The Laundry Man

by Graham Ison

‘What’s all this officer business?’ Fox picked up the newspaper again and turned to the back page.

  ‘Sandown Park,’ he said, carefully enunciating the words. ‘The two o’clock: first, Stanley’s Triumph, eight-to-one; second, Northern Delight, seven-to-two on; third, Sunny Dreamer, six-to-five favourite.’ He read a few more results and put the paper down again.

  By now, Horsfall was thoroughly alarmed. His long experience of villainy encompassed nasty coppers, bent coppers, evil coppers and downright vindictive bastards. But never before had he been confronted by one of apparently unsound mind. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  ‘And what’s more, Danny,’ continued Fox, ‘I’m going to sort you out, mister, even if it means taking your whole empire apart, bit by bit, brick by brick.’ He picked up the paper again and read out a news item.

  ‘I’m going to complain about this harassment.’ Horsfall stressed the middle syllable. ‘I’m going straight round to Savile Row to see your guv’nor.’

  Fox stood up and smiled. Then he crooked a finger at Horsfall and walked slowly to the door.

  Horsfall got up, immediately at a disadvantage. Fox’s six feet gave him a head ascendancy over Horsfall’s five feet five. ‘What now?’ he asked when he reached the door.

  ‘If you ever try to use that tape, Danny,’ whispered Fox, satisfied that they were out of earshot of the tape recorder, ‘no one will ever believe that it hasn’t been tampered with. And secondly, should you wish to furnish me with any information about the aforementioned Waldo Conway, I am Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox ... of the Flying Squad, and I can be reached at New Scotland Yard. Bye for now.’

  Horsfall staggered back to his desk and collapsed into the chair. After a moment or two of deep concentration and introspection, he opened a drawer of his desk and took out a bottle of Scotch.

  *

  Although Fox had been happy enough to visit Danny Horsfall on his own, he was shrewd enough to know that there were inherent risks in interviewing a woman, particularly a prostitute, without a witness. Having got DI Evans to make an appointment, Fox directed WDC Rosie Webster to accompany him.

  For all her fourteen stones and the fact that her height matched Fox’s exactly, Rosie Webster was a very attractive woman. Her curves were in all the right places, and she exuded a femininity which could charm confessions out of the most reluctant male suspects. On the other hand, she had been known to intimidate female wrongdoers by her poise, her expensive perfume and her scarlet fingernails.

  The sterile description of Eugenie Vandermeer which DS Percy Fletcher and the Special Branch officers at Dover had provided did little to prepare Fox for the full-breasted woman who opened the door of her flat in Notting Hill. Tall — she was nearly as tall as Fox and Rosie — she had shoulder-length brown hair, a slim waist and good legs.

  She gazed confidently at the two police officers and held the door wide. ‘Come in, why don’t you?’ The Flemish accent and the slightly mocking smile added to the girl’s attractiveness and made Fox realise immediately that this was not going to be an easy interview. He was even more pleased that he had brought a WDC with him.

  Eugenie led them into a tastefully furnished sitting room and with a wave of her hand invited them to sit down. ‘A cup of tea?’ she enquired. ‘Or something stronger?’ She smiled impishly.

  ‘Neither, thank you.’ Fox spoke for both himself and Rosie; he had no intention of allowing this girl to set the pace.

  ‘Well now, what can I do for you?’ Eugenie settled herself into an armchair. She crossed her legs and arranged her calf-length skirt, the silk of her dress whispering as she did so.

  ‘Waldo Conway,’ said Fox.

  Eugenie smiled. ‘Dear Waldo, poor boy. What has he been up to now?’

  ‘I understand that you and he went to France recently.’ Eugenie shook her head. ‘Not to France,’ she said. ‘To Belgium. It’s my home, you know.’

  ‘So I believe,’ said Fox. He was not at all happy with this woman’s overt confidence. Rosie Webster remained silent, rapidly estimating what Eugenie Vandermeer’s outfit must have cost. ‘But I understood that you also crossed into France.’

  Eugenie gave a wonderful impression of being mystified. ‘Well, I certainly didn’t. But of course we were not together all the time. There were one or two occasions when Waldo went out alone.’ Crafty bitch, thought Fox. ‘And how long were you over there altogether, Miss Vandermeer?’

  The girl appeared to give that some thought. ‘From the Monday to the Sunday,’ she said. ‘I so wanted to see the Cat Festival in leper — ’

  ‘In where?’

  ‘leper,’ said Eugenie. ‘It’s the Flemish. The Walloons call it Ypres.’ She spoke contemptuously. ‘You British call it Wipers, of course.’ She smiled provocatively at Fox.

  ‘Really,’ said Fox.

  ‘But we had to cut short the trip, you know.’

  ‘Oh? Why was that?’

  ‘Someone stole our car.’

  ‘What?’ Fox was astounded at the girl’s coolness. ‘Someone stole your car?’

  Eugenie nodded gravely. ‘It’s a terrible thing,’ she continued. ‘There was a time when you could leave things lying about anywhere in Belgium and they would be quite safe. But now ...’ She gave an expressive shrug of the shoulders and spread her hands, palms uppermost, in a gesture of despair. ‘Probably a British tourist. One of your football fans, maybe.’

  ‘How unfortunate,’ murmured Fox, thinking what an accomplished liar the girl was. With that sort of bravado it was no wonder that when she threatened to expose — to the Press, of course — her Brussels clients, they believed her. Fox could not help comparing this sophisticated charmer with the blowsy Kate Conway, and it was no surprise to him that Waldo had swopped the one for the other. What did surprise him was that the Belgian girl, even briefly, should have entertained a loser like Conway. But as Conway himself had said on a number of occasions, ‘these classy birds like a bit of rough’. ‘And did you report this crime to the police?’

  Eugenie Vandermeer threw back her head and laughed. ‘Ah, Mr Fox, you make the joke, yes?’

  ‘No.’ said Fox flatly.

  ‘Mr Fox.’ Eugenie leaned forward earnestly. ‘Poor Waldo has been in trouble with the police before. You know this?’ She raised an eyebrow and Fox gave an involuntary nod. ‘If he goes to the police they start asking awkward questions. Particularly the Belgian police. They are not polite ladies and gentlemen like yourselves ...’ She shot a sideways glance at Rosie. ‘And before you know where you are, poor Waldo is getting himself locked up again.’ She gave a little-girl pout. ‘For something he has not done. It is no wonder that Waldo is frightened of the police. He has told me all this, you know.’

  ‘Is that so?’ For a moment, Fox wondered if she was talking about a different Waldo Conway. ‘And why would the Belgian police have asked Waldo awkward questions?’

  Eugenie shook her head gravely. ‘You are pulling the leg, Mr Fox. They will know that Waldo has been in an English prison, yes? I have read all about the Interpol. You policemen are very clever. I know this.’

  ‘Where is Waldo Conway now?’

  Eugenie smiled. ‘I wish I knew,’ she said. ‘But when we got back to England, he said that he had some business to attend to.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did,’ said Fox. ‘You travelled back together last Sunday?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But you didn’t go to France?’

  ‘No. I told you.’

  ‘But you caught the ferry from Calais.’ Fox leaned back against the cushions of the armchair and smiled. Things were starting to move his way.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. I had forgotten.’

  ‘You don’t happen to have forgotten the little question of a supermarket robbery in Armentières, as well, I suppose?’

  ‘A robbery ... in Armentières. What can this be?’ Eugenie contrived to look genuinely concerned. ‘I know nothing of this.’

 
Fox nodded slowly. He could have told her how he knew, but he saw no profit in giving Conway’s accomplice details that so far were known only to the police. He changed tack. ‘How did you get from Wipers — ’ He grinned at his own corruption of the name. ‘How did you get from Wipers to Calais, then?’

  ‘Ah, yes. My uncle lent me his car. He is very good to me, my uncle.’

  ‘Good enough to go to Calais and collect it, because you didn’t bring it over with you, did you?’

  ‘Exactly so. He is in the transport business. He often goes to Calais.’

  ‘I see. And why did you go to Calais instead of Ostend?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, frowning. ‘That awful crossing. Four and a half hours from Ostend to Dover, you know. It is only an hour and a half from Calais to Dover. We wanted to get home quickly.’ She gave him another impish smile. ‘Particularly after the shock of having our car stolen. Poor Waldo was quite distressed by it all.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Fox. ‘I’ll put him in touch with Victim Support when I see him.’

  ‘Alstublieft?’ Fox’s sarcasm was too much for Eugenie and she lapsed into Flemish.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said the girl. ‘I don’t understand what you mean by this ... what is it? This Victim Support?’

  Fox smiled. Then Rosie Webster, following the briefing that Fox had given her on the way to Notting Hill, put her oar in. ‘Now just listen to me, Miss Vandermeer,’ she said quietly. ‘And listen carefully. I know that you’re engaged in prostitution, here in London. And I also know what you got up to in Brussels. Well, we shall be keeping a sharp eye on you, miss. And something else. Conway is wanted for robbery, and if we find that you have harboured him here, you’ll be arrested and charged with complicity. D’you understand?’

  Eugenie’s confidence suddenly evaporated. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, her face going pale beneath her skilfully applied make-up.

  ‘Oh yes you do,’ said Rosie. ‘And don’t think that you can disappear again. This isn’t Brussels, you know.’

  Eugenie stood up, radiating hostility. ‘You are making disgraceful suggestions,’ she said. ‘I know nothing of these things.

  This is what Waldo told me would happen if the police came here. I am not talking to you any more until I see my solicitor.’

  ‘I should have thought you knew enough about soliciting not to need one,’ said Fox.

  Chapter Eight

  The realisation that Tommy Fox had decided to take an interest in him did not fill Danny Horsfall with unrestrained joy. He had inhabited the criminal world for long enough to know that when the head of the Flying Squad started nosing around, it invariably meant trouble. He had played over the tape recording of Fox’s visit and was reluctantly forced to accept that any attempt on his part to use it to substantiate a claim of intimidation would be laughed out of court. And the one thing that Danny Horsfall could not abide was being laughed at.

  It would not be easy though. For a start, he would have to move his office out of the Soho district. On reflection, Horsfall realised how short-sighted he had been in leaving the centre of his operations in an area often associated with vice and other forms of highly questionable income. His accountants had advised moving into a more salubrious area: Bloomsbury, perhaps, or even the City. But Horsfall felt at home in Soho, the sort of comfort that comes from being surrounded by people and things that he could understand ... and control when necessary.

  But there were other considerations. He had a magnificent mansion on the edge of Epping Forest, where his cow of a wife held court to the neighbours — the nearest of whom was half a mile away — as if she were a lady in her own right. He scoffed. Lady! That was a joke. One of the indiscretions of his youth was to have married a stripper who had worked for him in the early days of his empire-building. Unfortunately for Horsfall, she had turned out to have a brain as well as a body, and over the years she had made certain that she got to know all about his shady dealings. Thirty years on, she had become an overweight shrew, but he dare not unload her unless he was prepared to give her a substantial pay-off, something which would not entirely rule out the risk of being shopped by her. It was that or let her stay and dictate. Neither of those options particularly appealed to him, and, in the meantime, he was stuck with her. But wife or not, the house would have to go.

  A lifetime of jousting with the law had taught Horsfall a thing or two. He had studied police forces and knew that some were more tenacious than others in the matter of criminal investigation. The Metropolitan Police were accustomed to dealing with the big-time villain, but then London was where you made your money. Even so, now that he was established in a number of legitimate enterprises,, he could perhaps afford to move out. Into Surrey maybe, or Hampshire, or the Thames Valley. The prospect did not please him, but he knew that even policemen like Fox were obliged to tread a little more carefully when operating outside their own bailiwick.

  More serious than that, however, were the companies. Cleverly constructed by Horsfall’s accountants and legal advisers, they were complex enough to ensure that all but the most dedicated would have grave difficulty in discovering what he owned. But Scotland Yard was good at finding its way around such labyrinthine structures, and the last thing that he wanted was yet another team of Fraud Squad officers looking over his books. It had happened before and he didn’t relish a repetition. His accounts normally satisfied the inquisitors of the Inland Revenue — at least since his first brush with them — but the filth were another matter altogether. They were far too tenacious for Horsfall’s liking.

  It was Waldo Conway’s fault, of course, coming to the office unannounced with his bag of dirty money. That was what had put the police on to him, though he didn’t think that they would have known about a supermarket robbery in France. But to Horsfall, the serious bit was that the gun used in that job had also been used to shoot the policeman at Surbiton. That was bad news. Very bad news indeed. That he could have been so unthinking as to take the money without enquiring where it had come from was attributable entirely to his own greed. But typical of his type, Danny Horsfall always had to blame someone else for his own mistakes.

  If Horsfall had been the law-abiding citizen he claimed to be, he would have called the police the moment Conway turned up, but one of his most compelling vices was avarice. He could never pass up a bargain when he saw one, and fifty grand and forty thousand French francs all for thirteen thousand pounds undoubtedly amounted to a bargain. After all, he had been in the money-laundering business, and still found it nigh-on impossible to turn down a good spec. But he would have to be more careful ... if it wasn’t already too late. And he would have to have a serious talk to Waldo Conway. Preferably through an intermediary.

  *

  Detective Chief Superintendent Ray Probert had spent most of his life in the Fraud Squad, or the Metropolitan and City Company Fraud Department as it was officially styled. Fast approaching fifty years of age, he was a rotund man with a shiny, jovial face, and thick horn-rimmed spectacles which made him more like the city businessmen and financiers in whose company he spent much of his working life.

  The door of Probert’s office in Richbell Place, Holborn, was pushed wide open, wide enough to bounce against the hatstand behind it. Tommy Fox leaned against the doorpost, his hands in his pockets. ‘So this is where it all happens,’ he said.

  Probert nodded slowly. Despite the hot weather, he wore a waistcoat, albeit unbuttoned, but his jacket hung on the stand that Fox had just so violently attacked. Tommy Fox,’ said Probert. ‘That’s all I need.’

  Fox grinned and sauntered into the spacious office. There was a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign that appeared to be the property of the Singapore Hilton hanging on the inside doorknob. Fox moved it to the outside and shut the door behind him. Then he sprawled into one of Probert’s chairs and took out his cigarettes.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ said Probert acidly.

  ‘I always get tha
t overpowering sense of bonhomie and general friendliness whenever I venture into the illustrious corridors of power that are called SO6,’ said Fox.

  Probert sighed, threw down his pen, and leaned back in his chair. ‘Yeah, go on, then,’ he said. ‘I suppose you want something?’

  ‘How perspicacious, dear boy,’ said Fox. ‘Danny Horsfall is what I want.’

  Probert laughed, a cynical scoff that was almost a sneer. ‘Don’t we all. What makes you think that you’ll do any better than the rest of us?’

  ‘You should know the answer to that, Ray. When the Flying Squad goes after something — or someone — it usually gets it. And I mean to get Danny Horsfall.’

  ‘Has this got something to do with the shooting of the PC on Surbiton’s ground?’ asked Probert, a quizzical frown appearing on his face.

  ‘It was actually on Kingston’s ground, although it was in Surbiton,’ said Fox, liking to have the loose ends tied up. ‘The shooter that was used in that job,’ he continued, ‘was also used in a supermarket heist in France. And it was used by Waldo Conway for a job that he got seven and a half years for ... five years ago. And I’ll put money on that shooter having been nursed, during dear Waldo’s absence, by a Belgian bird called Eugenie Vandermeer. I didn’t bother to put it to her, though. Would only have got a blank.’

  ‘I suppose this is all leading somewhere,’ said Probert.

  ‘I’m pretty sure that the money from the French job was laundered through Horsfall. At least, Conway paid him a visit last week. And so did I.’ Fox grinned. ‘In my book that ties Horsfall in with the shooting at Surbiton.’

  Probert laughed. ‘I’ve heard of some thin jobs in my time, but that makes a fag-paper look like Hadrian’s Wall,’ he said.

  ‘And,’ continued Fox, ignoring the sarcasm, ‘Conway almost certainly had something to do with the Surbiton job. I don’t know how because he was still in the nick then, but if he propped that job, then the money for it was almost certainly laundered through Horsfall too.’

  ‘Why?’