The Laundry Man

by Graham Ison

‘But this is dreadful.’

  ‘Are you telling me that you were totally unaware of these facts, Mr Davenport? Surely you must have signed papers? Articles of association, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose I did, but I left all that side of it to David. He very kindly offered me the services of his own solicitor who just produced all this stuff and showed me where to sign it.’

  ‘I’ll bet he did,’ said Fox quietly.

  ‘But it was such a good deal that I could hardly refuse.’ Davenport sat down rather heavily, took out a pocket handkerchief and started to mop at his brow.

  ‘Can we get back to this Cézanne for a moment,’ said Fox. ‘What?’ Davenport looked up vaguely.

  ‘The Cézanne. The painting that started all this off, at least as far as the police are concerned.’

  ‘Oh, yes. What about it?’

  ‘When I saw you last,’ said Fox, ‘you said that the painting had been shipped to Amsterdam. Right?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How was it shipped? Who carried it?’

  ‘Oh!’ Davenport stared into space for a moment or two. ‘I seem to remember something about that,’ he said eventually. He stood up and ambled to the door of his office. ‘Celia,’ he said, then stopped in thought. ‘Oh no, it’s all right, I’ve remembered.’ He returned to his desk, opened a drawer and started moving the contents about. ‘Yes, here we are.’ He produced a crumpled piece of paper and laid it in front of him, smoothing it flat with his hand. ‘I think this is it.’

  ‘May I?’ Fox reached across and took the slip of paper. ‘But this is only a name and address ...’

  ‘Yes, but it’s the name of the company that shipped it.’ Davenport raised his head slightly and peered across the desk. ‘The Merpax Trucking Company, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fox. ‘D’you mind if I hang on to this for a while?’

  Davenport shook his head. ‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘Keep it if you want to.’

  ‘One other thing, Mr Davenport ...’ Fox produced the CRO photographs of the several David Pogsons on record. ‘Do you recognise any of these men?’

  For a moment or two, Davenport gazed down at the unflattering portraits. ‘Yes,’ he said, eventually pointing at one of them. ‘That’s him.’

  *

  ‘This David Pogson finger, Denzil ...’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘Find him, Denzil.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘I’ve been to his address, guv,’ said Evans.

  ‘And?’ Fox looked searchingly at Evans over his half-glasses. ‘It’s a service flat in St John’s Wood. Not been seen for a day or two. No one seems to know where he’s gone. Mind you, my informant did say that he’s often away. Travels quite extensively, it seems.’

  ‘Never mind, Denzil. Keep looking. But find him. Yes?’

  *

  Denzil Evans found David Pogson. In the mortuary at Horseferry Road.

  ‘That was bloody careless of you, Denzil, letting someone else get to him before you did.’ Fox was not pleased. Now, on top of everything else, one of the subjects of his enquiry had got himself killed. ‘Chapter and verse then, Denzil.’

  DI Evans sat down and opened his file. ‘The body was found in the river, sir. Floating past the Palace of Westminster. Spotted by a member of the House of Lords who was having a snifter on the terrace at the time. Apparently His Lordship writes crime novels in his spare time, sir, so he knows a dead body when he sees one.’

  ‘Must have quite put him off,’ murmured Fox.

  ‘Thames Division were called and hooked it on board.’

  ‘Hadn’t got much option in the circumstances, I suppose. They normally tow dead bodies down to their nick. Saves scrubbing out the launch.’ Fox gave a wry smile. ‘Do go on, Denzil.’

  ‘When they got it ashore, guv, they discovered a number of holes in it, like he’d been shot.’

  Fox nodded knowledgeably. ‘Does tend to make holes, that sort of thing,’ he said.

  The pathologist found four point-three-eight rounds in the body, compatible with the victim having been shot,’ Evans continued.

  ‘Very shrewd deduction, that. And?’

  ‘And that’s as far as we’ve got, guv.’

  ‘Sounds very much like a coincidence, Denzil,’ said Fox. ‘If he’s a full-time villain, almost anyone could have topped him.’ He didn’t believe it for a moment; he was just rehearsing what he was going to say to the senior officer on whose ground — or in whose water — the body had been found, and whom he was hoping to lumber with a murder enquiry.

  *

  ‘I am well aware of the duties of the Flying Squad, Mr Fox,’ said the Deputy Assistant Commissioner of Eight Area, whose office was high above Cannon Row police station. ‘And I am also aware that they are detectives. And when I joined the Metropolitan Police, murders were investigated by detectives. The detectives who found the body. Or has that, like most other things, been changed?’

  ‘No, sir,’ said Fox, ‘but this could be a protracted enquiry — ’

  ‘Only if you allow it to become one, Mr Fox.’ The DAC smiled bleakly. ‘But my detectives, here on Eight Area, are very heavily committed. Crime abounds, Mr Fox. Crime abounds.’ He stood up, carefully pulling at the hem of his tunic. ‘Now from what I hear, this man Pogson ... the victim?’ He raised an eyebrow and Fox nodded. ‘This man Pogson is in some way connected with the enquiry you are conducting into the shooting of the PC at Surbiton, or so I am led to believe. The fact that the connection appears to me to be somewhat tenuous is neither here nor there, but I think it would be counter-productive to have more than one team of CID officers working on the same case, don’t you? Might tread on each other’s toes.’

  ‘Yes, but — ’

  ‘Good-day to you, Mr Fox,’ said the DAC.

  *

  Fox slumped into a chair in his office at the Yard and stretched out his legs. ‘Sod it!’ he said.

  ‘I take it that the DAC Eight Area didn’t want to know about our murder enquiry, sir.’

  ‘No,’ said Fox. ‘He’s the complete opposite to Mr Micawber.’

  ‘How so, guv?’ Evans looked mystified.

  ‘Always hoping for something to turn down,’ said Fox with feeling.

  *

  Davenport was taken by DI Evans to the Horseferry Road mortuary where he gazed briefly on Pogson’s waxen features and confirmed that the body was indeed that of David Pogson.

  Pogson’s CRO file recorded seven convictions against him. He had been thirty-seven years of age at the time of his death. Fox, having made a life-long study of villains, was of the opinion that Pogson had pulled many more scams than he had been caught for, and that he was, therefore, a sophisticated and practised fraudsman. ‘Which probably means,’ he said, ‘that there could be quite a few people who might like to have seen him topped. And that doesn’t help us one little bit.’ He pushed Evans’ report away and leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face. ‘For the time being, Denzil,’ he continued, ‘we shall forget Mr Pogson, and come back to him in the fullness of time ... despite the DAC’s extraordinary assumption that he is in some way connected with our other enquiries.’ Fox smiled and looked crafty. ‘No idea where he got that from,’ he added airily.

  ‘Ah!’ said Evans, completely mystified by Fox’s constantly changing views about who did what and with which and to whom.

  ‘And we shall continue our enquiries into the interesting activities of Danny Horsfall, Waldo Conway, Eugenie Vandermeer and other divers characters. Now then, what about this Merpax Trucking Company that shipped the Cézanne to Amsterdam?’ Evans slipped a file from beneath his arm and opened it. ‘It has two directors,’ he began.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ said Fox. ‘They each hold five shares, and the balance of ninety is held by a company of which Danny Horsfall is the principal director.’

  Denzil Evans l
ooked up from his notes in astonishment. Then he grinned. ‘How did you know that, guv?’

  Fox tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘Instinct,’ he said.

  ‘Does that mean a visit to Danny Horsfall, then?’

  ‘Oh, dear me no, Denzil. Not yet. The next time I see Mr Horsfall, well-known company director and man-about-town, I hope I shall have enough ammunition to do his legs for him.’

  ‘And where are we going to get this ammunition from, guv?’

  ‘I should think that the two gentlemen who are directors of the aforementioned trucking firm might be quite forthcoming, Denzil. After we’ve spoken words of wisdom into their shell-like lug-holes, that is. And just to show them that we’re not going to be buggered about, we’ll have a warrant to do it with.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, guv’nor.’

  ‘I thought so,’ said Fox. ‘Pop down to Bow Street and get one, will you.’

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Good morning.’ Fox directed a beaming smile at the receptionist in the office of the Merpax Trucking Company Limited. ‘I’ve come to see Mr ...’ He glanced at the piece of paper in his hand. ‘Mr Merritt or Mr Paxton.’ And looking up again, he added. ‘Or ideally, both.’

  ‘In a meeting,’ said the girl in a sing-song east London accent. The short response made it unnecessary for her to divert her gaze from the screen of her computer.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Fox. ‘The business world seems to be all meetings these days, doesn’t it? Everybody meeting everybody else, all over the place.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Still the receptionist studied her VDU.

  ‘Well,’ said Fox, ‘just get one or other of them ... or both, out here, will you. Now!’

  The slight edge to Fox’s voice caused the girl to look up. For the first time, she surveyed the two tall men standing in front of her desk. ‘I can’t do that,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to come back. Shall I make an appointment, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Fox mildly. ‘I wouldn’t want to put you to that much trouble. Just pop in and tell Mr Merritt or Mr Paxton ... or both, that the police are here to speak to them. And tell them that I have no wish to inconvenience them. They can either come out here, or I’ll go in there. Don’t want to make it too difficult for them.’

  ‘Oh, all right, then.’ The girl stood up and walked through a door behind her desk, taking care to wiggle her bottom in what she thought to be a provocative fashion.

  The man who emerged from some inner sanctum was short, fat and fussy. And perspiring. He was bald-headed apart from a fringe of hair running round the back of his head, from one ear to the other. That, combined with bushy eyebrows that joined across the bridge of his nose and almost met his hair on either side, reminded Fox of a music-hall clown, an impression for which, much later, there was to be some justification.

  ‘I’m in a very important meeting.’

  ‘True,’ said Fox. ‘Are you Mr Merritt or Mr Paxton?’

  ‘I’m Mr Merritt, and I —’

  ‘So you’re the “Mer” bit of Merpax, then?’ Fox spoke thoughtfully as though he had just worked out a very complicated crossword clue.

  ‘Yes, and what’s more, I —’

  ‘Where’s the “Pax” bit, then? He in the meeting too?’

  ‘Look, just what is —?’

  ‘Might be as well if we had a chat to him as well. As you have five shares each, I suppose you might be held to be equally responsible. I don’t suppose for one moment that Mr Horsfall would wish to be bothered with trivial matters, do you?’ Fox beamed down at the little fat man.

  ‘P’raps you’d better come into the office,’ said Merritt abruptly.

  ‘What a good idea,’ said Fox. ‘We’ll go into the office, Denzil,’ he said, turning to his DI.

  Merritt glanced at the receptionist. ‘Ask Mr Paxton to join me in my office, Tracy.’

  The two detectives followed Merritt along a corridor into a dingy office that looked out on to a yard where three or four trailers stood. A man was supervising the coupling of one of them to a tractor unit.

  ‘Funny how all receptionists, telephonists and typists are called Tracy,’ said Fox as they sat down. ‘I think it’s a plot.’

  ‘They’re not, guv,’ said Evans. ‘I found one the other day called Sharon.’

  ‘Really?’ said Fox. ‘That’s interesting. I’m thinking of doing a paper on it for the Police College, you know.’

  Merritt, in common with all people who have something to hide from the police, was nervous. His problem was that he did not know which of his nefarious activities the police were about to interest themselves in, and the suspense was killing him. Fox’s inane backchat with Evans didn’t help to boost his self-confidence, either.

  Moments later, the door opened to admit a tall, thin man. His suit hung on him as though it had been made for someone else, and his face bore one of those unfortunately mournful expressions that he had probably been born with and had been obliged to carry through life ever since. He had not, however, been born with the moustache that hung over his mouth like a nicotine-stained curtain.

  ‘Mr Paxton, I presume?’

  ‘Yes.’ Paxton grunted and stared suspiciously at the two detectives. ‘You’ve just interrupted an important meeting, Inspector — ’

  ‘So your friend Mr Merritt was telling me.’ Fox stood up and held out his hand. ‘Incidentally, the rank is Detective Chief Superintendent,’ he said. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox ... of the Flying Squad.’ He gripped Paxton’s hand in a vice-like grasp.

  ‘Oh!’ Paxton sat down and massaged his right hand with his left. ‘Well, Superintendent — ’

  ‘Chief Superintendent,’ said Fox with a ready smile.

  ‘Yes, well, what can we do to help?’ The expression on Paxton’s face implied that he had no great desire to assist the police. So did the expression on Merritt’s.

  ‘On or about the thirteenth of April, you conveyed a valuable painting to Amsterdam on behalf of a Mr David Pogson,’ said Fox. ‘We did?’ Paxton looked suitably mystified.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Fox.

  ‘I don’t recollect that, Mr Merritt, do you?’

  ‘No, Mr Paxton, I don’t, I’m afraid.’

  Fox smiled benignly at the pair. ‘I’m sure that you’ll be able to find a record of it somewhere here.’ He waved a hand vaguely around the office. ‘I can see that this is a well-regulated business,’ he added. ‘I imagine that you could put your hands on the appropriate piece of paper in no time at all.’

  ‘It’s not that easy,’ said Merritt. ‘We’re running a business here ... trying to. We can’t just stop to sort out bits of paper.’

  ‘Don’t want to put you out at all,’ said Fox disarmingly. ‘If you care to point us in the right direction, I dare say that we can have a look for it ourselves.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ said Paxton. ‘Our business is confidential.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Fox, ‘I didn’t realise. Got government contracts, have you?’

  ‘No,’ said Paxton. ‘But our customers’ business is very private. I doubt that they’d take kindly to the police going through papers that dealt with it.’

  ‘No, I think you’re probably right.’

  ‘I’m sorry we can’t help you, Chief Inspector.’ Paxton spoke as though that were an end to the matter.

  ‘Chief Superintendent,’ said Fox patiently, correcting his rank once more. ‘Of the Flying Squad. Let me explain the position, Mr Paxton,’ he continued. ‘This valuable painting, of which I speak, never got to its destination. Needless to say, the intended recipient is not best pleased.’

  ‘Really?’ Merritt gave a plausible impersonation of someone both astonished at this lapse and outraged at the effect it might have on the business. ‘This is the first we’ve heard of it. Is that not so, Mr Paxton?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr Merritt. This is very serious.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fox, ‘I thought you’d say that. So let me further explai
n the position. A valuable painting has gone adrift, and on the face of it, it might appear that the said painting has been stolen.’ He paused to let that piece of guesswork sink in. ‘Which is why the Bow Street magistrate considered that there was ample justification for the issue of a search warrant for these premises. My detective inspector has this warrant in his pocket.’

  ‘Well, we’ll certainly see if we can find the despatch note,’ said Paxton with a sudden show of enthusiasm. The last thing he wanted was the police examining the affairs of the company in any sort of depth.

  ‘That’s very helpful,’ said Fox, and leaned back in his chair with an expectant look on his face.

  ‘Yes,’ said Paxton, after a moment or two’s mournful thought. ‘I’ll just see what I can do. Won’t keep you a moment.’ And rising, he shambled out of the office.

  It took about five minutes, during which Merritt toyed with the papers on his desk and did his best to avoid Fox’s level gaze.

  When Paxton returned, he was clutching a file. ‘Got it,’ he said and sat down. He took a few moments to thumb through the file and then extracted a despatch note. ‘Here we are. Thirteenth, you said?’ He glanced at Fox who nodded. ‘Driver called Robinson took it. All the papers seem to be in order. Can’t understand this suggestion that it didn’t arrive.’

  ‘I didn’t say it didn’t arrive,’ said Fox. ‘I said it was stolen. The fact that another, similar, painting was substituted for it will not lessen the charge of theft when we eventually get around to charging whoever stole it.’ He paused. ‘Or who conspired to steal it, or who handled the said stolen property.’ He took out a cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully on his case. ‘Robinson, you said?’

  ‘Pardon?’ Paxton was beginning to look as though someone had suddenly turned up the central heating.

  ‘Robinson was the driver?’

  ‘Oh yes, Robinson.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fox. ‘And the consignee?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ Paxton glanced down at the file again. ‘An Amsterdam shippers called Annaert Agency. The, er, painting was to be collected by a Jan Martens.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fox. He glanced at Evans. ‘You got that, Denzil?’ Evans nodded and Fox turned back to Paxton. ‘Now perhaps you can tell us where we can find Mr Robinson,’ he said. ‘You’ll understand, of course, that it would be most helpful for us to have a chat with him.’