by Graham Ison
‘Be fair, guv. They didn’t know he was wanted,’ said Evans.
‘But he gave them a bagful of Frog money, and they bloody well gave it back to him.’
‘It’s no offence to bring foreign currency into the country. Not any more.’
‘No,’ said Fox savagely, ‘but it’s an offence to blow holes in supermarket managers ... even if they are French.’
*
Word had spread throughout the offices of the Flying Squad later on that same Monday morning that Tommy Fox was not in the best of moods. In fact, that was putting it mildly. Tommy Fox was in a towering rage and thrashing about in all directions.
Detective Inspectors Denzil Evans and Henry Findlater stood contritely in front of Fox’s desk like a pair of naughty schoolboys. They had not been invited to sit down and deemed it impolitic to do so until they were.
‘Waldo Conway’, said Fox without preamble, ‘is somewhere in this country and I want him found. The combined resources of our brethren in France and Belgium have made a complete balls-up of the whole business, so it’s left to us to pull their chestnuts out of the fire. Got it?’
The two inspectors nodded dumbly. They got it.
‘And furthermore,’ Fox went on relentlessly, ‘there are still some unanswered questions about a certain shooter that was used in an attempt to murder a police officer. One of our colleagues.’ He stared intently at the two DIs. ‘Setting aside that the officer in question is a complete prat, I will still not have villains taking pot shots at them ... complete prats or not.’
‘What about extradition, guv?’ asked Evans.
‘What about it?’ Fox glared at the DI.
‘Well, have the French applied for it?’
They will,’ said Fox ominously. ‘As soon as I’ve made a phone call there’ll be a red-corner Interpol circular winging its way right here.’ He prodded his desktop with a rigid forefinger.
‘What I meant, guv, was that he’s not committed any crime within the jurisdiction, has he? So what do we nick him for in the meantime?’
‘For taking the piss,’ said Fox darkly. ‘But now we have a visit to make.’
*
Once again, the door was opened by Wally Hudson, Kate Conway’s minder. Fox placed a hand on the pimp’s chest and pushed him out of the way.
‘’Ere,’ said Hudson. ‘What’s the — ?’
Fox stopped and put his face close to Hudson’s. ‘You got a problem, my son?’ he enquired aggressively. ‘Or are you just slow on the uptake?’
Hudson’s meagre thinking apparatus went into top gear. ‘Er, no ...’
‘That’s all right then.’ Fox strode through into the sitting room.
‘What d’you bloody want this time?’ Kate Conway was obviously not expecting any clients this morning. She was dressed in a pair of tatty blue jeans and a baggy sweater which had several pulled threads.
‘We’re looking for your muscle-bound husband, Kate.’ Fox wrinkled his nose at the smell of stale tobacco and hoped that it would not permeate his expensive suit.
‘Well he ain’t here. Look for yourself.’
‘He was released last Monday. Since when he’s been across to France and pulled a supermarket heist.’
‘Fancy!’ said Kate.
‘Don’t sod about with me, Kate,’ said Fox. ‘Have you seen him?’
‘Not hair nor hide. Don’t bleeding want to, neither. I told you, me and him’s finished.’
‘I’d rather worked that out for myself,’ said Fox. ‘Based primarily on the fact that he took a gorgeous-looking bird with him. All tits and bum, so I’m told ... and a few years younger than you, by all accounts.’
‘Oh, did he, the double-dealing bastard? Well, Mr Fox, if he shows his ugly mug round here, you’ll get a bell. Sod Waldo Conway.’
‘My sentiments exactly,’ said Fox.
*
Danny Horsfall was a nasty piece of work. No one disputed that, not even his so-called friends. He always used too much expensive after-shave and his suits cost a lot of money, but they always looked cheap: cheap and flashy. But then Danny Horsfall always went to East End tailors — he called them schneiders — and why shouldn’t he? Danny Horsfall was an East End boy. Certainly, he had made it up West, as he and his like called Soho and its environs, and he had got his fat, heavily ringed fingers into most of the pies of dubious villainy that operated in that square mile. Protection rackets, prostitution, a bit of time-share — very lucrative that, and no overheads — and a little interest in gaming machines. There were other things, too. In fact, he was into anything that showed a better-than-usual profit, particularly where those who had been seen off were unwilling to go to law. But all of them were carefully camouflaged by apparently legitimate business concerns. It was Danny Horsfall’s boast that the law would have to get up very early to catch him.
He shrugged off the fact that he was unlikely ever to become Lord Mayor of London as a mere accident of business. ‘What they do up there,’ he would say, cocking a thumb in the general direction of that other square mile, the City, ‘is just as bent as what I do down here. But they’ve got the pull, see. All went to the same school. Money-makers, politicians, lawyers, judges. Perhaps I should go to the synagogue more often ...’ And he would shrug. Danny Horsfall shrugged a lot. It was all a matter of chutzpah ...
It was on Tuesday afternoon that he was visited by Waldo Conway.
‘So, Waldo. Long time no see. Where you been?’
‘Away.’
‘Yeah, I heard. So what brings you here to see Danny Horsfall, eh? You want something, yes?’
Conway did not believe in wasting time, particularly his own. He opened a briefcase and took out fifty thousand pounds in English money and forty thousand French francs, carefully stacking them on Horsfall’s desk.
Horsfall adjusted his gold-rimmed spectacles and stared down at the pile of notes. Then he picked up a pencil and moved some of them about. ‘What is it?’ he asked, prodding the francs.
‘French money,’ said Conway.
‘Yeah, so I see. Where d’you get it?’
‘France,’ said Conway.
‘And the other? The English?’
‘It came into my possession,’ said Conway, glancing out of the window behind Horsfall’s head.
Horsfall laughed. A throaty cackle. ‘Yes, very good, Waldo, but I don’t like the smell of it.’
Conway shrugged. ‘Money’s money, Mr Horsfall,’ he said.
Horsfall waggled his head from side to side, and hummed tunelessly. ‘Depends,’ he said. ‘Depends where it comes from.’ He stared closely at Conway. ‘Where did all this come from?’
‘A couple of little jobs,’ said Conway cagily. ‘One here. One in France.’
Horsfall nodded. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. Well, what d’you want of me?’
‘It’s a bit dirty, Mr Horsfall. Needs laundering.’
Horsfall nodded thoughtfully, then picked up the phone, slowly, still watching Conway. ‘Marcia,’ he said into the mouthpiece, ‘get that friend of mine ... at the bank.’ After a second or two, he added, ‘Yes, that’s the one,’ and put the phone down.
Conway looked concerned. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea, going to a bank, Mr Horsfall,’ he said.
Horsfall shook his head. ‘You think I’m crazy, Waldo? You do your business, and I’ll do mine. Unless you want to go someplace else ...’
‘Oh no, it’s just — ’
The phone buzzed and Horsfall picked up the receiver. After a brief exchange of insincere greetings with whoever was on the other end, he got to the point of his call. He nodded, wrote some figures down on a pad on his desk, and replaced the receiver. ‘How much?’ he asked, looking up at Conway.
‘How much what?’
‘How much money have you got there?’
‘Oh. Forty thousand French francs.’ Conway and Eugenie had got rid of the other ten thousand in Belgium. ‘And fifty Gs in English.’
Horsfall assaulted a ca
lculator with a podgy forefinger and then looked up. ‘I’ll give you a grand for the francs,’ he said. ‘And for the English gelt, twelve K.’
‘What?’ Conway was horrified. ‘But that lot’s worth four times that much ...’
Horsfall shrugged. ‘So go to a bank and change it ... or go someplace else, like I said. We’re not talking rate of exchange here, Waldo.’
‘I know, but can’t you make it a bit more, Mr Horsfall? Say twenty grand?’
Horsfall laughed disconcertingly. ‘Look, Waldo, you haven’t been very clever. You go across the water and do some supermarket in France and you shoot the bloody manager. And for that you want me to take the risks.’ He made an expansive gesture with his hands.
‘How the hell did you know that?’ Conway was astonished. Horsfall’s revelation had shaken him.
‘Waldo, my boy, I know everything.’
Conway considered the situation briefly. ‘All right, Mr Horsfall, I’ll take it.’
‘Very sensible, Waldo, very sensible.’ Horsfall counted the notes with meticulous care, after which he opened one of his desk drawers and swept them into it. Then he looked up at Conway expectantly. ‘Was there something else, Waldo?’
‘Only the thirteen grand, Mr Horsfall.’
Horsfall nodded. ‘Sure, Waldo. When I’ve unloaded what you gave me. Give me a bell ... say next week.’
‘But — ’
‘Take it or leave it, Waldo.’ A wintry smile flitted across Horsfall’s face. ‘You know your trouble?’ he said. ‘You’re a schlemiel.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Conway.
‘A schlemiel, Waldo, is a man who falls flat on his back and breaks his nose,’ said Horsfall. ‘Have a nice day.’
Chapter Six
The Belgian Police Judiciaire found the shooter in the car, guv,’ said Evans. He laid the message form on Fox’s desk.
‘Big deal,’ said Fox. ‘And what do they propose doing next?’ His tone was sarcastic; he was not impressed with the progress of events so far.
‘They’re handing it over to the French, so that they can pursue their enquiries into the supermarket heist at Armentières.’
‘That shouldn’t take ’em long,’ said Fox dismissively. ‘Still, big job over there, I suppose. And what about our copper that got shot in Surbiton, then?’
Evans shrugged. ‘Dunno, guv.’
‘Bloody foreigners,’ said Fox darkly. ‘What else did they get out of that car? Anything they’ve deigned to tell us about?’
‘Fingerprints,’ said Evans. ‘His and hers.’
‘Her being Eugenie Vandermeer, I suppose. She of the European Community fanny.’
‘I imagine so, sir. They haven’t identified them yet.’
‘Mmm! I think we should find out more about Muzz Vandermeer, Denzil. See to it, will you.’
Evans sighed. But not very audibly. ‘Yes, sir.’
*
Tommy Fox did not meet informants in the sort of grotty East End pubs where it is generally thought that intelligence regarding criminal matters is passed. Nor did he meet them in sleazy West End clubs — known to policemen and villains alike as rub-a-dubs. It was not that Fox was averse to such places, nor was he concerned that his appearance, distinctive as it was, would alert all and sundry to the fact that the head of the Flying Squad was on the prowl. No, the real reason was that he did not wish to compromise any of his many snouts. Not that he had any great concern for their welfare, but if, due to their activities, they were taken out of circulation — usually at the expense of the National Health Service — they would no longer be of any value to him. Generally speaking, therefore, he tended to arrange his meetings with such persons on neutral ground, like racecourses, the more salubrious public houses, or even, on very rare occasions, a decent restaurant. The choice of venue rather depended on the class and value of the informant, not all informants being down-on-their-luck petty criminals who habitually wiped their nose on their sleeve. But in every case, it was somewhere where neither of them was known.
The hostelry he selected for his meeting with Spider Walsh was just off Sloane Square. He bought a large Scotch and retreated to a table in the corner behind the door. From there he could see both the bar and a large mirror, which had been installed — quite by accident — in a strategic position. In this, Fox was able to observe those who came and went. He spent the waiting time admiring the elegant young ladies, mostly single he surmised, who seemed to forgather in such places. They were with equally elegant young men, probably married to someone else, for what both parties would undoubtedly claim was a business luncheon.
After ten minutes or so, Walsh appeared in the doorway and glanced around. He had stooped shoulders and wore a fawn raincoat, despite it being a warm and cloudless day. It was some seconds before he saw Tommy Fox. Fox allowed him to go to the bar and buy his own drink: he was a man who did not believe in investing until there was something to invest in.
As if doubtful about the whole business, Walsh took stock of the clientele before ambling across to Fox’s table. ‘Is this anyone’s seat?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, yours, you prat. Sit down,’ said Fox.
‘I don’t like this, Mr Fox. It’s off my ground.’ Walsh spoke out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Don’t panic, Spider. And stop behaving like a TV snout, for Christ’s sake. You’ll have everyone looking at you. You get a lot of film producers in here. Before you know where you are, you’ll get signed up for a movie.’
‘It’s not bleeding film producers I’m worried about, Mr Fox.’
‘Quite right,’ said Fox. ‘You’re probably not photogenic anyway.’
‘Do what?’
‘Never mind.’ Fox sighed. ‘What have you got? Anything worthwhile ... or your usual crap?’
‘Word is that Waldo Conway paid a visit yesterday,’ said Walsh, his voice hardly audible.
Fox took a sip of whisky. ‘Are you going to tell me who he saw, or do I have to prise it out of you, word by word?’
Walsh picked up his glass of Guinness and, just before his lips closed on it, said in a whisper, ‘Danny Horsfall.’ His face gave the impression that he wished he hadn’t spoken; as though the mere uttering of the name was likely to get him into grave trouble: a racing certainty if Danny Horsfall got to hear of it.
‘What was that all about?’ Fox sat back in his chair, a half-smile on his face.
‘Search me, Mr Fox. Ain’t got a clue.’
‘And where is my friend Waldo holed up now, then?’ Fox didn’t imagine for a moment that Spider Walsh would know the answer to that, but it was worth a try.
Walsh took another gulp of Guinness. ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Anyway, it was only a whisper, like. Might not be true.’
Fox drained his Scotch. ‘I suppose you want another glass of stout ...’
‘Thanks, Mr Fox.’
*
The revelation that Waldo Conway was in London did not surprise Fox in the slightest, but that Horsfall had been prepared to see him did. Fox knew that they were both villains, but Horsfall was in a class of his own. It was the sort of risk that Horsfall did not usually take; he had too much at stake.
There had been frequent occasions in the past when he had come close to capture. His business interests had hovered in that twilight world between the immoral and the illegal, and police officers from departments as far removed from one another as the Fraud Squad and the Vice Squad had attempted, over the years, to prove that his was the hand raking in the profits from enterprises ranging across the whole spectrum of illegality. Massage parlours, brothels, dubious night clubs, call-girls and pornography in all its forms had been subjected to an unrelenting scrutiny.
Neither was it the first time that Fox had interested himself in Horsfall’s activities. More than once, sophisticated robberies had resulted in the disappearance of works of art, jewellery and large sums of money. Daylight robbery, being the preserve of the Flying Squad, had brought that Squad’s special tale
nts to bear, and although a motley procession of minor villains had been put away, Horsfall had not been, despite Fox’s conviction that Horsfall’s hand was in the honey pot.
And where the police had left off, the Inland Revenue had started, only to be succeeded by VAT officers of the Customs and Excise. But it had all been in vain. A complicated web of corporate intrigue, carefully constructed by Horsfall’s legal advisers, had ensured that when the steel jaws of law enforcement had snapped shut, capturing a variety of petty front-men, Danny Horsfall had somehow escaped.
And that, Fox imagined, was a good enough reason for there being little profit for Horsfall in mixing with the likes of Waldo Conway. More than anything else, though, he couldn’t work out why. But he damn well intended to find out. It was possible that in seeing Waldo Conway, Danny Horsfall had made a nasty mistake: direct contact with a known robber might just provide the police with the evidence they needed to put Horsfall where they believed he belonged ... in one of Her Majesty’s Prisons.
*
‘Eugenie Vandermeer, sir,’ said Evans.
‘What about her?’
‘High-class tom, sir.’
Fox nodded. ‘The Belgians told us that. So what’s new?’
‘Been practising the craft over here, too.’ Evans turned over his single page of rough notes. ‘She’s twenty-five, apparently. We got that from SB at Dover when she went out.’
‘I remember.’ There was a sour expression on Fox’s face.
‘Seems she was well at it in Brussels before she came here, putting the arm on various of her married clients who had more to lose than most by being caught out. Bit risky, mind you, that sort of blackmail. Either come across with a substantial sum of money or the Press will discover what you’ve been up to, is how she put it to them. Probably with a little more tact than that, mind you. Most did, and she was clever about it. Just the one payment and finish. No going back for more. But, as it said in the Belgian report, one of her clients took a dim view of it all and reported the matter to the Belgian Foreign Minister. Then all hell was let loose. The reputation of the Common Market was at stake and all that.’
