by Graham Ison
“What’s the point of that?” asked Jane.
“With any luck, he’ll pass that information on to Povey, who will then think of some way of scraping your acquaintance with a view to relieving you of your sparklers.” Fox grinned.
“Isn’t that a bit risky?’ Jane looked a little apprehensive.
“No,” said Fox firmly. “If you agree, there will be two very tough detectives here all the time, and I’ll have the outside covered day and night. It’ll only be until he makes his first contact. After that, he’ll be locked up. For about thirty years with any luck.”
“And who are these two tough detectives who’ll be with me all the time?”
“A detective sergeant called Rosie Webster and a DC called Kate Ebdon,” said Fox, and was amused to see that Jane appeared marginally disappointed.
*
“Blimey, sir, have you gone mad?” It was not often that Gilroy displayed any real criticism of Fox’s plans, even the more hare-brained of them, but on this occasion he could not contain himself. “Surely you’d be putting Lady Guv at an unacceptable risk.”
“Not with you in charge of the operation, Jack,” said Fox mildly.
“But what about the job, sir? Involving innocent civilians in an operation to trap a bloke we think is a triple murderer is against all the rules. What will the commander say?”
“He won’t say anything, because no one is going to tell him, are they, Jack?” Fox fixed Gilroy with a steely stare.
“But d’you honestly think that Ryan’s going to fall for that, after we turned over his office and then nicked him?”
“Of course he is, Jack.” Fox drew his hand across his desktop in a sweeping motion. “Jeremy Ryan’s too cocky by half. He walked out of here straight back to his office in Wimbledon as though he hadn’t got a care in the world. He thinks he’s got away with it, you see.”
“But he’s still on police bail, sir.”
“Not for much longer,” said Fox. “I want you to go down to Wimbledon, give him his files back and tell him he’s off the hook. Apologize profusely and tell him it was all a ghastly mistake. You know the form, Jack.”
“And is he off the hook, guv?”
“Don’t be silly, Jack. And don’t forget to photocopy all those files before you give them back to him.”
*
Jeremy Ryan reacted exactly as Fox had anticipated. He accepted Gilroy’s apology – offered on behalf of the Commissioner – acknowledged that mistakes are made, and promised that he would not, after all, lodge a complaint. Once Gilroy had gone, however, Ryan vowed to himself that he would no longer keep records that might incriminate him. He was shrewd enough to realize that he might receive another visit from the Flying Squad at some time in the future. His one conviction, and now his recent arrest, had made him wise to the ways of the police and he was too canny to accept, at face value, Gilroy’s assurance that he was in the clear.
It was at that point that he received a telephone call from a Lady Jane Sims.
*
Jane and Rosie Webster took to each other immediately but for once Kate Ebdon felt a little out of place. Admittedly, Jane Sims was attired in similar fashion to Kate – jeans and a sweater – but somehow she seemed to share Rosie’s elegance rather than strike a common note with the Australian girl.
“Tell me again what happened when you spoke to Ryan,” said Fox. “For the benefit of Rosie and Kate here.”
“Let me get you all a drink first,” said Jane.
Fox shook his head. “No thanks,” he said. “These girls have got to be able to shoot straight if the necessity arises.”
“Are you carrying guns then?” Jane glanced at the two policewomen, a disbelieving half smile on her face.
Rosie opened her handbag to display the blue steel of her revolver, and Kate pulled up her baggy sweater to show the butt of a holstered pistol nestling between the top of her jeans and her bare skin. “Too right, m’lady,” said Kate with a grin.
“Well, what did Ryan have to say, Jane?” asked Fox.
“He was very interested,” said Jane. “He took all the details and told me that he would get back to me. When he rang, an hour later, he gave me a quote that was well above the one you’d obtained for me, as you said it would be. I told him it was too much and that I’d look elsewhere.”
“What did he say to that?”
“Didn’t seem at all worried. He wished me luck and said he hoped that I’d find a cheaper policy. Very strange way to do business, I must say. In my experience in the building trade—” Fox smiled at the way Jane always described her architectural practice as the building trade. “—a salesman will always try to make a fight of it.”
“Good,” said Fox. “That’s exactly what I expected.” He glanced at the two detectives. “All we have to do now is to sit and wait.” He turned back to Jane. “It may be some time before we get a bite,” he said, “but Jack Gilroy’s on the outside with a team and Denzil Evans will be covering the place by night. And now I must go,” he added.
Jane saw Fox to the door and kissed him. “See you soon, darling,” she whispered.
In the sitting room, Kate Ebdon grinned at Rosie Webster. “I guess the guv’nor’s keen on her ladyship, don’t you, skip?” she asked.
“Mind your own bloody business,” said Rosie, “And concentrate on the job.”
*
The following day, Detective Inspector Henry Findlater, who had been reassigned to watching Jeremy Ryan, saw him leave his office at about two o’clock in the afternoon. Findlater’s team, skilfully “leap-frogging” with their cleverly disguised vehicles, were not surprised to see Ryan drive to Barnes. Although apprehensive that the police may have tapped his telephone, Ryan had not anticipated being under close surveillance. Not that he would have detected Findlater’s professional followers. But, on this occasion, he did not stay very long with Julie Lockhart, the dentist’s wife. Although, as DC Rex Perkins crudely put it, it was long enough for Ryan to “give her one”.
Findlater passed this information to Fox who instructed the surveillance DI to split his team, leaving one half to follow Ryan and the other half at Barnes to see what Mrs Lockhart did. Not that Fox had much hope of discovering anything interesting. He was now convinced that if Julie Lockhart was still in touch with Kevin Povey, contact would be made by telephone.
Shortly after receiving Findlater’s message, Fox got a telephone call.
“Is that Detective Chief Superintendent Fox?” asked the voice hesitantly.
“It is,” said Fox.
“This is Geoffrey Cooper. D’you remember, you boarded my yacht, the Windsong, the other day in the Channel.”
“Yes, I remember, Mr Cooper.” Fox would have preferred not to be reminded. “What can I do for you?” Anticipating that Cooper might want to make a complaint about the fiasco in the Channel, Fox turned over a page in his private telephone directory ready to give the yachtsman the number of the Complaints Investigation Bureau.
“I’ve found the details of the woman I bought her from.”
“Oh, good.” Fox closed his phone book and drew a notepad towards him. He glanced at the clock, regretting that he had asked Cooper to telephone him with that information. In his experience, people rarely bothered to comply with requests of that sort.
“Yes. Are you there?”
“Yes. I’m still here, Mr Cooper.”
“Right. Well the woman’s name is Linda Ward. Mrs Linda Ward. And she lives in Earls Court. D’you want the full address?”
“Please,” said Fox. But he knew that the address was already registered in the incident room.
Thoughtfully, Fox replaced the receiver of the telephone and walked through into the Squad office. “Find DS Fletcher for me,” he said to the duty sergeant, “and tell him to see me as soon as possible, will you?”
“Right, sir,” said the sergeant, his hand reaching out for the telephone. “Good do the other night, guv’nor,” he added.
F
ox glared at him. “I wish people’d stop talking about the bloody dinner-dance,” he said.
“Christ!” said the sergeant when the door had slammed behind Fox. “Who’s rattled his bars for him?”
“Probably Lady Guv,” said the DC next to him.
Twenty
“Yes, sir?” DS Fletcher stood in the doorway of Fox’s office convinced that whatever it was that the detective chief superintendent was about to lumber him with, it would involve walking or paper. Or both.
“Come in and close the door, Perce,” said Fox. He handed Fletcher the slip of paper on which he had written Mrs Linda Ward’s name and address. “This woman,” he began, “is one of the losers who fell victim to Wally Proctor, better known to Mrs Ward as James Dangerfield. In fact, he saw her off for about seventy thousand pounds’ worth of jewelery. It now transpires that Geoffrey Cooper bought the yacht, Windsong, from Mrs Ward. Given that Mrs Elaine Carter, the Brighton loser, met Povey on a yacht of the same name, it all seems too much of a coincidence. See what you can find out about Mrs Ward, will you? And, for that matter, her daughter, Michelle White.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fletcher.
“But discreetly, mind, Perce,” said Fox.
“Yes, sir.” Fletcher sighed inwardly, took the piece of paper and made his way to his usual starting point: the Police National Computer.
*
At five-thirty that evening, the telephone rang in Jane Sims’s flat and for about the tenth time that day, Rosie Webster switched on the recording apparatus and donned the headphones. Then she signaled to Jane to answer the call.
Jane picked up the handset of her telephone. “Hallo?”
“Lady Jane Sims?”
“Speaking,” said Jane.
“Oh, Lady Sims, I er—”
“It’s Lady Jane, not Lady Sims,” said Jane tersely.
“Of course. I do beg your pardon,” said the voice on the telephone. Whoever he was, he was very smooth.
“Who is that?” asked Jane.
“You don’t know me, Lady Jane, but my name’s Laurence Bentley and I’m a security consultant.”
“Oh?”
“I understand from a professional colleague of mine that you have quite a few valuable possessions in your home…”
“Who told you that?” asked Jane sharply.
“I have several colleagues in the insurance world, Lady Jane, among them Jeremy Ryan who, I understand, you recently consulted.”
“Yes, I did. Not that I think that it concerns you.” Jane smothered a laugh. This clown, she thought, made it sound as though she had consulted an eminent Harley Street surgeon.
“I hope you’ll forgive me for appearing to interfere in your private affairs, Lady Jane, but very often you can obtain a lower rate of insurance if you have recognized and approved security devices fitted to your place of residence.” Bentley seemed quite unabashed by Jane’s slight show of hostility.
“I see,” said Jane coldly. “In short, Mr, er, Bentley, you want to sell me some locks, and put bars on my windows. Is that it?”
Bentley laughed gently. “Security’s a little more sophisticated than that these days, Lady Jane,” he said. “But I can assure you that it will save you money in the long run.”
Jane, on Fox’s instructions, did not tell this Bentley person to go to hell, which would have been her natural reaction to a telephone salesman as unctuous as this one. “Well, I don’t know,” she said. “I think that I’m quite well provided for…”
“There’s no obligation whatever, Lady Jane.” Bentley went on quickly. “What I’m proposing, is that I carry out a survey of your premises and then provide you with a written report that would outline the weak points and then recommend the sort of alarms and other protective devices you may care to install.”
“And then you’ll try to sell them to me, I suppose?”
“Not necessarily. I do have contacts in the trade, of course I do, but I would merely offer advice. For a fee, naturally.”
“Naturally,” said Jane drily. She glanced at Rosie who nodded. “Well, I suppose there’s no harm in that.” Jane deliberately sounded reluctant. If she had not been acting as decoy for Fox, there was no way that the smooth-talking Bentley would have got past her front door. “When would you propose to do this, er, survey, Mr Bentley?”
There was a pause. “Just having a look through my appointments book,” said Bentley. “Ah! I seem to have a free slot this evening. How would seven o’clock suit you?”
Jane paused too and then said, “Yes, that would be all right. But I do have to go out at about eight.”
“No problem,” said Bentley. “It should only take about forty minutes. Until this evening then.”
The call had been traced to a mobile telephone and Rosie Webster knew that it would take time to discover the owner’s address. But if Povey was the caller, it was likely to be false or, at best, an accommodation address.
“What happens now?” asked Jane Sims.
“We sit and wait,” said Rosie. It was rapidly becoming a hackneyed phrase in the operation.
*
Fox had decided that he would bring in Denzil Evans and his team. Although Evans had been covering Jane’s flat by night, it now looked as though that would no longer be necessary. By six-thirty that evening, some forty Flying Squad officers were stationed in the vicinity of Jane Sims’s flat just off Knightsbridge. On foot, in cars – the closest of which were unrecognizable as police vehicles – and in shops and buildings nearby, they waited for the arrival of the man Fox was now convinced was Kevin Povey. Fox himself had joined Rosie Webster and Kate Ebdon inside Jane’s flat.
There is an unwritten law – which no one has yet succeeded in repealing – that controls police operations of this sort. It says that, at some stage, something will go wrong. Sometimes it is a minor problem, easily resolved by officers at the scene. At other times, it can only be described as a monumental cock-up. In the aftermath of such occurrences, senior officers will seek to apportion blame which, by the same law, rarely falls upon themselves. On the other hand, the minions, who are on a hiding to nothing anyway, will attempt to shrug off the fiasco by blaming their superiors for not furnishing them with all the necessary information. On this occasion however, the fault rested with over-enthusiasm. In short, there were too many police officers.
Detective Constable Joe Bellenger, loitering at the far end of the street where Jane Sims lived, was the first officer to sight the target. Every member of the combined teams had been provided with copies of the only photograph of Povey the police possessed and Bellenger was in no doubt that the driver of the red Peugeot was him. Discreetly, he alerted the rest of the team by radio.
But Povey was a canny operator. He had, after all, been on the run for five years now and had become extremely wary. He reduced his speed and took careful note of the number of vehicles in the street. He saw, too, a number of pedestrians who seemed unusually casual in their progress, an uncommon sight in a city where normally everyone hurried. And he was not prepared to take any chances.
Suddenly, the red Peugeot shot forward as Povey hammered the accelerator pedal flat to the floor. A pedestrian leaped for his life as, tyres screaming and smoking, Povey threw the car round several corners with all the expertise of a racing driver. Eventually finding himself in Trevor Place, he shot the lights and turned left into Knightsbridge, narrowly avoiding a bus.
As Povey sped away, several of the more alert Flying Squad drivers set off in pursuit, leaving those officers still on foot in complete disarray. Gilroy snatched his radio from his pocket as he watched his driver hurtle away in the wake of the escaping Povey, and told Fox what had happened. Fox was not pleased. And was even less pleased when he later learned that one of the cars had collided with a taxi on the north side of Montpelier Square. The traffic inspector who reported the accident apportioned one hundred per cent of the blame to the police driver.
*
Detective Sergeant Percy Fletc
her arrived back at Scotland Yard just after Fox had left for Knightsbridge and found Detective Superintendent Gavin Brace holding the fort.
“They’re all out on this operation, Percy,” said Brace. “Anything I can do?”
“No, sir, not unless you’re in the picture on this Povey enquiry.”
“Haven’t a clue about it,” said Brace thankfully, “but if you want Mr Fox, you can get him here.” And he handed him a slip of paper bearing Lady Jane Sims’s telephone number.
In the immediate aftermath of Kevin Povey’s unpredicted flight, Fox was not best pleased to receive what he regarded as a routine call from Fletcher. “What is it?” he asked testily. “I’m a bit tucked up here. Bloody Povey’s taken it on the toes.”
“It’s about Mrs Ward, sir,” said Fletcher, wedging the telephone receiver between his chin and his shoulder as he sorted through the bits of paper he had taken from his pocket.
“Can’t it wait, Perce?”
“Might be relevant, guv,” said Fletcher half-heartedly. He had spent nearly all day at St Catherine’s House and he was not bothered whether Fox wanted the information now, later, or not at all.
“Well, make it quick,” said Fox.
“I’ve found details of Michelle White’s marriage to Paul White. She’s Linda Ward’s daughter and her husband’s the property developer. They live at Chalfont St Giles.”
“Yes, I know all that, Perce,” said Fox impatiently. “Just get to the point, will you?”
“Michelle White’s maiden name is Povey, guv.”
“What?”
“Michelle White’s maiden—”
“Yes, yes, I heard you,” said Fox. “Did you do a birth search?”
“Yes, sir. No trace. And young March has already done one on Kevin Povey and that came up no trace as well.”
“Yes, I know,” said Fox thoughtfully. “Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. I then did a marriage search on Mrs Ward. That took me ages.” Fletcher was determined to let Fox know how hard he had been working.
