The Laundry Man

by Graham Ison

  ‘Yes, we know all that, Denzil.’

  ‘Right, yes. Anyhow, Miss Vandermeer took off for England ... on her nineteenth birthday.’ Evans struggled on. ‘Not that the Belgians knew where she’d gone. Didn’t matter anyway. The bloke who fingered her — ’

  ‘Unfortunate choice of phrase,’ murmured Fox.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Never mind. Get on with it, Denzil.’

  ‘Yes, guv. Well, like I said, the bloke who fingered her wasn’t willing to go to court, so nothing would have happened to her anyway. But she didn’t wait to find that out.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘She came over here, met up with Waldo Conway, and eventually shacked up with him. He was probably pimping for her. Whatever, she didn’t enjoy his company for very long, because he was nicked shortly after that and got seven-and-a-half penn’orth, as you know.’

  Fox nodded thoughtfully. ‘So that’s where the gun went,’ he said.

  ‘Looks like it, guv.’

  ‘And who were the clever bastards who searched his drum looking for the shooter after the robbery?’ A menacing and disconcerting smile appeared on Fox’s face.

  Evans knew the signs and took cover. ‘Dunno, guv.’ He shrugged his shoulders expressively.

  ‘How was it that these highly trained, highly paid detectives happened not to discover that he was shacked up with an alien?’ Fox stressed the last word sarcastically.

  Evans looked vicariously sorry for the anonymous investigators of five years ago. ‘Dunno, guv,’ he said again.

  ‘It’s bloody careless,’ said Fox. ‘It’s slapdash.’ And, just to make sure that he had made his point, added, ‘It’s bloody neglect of duty, that’s what it is.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Evans mournfully. There was little else to say.

  ‘And when Conway was released he goes straight back to her, picks up the shooter again and goes back into business.’ Fox dismissed the unknown officers’ incompetence; there was little profit in raking over cold ashes.

  ‘But that doesn’t explain who used it to shoot our copper in Surbiton, guv, does it? Waldo was still in the nick.’ Evans sighed with relief; the heat was off.

  ‘No,’ said Fox, ‘but it’s pointing us in the right direction.’

  ‘You don’t think that she did that heist at Surbiton, just to provide a few sovs for Waldo when he got out, do you?’

  Fox shrugged. ‘Anything’s possible, Denzil. You tell me.’

  Evans thought about that for a moment or two. ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘She’s got a decent pad in Notting Hill, although it looks rubbish from the outside. Very classy bird, by all accounts. Seen going out in cabs, or in her own Saab, visiting clients in the best West End hotels or in private apartments. I don’t think she’d get her hands dirty doing a building society heist ... particularly in Surbiton. Bit low-life, that.’

  Then she must have loaned that shooter to someone else. I need hardly ask if she’s done a runner from this flat in Notting Hill, need I?’

  ‘As a matter of fact she’s still there, guv,’ said Evans. Fox raised his eyebrows: that was a bit cheeky. ‘But Waldo’s not,’ added Evans.

  ‘You do surprise me,’ said Fox sarcastically. ‘But why’s she taking the risk?’

  ‘Not wanted, guv. We’ve got a red-corner circular from National Central Bureau, Paris. Provisional warrant granted at Bow Street for the extradition of Waldo Conway, but, let’s face it, that’s a bit thin. All they’ve got is the ballistics. They can’t put Waldo at the scene as far as I can tell. Witnesses say that there was a man — and only a man — involved in the job at Armentières, and the description of him’s a wash-out. But nothing about the girl. I suppose they think that trying to prove aiding and abetting is a non-starter. Probably right, at that. She’s only got to deny knowing anything about the job, and she’s running clear. Come to think of it, you can probably say the same of him.’ Evans sniffed at the injustice of it all. ‘Daresay she drove the bloody car for him, too. She’s certainly not wanted over here.’

  ‘Any obo on the flat in Notting Hill, is there?’ asked Fox.

  Evans shook his head. ‘No, sir. Why? D’you think that Conway might turn up there?’

  ‘Probably will,’ said Fox.

  ‘Well then —’

  ‘Well then nothing. I don’t want Conway yet. We’ll let him run for a bit. We can always pick him up when we’re good and ready. But right now I’m more interested in Danny Horsfall ... and why Conway went to see him. More to the point, why Horsfall was willing to see Conway. I reckon Horsfall’s got his grubby little fingers in this pie. Set it up, perhaps, and for sure laundered the proceeds of the building society heist. Probably the French job too, given that Waldo brought all the bloody money back through Dover. Thanks to Her Majesty’s Customs and Excise.’ Fox sniffed. ‘And if Conway’s nicked, we might not find out about any of that. Play our cards right, Denzil, and we can have them both. But that doesn’t stop us going to see Miss Vandermeer. There’s no rush for that, but give her a ring first. I don’t want to turn up there and find that she’s in bed with Conway. We’d have to nick him, and I don’t want that. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘I doubt that you’d find him in bed with her,’ said Evans. ‘I don’t think he could afford her.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Fox. ‘Women can be as daft as brushes.’ He stood up. ‘Nearly as daft as men,’ he added.

  *

  Although he was completely blameless in the fiasco of Conway’s audacious return to England, Detective Inspector Henry Findlater, with other members of the Flying Squad, had been made to feel vicariously responsible for the escape and he looked upon the task of finding out about Danny Horsfall as a chance to redeem himself in the eyes of his detective chief superintendent.

  He started, as do all younger detectives these days, at his desk. Computerised record-keeping and its essential counterpart, data retrieval, has now reached such a sophisticated level in the police that background information can often be produced in a matter of minutes. Years ago, when Fox was a constable and such ideas were merely a gleam in the eyes of scientists, the collation of that sort of intelligence would have taken days if not weeks of frustrating legwork ... or, at best, a considerable period of time getting dirty in the file depository. Apart from anything else, a detective examining computer printouts at his desk, high in New Scotland Yard, is unlikely to alert his target to the interest that the police are suddenly taking in him.

  But legwork is not completely avoidable, and it was necessary for Findlater to send his small team into the environs of the West End to bring his summary of Horsfall’s activities up to date. Finally, he was able to produce a comprehensive report — in the police, most things find their fulfilment in a comprehensive report — which Findlater took to Fox a week after he had been directed to delve into Horsfall’s affairs. But he did so apprehensively. Tommy Fox had a nasty habit of asking the one question to which his subordinates did not know the answer.

  ‘The report on Danny Horsfall, sir,’ said Findlater, laying the fruits of his efforts reverently on Fox’s desk. He turned towards the door.

  ‘Before you go, Henry,’ said Fox, eyeing the thick report, ‘just summarise that for me, will you. Take a seat.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Findlater flatly, and sat down. He carefully polished his owl-like glasses with a clean handkerchief and then peered at Fox. ‘There’s no doubt that Horsfall’s a villain, sir.’

  Fox nodded helpfully. ‘Well, I think we all know that, Henry, but what grounds do you have for saying so?’

  ‘He’s getting a bit shrewd, sir.’

  ‘Yes ... ?’ Fox nudged his DI towards the nitty-gritty.

  ‘Seems he’s diversifying. Diversifying and shedding.’

  Fox poked at Findlater’s report with a forefinger. ‘Does this report of yours consist solely of that sort of mumbo-jumbo, or is there any meat in it?’

  Findlater grinned. ‘He seems to have cast off th
e dubious side of his business. Having made a pile out of toms and protection, and all the rest of it, he’s put that money into legit enterprises. But he can’t resist the occasional paddle in the old pool. If he discovers a bent roulette wheel, he’s just got to persuade the operator to share the proceeds ... or else.’

  ‘What’s he in now, then?’ asked Fox.

  ‘We found at least six companies of which he’s the managing director. All a bit airy-fairy. Finance and the such like. He invests. Works of art, classic motor cars; all that sort of stuff. And exports it straight to cash buyers.’

  ‘You mean he nicks quality pictures and motor cars and knocks ’em out to some client on the continent?’ That was the sort of villainy that Fox had cut his teeth on. In Fox’s book, the sort of smart-arse criminal that Findlater was describing had always been the preserve of the Flying Squad.

  Findlater shook his head. ‘No, guv’nor, nothing like that. This is all straightforward. He even keeps books, and the Inland Revenue inspects them. What’s more they can’t find anything wrong with them: he pays his taxes.’

  ‘Christ!’ said Fox. ‘What’s the world coming to?’ He leaned forward. ‘Reminds me of a finger called Bernie Farrell,’ he continued. ‘He was like that, but he came unstuck eventually. Got to keep their hand in, you see, Henry. And that’s when they come to grief.’

  Findlater frowned. ‘I remember Farrell. The Lavery job. Where is he now?’ Findlater believed in keeping his personal intelligence files up to date.

  ‘In Spain, as a matter of fact,’ said Fox, gently teasing his shirt cuff out of his jacket sleeve, so that the accepted length was showing.

  ‘What’s he doing out there?’ asked Findlater.

  ‘Fifteen years,’ said Fox airily. He spun in his chair and stood up. ‘I shall read your report with interest, Henry,’ he said. ‘Then I think I shall go and talk to Mr Horsfall, just to let him know that he’s not been forgotten.’

  Chapter Seven

  That area of London called Soho spreads over roughly a square mile to the north of Trafalgar Square.

  Its focal point is Piccadilly Circus, where flashing neon signs help to disguise the filth which lies permanently in its gutters and behind its glittering façades. Its bustling, narrow streets are cluttered with motor cars, bumper to bumper, and its pokey little shops have taken on a brittle, unconvincing glitter. There are night clubs which attract the wealthy — royalty even — who feast upon a rich and varied cuisine while being entertained by cabaret artistes of international repute, before dancing into the small hours on inadequate handkerchief-sized floors.

  In the gaming clubs and drinking clubs, legal and illegal, the socially unsophisticated learn the harsh lesson that money is in greater demand than common sense. Near-beer, at prohibitive prices, is served by topless waitresses, who rely mainly on commission. But at least they don’t have to buy bras.

  And in Soho’s darkened doorways lurk prostitutes of every shape, size, colour ... and sex.

  Behind the tawdry shop-fronts, young and not so young ladies shed their clothes with monotonous regularity. Elsewhere, male strippers excite housewives from Croydon. Nude girls wrestle with each other in mud. Men and women appear naked on dimly lit stages, their bodies glistening with baby oil, and copulate dispassionately.

  The punters and the mugs, as they are called by the providers of these varied and over-priced diversions, flock to the area and are ripped off rotten.

  Most of them put it down to experience, but a small minority lodge complaints at the nearby West End Central police station in Savile Row from where a harassed and inadequate number of police attempt to maintain some semblance of law and order. They are helped by the neighbouring stations of Vine Street, Tottenham Court Road and Marylebone which are responsible for some parts of the area, but collectively they have about as much luck as King Canute.

  And amongst it all are the rag trade, superb restaurants, art dealers and the finest tailors in the world.

  To Tommy Fox it was all the stuff of policing and he sniffed the air appreciatively as he strode along the narrow street. He was conscious that his very presence was, in no small measure, alarming a substantial number of the local populace. Whatever their other shortcomings, the habitués of Soho could be relied upon to spot a copper at a hundred yards.

  Somewhere in the centre of this maze of culture, couture, cuisine and copulation sat Danny Horsfall in an office which was over a shop with painted-out windows. A cautionary notice on the door warned that only adults should enter. Inside, in the half-light, patrons picked over obscene merchandise consisting mainly of recycled sex magazines and video recordings of foreign pornographic films which had been copied so often that they were hardly visible when eventually their purchasers attempted to view them.

  Fox pressed the bell-push on the intercom beside the door that led to Horsfall’s office and waited.

  ‘Yes?’ said a female voice, muffled by the usual crackling sound that accompanies conversations of this nature.

  ‘Postman,’ said Fox and waited until the apparatus buzzed and released the lock.

  The girl behind the desk looked up when Fox entered the outer office of Horsfall’s domain. ‘’Ere,’ she said, ‘you’re not the postman.’

  ‘No,’ said Fox, flicking dust off his sleeve, ‘neither am I.’

  ‘What d’you want, then?’ The girl was about twenty and, Fox suspected, had been employed more for her coarse sexual allure than for any secretarial skills.

  ‘I’ve come to see Mr Horsfall.’

  ‘He’s busy. And he don’t see no one without an appointment.’

  ‘I just made one,’ said Fox and pushed open the door to Horsfall’s office.

  ‘’Ere, you can’t just go in there without — ’

  Fox slammed the door behind him, cutting off the secretary’s vain attempt at access control. Danny Horsfall was seated behind a large desk. He wore no jacket, which was a pity, because his shirt was quite the vilest creation Fox had ever seen. Mainly white, it was disfigured by wide mauve stripes, and was not improved by either his red, white and green tie or his broad yellow braces.

  ‘Did you get a government health warning with that shirt, Danny?’ asked Fox, carefully arranging himself in the chair opposite Horsfall’s desk.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Horsfall glared nastily at Fox through gold-rimmed spectacles.

  ‘I’ve come to have a little chat, Danny.’

  ‘Well, I’m busy, and I’m not in the mood for little chats. So you can piss off.’

  Fox tutted. ‘That’s no way to greet a friend,’ he said mildly.

  ‘Look,’ said Horsfall, ‘either you get out of here or I shall call the law.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that?’ said Fox and leaned forward to hold his warrant card some six inches from Horsfall’s nose.

  ‘Oh!’ said Horsfall, and opening a drawer of his desk ostentatiously switched on a tape recorder. ‘Well, what d’you want?’

  ‘I thought I’d just drop in to talk about mutual friends,’ said Fox, taking out his cigarette case.

  ‘What mutual friends?’ Horsfall’s nose wrinkled in distaste as Fox puffed a cloud of smoke into the air.

  ‘How about Waldo Conway for a start?’

  ‘Never heard of him,’ said Horsfall automatically.

  ‘Really ... ?’ Fox sounded doubtful. Topped in to see you a few days ago, by all accounts. Just back from the continent, so they tell me, following a longish stay in the country.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve never heard of the gentleman in question,’ said Horsfall politely.

  ‘Oh yes you have,’ said Fox, ‘because you’re a double-dealing crooked bastard and a natural magnet for such people.’ He paused. ‘Or should I have said a natural maggot?’

  Horsfall smiled. Fox, he thought, had obviously forgotten about the tape recorder already. ‘I don’t really think that’s a very nice way for an officer of the law to talk to a respected member of the business community,
’ he said.

  Fox smiled too. ‘An officer of the law?’ he said innocently. ‘Whatever gave you that impression?’ He picked up a newspaper from Horsfall’s coffee table and rattled it noisily. Then he opened it and started reading aloud in a cultured voice. ‘North East Scotland, Orkney and Shetland,’ he began. ‘Dry and mainly sunny, but with patchy sea fog affecting coasts.’

  Horsfall sat up sharply and stared at the detective as though he had taken leave of his senses. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he asked, suddenly disturbed by this strange turn of events.

  ‘I’m talking about Waldo Conway,’ said Fox mildly, ‘who the French police want to talk to about an attempted murder — robbery with violence at best — the week before last. Furthermore, I’m interested in a certain shooter which was used on that occasion, and sometime previously when a police officer was shot and seriously wounded in a robbery at a building society. And I’m far from satisfied that you didn’t have something to do with that.’ He grinned at Horsfall. ‘And now, before the news from ITN, a short Mickey Mouse cartoon,’ he added in entirely different tones.

  Horsfall gulped noisily. ‘I don’t know nothing about any of that,’ he said. ‘And I tell you, I’ve never heard of no Waldo — ’ He paused. ‘What d’you say his name was?’

  ‘Conway,’ said Fox helpfully. ‘What a shocking memory you’ve got, Danny boy.’

  ‘I don’t like being called Danny boy, neither. It’s Mr Horsfall to you ... officer.’