercies of this bunch of likeable hooligans who were called the Flying Squad.
*
The dinner-dance had finished at two o’clock in the morning, and Fox had accepted Jane’s invitation to stay at her flat for what remained of the night. As a consequence, when he arrived at the Yard early the next day he was still wearing his dinner jacket – an occurrence which evinced no surprise whatever from his staff – and was not in the best of moods.
Detective Inspector Gilroy was waiting in his office. “Good morning, sir,” he said.
“Matter of opinion,” growled Fox as he began to change into the spare lounge suit which he always kept in his wardrobe at the Yard.
“Did Lady Guv enjoy herself, sir?”
“I don’t know where she gets her stamina from, Jack,” said Fox. “I think she’d have gone on all night, given the chance.” He walked across the office to the door with the intention of bellowing for coffee just as his secretary entered with two cups on a tray.
“Thought you and Mr Gilroy might need some coffee, Mr Fox,” said the woman, a whimsical smile on her face.
