by Graham Ison
“He used to come here, when Peter was out.”
Povey looked sharply at the girl beside him. “That was a bit risky, wasn’t it?”
Julie smiled. “I’ve never known Peter come home early from the surgery in all the time I’ve been married to him,” she said.
“And I suppose you and Jerry spent the afternoons in bed, screwing.” Povey grinned. “Never could resist it, could you, you randy little cow.” And he grasped her chin with his free hand and kissed her savagely.
Julie broke free. “Turn you on, does it?” she asked. “Thinking about me and him doing it.”
Povey slapped the girl’s face, hard. “Don’t push your luck, gorgeous,” he said. “Just think about Brazil. All that hot weather and those glorious beaches.”
Julie still could not believe that the police would let them go. “And what about money, Kev?” she asked. “Have you thought about that?”
Povey grinned. “Swiss bank account,” he said. “I’ve been stashing our ill-gotten gains away for nearly five years now. There’s enough there for us to live on happily ever after.”
The telephone rang again. With an oath, Povey leaned over the side of the settee and picked it up, at the same time leaving his pistol on the floor. “What do these bastards want now?” he said. “Are we ready to go?” he demanded of the negotiator. He listened for a few moments and then his face twisted in rage. “No,” he screamed, “I don’t want to talk to her. I won’t, d’you understand? No way.” He tossed the phone to the floor and picked up his pistol yet again.
“What is it, Kev?” Julie turned towards him, a look of concern on her face.
“My mother’s here,” said Povey. “Why the hell have they brought her, the bastards?” He was clearly disconcerted at this latest example of what he regarded as police trickery and delaying tactics.
“It wouldn’t do any harm to talk to her, Kev.” Julie laid a hand on Povey’s arm.
“I’m not going to,” said Povey angrily. “I know what they’re trying to do. They’re trying to get her to talk me into giving up. Well, there’s no way. We’re going to Brazil, you and me, and that’s that.” He leaned over the girl and began to undo the belt of her dress with his free hand.
“Not again, Kev, please,” said Julie imploringly.
Suddenly, there was a loud report as the pistol went off accidentally, and Julie screamed.
Twenty-four
At the sound of the shot, Detective Chief Inspector Kerby leaped for the telephone and grabbed the handset. But Fox closed his hand over the negotiator’s. “Hold it,” he said. “Don’t let the bastard think he’s excited us.”
“But supposing he’s shot the girl, sir?”
“He won’t have done,” said Fox. “He’s not going to throw away the only card he holds, is he?” He released the DCI’s hand. “All right, now talk to him.”
“Kevin, this is Tony.” The negotiator spoke calmly when eventually Povey deigned to respond. “What happened in there?”
“Don’t panic,” said Povey insolently. “The bloody thing went off by accident.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
“Nope!” said Povey and the line went dead.
Kerby turned to Fox. “What now, sir?” he asked, but before Fox could answer, the phone rang again. Kerby picked up the handset. “Yes?” he said.
“I’m bloody well sick and tired of waiting,” said Povey. “If there isn’t a car outside in ten minutes to take me and the girl to Heathrow, she’s dead. Got it?”
“Look, Kevin, try and be patient. It’s very difficult for us to arrange these things at short notice. It’s all going ahead, I promise you, but it does take time.”
“Shove it, copper,” said Povey. “You’ve had hours to set it up and if there are any problems, they’re your problems, not mine. Now then, listen good. I’m coming out in exactly ten minutes and there’d better be a car ready and waiting.” And once more, Povey broke the call.
“I think we should see if his wife can persuade him, sir,” said DCI Kerby.
Fox was not convinced of that, but he acquiesced to the negotiator’s suggestion. “Get Andrea Bentley up here, fast,” he said to one of the Anti-Terrorist Branch officers.
A minute or two later, Povey’s live-in lover appeared at the steps of the incident van. “What’s happened?” she asked. She still wore the jeans she had been wearing when Denzil Evans had interviewed her, but now she had a leather jacket over the tee-shirt with its provocative message.
“Would you be willing to talk to him, Mrs Bentley?” asked Fox. “He seems determined that he’s going to Brazil. If he insists, there’s no way we can stop him – for the sake of the girl he’s holding – but it would be in everyone’s interest for him just to give up peacefully.” There was not the slightest chance of Povey going anywhere, much less Brazil, but it was unwise to tell Andrea Bentley that. If she was going to talk to Povey, she had to do so convinced in her own mind that he stood a chance of winning. Fox knew that the shrewd Povey would detect any doubt that existed in her voice.
Andrea Bentley nodded and then touched her forehead,, moving a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “What shall I say?” she asked.
“Try to persuade him that he should release Julie Lockhart and then give himself up.”
Andrea, now close to tears, bit her lip. In the space of a few hours, her life had been shattered. She had been completely unnerved by the arrival of the police at her house, the discoveries of ammunition and cocaine, and the later revelations that the man she had known for three years as Laurence Bentley had lived a life of crime and was wanted in connection with three murders.
Kerby made contact and then handed the phone across to the girl. “There you are, Andrea,” he said. “Do your best for him.”
“Hallo. Laurie, it’s me, Andrea.”
“What the hell do you want?” Povey snapped out his response in a voice that clearly betrayed the strain he was under.
“Darling, what’s the matter with you?”
“The matter?” Povey laughed scornfully. “What d’you think’s the matter, you silly bitch? The bloody law are trying to stitch me up, that’s what the matter is. Now, be a good little girl, and piss off and mind your own business. You should have known that if you play with the big boys, you’re going to get hurt.”
Andrea Bentley threw down the handset and burst into tears. “He’s never spoken to me like that before,” she said, her voice distorted and muffled by her crying.
Fox sighed and signaled to a policewoman to look after the distraught girl. “Well, that was a blow-out,” he said to Kerby as the WPC led the sobbing Andrea Bentley away to the mobile canteen.
“Got to try it all, sir,” said the negotiator with a shrug.
“Well, Tony, you’re the expert,” said Fox, not meaning a word of it. “What comes next in your Boys’ Own book of taking out armed hostage-takers?”
“There’s no textbook way of doing it, sir,” said Kerby patiently. “Every incident is different, obviously.” Trained negotiators often met with hostility from investigating officers, due largely to the tension of the situation which affected not only the besieged gunman and his hostages, but everyone else involved in the operation too. And the longer it went on, the worse it got.
“Sorry,” said Fox curtly and then grinned, “but I’m in need of a large Scotch.” He had vowed, however, that alcohol and sieges did not mix, and had forborne from having anything stronger than tea since the operation had begun.
“His patience is going to run out quite soon now, sir,” said Kerby. “I think we’ve tried everything. If we give him a car, we’re merely allowing the problem to move outside our control and possibly put other people in danger. There’s always the lesson of what happened at the Munich Olympics in 1972 when the Germans let them go to the airport, thinking that they’d be able to take them out once they arrived.”
“There’s no way that bastard’s going anywhere,” said Fox and lit a cigarette. “But
we’ll give him a car. Where’s that inspector from SO19?”
“Here, sir,” said a voice from just outside the incident van.
“Come in here and give me the benefit of your vast experience,” said Fox, peering out of the door.
The Firearms Branch inspector, a bulky figure in flame-proof overalls and body armor with a pistol holstered at his belt, stepped into the van and removed his protective helmet. “Inspector Godley, sir,” he said.
“Mr Godley,” said Fox, swinging round on the swivel chair he had occupied for most of the night, “supposing we place a car in the road outside the house…”
“Yes, sir,” said Godley impassively. He clearly had reservations about Fox’s plan.
“You sound doubtful.”
“I was going to suggest an assault on the house, sir,” said Godley. “If my men go in at the back, armed with stun grenades, they could—”
“If your men go in with stun grenades, they’re likely to get killed before they’ve got the pins out, Mr Godley,” said Fox with thinly veiled sarcasm. “Povey is a shrewd operator. For years, he’s been pulling jewelery thefts and robberies under our very noses, living not five hundred yards from where he was when we first started looking for him in connection with the Shepperton murder. And he’s completely ruthless. There’s no doubt in my mind that he murdered both Proctor and Skelton. Taking out a copper is not going to add one single day to his sentence and he knows it.” He shook his head. “I’m not willing to risk policemen’s lives even if you are.”
Godley bridled at that. It was always the same with these macho Flying Squad officers. They thought they knew it all. “My men are experts, sir. They’ve trained with the SAS—”
“That’s what worries me, Mr Godley,” said Fox. “But I have to remember that there’s an innocent woman in there, and the first noise that your officers make, like breaking a rear window, and he’s going to top her, pretty damned quick.”
Godley sighed. “What d’you suggest then, sir?” he asked.
“If we have a car put in the road outside the house, will one of your marksman be able to take him out if he attempts to take the woman with him?”
“Well, sir…” Godley looked thoughtful. “It rather depends on how—”
“Yes or no, Mr Godley?”
“Yes, sir,” said Godley who disliked being pushed into a corner. “Provided my man gets a clear shot that is unlikely to endanger the woman.”
“Well, I think we’ve got to try it,” said Fox. “Mr Kerby here tells me that Povey is getting to the end of his tether and could well do something rash. In my view, and in the view of Mr Kerby, he might well decide to kill himself, having first killed Julie Lockhart.” He glanced sideways at Kerby and received a nod of agreement.
“Very well, sir,” said Godley reluctantly. “Give me a couple of minutes and I’ll get my men in position.”
“There goes an unhappy man,” said Fox to Kerby as Godley stepped out of the van and made his way across to his own command post. “Have a word with our hero now, Tony, and tell him that things are moving. And tell him that further instructions will follow.”
“Right, guv.” Kerby picked up the phone again, for about the thirtieth time that night.
An unmarked police car moved into position opposite the entrance to the Lockharts’ house and the driver got out, leaving the keys in the ignition. With an air of indifference that pushed his self-control to its limits, the policeman walked casually back to the incident van.
Kerby called Povey again. “Kevin, you can come out now. But do it slowly. Understood?”
There was no reply, but a minute later the front door of the house opened. Julie Lockhart appeared with Povey right behind her. The two started to move slowly down the drive, Julie shielding her eyes with one arm against the glare of the floodlights. Somewhere a policeman coughed loudly, breaking the intense silence of the night.
“Give that stupid sod a Meggazone,” whispered Fox to no one in particular.
Povey had his pistol in one hand and his free arm was so tightly around Julie Lockhart’s neck that she stumbled once or twice as she tried to walk ahead of him. But Povey stayed close to her, using her body to screen his own.
Then it happened. Julie Lockhart’s body suddenly went limp. In the hours that she had been with Kevin Povey, her doubts about his reliability, even his sanity, had grown, and she knew that she was not going to go to Brazil with him, or anywhere else. Unable to fight him off, she had done the only thing possible: she had made herself a dead weight.
“Stand up, you stupid cow,” Povey screamed at her, trying to pull her upright with the hand he had been forced to move from around her neck and the hand that held the pistol.
Behind the battery of floodlights, the police marksmen waited patiently, their rifles trained on the struggling pair. But still Povey did not present a clear target.
But then, as Povey persisted in trying to force the relaxed woman towards the waiting car that represented freedom, there came a sudden shout in the distance, to his left. Alarmed, Povey swung round, pulling Julie with him, and fired in the direction of the noise. “And the next one’s for her,” he yelled. By now, Povey and his captive had almost reached the car and he began to fire indiscriminately.
Fox, stationed immediately behind the floodlights, a mere six yards away, suddenly hurled himself forward and, regardless of his own safety, crashed into the couple. Julie Lockhart fell sideways, sprawling across the pavement, but Povey managed to stay upright, his pistol now pointing menacingly at Fox.
Then Povey fired, the noise deafening Fox as the round struck him, throwing him to the ground.
Two more shots rang out in quick succession and Povey staggered across the narrow pavement, clawing briefly at the side of the police car before collapsing. When a police officer reached him, seconds later, he was already dead.
*
Fox was propped up in bed, his left shoulder swathed in bandages. Midday sun streamed through the windows of his private room at St Thomas’s, the “coppers” hospital. Sir James Gilmore, the Commissioner, had paid a flying visit to congratulate Fox on a successful outcome to the siege and to wish him a speedy recovery. And before departing had mildly admonished him for his recklessness.
Now, Detective Inspector Gilroy was seated beside Fox’s bed, a sheaf of papers on his lap.
“Well, Jack,” said Fox, “What happened?”
“Povey’s dead, sir, and Ryan and Julie Lockhart are in custody.”
“Really?” Fox sat up slightly and winced as pain lanced through his shoulder. “Charged?”
“Yes, sir. Conspiracy to rob for a kick-off. We searched the Lockharts’ house after it was all over. We found technical drawings of the briefcase that was used to top Proctor, and the pistol that killed Skelton. At least, we’re pretty sure it was the one. Julie Lockhart said it was anyway.”
“Did she say anything else?” asked Fox.
Gilroy grinned. “She made a full statement, sir. She obtained information about rich widows from Ryan and passed it on to Povey. They’d been seeing each other ever since he came back from Australia. She’d been having an affair with him, and with Ryan, she said.”
“Saucy little bitch,” said Fox.
“Povey told her everything apparently. He’d been at it for years, moving in on defenceless and lonely women and taking them for all they’d got. Jewelery usually, but it’s surprising how many of them succumbed to his charms and just gave him money. Then he’d bugger off.”
“Why did he kill Proctor and Skelton?”
“He’d been working with them for a long time, a loose sort of conspiracy, I suppose you’d call it. But when Proctor had Linda Ward’s sparklers away and passed them on to Skelton, Povey saw red. He had a very soft spot for his mother, according to the Lockhart woman.” Gilroy grinned. “And hated his father apparently. Was delighted when he kicked the bucket. But he hated Jonathon Ward just as much, and when he appeared on the scene, obviously intent on
milking Linda for all she was worth, Povey put the frighteners on him and he disappeared a bit sharpish.”
Fox laughed. “How the hell did he persuade Proctor to collect that briefcase from the Agincourt Hotel then? I presume it was Povey who left the thing there.”
“Yes, it was, sir, according to Julie. He told Proctor that there was a consignment of diamonds that he wanted placing. Proctor, like any other villain, was a greedy bastard and couldn’t wait to get his hands on the gear. The rest we know. Then for good measure, seeing that Skelton was involved in ‘handling’ Linda Ward’s gear, Povey took him out too.”
“Sounds like a good result,” said Fox.
“Very good, sir,” said Gilroy, and leaning closer to Fox, added, “word is, sir, that the DAC’s putting you in for a QGM.”
“Tell him I’ve got one already,” said Fox. “In fact, you can tell him that I’d rather have a new suit. That bastard Povey ruined a perfectly good Hackett that cost me a monkey only two months ago.” Fox enjoyed playing up to his reputation for being the best-dressed detective at the Yard. “By the way, Jack, have you got the result of your promotion board yet?”
“Dipped it, sir,” said Gilroy.
“Bad luck, Jack.” Fox grinned. “Still, you’d’ve made a bloody awful chief inspector. And I’d’ve had to find another DI.”
“That’s the way it goes, sir,” said Gilroy with a shrug. He knew that Fox had just paid him a compliment, but it would have taken a policeman to recognize it as such. “There are a few members of the Squad outside, sir. They’d like a word.”
Fox groaned. “Better let them in, Jack,” he said. “Oh, and thanks.”
Gilroy nodded, embarrassed at Fox’s rare display of gratitude. “Right, sir,” he said.
Seconds after Gilroy’s departure, a troop of Flying Squad officers entered the room. Each was carrying a briefcase. “Hallo, guv’nor,” they chorused.
Fox glanced at the briefcases. “If they contain claims for expenses and overtime, they can wait,” he growled.
Joe Bellenger put his briefcase on the end of the bed so that it was facing Fox. When he opened it, a short spring-loaded sign leaped into the vertical position upon which the single word BANG! was painted in large red letters.
