by Graham Ison
“I daresay it did, Perce, but did you find anything?”
“Er, yes, guv. Hang on.” Fletcher shuffled a few pieces of paper and then deliberately took time over lighting a cigarette. “Ah, here we are. Mrs Linda Ward – incidentally, it’s Rachel Linda Ward – was married to a Jonathon Ward about five years ago, bit less actually.”
“How’s she described on the certificate, Perce?”
“Rachel Linda Povey, nie Carey, a widow, sir.”
“That rings a bell,” said Fox.
“Yeah, it would. DC March did a search on Gordon Povey and came up with him marrying a Rachel Carey in Maidstone, thirty years ago.”
“Yes, I know, but why the hell didn’t he—?”
“Hold on, guv,” said Fletcher, for once ahead of Fox’s thinking. “He had no idea that Mrs Ward was Gordon Povey’s widow. There was nothing to indicate that at all. I checked that marriage myself and she didn’t call herself Rachel Linda Carey then. Just Rachel Carey. You can’t blame March, guv.”
Fox grunted, unhappy that he could not find fault with someone. “What about Ward? What did you say his first name was?”
“Jonathon, sir.”
“Yes, Jonathon. Did you find a death entry for him?”
“No, sir,” said Fletcher. “Either he died abroad or he’s still alive. Somewhere.”
“Tried the PNC?”
“Yes, sir. Nothing on Jonathon Ward.”
“There wouldn’t be,” said Fox. “Is Ron Crozier knocking about up there? You are at the Yard, are you?”
“Yes, I am, sir, and no, Ron’s not here. He’s on some jolly at Knightsbridge, I believe,” said Fletcher and winced as Fox crashed the receiver of his telephone back on its rest.
*
The Flying Squad had no idea of the route that Povey had taken and Fox ordered that details of the red Peugeot he was driving be circulated to all cars in the Metropolitan
Police District. A check on the PNC had shown that the registered keeper was Laurence Bentley, and gave an address in Battersea.
“Saucy bastard! I’ll bet he’s been living in Battersea ever since he came back from Australia.” Fox had left Jane in the care of the two policewomen and was now standing in the street outside her flat holding court to those Flying Squad officers who had not taken off in pursuit of the errant Povey. “Denzil, take a team and get down to this address in Battersea as quickly as you can. I shouldn’t think there’s a cat-in-hell’s chance that Povey will turn up there, not now he knows we’ve clocked his car, but get in there and see what you can find.” He glanced around the group of assembled detectives. “Have we got anyone left who’s tooled up?”
“Matt Hobson and I are armed, guv’nor,” said Detective Sergeant Roy Buckley.
“Good,” said Fox. “You go with Mr Evans.”
“What about a search warrant, sir?” asked Evans.
“I have decided that the urgency of the situation does not allow for application to be made to a justice,” said Fox loftily. “I shall therefore issue a superintendent’s written order to search under the Explosives Act of 1875.” He withdrew a printed form from his inside pocket and spread it on the bonnet of one of the Flying Squad cars. Borrowing a pen from Evans, he scrawled a few details and then signed the form with a flourish.
“But we don’t think that he’s got explosives, sir. Do we?” Evans always worried about the legal niceties, and Fox’s maverick attitude to the law meant that the DI was in a state of constant anxiety.
“We know that he possesses, or has possessed, firearms,” said Fox patiently. “And firearms contain bullets. And bullets contain explosive material. It’s what makes them go bang, Denzil.” Fox beamed confidently at Evans and handed him the written order. “So there you have it.”
*
By dint of skillful driving, Kevin Povey had shaken off his Flying Squad pursuers, but he knew that the number of his car would now be in the possession of every police officer in London. When he reached the western end of the Cromwell Road, he parked the distinctive red Peugeot and locked it. Realizing that he was now in Earls Court, he hesitated as a thought entered his mind but, as quickly, he dismissed it. Remaining on the south side of the road, he walked to the next set of traffic lights and waited until a suitable car stopped on the red signal.
She was a young woman, probably no more than twenty-eight, and quite good looking. Povey opened the passenger door and slid into the seat beside her.
“What d’you think you’re—?” began the woman, clearly alarmed.
Povey flourished his revolver. “Just drive and you won’t get hurt,” he said.
“But—”
“Do it!” screamed Povey.
Her face white with fear, the young woman released the hand-brake with a shaking hand, let in the clutch and drove off somewhat erratically.
*
Fox paced back and forth across Jane Sims’s sitting room. He had already instructed DS Crozier to telephone Cannes in an attempt to persuade Victor Lasage to search for a record of the birth of Kevin Povey. But now, he did not know what to do next. There was no point in returning to Scotland Yard while there was a possibility of Povey being sighted somewhere, but there was nothing he could do immediately. For Fox, it was the most frustrating situation in which he could find himself.
“For goodness’ sake sit down, Tommy,” said Jane, “and have a drink.”
“No thanks,” said Fox, lighting another cigarette. “I wonder where the bastard’s gone.” He suddenly struck the palm of his left hand with the fist of his right. “Earls Court,” he said. “It’s all coming on top. If Michelle White’s maiden name was Povey, and her mother was Linda Povey before she married this Ward bloke, it’s an odds-on chance that Kevin Povey’s her son.” He grabbed at his personal radio and called Gilroy. “Jack, where are you?”
“Still outside, sir,” said Gilroy. “It’s where you told me to stay.”
“Good. Is Swann there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many men have you got there, Jack?”
There was a pause. “About ten, sir.”
“Armed?” Fox’s questions came out like the staccato fire of a machine gun.
“Four of us, sir. D’you want me to call SO19?”
“No. Don’t want them posing all over the bloody place.” Fox had no high regard for the operational members of Firearms Branch. “We’re going to see Linda Ward.”
“Linda Ward, sir?” Gilroy wondered what strange theory his chief was working on now.
“Yes. I’ll explain on the way.” Fox turned to Jane and, regardless of the presence of the two women detectives, kissed her. “Shan’t be long,” he said. “Take care.”
“And you,” said Jane, trailing him to the front door as he made a hurried departure.
“Told you, skip,” said Kate Ebdon.
“And I told you, Kate. Mind your own bloody business.”
Jane Sims returned to the sitting room and, indifferent to the niceties of the rank structure and the discipline that went with it, said, “Is Tommy always like this?”
“Only when he’s got the bit between his teeth, m’lady,” said Kate with a grin.
“For God’s sake call me Jane. I can’t abide all this m’lady business.” Jane walked across to the drinks cabinet. “Well, I’m going to have a stiff whisky. You girls going to join me?”
Kate hesitated and glanced at her sergeant.
Rosie Webster stood up. “Oh, why the hell not. Thanks, Jane,” she said. “I suppose you haven’t got a gin and tonic, have you?”
Twenty-one
An armed detective stood on either side of the front door as Fox, Gilroy beside him, rang the bell.
“Oh, it’s you again,” said Linda Ward disdainfully. She clearly had no high opinion of the police.
“Are you alone, Mrs Ward?” asked Fox.
“Yes, I am. Not that it’s any of your business.” There was hostility in the woman’s voice. “Have you come to return my
jewelery?”
“Not yet, Mrs Ward. May we come in?”
“I suppose so.”
Fox nodded to the two armed detectives. “All right,” he said. “Wait here. Just in case.”
Mrs Ward noticed the other two for the first time. “What exactly is going on?” she asked.
“I’ve come to see you about your son Kevin,” said Fox as he and Gilroy entered the flat.
Mrs Ward turned sharply. “What d’you mean?” she demanded.
“Kevin Povey is your son, isn’t he?”
“What if he is?” Linda Ward remained standing in the center of her sitting room and did not invite either of the police officers to sit down. She obviously did not intend that they should stay long.
“Mrs Ward, I think you know that Kevin Povey is wanted for questioning by the police in connection with a murder which took place in Shepperton about five years ago.”
Mrs Ward sank into a chair and, with a limp wave of her hand, invited Fox and Gilroy to sit down also. “What has this to do with my jewelery?” she asked. She suddenly sounded tired, as though she had known that it would come to this one day, but had tried not to think about it.
“At the moment, I’m not sure,” said Fox. In fact, he had a theory, but was not yet prepared to reveal it. “When did you last see him?”
Mrs Ward shrugged. “Ages ago,” she said. “Perhaps a year. I can’t really remember.”
“Did he come here?”
“Good heavens no.”
“How did he contact you then?”
“He telephoned.”
“And do you have a telephone number for him?”
“No,” said Linda Ward, glancing distractedly at her small bookcase. “I don’t even know where he is.”
“No idea?”
“I said no.” Mrs Ward looked sharply at Fox. “I think he’s abroad somewhere.”
“You did know that he was wanted by the police, of course.”
Linda Ward gave Fox a scathing glance. “Did I?” she asked.
“You were interviewed by the French police on your yacht at Cannes, about five years ago. The yacht was called Windsong, wasn’t it?”
“I can’t remember,” said Linda Ward again.
“Which you sold to a Mr Geoffrey Cooper.” Fox pursued his enquiry relentlessly.
“Yes. What of it?”
“Where is Mr Jonathon Ward, Mrs Ward?”
Again, Linda Ward seemed surprised at the depth of Fox’s knowledge of her life, but refused to be coerced into answering his questions. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” she said.
“Is he dead?”
“I neither know nor care.”
“I see. And you have no idea where Kevin Povey might be at this moment?” Fox thought it extremely unlikely that Mrs Ward, or anyone else, knew of the wanted man’s present whereabouts.
“Of course not. Why d’you want to know?”
Fox thought that to be fairly obvious. “I wish to question him about the houseboat murder. And two others,” he added quietly.
“Two others!” For the first time since the arrival of the police, Mrs Ward seemed disconcerted. She looked Fox in the face, and he was aware of a slight tic above her left eye that had not been apparent before.
“Yes, Mrs Ward. The murders of Wally Proctor, whom you knew as James Dangerfield, and a man called Robin Skelton. We also believe him to be implicated in a number of substantial jewelery thefts.”
“My God!” Linda Ward was clearly shaken by this information.
For five years, she had been convinced that her son was innocent, but now the police were here, in her flat, telling her that he had lived a life of violent crime since that fateful moment of Jason Bright’s murder. Her mind went back to the day when the French police came aboard Windsong seeking Kevin. And she recalled too, the furious argument that she and her husband had had afterwards about Kevin, and how they had raced back to England only for Gordon to die of a heart attack a day later. All his life, Gordon Povey had worked hard, building an international diamond business that had provided them with a lifestyle beyond her wildest dreams. A lifestyle that had furnished them with two beautiful houses, several cars – a Rolls-Royce included – a yacht in the South of France and a villa in the mountains behind Cannes at St Paul-de-Vence. Their two children, Kevin and Michelle, had been provided with the best of everything, but Linda Ward now realized that their own selfishness had left the two children without the caring warmth of a true family upbringing. Michelle was all right, or so it seemed, but Kevin had gone wildly off the rails. He had only to ask his father for money – for drugs, she suspected – or a new fast car, and he got it. Gordon would give the boy anything material, rather than devoting a few moments of his precious time to his fatherly duties. To Gordon Povey time had meant money, and by the time they had enough of it to relax, to take things easy, it was too late.
“Why d’you use the name Linda now, Mrs Ward?” asked Fox. It was not really pertinent to his enquiry, but Fox hated loose ends.
“I detested the name Rachel,” said Linda Ward. “My first husband said he liked it and always insisted on using it, but when I met Jonathon, I started to use my second name.”
“And where, as a matter of interest, did you meet your second husband, Mrs Ward?”
When Fox had first arrived, Linda Ward would have declined to answer that question. Would have told this arrogant policeman to mind his own business. But now, as the realization dawned upon her that her own shortcomings as a mother had probably contributed to Kevin’s plight, she just answered him. “In the casino at Cannes,” she said softly. “About a year before Gordon died.”
*
According to the address on his vehicle registration, Laurence Bentley lived in one of the maze of streets south of Battersea Rise not far from Wandsworth Common. It was a terraced property, not in the best condition, and had net curtains at each of the windows facing the road.
Denzil Evans had brought half his team to a standstill some yards from the house. The remainder of his detectives he had sent along the adjacent street to enter the road from the opposite end. Now on foot they approached the house.
“Roy and Matt come with me,” said Evans to the two armed officers. “The rest of you be ready to follow me in.”
“Hold on, guv,” said DS Buckley. “Matt and I have got shooters. We’ll hammer on the door. Just in case.”
“I’m the DI and I’ll—” began Evans.
“Leave it out, guv’nor, please,” said Buckley and strode up the short path to the front door, Matt Hobson right behind him.
The woman who answered the door was pretty, in a common sort of way. She was dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt beneath which it was clear she wore no bra. The tee-shirt bore a slogan that read HOW ABOUT NOW? in large red letters. She was barefooted and the scarlet varnish on her toenails matched that of her fingernails. Her hair, a golden brown, was long and fell straight to her shoulders. “Yes?” she said.
“Police,” said Buckley and barged past the girl.
“Here, what d’you think you’re doing?” Leaving the door open, the girl raced after Buckley. “You can’t just come in here like that—” she began, but Hobson seized her by the shoulders and passed her back to Evans.
“Now just you hold on, miss,” said Evans. “We’re looking for Laurence Bentley.”
“My husband’s not here,” said the woman. “If you’d asked politely, I’d’ve told you that.” Despite her appearance, she spoke in cultured tones.
“Where is he then?” persisted Evans. It was a pointless question. In view of what had occurred in Knightsbridge an hour ago, it was unlikely that Bentley’s wife had any idea where he was. As Fox had suggested, it was most unlikely that he would have returned home.
“Not here, guv,” said Buckley, holstering his pistol as he came back down the stairs after he and Hobson had conducted a lightning search of the small house, the equally small garden and the shed.
“I just told y
ou that,” said Mrs Bentley. “What the hell’s this all about?”
“Does your husband also use the name Kevin Povey, Mrs Bentley?” asked Evans. The DI and six of his officers were crowded into the tiny entrance hall, and Bentley’s wife showed no signs of inviting them into the sitting room.
“Does he what?” Mrs Bentley laughed outright.
“Does he use the name Kevin Povey?” Evans patiently repeated the question.
“Of course not.”
Evans sighed. “We have a warrant to search this house,” he said. He had decided that to describe the superintendent’s written order to search as a warrant would save complicated explanations.
“Have you indeed?” said Mrs Bentley truculendy. “And are you going to show it me, or do I have to take your word for it?” Clearly not in awe of the police, she stood defiantly, her hands in her pockets.
Evans withdrew the document and displayed it. “There you are, madam,” he said.
Mrs Bentley glanced briefly at the order. “Well, I’ve never seen one before, so I suppose I’ll have to accept that it’s the genuine article,” she said. “But why d’you want to search my house?”
“We have reason to believe that Laurence Bentley is Kevin Povey, who is wanted for questioning by the police.”
“Is that so? And what for, may I ask?”
“For murder,” said Evans. “Well, three murders, as a matter of fact.”
Mrs Bentley threw back her head and laughed. “Are you seriously telling me,” she asked, “That you suspect Laurie of committing three murders? You must be mad, the lot of you.” Her gaze swept the six officers who were awaiting Evans’s signal to get going. She noticed that young Ted March was gazing at her breasts and she promptly folded her arms.
“Yes, madam,” said Evans and signaled to the others to make a start. “And now, I’d like a word with you. Shall we sit down?”
Mrs Bentley shrugged her shoulders and pushed open the door of the sitting room. She walked across to a settee and sat down, swinging her legs up and leaving Evans to select one of the armchairs. “Well, what d’you want to talk about?” she asked.
“Very nice.” Evans gazed around the room. Although small, it was comfortable and the furniture was of good quality. On the deep pile carpet stood a large television set with a video recorder beneath it, and in a corner there was a Bang & Olufsen stereo unit. The three-piece suite was upholstered in black leather and the pictures which adorned the walls were a mixture of reproductions of well-known paintings and original watercolors.
