Blue Murder

by Graham Ison

  Blue Murder

  Graham Ison

  © Graham Ison 1996

  Graham Ison has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1996 by Little, Brown & Company.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  One

  The white-hulled yacht lay at anchor, rising and falling in the gentle swell like a breathing thing. The fierce Mediterranean sun glinted on its brass deck fittings and on the glass in its scuttles, and its Red Ensign hung listlessly at the after jack-staff.

  The pilot of the RAF fighter had noticed it on his way out from the base at Akrotiri in Cyprus and now noticed it again on his way back. He made a few circuits but could see no sign of life. He jotted a note on the pad at his knee, shrugged and turned for home. At the routine debriefing, the pilot mentioned the yacht and gave its position in technical navigational terms. Put simply, the vessel was lying some 50 miles west-south-west of Ktima, about 100 miles south of the nearest point in Turkey and a good 250 miles north of Baltim on the coast of Egypt.

  *

  In central London, the temperature had soared until it was only about three degrees cooler than it was in Cyprus and a pollution haze hung over the capital. Men abandoned their ties and carried their jackets, and women were wearing the lightest of clothing, in an attempt to combat the oppressive heat. Diesel fumes dominated the air and everything felt dirty and sticky.

  At New Scotland Yard, the flag on top of the Victoria Block also hung listlessly. It was not every day that the Metropolitan Police flew the Union Flag from its headquarters, but today was the first of July, the birthday of the Princess of Wales.

  On the fifth floor of that building, Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox of the Flying Squad was waiting impatiently to see the Assistant Commissioner.

  Immaculately dressed as always, Fox fidgeted at the delay, but Peter Frobisher was as noted for his lack of punctuality as Fox was renowned for his sartorial elegance, and his toughness; the story of the award of his Queen’s Gallantry Medal for disarming a dangerous criminal who had threatened him with a firearm was well known at the Yard. And of late, it seemed that Fox was beginning to make a habit of such behavior.

  A buzzer sounded and the senior of Frobisher’s two secretaries looked up. “The Assistant Commissioner will see you now, Mr Fox,” she said and turned to pour herself a cup of coffee from the machine that stood on the housing of the air-conditioning unit.

  “’Bout time,” muttered Fox and strode the two paces to the door of Frobisher’s office. Tapping lightly and not waiting for a reply, he entered.

  “Ah, Mr Fox, so sorry to have kept you waiting.” With a beaming smile on his face, the Assistant Commissioner skirted his desk and shook hands. “Do sit down.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Fox waited until Frobisher had seated himself in one of the two armchairs and then sat in the other, gently easing the cloth of his Hackett suit over his knees.

  “Well now, Mr Fox…” The AC rubbed his hands together vigorously. “Two items of good news. Very good news, in fact. The first is that you are to be awarded a bar to your Queen’s Gallantry Medal for your disarming of that man down at Barnes recently.” He paused, briefly. “That was the night you got shot, of course.”

  “Yes, I do remember that, sir,” said Fox, not bothering too much to keep the sarcasm from his voice. It had been a well-publicized siege that had resulted not only in Fox receiving a bullet in the shoulder but in the death of the man who had fired it.

  “Many, many congratulations, Mr Fox. And well done.”

  “And the second item, sir?”

  “The second item is that you are to be promoted to commander. Forthwith.” Frobisher sat back in his chair and gazed steadily at the head of the Flying Squad.

  Fox had received hints about the bar to his QGM, and the announcement of its award came as no great surprise to him. But the AC’s second statement was a shock. Since the reorganization of the Metropolitan Police and the consequent abolition of the ranks of deputy assistant commissioner and chief superintendent, Fox had expected to be made redundant. Deep down, he had thought that the hierarchy of the service would be unable to resist the opportunity to get rid of him; he knew that for years he had been regarded in certain quarters as somewhat of a maverick, who no longer fitted the approved pattern of how the modern detective should go about his duties. But now this.

  “Where am I going, sir?” Fox had visions of being moved out of the Yard and worse, out of the Criminal Investigation Department, perhaps to a uniformed job in some backwater there to spend all day playing with paper.

  “I am giving you command of SO1 Branch, Mr Fox.”

  “I see.” Fox spoke calmly, but he could not believe his luck. SO1 Branch – the International and Organized Crime Branch – was in Fox’s view, the most important. At the very hub of CID operations in London, its command was the goal of every ambitious detective. Although officially styled Commander SO1, Fox would also be in charge of several other branches, including the Crime Operations Group and Firearms Branch. And the Flying Squad.

  Frobisher was ahead of him, and sighed. He somehow knew he was making a mistake. “Yes, Mr Fox, it means that you’ll still have overall charge of your beloved Flying Squad, but Detective Superintendent Brace will take over its operational command. However, there is one thing that must be clearly understood, and that is that your days of active investigation are over. There’ll be no more running about London clearing up crimes. That will be a matter for your subordinates. Under your direction of course. Your task will be to remain here, at Scotland Yard, fulfilling your administrative and supervisory responsibilities. I do hope that you understand that, very clearly.” Frobisher smiled owlishly.

  “Of course, sir,” said Fox, who had no intention of changing the working practices of twenty-five years.

  “The pen, Mr Fox,” continued Frobisher airily, “is mightier than the sword, as they say.” He stood up and shook hands once more. “And how is Lady Jane?”

  “She’s very well, sir,” said Fox tersely. His relationship with Lady Jane Sims had begun a year and a half previously when he had investigated the murder of Jane’s sister, Lady Dawn Sims, but he resented his colleagues’ interest in the girl whom they called, to her delight and Fox’s irritation, “Lady Guv”.

  “Good, good,” said Frobisher, and taking advantage of his rank, added, “time you made an honest woman of her, you know.” But sensing immediately that he might have offended his newest commander, he hurried on. “Well, Mr Fox, I mustn’t take up any more of your time. You’ll be wanting to get to work in your new appointment straightaway. You probably don’t know, but Alec Myers was discharged this morning on ill-health grounds.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” said Fox. Myers, the previous Commander SO1 had been Fox’s immediate boss, but he had been troubled with angina for some time now.

  As Fox stood up and turned to leave, Frobisher spoke again. “Oh, I almost forgot…” He picked up a file from his desk. “There has been a triple murder on a British-registered yacht off Cyprus. Th
e Foreign and Commonwealth Office have asked us to investigate.”

  Fox took the file. “Why us, sir?” he asked. “What’s wrong with the Cyprus Police?”

  Frobisher smiled patronisingly. “It was in international waters, Mr Fox. And as the yacht and the victims are British, they declined to take it on. It’s all a question of money, you see. Everything seems to be ruled by budgets these days.”

  “Yes, I’d noticed,” said Fox drily. As operational head of the Flying Squad, he had frequently been reminded that its overtime bill was exceeding budgetary limits. Fox had responded by saying that so was crime.

  *

  Fox’s new office was only a few doors down from the Assistant Commissioner’s, on the opposite side of the corridor. And that did not please him one little bit; he didn’t like being too close to the hierarchy. In a row along one wall of the office hung a gallery of framed photographs of his predecessors. Fox made a sour face and determined to have them all removed at the earliest opportunity. But now there were more pressing things that required his attention.

  Going down to the Murder Room, three floors below his own office, Fox flung open the door. The detective inspector on duty was standing by a filing cabinet. “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning.” Fox nodded a brief acknowledgement and glanced around the office. Its walls were hung with shields presented by visiting detectives, and framed certificates of commendation and achievement bestowed by such wide-ranging dignitaries as the Director of the FBI and the Chief of Police of the Turks and Caicos Islands. Fox sniffed; that sort of corporate machismo did not appeal to him. “Who’s next on the list?” he asked.

  The DI knew exactly what Fox meant and stepped across to a grid on the wall. “Next in the frame is Detective Superintendent Craven-Foster, sir,” he said.

  “Get hold of him and ask him to see me. Now.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the DI, and looked slightly puzzled that the request should have come from an officer he believed still to be the Chief Superintendent of the Flying Squad.

  *

  One of the advantages stemming from the abolition of the post of DACSO – as the Deputy Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations had been known – was that Fox, as the new commander of SO1 Branch, inherited Dick Campbell’s secretary, Brenda. As in most large organizations, secretaries were as useful for their information-gathering as for their office skills. Brenda was no exception; in the time it had taken Fox to visit the Murder Room, Peter Frobisher’s secretary had been on the phone to her, advising her who her new boss was. The result was that the secretaries knew of Fox’s appointment before the detectives who were to work for him.

  “I thought you might like a cup of coffee, Mr Fox.” Brenda placed a mug on Fox’s desk.

  Fox frowned at it. “Is that instant coffee?” he asked.

  “Yes, it is.” Brenda sounded defensive.

  “Well from today there’s a new rule in this branch, Brenda. The commander drinks only ground coffee, prepared in a cafetière, and served in a bone china cup.” And just so that there would be no misunderstanding, he added, “And saucer.”

  Brenda looked distressed. “But we don’t have a cafetière, Mr Fox,” she said.

  Fox took his silver bill-clip from his pocket and handed his new secretary a fifty-pound note. “Perhaps you’d pop over to the Army and Navy Stores and get us equipped then,” he said and smiled at the girl. “Mr Campbell may not have had any style,” he continued, “but I do.”

  Brenda smiled, picked up the offending mug of instant coffee and left the office. She had a feeling that she and the new commander were going to get on.

  “Is Mr Fox in there, Brenda?” The tall figure of Detective Superintendent Craven-Foster had been searching the Yard for Fox, going first to the Flying Squad office on the second floor. Eventually, he learned that he was in the commander’s office on the fifth.

  “Yes, he is,” said Brenda.

  Craven-Foster tapped lightly at Fox’s door and entered. “Morning, sir. I understand you wanted to see me. I’m next on the list.” He was as puzzled as the DI in the Murder Room had been, as to why Fox had assumed the duties of the Commander SO1 Branch.

  “There’s a job in Cyprus,” said Fox without preamble, and pushed the file across the desk. “Three murders on a yacht somewhere in the middle of the Mediterranean. Apparently it’s in international waters and the Cyprus Police can’t be bothered to investigate it. Probably too difficult for them,” he added.

  “You want me to take it on, sir?”

  “That’s the general idea, Mr Foster,” said Fox. “Does that present you with a problem?”

  Craven-Foster looked slightly pained at the foreshortening of his name. “No, sir, but I just wondered why the Flying Squad should have got it in the first place.”

  “What makes you think that the Flying Squad got it in the first place?” Fox inclined his head in an expression of patient expectation.

  “Well, as you’re the DCS in charge of the Squad, sir, I thought—”

  “Wrong!” said Fox. “I am the Commander SO1. As of now. Next question?” He grinned at the expression on the detective superintendent’s face.

  Craven-Foster gulped slightly as he grasped the full implications of Fox’s statement. He knew of Tommy Fox’s reputation, knew that he was a hard and often irascible taskmaster, and not above interfering in every aspect of an investigation. The only advantage of the case that he had just been assigned, he thought, was that it was likely to be too far away from Scotland Yard for Fox to interfere. But he didn’t know Fox that well.

  “I shall telephone the Chief Constable of the Sovereign Base Areas of Cyprus,” Fox continued, “And ask for you to be given all possible assistance, but I would be inclined not to use local scientific support. It creates the problem of getting witnesses over here when eventually we go to court.”

  “If we go to court,” said Craven-Foster unwisely.

  “Oh, we’ll go to court,” said Fox. “Be under no illusions about that. Any questions?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, I have,” said Fox. “Is your name really Craven Foster?”

  “It’s John Craven-Foster, sir.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s hyphenated, sir.”

  “Amazing,” said Fox.

  “What is, sir?” asked Craven-Foster.

  “That you’re not in Special Branch,” said Fox. It was a standing joke at the Yard that officers with hyphenated or double-barreled names automatically joined Special Branch.

  *

  Brenda entered Fox’s office silently and placed a cup and saucer on his desk. “A cup of ground coffee, Mr Fox,” she said. “In a bone china cup and saucer.”

  “Splendid,” said Fox. “Er, did I give you enough money?”

  “No, Mr Fox, you owe me another five pounds,” said Brenda. “Plus the cost of the coffee itself, of course.”

  *

  The discussions about Fox’s future, which had taken place between Peter Frobisher, the Assistant Commissioner Specialist Operations, and Sir James Gilmore, the Commissioner, had raged for some time. Despite his pomposity, and his carefully cultivated accent, Frobisher was a detective, and had been a good one in his younger days. Gilmore, however, had risen through the ranks of the Uniform Branch and always regarded CID officers with a measure of suspicion. Particularly, CID officers of Fox’s caliber. But Frobisher knew Fox’s worth and knew also that the Metropolitan Police, particularly at this time in its history, could not afford to lose men of his experience and expertise. Frobisher had recommended Fox for promotion to commander on the grounds that it would have the effect of retaining his services while curbing his personal involvement in criminal investigation. The Commissioner certainly agreed that the latter would be beneficial; he firmly believed that it was unseemly for so senior an officer to be marauding around the capital mixing with villains. But then Sir James Gilmore had curious ideas about the status of senior police officers. He mist
akenly believed that their elevation to high rank automatically turned them into gentlemen and, if he thought he could have got away with it, would have introduced an officers’ mess at the Yard.

  At the end of the discussion, Frobisher had won the day and Gilmore agreed, albeit reluctantly, to recommend Fox’s promotion to the Home Secretary.

  On the day after Fox’s appointment as commander – and on the day after SO1 Branch had been assigned the triple murder in Cyprus – the Assistant Commissioner flicked down the switch of his office intercom. “Ask Commander Fox to see me,” he said to his secretary.

  Minutes later, the girl called back. “Commander Fox’s secretary says that he left for Cyprus earlier today, sir.”

  Two

  Fox had fretted for the rest of the afternoon. Three bodies, his first murders since taking command of SO1 Branch, rested in a mortuary in Cyprus; and he was about to send a detective superintendent whom he didn’t really know, two thousand miles to enquire into their deaths. He had heard of Craven-Foster, naturally – the senior officers of the CID, even in London, were a fairly close-knit band – but he had no personal experience of the man’s skills. Eventually, Fox had convinced himself that, in the circumstances, he should take personal charge of the investigation. Although he should have sought the Assistant Commissioner’s permission to go abroad, he decided, now he was a commander, that he could give himself the necessary authority. Sworn to secrecy, at least until he had gone, Brenda was instructed to make the necessary reservations on the first flight out.

  The following morning, Fox had appeared briefly at the Yard and then he, Craven-Foster and Detective Inspector Charles Morgan, had been driven to Gatwick Airport where they boarded the 1345 flight for Paphos International. With the two hours’ time difference, they had arrived at 8.15 p.m. local time.

  The Chief Constable of the Sovereign Base Areas Police, Geoffrey Harding, was there to meet them. A former detective superintendent in a county force in England, Harding had personally driven them the forty-odd miles to the RAF base at Akrotiri where he had made arrangements for them to be accommodated.