by Graham Ison
Paxton looked at Merritt, doubtless hoping that he would come up with the answer. He did.
Merritt seized a list which was hanging on a bulldog clip on the wall beside him. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘Robinson is abroad at the moment. He’s taken a load down to Turkey.’
‘Really?’ said Fox, feigning great interest. ‘Perhaps you can tell us when he’s due back, then we shan’t need to trouble you further.’ Merritt looked pleased. ‘At least, not at this stage,’ added Fox.
Merritt’s smile turned sickly. ‘Er ... yes ...’ He consulted his list with great intensity. ‘He should be arriving at Dover on Tuesday. Nine-thirty boat from Calais. Should be back here at the depot just after lunch.’
‘Splendid,’ said Fox, rising from his chair. ‘You’ve both been extremely helpful, and I do apologise for interrupting your meeting, gentlemen.’ And he insisted on shaking hands with each of them once again.
‘What did Mr Pogson have to say about all this?’ asked Paxton nervously.
‘Ah, you remembered his name.’ Fox smiled. ‘As a matter of fact, we haven’t spoken to him.’
‘Oh!’ Paxton looked mystified.
‘Nothing we’d have liked better,’ continued Fox. ‘Unfortunately, someone put a number of holes in him and then dumped him in the river.’
*
‘So it’s back here on Tuesday,’ said Evans as they left.
‘Not bloody likely,’ said Fox. ‘I’m not giving those two hooligans a chance to brief their driver. No, Denzil, we’ll catch Master Robinson as he comes off the ferry at Dover. I dare say that Her Majesty’s Customs might enjoy having a poke about in his container vehicle, too. Helps to brighten up the day for them.’
*
It was pouring with rain. Fox, his shoulders hunched inside his glistening Barbour and his hands in his pockets, looked morosely out of the window of the customs office on to the huge concourse of Dover’s Eastern Docks. Occasional drops of water fell from the peak of his check cap, a recent purchase from Herbert Johnson of Bond Street. Evans, similarly dispirited but not as stylishly dressed, stood beside him. Swann, Fox’s driver, was also unhappy. He had discovered that the Kent Constabulary officers who made up the Special Branch unit were much too busy to take time off for a hand of cards. As a consequence, Swann had been forced to eat a second breakfast in the restaurant at the terminal, an expense that he was determined would be met by the Commissioner.
‘Have you any idea what load he’s carrying?’ asked the customs senior officer, a man called Waite.
‘No,’ said Fox. ‘Does it make a difference, then?’
‘Not really,’ said Waite. ‘I wondered if there was something in particular that you were looking for.’
Fox shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just that he works for a villain, and by definition is a villain himself. And most of the villains I know are not above a bit of smuggling.’
‘Neither are most of the villains I know,’ said Waite.
‘Ah,’ said Fox, as a huge articulated lorry with a container on board moved slowly across the concourse, ‘that looks hopeful.’ On the vehicle’s sides were emblazoned the words ‘Merpax Trucking’.
‘Right,’ said Waite, ‘we’ll give him a pull.’ He spoke rapidly into his personal radio, and a customs officer on the concourse stepped out into the pouring rain and waved the lorry into a bay.
Fox and the senior customs officer walked slowly towards it, Evans trailing miserably in the rear.
‘We’ll let our lads do their bit, and then you can have a go, if that’s all right,’ said Waite.
‘Fine by me.’
It took customs three-quarters of an hour to go through those parts of the vehicle that they knew from long experience might contain contraband. Finally an officer walked across to Waite.
‘Well?’ The senior officer folded his arms.
The customs officer grinned. ‘Two cases of Scotch.’ He glanced at Fox. ‘He’s all yours, guv,’ he said.
‘Aren’t you going to nick him?’ asked Fox.
‘No, just take a substantial amount of money off him, I should think. If he’s got it.’ The customs officer grinned again. ‘Must protect the revenue. Don’t let him out of your sight, will you. I’ve got to go away and work it all out.’ Fox walked across to the driver who was leaning against the cab of the truck with his hands in his pockets. ‘Mr Robinson?’
‘Now what?’ Robinson, a surly expression on his face, didn’t move. His hair was plastered to his head by the rain and he looked very sorry for himself.
‘Police,’ said Fox. ‘Want a word with you.’
‘Something else wrong, then?’
‘You could say that, yes.’
‘Bloody rich, ain’t it? I’m just trying to do a job of work and I get pulled by customs for a couple of poxy cases of Scotch.’ Robinson levered himself off the cab and stared malevolently at the two policemen. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, ‘turn that lot over and you'd be surprised what crawled out.’ He indicated the vast corral of goods vehicles with a generous wave of his arm. ‘Why me?’
‘That’s what they all say,’ said Fox, managing to sound sympathetic. ‘Are you proposing to give me information about smuggling activities on the part of your brothers of the road, then?’
‘Not bloody likely. I was only sort of guessing,’ said Robinson, rapidly backtracking.
‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ said Fox. ‘Tell you what, once the customs have made up your bill, come and have a cup of tea, soothe your nerves a bit, and we can have a little chat.’
‘I don’t want a cup of tea and I don’t want no little chat, neither,’ said Robinson truculently. ‘I just want to get home.’
‘Please yourself,’ said Fox. ‘Here or down the nick.’
‘Oh, like that, is it?’
‘Yes. Like that.’
Robinson shrugged, slammed the door of his cab and made to follow the two detectives across to the restaurant.
‘There’s just the question of the duty, Mr Robinson.’ The customs officer reappeared and handed Robinson a slip of paper.
‘Bloody hell,’ said Robinson, staring in disbelief at the amount. ‘D’you take credit cards?’
‘Of course,’ said the customs officer. ‘That’ll do nicely.’
After the dutiable aspect of Robinson’s return to England had been dealt with, he, Fox and Evans reached the restaurant. Evans was deputed to get the tea and the three of them settled at a table in the corner.
‘Right,’ said Fox, lighting a cigarette and pushing his case across the table towards Robinson. ‘I want to talk about moving pictures.’
‘Never go,’ said Robinson. ‘Don’t have no time on this job. The missus usually gets a couple of juicy videos in and we settle down in front of the box. When I’m at home, like.’
‘With a glass of duty-free Scotch, no doubt,’ said Fox. ‘But I’m not talking about those pictures. I’m talking about old masters.’
‘Do what?’
‘I’m talking particularly about a painting that you supposedly carried across to Amsterdam on the thirteenth of April and which, somehow, never got to where it was supposed to be going.’
‘Now hold up, guv’nor.’ There was alarm in Robinson’s voice. ‘I might have the customs over for the odd bottle or two, but thieving’s not my game.’
Fox took the despatch note from his pocket and laid it on the table. ‘Have a look at that.’ he said.
Robinson pulled the paper towards him and studied it. ‘What about it?’
‘D’you remember that run?’
‘Yeah, sure I remember it. I had a whole load of gear for Amsterdam. Delivered it to a warehouse there, picked up my return load and come home. Went out through Harwich to Hook of Holland and come back the same way. Why?’
‘Where did you pick up the load?’
‘Snaresbrook, where the depot is.’
‘The Merpax depot, you mean?'
‘Yeah, that's right. Why?
What’s the problem?’
Tell me,’ said Fox, ‘d’you check off the load against your papers?’
‘Too bloody right, I do,’ said Robinson. ‘If anything goes adrift, it’s down to me.’
‘I’m glad you said that. Because this painting did exactly that. Went adrift.’
‘Look, guv’nor ...’ Robinson leaned forward, putting his elbow on the table and running his hand through his hair. ‘All I know is that I signed for that lot and it was all there. And it was all there when I delivered it. And I had the signature to prove it. What else can I tell you?’
‘The painting was definitely there, then?’
‘I don’t know nothing about no painting,’ said Robinson. ‘All I know is that there was a whole load of crates and that I signed for however many it was. I don’t unpack the bleeding things to make sure that what it says is in ’em is in ’em. Know what I mean?’
*
‘Well, that was a waste of time,’ said Evans as they turned on to the M20.
‘Yes,’ said Fox. ‘Pity we didn’t think to bring our rods. They say the fishing’s very good off Dover.’
‘Well, we couldn’t have caught less than we’ve caught so far,’ said Evans with a certain amount of feeling.
‘And none of those buggers play cards, either,’ volunteered Swann from the driver’s seat.
‘Keep your eyes on the road, Swann,’ said Fox.
Chapter Twelve
‘What’s happening about this shooting of the PC at Surbiton, Tommy?’ Commander Alec Myers, head of S08 Branch, put his elbows on his desk and rested his chin on his folded hands.
‘It’s a long story, guv,’ said Fox.
‘That’s all right, Tommy,’ said the Commander, ‘I’ve got a long time.’
‘The whole thing’s got a bit complicated,’ said Fox, ‘now that we’ve got a murder on our hands as well.’
‘What’s that got to do with a shooting at Surbiton?’ Myers studied his detective chief superintendent, a half-smile on his face. He knew Fox, and his ways of working.
‘Not sure really, sir, except to say that Danny Horsfall’s mixed up with it, and there’s a valuable Cézanne gone adrift on its way to Amsterdam. And another thing —’
Myers pointed at the telephone. ‘You see that?’ he asked.
The telephone, sir?’
‘Yes, the telephone. Every morning the Commissioner rings me on that and asks how the investigation into the shooting of the PC at Surbiton is getting on. And every morning I say enquiries are continuing and an early arrest is expected. How early is early, Tommy?’
Fox assumed a deep frown. ‘I’m sure that neither you nor the Commissioner would wish me to speculate on something as important as the attempted murder of a policeman, sir. I can assure you that the matter is well in hand.’
Myers grunted. ‘Tommy,’ he said, ‘just stop poncing around and get a body, will you.’
Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Easier said than done, guv. Waldo Conway’s the key to all this and he’s on the run.’
‘Well then, find him, Tommy. Find him.’
Fox sighed. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.
*
Detective Sergeant Hepworth approached Fox’s desk with a certain measure of trepidation. ‘Good morning, sir.’
‘I’m glad you think so,’ said Fox, which didn’t make Hepworth feel any more confident. ‘Are you the bearer of good news?’
‘Not really, sir. I’ve been in touch with the Dutch Art and Antiques chaps ...’
‘And?’
‘And zilch, sir.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Fox glared at the sergeant.
‘It means that they have no knowledge of the Cézanne, sir. They went to see Jan Martens, the dealer who Davenport said had been conned with the fake, and he denied all knowledge of it. Furthermore, he reckoned he’d never heard of Davenport and certainly hadn’t been visited by him.’
‘Why should he do that?’
Hepworth smiled, but only slightly. ‘You have to understand the art world, sir,’ he said and waited for a swift rebuke, but Fox stared at him patiently. ‘A dealer like Martens, a reputable dealer by all accounts, wouldn’t want it to get out that he’d been had over. Not good for business.’
‘Yeah, I can understand that. Makes him look a right berk, doesn’t it? What about the shipping agency. What were they called ... ?’ He flicked his fingers.
Hepworth glanced at his notes. ‘Annaert Agency of Amsterdam, sir.’
‘That’s them. The switch might have taken place there. What did they have to say?’
‘That didn’t get us anywhere either, sir. I spoke to a Commissaris Hooft of the Gemeentepolitie. He said that the Annaert Agency is a large and reputable shipping agency in Amsterdam. The firm received the crate in question and it was collected by Martens. It hadn’t been opened or otherwise examined before collection and the Annaert people assumed that it contained what the accompanying papers said it contained. The Commissaris was very interested. Seems to think that something a bit iffy’s going on in Amsterdam.’
‘Something a bit iffy’s going on here as well,’ growled Fox.
*
‘The pathologist’s report has arrived, sir.’
‘Does it tell us anything we don’t already know?’
‘Not really, guv, no. Pogson’d been dead about twenty-four hours before he was pulled out of the river. Cause of death was gunshot wounds. Four three-eight rounds found in the body. One found in the pancreas, one in the spleen, one in the — ’
‘Yeah, all right, Denzil.’ Fox held up a hand. ‘I’ll take the pathologist’s word for it that none of them did him a great deal of good. What about the rounds? Any joy?’
Evans shook his head. ‘Nothing on record that would help to identify the weapon, sir. They certainly don’t tally with the shooter that was used in the Surbiton job.’
Fox looked acidly at his DI. ‘If they did,’ he said, ‘I know of a certain French policeman who’d have one hell of a lot of explaining to do.’
Evans looked mystified. ‘How’s that, guv?’
‘Because it was also used in the Armentières job, and it’s still in the possession of the French police.’ Fox spoke slowly, as though spelling out an easy problem for an idiot.
Evans grinned. ‘Yes, of course. Bloody difficult keeping up with this job, guv’nor.’
‘You say he’d been in the river for about twenty-four hours?’
‘That’s what they reckon, guv.’
‘So where did he get dumped in the river?’
Evans shook his head, as though he’d been asked an unfair question. ‘I haven’t got a clue.’
Fox pointed at the telephone. ‘You see that, Denzil?’
‘The telephone, sir?’
‘Yes, Denzil, the telephone. Get on it and ask Thames Division where it’s likely a body was put in the river if it’s found floating past the House of Lords twenty-four hours later. Might give us some idea where to start looking, right?’
‘Right, sir.’
*
The message to ring the Governor of Wormwood Scrubs was marked urgent and was on Fox’s desk when he arrived next morning.
The conversation was brief and when Fox put down the receiver, his face was as black as thunder. He yanked open his office door and glared at a DC scurrying down the corridor with a stack of files. ‘You,’ said Fox.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Get hold of Mr Evans. Now!’
‘I think he’s out, sir.’
‘I don’t give a monkey’s if he’s on the moon. Get him. Here. Now.’
In fact, Evans was in his office, working out his expenses. He swore, threw down his pen and made his way to Fox’s office.
‘Ah, Denzil. Do sit down.’ Fox was menacingly polite: Evans knew the signs. This Waldo Conway.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve just been speaking to the Governor of Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘Oh yes, sir.’ Eva
ns felt uncomfortable. Something was up, and it was about to come down. Firmly on him. Of that he was certain.
‘Bloody Conway was out of prison over Easter weekend.’
‘Out, sir?’
‘Yes, Denzil. Out! He had a weekend pass. Some sort of pre-release caper that the prison authorities think is a good idea. It’s so that poor deprived wretches like him can integrate themselves back into the community prior to their being let out for good.’
‘Oh!’
‘Yes, oh! Now why didn’t we know that, Denzil?’
Evans pondered that imponderable for a moment or two and then came up with the right answer. ‘Because no one asked, I suppose, guv.’
‘Exactly, Denzil. So why didn’t you ask?’
Evans felt that he was being had over ... again. Fox had been with him when they had interviewed Conway in the Scrubs, and Fox could just as easily have asked the prison authorities himself. ‘Never thought of it, I suppose,’ said Evans eventually. What he actually supposed was that it would have been a damned silly question to ask. After all, who in their right mind would casually enquire of a prisoner being interviewed in the heart of one of London’s biggest prisons if he had, perchance, popped home for the weekend recently?
‘Well, it’s just not good enough,’ said Fox.
‘No, sir,’ said Evans. An unbiased listener could have been forgiven for assuming that this was self-recrimination on Fox’s part, but Evans knew what it meant. It meant that Fox had slipped up and was thrashing about looking for someone else to blame.
‘Yes ...’ Fox moved his swivel chair from side to side for a moment or two. ‘Find him, Denzil. I want Conway nicked ... smartish.’
*
It was an elaborate operation. DI Henry Findlater and a small team of officers set up an observation on Eugenie Vandermeer’s flat secure in the knowledge that she would lead them to Waldo Conway. Meanwhile, DI Evans and another team of heavies waited in the wings. It took twenty-four hours. The following morning, at about ten o’clock, the Belgian girl set out from Notting Hill and made her devious way to Pimlico. Despite the fact that she had done a crash course in what Waldo Conway firmly believed to be counter-surveillance techniques, she was no match for the Flying Squad men and women who followed her. Well-known antics like waiting until the doors of the tube train were just closing before hopping on, or getting on and hopping off again just before the doors closed, were bread and butter routines to the surveillance officers and had been catered for well in advance. Despite her efforts, Eugenie Vandermeer eventually and unwittingly led her pursuers to the crummy dwelling that had been inhabited by Conway since his return from the continent.
