by Graham Ison
The Laundry Man
Graham Ison
© Graham Ison 1991
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 1991 by Macmillan London Limited.
This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter One
It was Easter Saturday.
An air of unusual tranquillity had settled on New Scotland Yard, which had nothing to do with the Christian festival.
It had to do with the fact that nothing much ever happened on an Easter Saturday.
Watery morning sun glinted on the stainless steel panels of the gaunt grey building, and made a half-hearted attempt to dry the pavements after a brief April shower. Inside the entrance hall, a grey-haired policeman, staring hopelessly at the blank grid of The Daily Telegraph crossword, had replaced the willowy blonde who usually sat behind the reception desk.
Upstairs, in the Flying Squad office, one of the detectives wrestled with the last remaining clue of the same crossword puzzle while he and his colleague drank yet more instant coffee.
‘Anything happening?’ Detective Chief Superintendent Tommy Fox, operational head of the Flying Squad, stood in the doorway. This morning, as an acknowledgement to the holiday spirit, but as impeccable as ever, he was wearing a full-cut hacking jacket — a flamboyant handkerchief spilling from its top pocket — and a pair of immaculate trousers which broke at exactly the right place on to his highly polished brown McAfee brogues.
The officer struggling with the crossword stood up sharply, knocking his coffee over in his surprise at seeing the head of the Squad in the office on a holiday weekend.
‘Careless bastard,’ said Fox. ‘Well? Is there anything happening?’
‘No, sir. Seems very quiet at the moment. Mr Gilroy is out and about in Willesden, and Mr Evans has got some business at Kempton Park.’
‘I’ll bet he has,’ said Fox. His Cockney accent implied that he knew all about racecourses.
‘Excuse me, guv.’ The detective turned back to the switchboard and picked up a call on the direct line from the Command and Control Centre. Rapidly he jotted down notes on the pad in front of him while Fox peered over his shoulder; Fox knew better than to interrupt a man when he was taking a message. The detective cancelled the line and flung his pen down. ‘Uniform PC been shot trying to stop a raid on a building society, guv,’ he said. ‘Bastards!’ he added.
‘Where?’
‘Kingston, sir. Well, Surbiton really, but it’s on Kingston’s patch.’
‘How bad?’
‘About fifty grand, guv, according to — ’
‘Not the money, you idiot, the PC.’
‘Oh! Not thought to be serious, guv. Taken to Kingston Hospital.’
Fox grunted. ‘Get Mr Gilroy on the air and ...’ He paused. ‘No, get hold of Mr Evans. If he’s at Kempton Park he’s only minutes away from Kingston. Tell him to get down there. I’ll meet him at the scene. That’ll bugger up his day’s racing.’ He grinned. ‘And get hold of Swann, my driver.’
‘Any idea where he is, guv?’
‘Yeah,’ said Fox. ‘Ten-to-one he’s in the Squad drivers’ room with a handful of cards.’
*
The detective inspector from Kingston was also surprised to see the head of the Flying Squad. ‘Morning, sir.’
Fox ignored the niceties. ‘Denzil Evans here yet?’ he asked. He gazed round at the taped-off area of pavement and at the police scientists already engaged in a minute search for anything that might assist the enquiry.
‘Been and gone, sir,’ said the DI.
‘Been and gone where?’
‘The hospital, sir. Apparently the Commissioner’s on his way there.’
‘I should bloody well hope so,’ said Fox. ‘Where are your witnesses?’
‘The staff are in the manager’s office, sir. This way.’ The DI led Fox through the public part of the building society office and into a glass-fronted cubicle behind the counter.
‘What happened?’ Fox posed his question to the four members of staff — three girls and a man — who were seated in the cramped office.
The man stood up. This fellow came into the office at about half-past ten. He was wearing a stocking mask and — ’
‘Who are you?’ Fox stared distastefully at the man’s suit.
‘I’m the manager.’
‘I see. And where were you?’
‘Well, here ... in my office.’
‘And did you see all this?’
‘No, not exactly — ’
‘Then how do you know what happened?’ asked Fox brutally. He was not enamoured of people who wasted his time.
‘Tracy told me.’ The manager indicated a girl with mouse-coloured hair who was snuffling into a tissue.
‘Then we’ll let Tracy tell the tale,’ said Fox, and drew up a chair to sit beside the distressed counter-clerk.
‘It was awful,’ said Tracy. ‘This man came in — ’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Ordinary.’
Fox sighed. ‘Can you do better than that?’
‘I didn’t really notice him. He was standing in the queue. When he got to the counter and I looked up, I saw that he’d pulled a stocking down over his face.’
‘Standing in the queue?’ Fox sounded incredulous.
‘Yes, I think so.’
Fox glanced at the DI. ‘It seems that we have arrived in the age of the polite villain,’ he said. He turned back to the girl. ‘Go on. What happened then?’
‘He pulled a gun out of his pocket and told me to give him all the money we’d got. And he said that if I touched the alarm he’d shoot me.’ Tracy gave a convulsive sob.
‘And?’
‘I handed over all we’d got in the tills.’
‘And how much was that?’
‘At a rough guess, about fifty thousand pounds, I should think,’ said the manager, a little annoyed that he was being left out. ‘I haven’t actually done a count yet.’
Fox half turned in his chair. ‘It would be helpful if you were doing that now, don’t you think?’ he asked.
‘Er, yes, I suppose so.’ The manager looked put out. Then he recovered. ‘It was all so unnecessary,’ he added. ‘We’ve got bullet-proof glass on the counters.’
It sounded to Fox as though the manager was blaming his girl assistant for parting with the money, and for some moments he studied the manager’s face. ‘You are joking?’ he said eventually. ‘That stuff would stop an air-gun pellet, and that’s about all.’ Dismissing the manager’s contribution to the enquiry, Fox turned back to the girl. ‘Then what happened?’
‘He took a plastic shopping bag out of his pocket and told me to put the money in it. Then he ran out. That’s when I sounded the alarm.’
The DI touched Fox’s shoulder. ‘Two or three members of the public witnessed the shooting, sir,’ he said. ‘They’re down at the nick making statements. Briefly, the robber got out into the
street and was confronted by a uniform PC. The robber panicked and started running, the PC gave chase and chummy turned and shot him.’
‘Bad?’ Fox carefully removed a hair from the sleeve of his jacket.
‘No, sir. He was lucky. Flesh wound in the thigh, but enough to bring him down. He was able to send a call, though.’ The DI paused. ‘You taking this one over, sir?’ he asked hopefully.
Fox took his cigarette case out and offered it to the DI who shook his head. Then he grinned. ‘It’s down to you, old son, but we’ll give you all the help we can.’ He puffed a cloud of smoke into the air and smiled at the manager’s expression of disapproval. ‘Anyone spoken to the PC yet?’
‘No, sir. That was my next port of call.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Fox. ‘I suspect that Denzil Evans is doing that.’ He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘He’d better be doing it,’ he added.
*
Fox nodded briefly to the Commissioner’s driver, sitting behind the wheel of his car which was parked in a bay marked ‘Ambulances Only’ and strode into the hospital. After a brief conversation with the receptionist, he made his way to the ward where the unfortunate PC was detained. At its entrance, he met the Commissioner coming out.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Fox.’ Sir James Gilmore stopped and brushed at his moustache.
‘Afternoon, sir.’
‘You dealing with this?’
Fox grinned. ‘Not directly, sir. Just taking an interest, you might say.’
The Commissioner grunted. ‘Mmm!’ he said, and stroked his moustache again, more thoughtfully this time. ‘I think it would be a good idea if the Flying Squad took it over.’
‘As you wish, sir.’ Fox was not pleased to be saddled directly with an investigation, although the work involved in taking an interest, as he put it, would in practice be no less. But now, if he did not get a result, he would be the one making the excuses. ‘It’s going to be expensive, sir. Cancelled leaves and a Bank Holiday.’ Both the Commissioner and Fox knew that it was a costly business bringing men out on their rest days at short notice.
‘I don’t give a damn what it costs, Mr Fox. The police are there to protect the public and if an officer gets shot doing his duty, then the public can pay for the consequences. Perhaps they’ll think twice about going soft on criminals in the future.’
‘Right, sir.’ Fox was agreeably surprised at the Commissioner’s short outburst. He had not thought him capable of such vehement opinions.
‘Brave young policeman, that,’ continued Gilmore, nodding in the direction of the ward he had just left.
‘Idiot young policeman, more like,’ said Fox.
Gilmore raised his eyebrows. ‘Why d’you say that?’
‘Should have stayed out of the way and clocked a few faces, instead of trying to win a George Cross.’
Gilmore smiled. ‘You should practice what you preach, Chief Superintendent,’ he said. ‘Keep me informed, will you,’ he added and walked away.
Fox muttered to himself and went into the ward. Some years previously, when confronted by an armed criminal, he had crossed the room swiftly, seized the gun in one fist and floored the villain with the other. It is said that he then stood on his prisoner’s hand and explained succinctly to him that he was under arrest. For that, Tommy Fox had been awarded the Queen’s Gallantry Medal.
The young PC was sitting up in bed. On one side of him was a pretty, auburn-haired girl — probably his wife — holding his hand, and on the other, Detective Inspector Denzil Evans ... who was not holding his hand.
Fox nodded to the PC. ‘All right, lad?’
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Fox of the Flying Squad,’ said Evans by way of introduction.
The PC grinned. ‘Yes thanks, sir.’
Fox turned to Evans. ‘Taken a statement, Denzil?’
‘Yes, guv.’ Evans handed over several sheets of paper.
Fox skimmed through them and then sucked through his teeth.
The statement contained a graphic account of the robber’s escape from the building society to the point where he turned and shot at the PC, but the description of the robber could have fitted just about any white male between twenty and sixty. It was not the PC’s fault. There is not much that can be said about a masked man running away when the only time he faces you is to shoot at you.
‘Just the one man, then?’ Fox glanced at the PC.
The PC nodded. ‘As far as I could see, sir.’
‘Any idea where he went from the point where he shot you?’
‘He was running down Victoria Road towards Brighton Road. I presume that he carried on in the same direction.’
‘Where does that lead?’
‘He could have gone anywhere from there, sir. Down towards the river, or up towards Hook. He could have had a car waiting in any one of a dozen side roads.’ The PC stopped, a thoughtful expression on his face. ‘He could even have doubled round the back of the railway station and caught a train. To London ... or Portsmouth,’ he added helpfully.
‘Terrific,’ said Fox.
*
‘So what have we got?’ Fox glared round the room.
‘The video, guv,’ said DI Evans,
‘Any good?’
‘Bloody useless. Lovely shot of the counter, the back of chummy’s right shoulder and an old-age pensioner with his finger stuck up his nose.’
‘Smashing!’
‘D’you want to see it, guv?’ asked Evans.
‘Later.’ Fox did not seem at all surprised that the building society’s video recorder had failed to give the police any clue as to the robber’s identity. ‘What about the witnesses to the shooting?’ He glanced at Evans.
‘No good, guv. All of them saw it. None of them could give a description that’s worth more than two-penn’orth of cold tea, and no one saw where he went.’
‘Anything from Method Index?’ Fox swung round towards a detective sergeant called Crozier.
The sergeant shook his head. ‘Nothing positive, sir.’
Fox shook his head slowly. ‘What the hell have you lot been doing?’ he asked. The four or five officers shuffled. ‘Get going on that damned computer and turn up the names of every villain who’s been involved in a building society heist and track them down.’ Fox parted the slats of the Venetian blind and peered down into Victoria Street. Then he turned. ‘But not before you’ve shown me the list,’ he said. ‘I might just be able to short-circuit this enquiry. A bit of copper’s nose still works a lot better than all that expensive equipment we’ve got cluttering up the place.’ Fox was not a computer buff. ‘Today is Easter Sunday,’ he continued, ‘and you’re all getting double-time and days off in lieu ... and all that crap. So earn it. Now get going.’
They went.
*
The ballistics expert at Scotland Yard had been dragged from his garden late on Saturday afternoon and set to work on the round that had been recovered from the scene of the shooting. First thing on Easter Monday morning, he appeared in Tommy Fox’s office and laid the bullet, sheathed now in protective plastic, on the detective chief superintendent’s desk.
‘Well?’
‘I’ve identified it,’ said the ballistics expert, a principal officer called Hugh Donovan from the forensic science laboratory at Lambeth. ‘The weapon was used in a bank robbery five years ago. We dug a round out of the woodwork on that occasion.’
‘There’s no doubt?’
Donovan shook his head. ‘None whatsoever.’ He produced two photographs and laid them on the desk. ‘This is a photograph of the round taken from the bank ...’ He laid the second photograph alongside the first. ‘This is the round that struck the PC, recovered from the scene. You can see that the groove characteristics are the same on each spent round. Each one was fired from the same gun.’ Donovan handed a magnifying glass across the desk.
Fox glanced briefly at the photographs. He was not going to argue with Donovan. He handed back the glass. ‘What was the gun?’
‘A Walther P38, self-loading. Nine mil calibre.’
*
‘It was used in a bank robbery five years ago, sir.’
‘I know that,’ said Fox acidly. ‘And I know that it’s back in circulation now. What happened to it? Was it produced at the trial? Has there been some villainy, here at the Yard?’ Fox fired off the questions one after another, not giving Evans time to reply.
But Evans was quite accustomed to Fox’s methods and waited until the rapid interrogation had waned. ‘It was never found,’ he said. ‘A little team of four went down for the robbery. The bloke who used the shooter was called Waldo Conway, and he — ’
Fox slapped his hand down on the top of his desk. ‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ he said. ‘Waldo Conway, my favourite villain?’ Evans nodded slowly and grinned. ‘But the shooter was never found. The search team turned his drum over three or four times ... and his lock-up, but there was no sign of it. Conway claimed that he’d slung it in the river.’
.‘Conway’s a lying bastard,’ said Fox. ‘I vaguely remember that job. What did he go down for? Five, wasn’t it?’
‘Seven and a half.’
Fox sniffed. ‘And a half! That’s original. So with good conduct, he’s out. Right. We’ll go and talk to Mr Conway.’
‘He’s not out, guv,’ said Evans. ‘He’s not due out until next month. Right now, he’s tucked up in Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘Is that a fact?’ Fox stood up, his shoulders hunched menacingly. ‘In that case we’ll go and wish him a happy Easter. And rattle his bars for him.’
Chapter Two
Fox changed his mind. It was not that he had made a sudden decision that the enquiry into the shooting of the PC in Surbiton was no longer urgent: it was merely that he had no desire to inflate Waldo Conway’s ego by visiting him on Easter Monday. Such an eventuality would undoubtedly have made Conway think that the matter to be discussed was imperative, and that would have given him an ascendancy — a bargaining point, almost — that Fox did not intend to afford him. So Fox and Evans made their way to Wormwood Scrubs on Tuesday. But the time had not been wasted. The computers at New Scotland Yard had become red-hot in the intervening period, churning out masses of paper with details of its more villainous clients.
