by Graham Ison
A quick telephone call ensued. ‘D’you want ’em both, guv?’ asked Evans.
‘No,’ said Fox. ‘Wait until the girl’s clear, and then nick him. Weil leave the Belgian tom to another day. Once she knows Conway’s been nicked, which with any luck will be a day or so yet, she might be panicked into doing something interesting.’
‘Like what, guv?’ asked Evans.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ said Fox cheerfully.
*
It was five hours before Eugenie Vandermeer left the flat and went home. At least, they presumed she went home; for the time being, they didn’t much care.
If Waldo Conway thought that Lenny Feather had opened his door violently, it was nothing compared to the Flying Squad’s onslaught. Selecting the exact spot with consummate care, the largest detective sergeant that Evans had been able to find, kicked the door so hard that it came off its hinges, flew into the room and flattened a flimsy coffee table. The next second there were five or six Squad officers filling the room, each carrying a pistol.
‘’Ere, what’s the bloody game?’ Conway leaped from his armchair in alarm.
‘You’re nicked, Waldo, that’s the bloody game,’ said Evans, thinking that with any luck he might be back in Fox’s good books.
‘Well done, Denzil,’ said Fox.
Evans preened himself. ‘No problem, guv.’
‘What about that enquiry?’
‘What enquiry’s that, guv?’
‘The one to Thames Division. Where Pogson’s likely to have gone into the river.’
‘Haven’t got around to that yet, sir.’
Fox shook his head. ‘I don’t know what you’ve been doing, Denzil,’ he said.
*
A dispirited Waldo Conway sat in the interview room at Gerald Road police station.
‘What’s this all about, Mr Fox?’ he asked as Fox came through the door. ‘Half the bleeding Sweeney break me door down and drag me off down here. I mean, what’s it about? I’ve done me time. I reckon you’re picking on me, just because I’ve got a bit of form.’
‘Finished, have you?’ Fox sat down and lit a cigarette.
‘Well, I mean to say —’
‘Oh, do shut up, Waldo. Among your meagre possessions, my officers found a three-eight automatic pistol.’
Conway looked surly. ‘Dunno where that come from.’ It was an involuntary reaction.
Fox leaned across the table. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that my officers planted it, Waldo.’
Conway sat back sharply. ‘Well, no, but, I mean — ’
‘Do you have a firearms certificate for that weapon, Waldo, issued by the Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis?’
‘I ain’t never seen it before, Mr Fox.’ Still Conway tried to escape the inescapable.
‘Then how come your fingerprints are all over it?’ Fox didn’t know that, but he’d have been prepared to put money on Fingerprint Branch, who were at that very moment examining the weapon, finding them. ‘And the lovely Eugenie’s ...’
Conway changed course. ‘I’ve been threatened, Mr Fox. I had to have it for protection.’
‘Oh, I see. Well, you should have said so in the first place, Waldo.’ Fox played briefly with the tin-lid ashtray. ‘However, that will probably go down as a TIC ... when I find something more serious to take it into consideration with.’
Conway looked baffled. ‘I don’t know what you’re going on about, Mr Fox, straight I don’t.’
‘Well, for starters, Waldo, old fruit, I’m going on about the shooting of a PC at Surbiton on Easter Saturday. Shot with a weapon whose last known owner was you.’
‘Yeah, that’s a bleeding mystery and no mistake,’ said Conway.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Fox conversationally, much as he might have debated the interpretation of a more obscure section of the Theft Act. ‘I don’t think it’s all that much of a mystery.’
Conway grinned. ‘Well, I wasn’t released until the seventh of May. May Day. What was it you said? Something about chains?’
Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Don’t try and get clever with me, Waldo. You haven’t got the right equipment. You were out on pass over Easter weekend and you can start by telling me where you went.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Because, you prat, the prison authorities told me. Or did you think it was privileged information covered by the Official Secrets Act?’
‘Oh!’
‘So? Where did you go?’
‘I stayed with my wife.’
‘Where?’
‘Her drum down Kennington.’
‘Liar. Kate’s moved. Hasn’t lived there for two years or more. And she’s on the game.’
‘Where’s she living now, then?’ Conway put his head on one side. The fact that his wife had resorted to prostitution appeared not to concern him.
Fox grinned. ‘I’ll let her tell you that, Waldo? he said, ‘but I got the impression, last time I spoke to her, that if she ever sets eyes on you again, it’ll be too bloody soon.’
‘Bleeding women,’ said Conway with feeling.
Fox nodded. ‘Now then? he said, ‘can we get back to where you went for Easter? Holy pilgrimage, was it?’
Conway remained silent, obviously weighing up how much he could get away with not telling this policeman.
‘We could pull Eugenie Vandermeer in, if you like. She’ll already have told you that we’ve been to see her. And we can go again?
Conway sniggered. ‘You don’t think she’ll still be there, not after nicking me, do you?’ His tone was truculent, but he had at last realised that he had little to gain by co-operating.
‘Be your age, Waldo,’ said Fox, lighting another cigarette and throwing one carelessly across the table at Conway. ‘How d’you think we knew where to pick you up? I know we’re good, but we’re not into crystal balls. Not yet.’
‘She never grassed. She wouldn’t do that.’ Conway sat up abruptly as a finger of fear poked gently at his vitals. ‘She wouldn’t.’
Fox smiled serenely. ‘As you said just now, Waldo, “bleeding women”. So where were you?’
Conway’s shoulders drooped in resignation. ‘Down her place in Notting Hill.’ He shook his head. ‘Bleeding cow,’ he added.
‘And what did you do with that precious four days of freedom ... apart from wearing out Eugenie’s mattress, that is?’
‘Nothing. We spent the whole time in her place.’
Fox gazed across at DI Evans and shook his head slowly. ‘Did you bring Miss Vandermeer’s statement with you, Denzil?’ he asked. ‘Or did you leave it at the office?’
Evans was completely thrown by Fox’s reference to a statement he knew did not exist. ‘Er — which one was that, guv’nor?’ He floundered, playing for time.
Fox held up a hand. ‘It’s all right, Denzil. I don’t want to see it, nor do I want Mr Conway to be served with a copy. Not yet, anyway. There’s a time and a place for everything.’ He turned back to face the miserable Conway. ‘It would be better coming from you, Waldo. The judge would undoubtedly look more kindly upon it, don’t you think? Full co-operation with police which enabled them to solve a particularly heinous crime. All that sort of cobblers, eh?’
It was all going to happen again. Remands in custody. A trial that went on for days, if not weeks. A lengthy sentence. The laughing screw in reception. Slopping out. Conway seemed to shrink, his head bowed down so that his chin was on his chest, his hands linked loosely between his knees. That bastard Fox had got him again. Slowly he looked up. ‘I never meant to shoot the copper, Mr Fox, honest. Why didn’t he never stay put? I mean I never done no one no harm. It was just the money. They could afford it, couldn’t they?’
‘Whether or not they could afford it is neither here nor there, Waldo. Now then, in order to clear up ambiguities ...’ He smiled and Conway shuddered. ‘Who laundered the cash for you?’
‘Will that help me, Mr Fox?’ Conway peered intently at the detect
ive. Fox stared stoically back. There was a longish pause. ‘Danny Horsfall,’ said Conway at last.
‘And he was the one who was threatening you, was he?’ There was a half-smile on Fox’s face, and Conway couldn’t be sure whether he was joking. ‘Right, then,’ continued Fox. ‘We’ll have a statement off you about that. Mr Evans here will write down your every word, and then you’ll sign it.’ Fox was conscious, however, that the word of one co-conspirator against another was not worth much. Not unless some corroboration was forthcoming. But Fox intended to go out and find it. Conway’s statement would at least be a start. Fox glanced at Evans. ‘And when you’ve taken the statement, Denzil, you can charge Conway with the attempted murder of a police officer together with robbery with violence and unlawful possession of a firearm, and any other divers offences you can think of.’
Conway half rose from his chair. ‘But —’
‘I take grave exception to people who shoot police officers,’ said Fox. ‘And another thing. When you’ve done the twenty you’ll probably get for that, the French police want to have a chat about a certain heist in Armentières.’
‘I don’t know nothing about that,’ said Conway.
‘Oh, I’m sure you do, Waldo, it’s where the mademoiselles come from.’ Fox stood up, glanced at his watch and yawned. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning, Denzil.’
‘Thanks a bundle, guv,’ said Evans sarcastically, but not until the door had closed behind his detective chief superintendent.
Chapter Thirteen
First thing the following morning, Donovan, the ballistics expert, was waiting to see Fox. A senior fingerprint officer called Sam Marland was with him. Donovan laid the three-eight pistol that had been seized from Conway’s flat on the desk.
‘Well?’ asked Fox, poking at the plastic-shrouded firearm.
‘Interesting,’ said Donovan. ‘This is the weapon that was used to murder your man Pogson.’
‘Certain?’
‘Positive,’ said Donovan.
‘And we got an identifiable set of prints off it,’ added Marland.
‘Conway’s?’ Fox beamed at the two experts.
‘No.’ Marland shook his head.
‘Whose, then?’
Marland laid a file on the desk in front of Fox. ‘Lionel Feather, known as Lenny.’
‘And who the hell’s Lenny Feather?’
Marland shrugged and pushed the file towards Fox. ‘I only know what’s on there, guv,’ he said. ‘One previous for safe-blowing. Got a seven-stretch. Came out about five years ago. Full remission.’ Marland flipped back the file cover. ‘That’s him,’ he said, pointing at a photograph.
‘Jesus Christ!’ said Fox. ‘What is he, a circus fat man?’
‘Electrician. So it says on the antecedents.’
Fox scoffed. ‘Yeah, well it doesn’t look as though there’s too much sparking there.’ He glanced up at Marland. ‘There’s definitely no trace of Conway’s prints, then?’
‘Definitely not.’ Marland smiled. ‘You sound disappointed, guv.’
‘I’m bloody choked,’ said Fox. He looked thoughtful for a moment and then added, ‘Don’t slip up on the continuity of that particular piece of evidence, will you. When we find this Feather finger, that’s going to be worth about thirty years to him.’ He pointed at the firearm on his desk and grinned vindictively.
This statement you left me to take from Waldo Conway last night, guv ...’ Evans entered Fox’s office as Donovan and Marland left.
‘What about it, Denzil?’
‘He didn’t do that job in Surbiton. His statement doesn’t fit the facts at all.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. He’s either covering for someone, or someone’s put the frighteners on him.’ Fox grinned. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. Pogson’s body.’
‘What about it?’
‘Fixing the point at which a body goes into the river is not an exact science, so it would seem, sir,’ said Evans loftily.
‘You do surprise me,’ said Fox. ‘But you shouldn’t. Nothing is ever easy in this job. Go on, then.’
‘I have spoken to the Superintendent of Thames Division, sir, and his opinion is that Pogson could have been dumped in the river anywhere between Battersea Bridge and London Bridge.’
‘But the House of Lords is halfway between the two.’
‘Yes, sir, but there are two changes of tide during a twenty-four hour period ...’
‘And what’s that got to do with the price of fish?’ said Fox.
Evans found this reaction disappointing.
That Pogson’s body had probably been launched anywhere along a stretch of river some five miles long, and which was densely populated on either side, had suddenly become irrelevant. Like so many enquiries it had been overtaken by fresh evidence. Namely, the fingerprints found on the murder weapon. Fox explained this briefly to Evans.
‘We are looking for someone called Lenny Feather, Denzil,’ said Fox, pushing Feather’s criminal record across the desk. ‘And now we know who we’re looking for, I think we shall put Mr Pogson’s demise on the back-burner for a while.’ He was not referring to his cremation.
With an instinct that comes from many years of criminal investigation, Fox decided that to pursue the matter of Danny Horsfall’s money-laundering activities might, in turn, result in the apprehension of Pogson’s killer. He was certainly not going to waste time looking for Lenny Feather when he was convinced that he was, in some way, connected with Horsfall. It was not a decision calculated to please Fox’s superiors, but as the Metropolitan Police are concerned with results to a greater extent than with anything else, and that results were what Fox usually gave them, they were loathe to make anything more than token noises of disapproval.
‘Find Swann, will you, Denzil,’ said Fox wearily. ‘We shall journey to Brixton Prison and do some serious talking to friend Conway.’
*
Conway looked less than happy when he was brought into the interview room at Brixton Prison. A criminal lifetime of jousting with the likes of Tommy Fox had enabled him to read the average detective’s moods with a certain degree of accuracy. Not that Tommy Fox was an average detective.
But today was beginning to look somewhat gloomy already.
Fox wasted no time. ‘Who’s Lenny Feather?’ he asked without preamble.
Conway gulped. Something was coming off here, and he didn’t like the sound of it. ‘Never heard of him, Mr Fox.’
Fox gazed solemnly at Conway and slowly tapped his hand on the edge of the table. ‘Waldo, don’t sod me about. I do not have the time and I’m not in the mood.’
‘Stand on me, Mr Fox. I’ve never heard of him. If I had, I’d tell you.’ Conway gave a hopeless shrug. ‘What have I got to lose, after all?’
‘About twenty years of your foreseeable future, the way things are going at present,’ said Fox, and smiled. Then he laid the photograph of Lenny Feather on the table. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Got expelled from Weight Watchers.’
‘Oh, I do know him,’ said Conway, and contrived to sound surprised.
Thought you might. Keep talking.’
‘He runs with Danny Horsfall ...’
‘Ah!’ Fox let out a long sigh and lit a cigarette. As an act of charity, he pushed the case across the table to Conway. ‘Well, don’t stop, Waldo.’
‘He tried to put the arm on me. Reckoned I was bothering Horsfall. Matter of fact, he says as how I’d got the filth —’
‘The what?’ asked Fox sharply.
‘Sorry, Mr Fox. I mean the Old Bill.’
‘That’s better. Go on, then.’
‘Well, he come round my drum one afternoon. I was watching the racing on the box, like, when this hooligan broke my bleeding door down. Comes on right heavy and reckons Horsfall’d sent him with a message.’
‘What sort of message?’
‘He reckoned that my going round his office had got you interested in him.’
‘So what h
appened?’
‘I told him to piss off.’
‘And did he?’
‘Yeah, course.’
Fox grinned at him. It was unnerving. ‘Really? I reckon he’s about twenty stones, and you, Waldo ...’ For a moment or two he gazed at Conway. ‘You must be about ten stones dripping wet, I should think. What decided him to leave?’
Conway thought about that for a second or so. ‘It was Genie ...’
‘What did you do? Rub your magic lamp?’
‘Nah!’ Conway permitted himself the slightest of smiles. It was politic to do so when the boss of the Sweeney made what appeared to be a joke. ‘Eugenie, I mean. Miss Vandermeer.’
‘Oh, that Genie. And what did Miss Vandermeer do that caused him to go away? Put her clothes on?’
Conway thought long and hard before answering the question. Had his head been transparent, it might well have revealed all manner of cogs and wheels rotating furiously. ‘She pulled a shooter on him,’ he said at last, and with obvious reluctance.
‘A shooter?’
Conway shrugged. ‘Well, it’s no bleeding secret, is it?’ he said recklessly. ‘Your blokes had it off me when they nicked me.’ He nodded briefly in Evans’ direction.
Fox laughed at the thought of Eugenie Vandermeer pulling a gun on an ogre like Feather. ‘So he took it on the toes?’ Conway grinned. ‘Like a rat up a drainpipe, Mr Fox.’
‘Quite handy with a shooter, your Genie, then, is she?’ Fox spoke in an offhand way.
But Conway was aware of the trap. ‘I ain’t got nothing to say about that, Mr Fox.’
Fox shrugged. ‘Your funeral, Waldo,’ he said, if it hadn’t been for her, you wouldn’t be sitting here.’
