by Graham Ison
Waldo Conway’s curiosity had got the better of him. Although under no obligation to be interviewed by police unless he wished to be, he had, none the less, viewed the encounter as a way of keeping abreast of what was going on outside. Talking to the head of the Flying Squad was a good way of learning the current state of play in the world of crime. Or so he thought. He had still not realised that on these occasions it was he who did the talking and Fox who did the listening.
Tommy Fox seized Conway’s hand in a grip that did little for the well-being of the robber’s manual bone structure, and then sat down opposite him.
Conway smiled nervously. ‘Long time no see, Mr Fox,’ he said, massaging his right hand. He sat hunched in his chair. An undernourished five feet nine, with badly cut fair hair and a weasel-like expression, he was the epitome of the small-time robber.
‘How’re they treating you, Waldo?’
‘All right, Mr Fox, ta. Out next month, anyhow.’
‘Oh, really?’ Fox feigned surprise. ‘Doesn’t time fly? When next month?’
‘Seventh of May.’
‘May Day,’ said Fox. ‘How appropriate. “Workers of the world unite, and cast off your chains”.’
‘What?’
Fox shook his head slowly and pushed his cigarette case across the table. ‘Whatever else you’ve been doing in here, Waldo, I can see you haven’t done an Open University course in the Humanities.’
‘Don’t quite follow you, Mr Fox.’ Conway’s face crumpled into an expression of total bewilderment. He knew Fox of old. The bastard was up to something, and it hurt Conway’s brain trying to work out what it was.
‘The gun, Waldo.’
Conway looked mystified. ‘The gun?’ he repeated.
Fox nodded slowly. ‘S’right. The shooter you used to bugger up the decor of the bank you did, and for which you rightly got seven and a half years’ worth of bird, the tail-end of which you are now serving.’
‘Oh, that gun.’
Fox nodded. ‘That gun, Waldo.
Conway looked offended. ‘I don’t know nothing about it,’ he said. ‘I said at the trial, I never had it no more.’
‘Yes, I do recall that,’ said Fox patiently. ‘What happened to it?’
‘Like I said, I dumped it in the river.’
‘Where ... and which river?’
Conway’s face reflected deep concern. ‘Er ...’
‘Come on, Waldo, not even you throw shooters away every day. You can remember if you try.’
‘Yeah, well it was a long time ago, like.’
‘Indeed it was,’ said Fox. ‘Just over five years to be exact, but do make the effort.’
‘Yeah, of course, I remember now. Off of Hungerford Bridge.’
‘When?’
Conway paused again, deep in thought. ‘It must have been the day after the raid,’ he said. ‘It all went wrong, see.’
‘Certainly did for you,’ said Fox quietly.
‘Well I never meant to use it. It was just a frightener, like. Anyhow, once the heat was on, I decided to get shot of it, so I slung it off of Hungerford Bridge. That’s over the Thames, by the way.’
Fox glared at Conway with a sour expression. ‘I do know where Hungerford Bridge is,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well, there you are then.’ Conway leaned back as though that was an end to the matter.
‘Know any divers, Waldo?’
‘Do what, Mr Fox?’
‘Divers, Waldo. People who descend to the depths of the ocean ... and rivers.’
‘No, you’ve lost me there a bit, Mr Fox.’
Fox’s face took on a stern expression. It was an expression that Conway had seen before and it worried him. ‘Let’s not fart-arse about, Waldo. I’ll try and put this as simply as possible, so that even your addled brain can understand it.’
Conway concentrated. ‘Oh!’ he said.
‘The fact of the matter,’ Fox went on, ‘is that that shooter was used in a building society heist on Easter Saturday ... to the tune of about fifty grand. Now,’ continued Fox, ‘I’m not too worried about the fifty grand. The building society can afford that — if the interest on my mortgage is anything to go by — but I take grave exception to people who shoot policemen. Very grave exception.’
Conway looked worried. ‘It couldn’t have been,’ he said. ‘I slung it in the river. God’s honest truth, Mr Fox. Someone must have fished it out. Your lot, perhaps.’
Fox leaned menacingly across the table. ‘We’re pretty clever, Waldo, but we draw the line at dredging the River Thames.’
‘Well, it’s a mystery to me, Mr Fox, straight it is.’
Fox stood up. ‘Straight is not a word I would ever have associated with you, Waldo. But believe me, when I find the bastard who shot one of my policemen, I’ll put him down for thirty years.’ To Fox, any member of the Metropolitan Police was one of his policemen.
Conway winced. ‘I’d love to help, Mr Fox, but that’s what happened to it, stand on me.’
Fox stopped at the door. ‘Stand on you, Waldo,’ he said. ‘Believe me, my son, given the chance I’ll stamp all over you.’
*
Detective Inspector Denzil Evans was clutching a large file when he entered Fox’s office.
Fox stared at the file, at Evans, and then back at the file again. ‘And what have you there, Denzil?’ he asked.
‘The printouts of all the villains known to have done building societies, guv.’
‘So?’
‘There’s twenty-one of them, guv.’
‘I believe you, Denzil.’
Evans was slightly unnerved by his chiefs impassive response. ‘What would you like me to do with them?’
From his expression, it was obvious that several courses of action passed through Fox’s mind before being rejected. ‘Are they all on the outside, Denzil?’
‘Yes, guv.’
‘Well that’s something. I suggest that you obtain search warrants for their premises, and search away, Denzil.’
‘But where will I get the men for that?’ Evans appeared nonplussed.
‘You’re an inspector, Denzil,’ said Fox. ‘Tell ’em and they’ll do it. It’s called discipline.’ Evans mumbled to himself. ‘Oh, and Denzil,’ added Fox as Evans reached the door, ‘tomorrow morning, eh?’
‘Tomorrow, guv?’ Evans was horrified.
‘Tomorrow, Denzil.’ Fox smiled benignly. ‘I’m not expecting you to do it all yourself, of course; you just supervise. Get hold of Percy Fletcher and tell him to get the paperwork in hand, and assemble the teams. I reckon about a dozen men — with the help of divisional CID — and it’ll all be over by breakfast.’ Fox stretched his arms above his head and yawned. ‘And when you’ve organised that, pop back, will you. We’re going to pay a visit, you and me. About ten minutes, Denzil, eh?’
*
Tommy Fox knew all about Kate Conway. Well, nearly all. When her husband had been sent down for seven and a half years, five years ago, Kate had been twenty-seven years of age. She had long rich, red hair, a temper to go with it, and was attractively plump: what her customers described as cuddly. But Fox would not have touched her with a barge-pole, much less cuddle her, because during Waldo Conway’s enforced sojourn in the Scrubs, Kate Conway had supplemented her income with prostitution. She had had the benefit of a good agent — known in the trade as a pimp — and consequently enjoyed a much better lifestyle than she had before Waldo’s latest foray into crime.
The local intelligence officer — still known to most policemen as the collator — had a comprehensive record on Mrs Conway, and was able to confirm to the head of the Flying Squad that she continued to reside at the elegant flat in Putney, the lease of which she had purchased some two years previously.
‘Looks a bit swish, Denzil,’ said Fox as he thumbed the bell-push, ‘but I doubt that we’ll find what we’re looking for.’
The man who answered the door had comic-book villain written all over him. He wore a sharp suit with a
flamboyant tie, his hair was greased flat on his head and he had a pencil-line moustache. His expression, as he gazed at the two detectives, was one of open hostility. It was evident to him that these two callers were not clients. Something in his bowels told him that they were Old Bill. ‘Yeah?’
‘Wally Hudson?’ The description in the collator’s records fitted Kate Conway’s pimp exactly.
‘So?’
‘Police,’ said Fox with a smile, and pushed the door open so violently that it caught Hudson’s foot, severely bruising it and causing him to hop ungracefully back into the hallway on one leg, while clutching hold of the other with his heavily ringed hands.
‘ ’Ere, what’s the game?’
‘Mrs Conway at home?’
‘What name shall I say?’ Hudson spoke sarcastically, as he imagined a butler would.
‘Don’t ponce about with me, sunshine,’ said Fox, placing his forefinger on the man’s chest and propelling him backwards.
‘I don’t know if she’s in.’ Wally persisted in his impersonation of a butler.
‘We’ll let you know ... Hudson.’ Fox strode past the unsavoury minder and flung open the door of the sitting room.
‘Who the hell are you?’ Kate Conway was standing in front of the mock-stone mock-fireplace, in the act of lighting a cigarette, and appeared quite unperturbed at the arrival of two strange men in what she called the lounge. She was wearing a rust-brown off-the-shoulder top through which her full breasts were plainly visible, and a very tight black skirt which stopped about six inches above the knee. Fox imagined that it would have made walking very difficult, but, just as quickly, he also imagined that she probably had no intention of walking further than the bedroom.
‘Thomas Fox ... of the Flying Squad,’ said Fox with a smile, ‘and this is my assistant, Mr Evans.’
‘Well, if you’re looking for Waldo, he ain’t here.’ She puffed a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘And if you don’t know where he is,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘you lot are losing your grip.’
‘Not interrupting anything, are we?’ enquired Fox with a nod towards Kate’s revealing blouse. ‘You expecting a client, perhaps?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Kate with a toss of her red mane. Then she glanced at Hudson who was hovering inside the door. ‘Aren’t you s’posed to protect me from unwelcome visitors, Wally?’ she enquired acidly.
‘I couldn’t stop ’em, Kate. They just barged in.’
‘Then I hope they’ve got a warrant, Wally,’ she continued, as though Fox and Evans were not there.
‘Never go anywhere without one.’ Fox smiled amiably and held his hand out towards Evans who promptly produced a sheet of paper from his inside pocket.
‘What’s this all about?’ Kate slumped down in an armchair. Fox and Evans knew that they would not be invited to sit down but did so anyway. ‘Make yourselves at home,’ said Kate spitefully.
‘How kind,’ murmured Fox. ‘As a matter of fact, Kate — ’
‘Mrs Conway to you.’
‘As I was saying, Kate, we’re looking for a firearm — a self-loading pistol to be precise — which was used in an attempt to murder a police officer on Saturday last in Surbiton.’
Kate Conway took a deep lungful of smoke, and exhaled it in nervous puffs. Fox’s statement worried her. When policemen got shot, other policemen’s tempers tended to shorten quite dramatically, and innocent people got dragged into their enquiries. And Kate considered herself to be an innocent person. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘What it has to do with you,’ said Fox, ‘is that the weapon was the one Waldo Conway used in a bank raid five years ago, and for which he received a term of imprisonment.’
‘Then you’d better ask him. It’s no bleeding good you sniffing round here.’
‘It won’t be a case of sniffing, Kate,’ said Fox. ‘Once Mr Evans gives the appropriate signal out of the window, my hand-picked team of six highly qualified search officers will take this place apart.’ He waved a hand airily around the sitting room. ‘And there’s no telling what we might find, is there?’
Evans smiled confidently, despite the fact that the only person they had left downstairs was Swann, the guv’nor’s driver.
‘What are you bastards up to?’ Kate Conway stubbed her cigarette out fiercely. ‘All right, so I’m on the game. So what? It ain’t hurting no one, and it don’t even happen here. It’s all hotels, see. Nice and discreet like. Wouldn’t want the neighbours complaining, would I? I’ve got a very select clientele. Just phone calls. I even pay my poll tax. So what d’you want?’
Fox didn’t believe a word of that and shook his head wearily. He was certain that Kate carried on her business not twelve feet from where he was sitting. But it wasn’t important. ‘Like I said, Kate, we’re looking for a firearm. Now then, we can do this the easy way, or we can go in hard. There, that plain enough for you?’
Kate stood up, walked over to the fireplace and took another cigarette from the open packet. Then she turned and glared at the detectives. ‘I don’t have any shooters here. D’you think I’m mad or something? If that bastard Waldo had brought one home, I’d have thrown it out and him with it.’ She pulled hard on her cigarette. ‘Anyway, I haven’t seen him for years. I’ve finished with him.’
Fox knew that she hadn’t visited the prison for at least three years: he’d checked. ‘Well, we’ll have a look round, just the same,’ he said, standing up.
‘Please your bloody selves,’ said Kate.
‘She told you, there’s no shooters here.’ Hudson suddenly came to life again.
Fox walked across to where Kate Conway’s pimp was languishing against the wall by the door. ‘And how long have you been living on Kate’s immoral earnings, Wally?’ Not that he intended to do anything about it; he couldn’t be bothered with the sort of minor prosecutions normally dealt with by the Uniform Branch, but it was a useful lever. ‘Because it would be most unwise for such a person to obstruct a police officer in the execution of his duty.’
Hudson would have retreated but his back was already against the wall. ‘Only trying to help,’ he mumbled.
It was many years since Fox had practised the art of searching on a regular basis, but he had lost none of the old touch. He knew exactly the places to look and the places not to bother with, but he also believed in causing a bit of disturbance and discomfort, just for the sheer hell of it. He and Evans looked in lavatory cisterns, in kitchen cupboards, under mattresses, behind books in bookcases — which didn’t take long in Kate Conway’s flat — and behind the contents of wardrobes. Then, for good measure, he tipped out the drawers in Kate’s bedroom and rummaged about. Without the trace of a smile, he picked up a large box of contraceptives and placed them prominently on the dressing table. ‘Expecting an increase in trade, Kate?’
‘Looking for a freebie?’ asked Kate insolently.
‘You didn’t expect to find it there, did you, guv’nor?’ asked Evans in the car on the way back to the Yard.
‘Wasn’t looking for it,’ said Fox. ‘I was making certain that she and Waldo Conway had split. And I was right. There wasn’t a trace of any of his gear anywhere. I wonder what happened to it.’
‘Probably find that Kate sold it all to the Black Museum,’ said Evans.
Fox shot a sideways glance at his DI. ‘I shall put that down to a rare flash of Celtic humour,’ he said.
*
The searches, overseen by DI Evans the following morning, were just as disappointing. Every one of the twenty-one search warrants that was executed from five o’clock in the morning onwards resulted in a blow-out ... in so far as the shooting of the PC at the building society was concerned. But all was not lost, and although unlikely alibis were uttered in profusion, and information was non-existent, several arrests were made for crimes totally unconnected with the matter currently under investigation. Other known villains had moved, as they were wont to do from time to time, simply to a
void the embarrassment caused by visits from the Flying Squad, and one loathsome individual with four previous convictions for crimes of violence claimed to have gone straight. It was the only result to cause Fox some amusement.
Chapter Three
‘Waldo Conway’s a lying bastard, Denzil,’ said Fox.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘If he did dump that gun in the river, there’s no way that it could have come into someone else’s possession.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Therefore, he didn’t chuck it in the river.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t keep bloody agreeing with me, Denzil. You’re a trained detective: come up with some answers.’
‘He gave-it to someone else between the raid and when he got nicked ... sir.’
‘Brilliant, Denzil. That’s bloody brilliant,’ said Fox. ‘Like who?’
‘An associate, guv ...?’ Evans spoke tentatively, as though about to get his head bitten off.
‘Like which associate?’
‘Well, perhaps — ’
‘Let’s stop poncing about, Denzil. Get the names of everybody that Conway’s ever run with. Then we’ll start making life a bit uncomfortable for the criminal fraternity. There are one or two variations on this particular theme. But the best one is that Conway knocked that shooter out to some other villain, straight after the raid.’ Fox stood up and glanced in the mirror. He adjusted his tie and turned to face the DI. ‘Conway’s due for release on the seventh of next month.’
Evans nodded. ‘What have you got in mind, guv? Nick him?’
‘Nick him, Denzil? What on earth for? No, my son, but we will keep a casual eye on him. See where he goes. If he gave that shooter to someone else — which I should think is a racing certainty — and that beauty has now used it to shoot a copper, then Master Conway is going to be a bit unhappy on account of the said unknown bringing the heat to bear on Waldo. He might just decide to do some sorting out.’
‘But we haven’t brought any heat to bear on Waldo, guv.’
