Rough Diamonds

by Graham Ison

  “Too right,” said Fox and sat down behind his desk. “Well, Jack, I’m sure you haven’t just dropped in to see how I’m feeling this morning.”

  “No, sir, we’ve had a signal from the Ministry of Defence about Windsong.”

  “What about it?”

  “She was sighted in the English Channel about twenty miles north of Alderney at six-thirty this morning, proceeding westwards. It was seen by a naval helicopter from Culdrose apparently.”

  “Splendid,” said Fox enthusiastically, his tiredness and his hangover forgotten. “So what’s happening, Jack?”

  “The navy are quite keen about it apparently, sir. They’re awaiting your further instructions. Seems they’re prepared to send a fast patrol boat from Portsmouth to intercept, if that’s what you want.”

  “Too true it’s what I want, Jack.” Fox stood up and rubbed his hands together. “How long will it take us to get to Portsmouth?”

  Gilroy looked horrified. Despite his apparent vitality, he too was feeling the effects of a late night and too much alcohol, and had hoped to get to bed early. “A good three hours, I should think, sir.”

  “Rubbish, Jack. Get hold of India Nine Nine. Be down there in no time at all in a chopper. Give the lads a day out, won’t it?”

  Gilroy yawned and stood up. “I’ll get on to Lippitts Hill, sir,” he said listlessly. Lippitts Hill, on the edge of Epping Forest, was where the Metropolitan Police based its helicopters.

  “Yes, do that, Jack, and get hold of Swann. Tell him to stand by to take us to Battersea Heliport. That’s where they’ll be able to pick us up, I should think.” Fox rubbed his hands together. “I can’t wait to lay hands on Master Kevin Povey,” he said.

  *

  The police helicopter touched down at Portsmouth Dockyard and a waiting car whisked Fox and Gilroy straight to the Royal Navy patrol boat which was standing by, ready for sea. Within minutes they were forging past Spithead and out into the Solent.

  “Our latest information,” said the young lieutenant who commanded the vessel, “is that Windsong is now about thirty miles south-west of Start Point, and under sail.”

  “Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?” asked Fox, gripping the bridge rail.

  “I mean she’s not under power. She’s not using engines.” “Any sign of the crew?”

  The lieutenant grinned. “The helicopter pilot reported sighting a young woman in half a bikini at the helm. Apparently, he circled two or three times just to make sure.”

  “Any reaction?” asked Fox.

  “Yes, she waved.”

  “Any sign of a man on board?”

  “Yes. One. The chopper pilot saw him come up on deck with a mug. He gave it to the girl and then went below again.”

  “Excellent,” said Fox. “If only he knew.”

  The sea was calm and the sun high, and as the morning wore on, so it became hotter. Fox felt a little out of place wearing his dark suit, and regretted not having had time to collect his Herbert Johnson panama hat from his flat.

  About an hour after the patrol boat had left Portsmouth, a signals rating appeared on the bridge with a message flimsy. The lieutenant glanced at it and handed it back to the seaman. “She’s turned, apparently, and is making her way back towards us.”

  “Why should she be doing that?” asked Fox.

  “God knows. Something to do with the wind, perhaps. I know I’m in the Royal Navy, but I don’t know too much about sail.” The lieutenant grinned. “Much prefer having a few powerful diesel horses under me,” he added, and tapped the compass housing with the flat of his hand.

  “Any idea where she might be making for?”

  “No,” said the lieutenant. “Your guess is as good as mine. Channel Islands maybe.” He shrugged. “But the chopper will let us know if she changes course again.”

  “I hope this helicopter pilot of yours doesn’t make himself too obvious,” said Fox. “Don’t want him to give the game away.”

  The lieutenant grinned. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Windsong’s not going anywhere where we can’t intercept her. Your man might get away from you on land, but he can’t escape the Royal Navy out here, you know.” He glanced round. “Where’s your inspector gone?”

  “Downstairs,” said Fox. “He’s not feeling too well.”

  The lieutenant groaned. “I take it you mean that he’s gone below,” he said.

  An hour later, the naval patrol boat encountered a stiff breeze and the white-capped waves began to look quite formidable. The lieutenant nodded sagely. “Forecast was right for once,” he said. “They said that we might run into some heavier weather. Probably why Windsong turned. I should think she’s crewed by a couple of amateurs.” He laughed. “Might even finish up rescuing them.”

  But the choppy seas proved to be but a freak area and within forty minutes or so, the vessel was in calmer waters once more.

  “Ah!” said the lieutenant, grabbing his binoculars, “I think that could be her.” For a few moments, he concentrated his attention ahead.

  “Is it her?” asked Fox, who could see nothing with the naked eye.

  “Reckon so.” The lieutenant handed Fox the binoculars. “Have a look for yourself.”

  Fox adjusted the glasses and peered through them. The yacht was approaching them under full sail, and now there were two people in the cockpit, a man and a woman. The man was stripped to the waist and, as the helicopter pilot had said, the woman was wearing half a bikini.

  “Can we board her?” asked Fox.

  “Too true we can,” said the young lieutenant and, as they drew nearer, picked up a loud-hailer. “Windsong, this is the Royal Navy. Be so good as to heave to, please.” And turning to the quartermaster, he issued a string of orders.

  Within minutes, the naval patrol boat was alongside the yacht. “Is this bloke likely to be dangerous?” the naval officer asked Fox.

  “If he’s who I think he is, he’s probably committed three murders,” said Fox mildly.

  “Jesus Christ!” said the lieutenant. “In that case, I’ll just pick up my revolver. And we’ll take a seaman with us.”

  “With a belaying pin?” asked Fox.

  The lieutenant grinned. “You’ve been reading too much Hornblower,” he said. “You going to bring your inspector with you?”

  “No,” said Fox. “Let him sleep it off, or whatever he’s doing downstairs.”

  The young couple on the yacht looked thoroughly bemused as an armed naval officer and a tall well-dressed civilian swung aboard their craft accompanied by a stern-looking bearded seaman.

  “Good afternoon.” The lieutenant addressed the man and shot a quick glance in the girl’s direction, disappointed to see that she had now donned the top half of her bikini. The man was about thirty, his girlfriend a few years younger. “This gentleman is from the police,” said the naval officer, indicating Fox.

  Fox knew instantly that the man facing him was not Kevin Povey. Although the only photograph the police had of Povey was at least five years old, there was no way that the yachtsman could have been the wanted man. Nevertheless, the yacht was called Windsong.

  “I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox… of the Flying Squad,” said Fox. “Who are you?”

  “Geoffrey Cooper,” said the man, holding out his hand. “And this is Sally Hughes.” The girl in the bikini smiled.

  “Are you the owner of this yacht?” asked Fox.

  “Yes, of course. But what’s this all about?”

  “Have you owned it long?”

  “About five years, I suppose. Why?”

  “We have reason to believe that it was used, earlier this year, by a man called Kevin Povey who is wanted for questioning by the police,” said Fox, holding on to a stanchion rail to steady himself against the slight swell. “Does that name mean anything to you, Mr Cooper?”

  “Not a thing,” said Cooper. “Never heard of him. And no one else has been aboard her, apart from friends of ours.” He grinned at his gi
rlfriend. “Must say this is all rather exciting, isn’t it, old girl?”

  “Yah!” said the girl and smiled again.

  “Well, if that’s it, you’d better come below and have a drink,” said Cooper.

  “No thanks,” said Fox. “Tell me, Mr Cooper, was this yacht recently in Brighton Marina?”

  “Good God no,” said Cooper. He seemed offended by the suggestion. “We moor on the Hamble. Bloody expensive, mind you, but there you are.”

  “Would you mind telling me who you bought the yacht from then?” Fox was still unhappy, and he did not much care for Cooper or his Sloanish girlfriend.

  Cooper ran his hand through his hair. “Ah, now you’re asking,” he said. “Damned if I can remember.” He glanced at Sally Hughes. “Don’t s’pose you can remember, old girl, can you?”

  “Hardly likely,” said Sally drily. “You were sleeping with that awful Virginia person at the time. I’ve only been your chief mate for a year. Or had you forgotten?”

  Cooper laughed. “Yes, of course.” He turned to Fox again and grimaced. “Bit of an own goal, what?”

  Fox glanced at the naval officer who, throughout the exchange, had remained silent, but had been unashamedly examining Sally Hughes’s figure. “Is there any way of checking previous ownership of this yacht?” he asked.

  “Probably,” said the lieutenant, “but none that I know of. I daresay it could be done through Lloyds or some organization like that. Not really my scene, I’m afraid.”

  “Look, old boy,” said Cooper, “I’m not trying to be obstructive or anything like that, but I honestly can’t recall the name of the woman I bought her from. Tell you what, though, if you let me have your number, I’ll give you a ring the moment I get back to the Hamble and have a chance to look through my papers. Incidentally, Windsong’s a pretty common name for a yacht. In fact there are probably dozens of them about. Could be another one of the same name, eh?”

  And Fox had to be satisfied with that. After apologizing for delaying Cooper and his girlfriend, Fox, the lieutenant and his seaman boarded their patrol boat again and headed home for Portsmouth.

  By nine o’clock that evening, Fox and Gilroy were back at Scotland Yard.

  “The next time you get a signal from the bloody navy, Jack,” said Fox, staring gloomily into his empty whisky glass, “ask them to check the names of the crew before they ring us, will you?”

  “Yes, sir.” Gilroy had lost interest in the whole proceedings. He was not a good sailor at the best of times, and going to sea immediately after a late and somewhat alcoholic evening was not exactly his idea of fun. “I think I’ll push off, sir, if that’s it for today,” he said.

  “I was going for a quick pint at the Star, Jack,” said Fox. “Fancy one, or are you going to finish early tonight?”

  Gilroy glanced at the clock. It was twenty-five to ten. “I think I’ll finish early tonight, guv’nor,” he said. “If you don’t mind.”

  Nineteen

  Fox stood back to allow the Assistant Commissioner to enter the revolving doors of New Scotland Yard. But once inside, Peter Frobisher paused. “Very good do the other night, Mr Fox,” he said in his carefully cultivated drawl. “Thoroughly enjoyed it, and I must say that Lady Jane Sims is a charming girl.”

  “Yes, she is, sir,” said Fox curtly. “I’m not sure that she enjoyed herself too much, though. Hardly her scene, coppers at play, is it? All a bit working class by her standards, I should think.” He despised the Assistant Commissioner, and his superior attitude, and did not like being patronized.

  “Well, she told me how much she liked the company.” The Assistant Commissioner entered the lift and pressed the buttons for the second and fifth floors.

  “She would, sir,” said Fox. “She’s very polite. It’s the upper-class breeding, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Frobisher. “I suppose so. She did have one tiny complaint, though.”

  “Oh?” The lift reached the second floor and Fox stepped out, holding the doors open.

  Frobisher laughed. “She said that you were always talking shop. Still, my lady wife says the same thing. It’s a failing among policemen.”

  Having been put in a bad mood by the Assistant Commissioner, Fox was not pleased to be confronted by his commander, Alec Myers, as he was about to enter his office.

  “Thinking of transferring to Thames Division, Tommy?” asked Myers, a broad grin on his face.

  “It was good information, sir,” said Fox. “I can hardly be blamed for the bloody navy getting it wrong.”

  Myers laughed. “Well, I suppose it cleared your head after the dinner-dance. Incidentally, I think you ought to make it up with Lady Guv.”

  “Oh? Why?” Fox’s eyes narrowed. He did not like the way that the Flying Squad had adopted Jane, and he did not much care for advice from senior officers about his personal life.

  “She was having a bitch to my missus. Well, not a bitch really. She asked Daphne if policemen always talked about the job all the time. Said something about you giving her a crime prevention lecture just before you arrived.”

  “Really?” At last Fox began to understand Jane’s coolness at the dinner-dance. “Well, I must get on, sir, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Of course, Tommy.” Myers grinned. “I hope the Royal Navy isn’t going to send us a bill for the use of one of its ships.”

  “They wouldn’t dare,” growled Fox.

  Myers laughed and turned away. “Buy her roses, Tommy,” he said over his shoulder as he walked away. “Never fails, believe me.”

  For some time, Fox sat at his desk, sifting moodily through the routine correspondence with which his in-tray had been overflowing. Then he reached for the telephone and tapped out Jane’s number. “Jane?” he said, when she answered, “It’s Tommy.”

  “Hallo.” Jane sounded listless. “I tried ringing you yesterday. They said you’d gone to sea.”

  Fox laughed. “I had,” he said. “But all in vain. Wrong boat. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

  “Thought you might,” said Jane. She did not sound enthusiastic about the idea.

  Fox realized that he had made the mistake of talking about his job again. “Are you free for lunch?” he asked hurriedly.

  There was a pause. “Well, I am pretty busy…” Jane paused again. “Oh yes, why not? I’m only working on some boring designs for a shopping precinct.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at about twelve-thirty. All right?”

  “Make it twelve and we can have a drink before we go.”

  At half-past eleven, Fox strode into the Squad office. “Meeting an informant,” he said. “Back about three, I should think.”

  “Very good, sir,” said the duty sergeant and, waiting until Fox had closed the door, turned to his colleague. “And I bet I know which informant,” he said. “Lucky bastard.”

  *

  Fox had taken a taxi to Knightsbridge and alighted at a florist. Purchasing a large bunch of long-stemmed roses at what he regarded to be an exorbitant price, he then, somewhat self-consciously, walked round the corner to Jane Sims’s flat.

  Jane’s face lit up the moment she saw the flowers. “For me?” she asked.

  Fox bit back a retort about their being for Jane’s cleaning lady and merely said, “Yes.”

  “Oh, how lovely.” Jane took the roses in her arms and, leaving Fox to close the front door, walked through to the kitchen. “Perhaps you’d pour us a drink,” she called. For the next few minutes, she busied herself cutting stems and finding vases to accommodate the two dozen blooms.

  Suddenly, Jane’s sitting room seemed to be full of roses. They were on the table, the sideboard and on top of the television cabinet. She surveyed them and then turned to Fox. Flinging her arms around his neck, she kissed him passionately. “They’re wonderful, darling,” she said. “Thank you so much.”

  It was the first time that Jane had ever addressed him as “darling” and Fox was taken aback by her sudden ardor. “It�
��s no big thing,” he said, slightly embarrassed that she should be so overwhelmingly grateful. “As a matter of fact, I think I owe you an apology.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I got the distinct impression that I’d upset you the evening of the dinner-dance, by talking about the job. In particular, about your diamonds.”

  “Oh that!’ Jane smiled. “I was a bit cross at the time,” she said, “but I shouldn’t have been. It must be very difficult for you to leave it all behind.”

  Fox shook his head. “No,” he said. “I was well out of order.” He grinned. “I’ll try not to do it again. Promise.”

  “Forget all about it. I should be giving you support, not criticizing,” said Jane. “I really don’t mind if you want to talk about…” She paused. “What is it you policemen call it? The Job?”

  “Yes.”

  Jane smiled and took a sip of her whisky. “Funny expression,” she said. She nodded towards the armchair where Fox usually sat. “Why don’t you sit down? We’ve got a few minutes, haven’t we?”

  Fox realized that he was about to destroy the happier atmosphere that had been created by his gift of roses, but he had been nursing an idea ever since Jane had told him about her jewelery. He decided to take a chance. “Jane…” he said tentatively.

  “Yes?”

  “Look, I’ve had an idea, but if you don’t like the sound of it, I’ll say no more about it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, it’s connected with the job…” Still Fox was uncertain whether to go on.

  “For goodness’ sake, don’t be afraid of mentioning it, just because of what I said.” Jane gave him a reassuring smile.

  “Well, when you mentioned your jewelery the other night, it occurred to me that you might be able to help with this murder enquiry of mine.”

  “Really? How exciting. What d’you want me to do?”

  Fox remained silent for some time, reluctant to involve Jane in police business. But then he explained to her how Proctor, Skelton, and latterly Povey, had been relieving vulnerable women of their jewelery. “I was wondering,” he continued, “If you would be prepared to ring this Ryan chap down at Wimbledon and ask him for a quote. Tell him what you’ve got in the way of jewelery and let him know that you’re divorced and living on your own.”