Rough Diamonds

by Graham Ison

  Fox groaned. “That means a lot of shouting from our macho friends,” he said.

  A ring of armed police was surrounding the Lockharts’ house now, standing behind the battery of floodlights which illuminated it. Their leader, an inspector from Firearms Branch, put a loud-hailer to his mouth. “Right, Povey,” he roared, “open the front door now. Slowly.”

  The front door opened and seventeen marksmen adjusted their sights as the girl whose car Povey had hijacked was pushed out. Then the door slammed. “Walk slowly towards me, miss,” said the inspector. “There’s nothing to worry about. You’re quite safe.”

  “Prat!” said Fox. “She can’t see him behind all those lights. Funny, that. I’d have said he was very strong on amateur dramatics. Should know about footlights.”

  The girl walked down the driveway and the moment she reached the darkness beyond the floodlights, she was seized by two policewomen who searched her thoroughly. It was not unknown in the annals of hostage-taking for an innocent victim to be fitted with an explosive device. Nevertheless, Fox thought that they were overdoing it a bit.

  A uniformed constable approached the incident van. “Mr Fox?” he asked, looking enquiringly into its interior. “What is it?” said Fox.

  “Mrs Ward’s arrived, sir. She’d being held at the end of the road. What d’you want us to do with her?”

  “I’ll come and have a chat with her,” said Fox. He had sent a police car for Linda Ward in the hope that her presence at the scene might induce Povey to give up his hostages and his crazy demands, and surrender to the police.

  Keeping in the darkness, Fox strolled to the end of the road and slid into the back of the police car next to Povey’s mother. “Sorry to bring you out so late, Mrs Ward,” he said, “but it’s possible that you may be able to help us.” And he quickly outlined all that had happened since the first sighting of Kevin Povey near Jane Sims’s flat some six hours previously.

  Despite having been called from her bed, Linda Ward had taken great care with her appearance. She was dressed as if for a cocktail party, and her hair was immaculate. But there were obvious signs of tension. The tic above her left eye was working again, and her hands clutched her handbag tightly. “He’s not a bad boy really, Mr Fox,” she said. All her hostility towards the police had vanished. She was now conciliatory and clearly concerned about what was likely to happen to her son.

  Fox decided that this was no time to make an issue of how much good or bad there was in Kevin Povey, and he put her comment down to maternal loyalty. “You said earlier, Mrs Ward, that you last heard from your son about a year ago when he telephoned you.”

  “That’s right, but it wasn’t true. We’ve spoken often on the telephone. He was living in Battersea with some girl. Andrea, I think her name was.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Fox. Denzil Evans had briefed him fully on the result of his search at the Bentley house. “Did he know about the theft of your jewelery?” Fox posed the question lightly, in an offhand sort of way.

  “Oh yes. I told him about it shortly after it happened.”

  “What did he say to that?”

  “He was furious. I think he blamed himself really. He was always a caring boy, you know, and he seemed to think that if he’d kept a closer eye on me, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Did he give any indication that he might do something about it?”

  “He asked me all about James, James Dangerfield, that is, and I told him. He asked me to describe him, right down to the last detail. Then he said that he’d see what he could do about getting my jewelery back for me.”

  “Did he give you the impression that he knew this Dangerfield man,”The man we know as Wally Proctor?”

  “Not really, no. But then he was always a secretive boy. When I told him all that I knew, he just said that I wasn’t to worry. He said that he’d sort it out.”

  “I think he may have done,” said Fox mildly.

  Twenty-three

  At two o’clock, Linda Ward’s daughter, Michelle White, and her husband Paul arrived in their Rolls-Royce. Michelle White was, as one policeman put it, “dolled-up to the nines”. Her straight, golden-brown hair was gathered into a pony-tail that hung down the back of her striking white trouser suit, her neck was adorned with an excess of gold chains, and several chunky bracelets fought for supremacy with her diamond-studded wrist-watch. Her husband wore a shell suit and a pair of Nike trainers. Minutes later, Andrea Bentley turned up, demanding to see her husband. All had seen the item about the siege on late-evening television news bulletins.

  “Christ!” said Fox to the runner who had brought news of this impromptu gathering of Povey’s kinfolk. “This is turning into a bloody circus. Keep them behind the tapes and tell them we’ll send for them if we need them.” He sniffed the air as the aroma of frying bacon wafted across from the mobile canteen. “And tell someone to get me a bacon sandwich,” he added.

  The detective chief inspector from Hounslow who was acting as negotiator was called Tony Kerby. He replaced the handset of the direct line that Povey had agreed to have installed, and turned to Fox. “He wants food sent in, sir,” he said.

  “Tell him to get stuffed,” said Fox. Somewhere in the distance, the door of a police car slammed and there was a burst of laughter.

  The negotiator grinned. He knew that he must never antagonize the man holding the two remaining hostages. And so did Fox. “What’s the strategy, sir?” he asked.

  “The strategy, eh?” Fox nodded sagely as he savored the words. Those who knew him better than the negotiator did would have detected the sarcasm. He detested the buzzwords that specialists in the police employed to give their skills some sort of mystique. “Tell him that we’ll send in food if he releases his other two hostages, Tony.”

  “I’ll give it a try, guv, but I think we’ll be pushing our luck. Supposing he only agrees to release one?”

  “Then tell him it’ll have to be Julie Lockhart.”

  The DCI swung round on his chair and rang through to the Lockharts’ house. “Kevin, this is Tony again. I’ve tried to persuade my bosses to send in some food, but they’ll only agree if you release the hostages. I’ve done my best but that’s what they say.” Kerby held the handset away from his ear as Povey screamed an obscene response. “Kevin, listen to me. I’ll try again, but supposing they say they’ll settle for just one of the hostages? What d’you say to that?” He listened for a few moments more and then broke the connection. Turning to Fox, he said, “He’s thinking about it, sir.”

  Fox yawned and tried, yet again, to solve the remaining clue in the previous day’s Daily Telegraph crossword puzzle.

  The telephone buzzed and Kerby gazed at it for some seconds before answering. It was all part of the negotiation techniques to impose elements of controlled stress on Povey. “Hallo, Kevin. Tony here,” he said. There was a short conversation and then Kerby spoke again. “I don’t think they’ll wear it, Kevin,” he said, “but I’ll give it a try.” And once more, he closed the line. “He’ll release Peter Lockhart, sir, in exchange for food, but he won’t let Julie go.”

  “We’ll let him sweat for a while,” said Fox and lit another cigarette. The DCI, a non-smoker, gazed balefully at the overflowing ashtray.

  Fox allowed twenty minutes to elapse and then told Kerby to agree to providing a meal in exchange for Peter Lockhart’s release, but that Lockhart had to come out first.

  The Firearms Branch inspector went through his act with the loud-hailer again, and Peter Lockhart was bundled out of the door. For a moment, the dentist paused, blinking through his wire-framed spectacles at the bright floodlighting. He too was searched thoroughly when he reached the safety of the police lines.

  An unarmed constable wearing bulky body armor walked slowly up the driveway with a tray. He reached the door and kicked a stone off the step before carefully setting down the tray.

  When the officer was clear of the house, the front door opened and Julie Lockhart appeared, fram
ed in the doorway. Around her neck there was a rope, one end of which was held by Povey. In his other hand, his pistol was held threateningly to the girl’s head. There was silence, save for the hissing and humming of the Metro-lamps illuminating the macabre scene, as slowly, Julie stooped to pick up the tray and then moved backwards into the house. Once more, the door was closed.

  “What’s the situation like in there, Mr Lockhart?” asked Fox once the dentist had been given a cup of tea.

  “That man’s mad,” said Lockhart. “He threatened to kill us all.” His brow furrowed in anguish. “I’m desperately worried about Julie, but Povey said that if I didn’t go, he’d kill me there and then.” He looked up imploringly at Fox. “You’ve got to get her out of there,” he said.

  “We shall,” said Fox. He sounded more confident of a successful outcome than he actually felt. An armed man holding a hostage always created a volatile situation, and

  Fox knew that only skillful handling – and a big slice of luck – would resolve it satisfactorily.

  “He’s got some bee in his bonnet about Julie,” Lockhart went on.

  “Oh?”

  “He keeps on about her having witnessed a murder, on a houseboat, years ago. God knows what he’s on about, but he kept saying that if Julie said anything to the police, he’d kill her. What d’you think he means?” Lockhart suddenly recognized Fox. “You’re the man who came to see me in the surgery, aren’t you?” he said.

  “Yes, I do believe I did come and see you,” said Fox.

  “And you showed me a photograph. D’you remember? It’s him, isn’t it? Povey. The man holding Julie.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “D’you mean to say that you knew about him, even then?” Lockhart’s voice rose slightly as he leveled the accusation.

  “We’ve known about him for five years, Mr Lockhart, ever since he killed a man called Jason Bright on a houseboat at Shepperton.” Fox paused. “Your wife was the only witness.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Lockhart.

  “She never told you then?” said Fox.

  “No. Not a word. Are you sure about this?”

  “Your wife told us that she’d seen it, Mr Lockhart.”

  “Then why have you allowed this to happen? Why weren’t we given police protection?”

  Fox pondered whether now, while his wife was still held hostage, was the right time to tell Lockhart the whole story. Eventually he decided it might relieve the dentist’s stress, rather than worsen it. “We have strong reasons for believing that your wife has been in touch with Kevin Povey quite regularly since the incident on the houseboat, Mr Lockhart,” he said. “In fact, we are fairly certain that Mrs Lockhart has been acting as a go-between, passing information from a dishonest insurance broker called Jeremy Ryan to Kevin Povey in order that Povey could carry out a number of jewelery thefts.”

  With more violence than he had intended, Lockhart banged his teacup down on the narrow writing table in the police van that had been set aside for debriefing the hostages. “I don’t believe any of this,” he said angrily. “Are you trying to make my wife out to be some sort of criminal?”

  “Not necessarily,” said Fox mildly. “All I’m saying is that the evidence appears to point to that possibility.” And he determined that Lockhart should not have it all his own way. “We have been keeping observation on your house for some time now—”

  Lockhart scoffed. “I didn’t see anyone hanging about in a macintosh and a trilby hat,” he said, apparently influenced by the techniques of observation portrayed in second-rate American films.

  “I’m very pleased to hear it,” said Fox. “However, that does not alter the fact that my officers have seen Jeremy Ryan calling at your house. Always when you’re out, either at work or away from home. As they did, for example, when you went to Amsterdam recently for your conference.”

  Lockhart opened his mouth and then closed it again. Then, eventually, he spoke. “Are you suggesting that this man’s having an affair with my wife?” he asked.

  Fox shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, despite being convinced that Julie Lockhart had spent most of her time with Ryan in bed. “But visit her he did.”

  Lockhart leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He was obviously a naive man and the double blow of having his wife held hostage, and then learning that she had probably been unfaithful to him, looked as though it was going to engulf him. After some time, he looked up. Then he picked up the teacup, saw that it was empty and put it down again.

  “Would you like another cup of tea, Mr Lockhart?” asked Fox.

  “I suppose you wouldn’t have anything stronger, would you?”

  Fox grinned and taking a flask out of his pocket, poured a liberal measure of whisky into Lockhart’s empty cup. “Try that,” he said.

  Lockhart took a hefty swig of the Scotch and nodded. “Thanks,” he said. “You must have been a Boy Scout.”

  “No,” said Fox. “I wanted to be a Girl Guide, but they wouldn’t let me join.”

  For a moment, Lockhart took him seriously, then he laughed. For the first time since Povey had burst into his house.

  *

  Julie Lockhart’s brief appearance in the doorway of her house, with a rope around her neck, had all been an act for the benefit of the watching police. Once the door had been locked, the two had settled down, side by side on the settee, to enjoy the meal which Fox had authorized. And they drank a bottle of wine from Peter Lockhart’s meagre stock.

  “What’s going to happen, Kev?” asked Julie. “You know they’re not going to let you out of here, don’t you?”

  Povey laughed. “They haven’t got any choice,” he said. “They’ve said that they’ve got a plane waiting at Heathrow to take us to Brazil.”

  “And you believe them?” Julie Lockhart was far more pessimistic about the outcome of the siege than Povey. “They’re stringing you along,” she said.

  “Maybe.” Povey finished his wine and glanced across the curtained room at the sideboard. “Has your old man got any brandy, gorgeous?” he asked.

  “I think there’s some in there,” Julie replied listlessly. “But don’t you think you’re drinking too much?”

  Prior to the meal, Povey had consumed half a bottle of whisky, but was showing no signs of being affected by it. He walked over to the sideboard and eventually found a quarter-bottle of Cognac. “Your old man’s a bit of a cheapskate, isn’t he?” he said. “No one buys quarter bottles of brandy any more.” He held it up. “You having one?”

  Julie shook her head. “No, thanks.”

  Povey poured a large amount of brandy into a glass and resumed his seat next to the girl. But instead of drinking it, he put the glass down on a table next to the settee. Then he leaned across and putting one arm around the girl’s shoulders, he pulled her towards him and started to fondle her breasts.

  Julie pushed his hand away. “Not now, Kev,” she said. “I couldn’t.”

  “Well I could,” said Povey, pulling her closer and putting a hand on her knee. “All this excitement turns me on.” His hand moved higher. “I really need you now.”

  “I couldn’t,” said Julie again, attempting to stop the upward movement of his hand.

  “Want me to force you, gorgeous?” asked Povey, a lascivious grin on his face. “Is that what turns you on? It always used to,” he added.

  But Julie Lockhart had never been able to resist the plausible Kevin Povey, who possessed all the playboy charm – however contrived – that her mundane husband lacked. Not for the first time, she wondered why on earth she had married the uninspiring little Barnes dentist. She stood up and started to undress.

  But later, when they had finished, Povey’s mood suddenly changed to one of suspicion. “How much did you tell the police?” he asked as he watched the girl putting on her underwear.

  “I didn’t tell them anything,” said Julie, pulling her dress over her head and then running her fingers through her ric
h auburn hair. “My comb’s in the bathroom. I won’t be a moment,” she added and moved towards the door of the sitting room.

  Povey leaped from the settee and gripped Julie’s wrists. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said. “I don’t trust you.”

  “Kev, you’re hurting me.” Julie struggled to release Povey’s grip.

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told you, nothing.”

  “But they came here, didn’t they?” Povey let go of the girl’s wrists and pushed her down on the settee.

  “Yes, but I don’t know how they found out where I was living.”

  “What did they want to know?” Povey clearly did not believe Julie’s protestations of innocence.

  “They asked me about the night that Jason was killed.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “What you’d always told me to say, that I didn’t see anything. And that you’d threatened me.”

  Povey grinned at that. “Did you tell them precisely what I said I’d do to you if you grassed?” He had picked up his pistol from the floor and was playing with it. He had been toying with the weapon for most of the time since he had forced his way into the house. Firearms, like fast cars, gave Povey a feeling of supremacy. With him, it was almost a sexual thing.

  “I do wish you wouldn’t do that,” said Julie. “I don’t like guns. You know I don’t.”

  “How did the police find Jerry Ryan then, if you didn’t tell them where to find him?” Povey ignored the girl’s concerns about firearms and continued to fiddle with his pistol, releasing the chamber, spinning it and then clicking it back into place.

  “I don’t know, do I? I suppose they have their ways. For God’s sake put that thing down, Kev.”

  “They must have tapped the phone then?” Povey was not going to leave it until he was satisfied.

  “I never telephoned him. I couldn’t, could I? Peter used to go through the account with a fine-tooth comb, checking every number that appeared.”

  “Little tosser,” said Povey. “How did Jerry get the information to you then?”