by Graham Ison
Rosie leaned closer to the prisoner. ‘Don’t use language like that to me,’ she said.
‘What are you going to do about it, then? Report me to the sexual harassment lot? Shelter behind being a woman? You want to grow up. This is the real world,’ he sneered.
‘No,’ said Rosie mildly, ‘I shall break your arm.’
For a moment, Bundy looked surprised, then he laughed. ‘Get stuffed,’ he said. ‘In fact, that’s not such a bad idea. How about it, darling?’ He leaned across the table and grabbed hold of one of Rosie’s breasts.
Crozier and Crombie heard the crash of a falling chair and were through the door like lightning.
They were too late.
Rosie had seized Bundy’s right thumb firmly with her left hand and with a speed that would have drawn whistles of admiration even from the self-defence instructors at Hendon, had moved round the table and locked his arm into the crook of her own so that he was writhing in agony. She applied a little more pressure so that he not only screamed with pain, but started to hop about on one foot and bang his right shoulder with his free hand.
‘You all right, Rosie?’ asked Crozier. He could see it was an unnecessary question.
‘Yes, thanks,’ said Rosie. ‘I’m just in the process of adding a count of indecent assault to this slob’s indictment.’ She released Bundy and pushed him away. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘pick up those papers, pick up that chair, and then sit down like a good little boy.’ She glanced at Crozier. ‘Thank you, skip. I think the two of us will get along just fine now.’ She looked back at Bundy. ‘We’ve got some serious talking to do, you and me,’ she said. ‘Got it?’
Bundy got it. He sat down and spent the next five minutes massaging his thumb.
‘Right,’ said Rosie. ‘Detective Sergeant Crozier and I are now going to listen to the statement you’ve intimated you wish to make, which will be tape recorded. You will get one copy and the other copy will be sent to the Crown Prosecution Service. So start talking.’
*
‘That all seems very satisfactory,’ said Fox, having read the transcript of Bundy’s statement. ‘It always amazes me, Rosie,’ he continued, ‘how you manage to get hardened criminals like Bundy to make statements admitting all their heinous crimes.’
‘It’s my femininity,’ said Rosie. ‘I think they like to feel they’re being mothered.’
*
‘I am Thomas Fox ... of the Flying Squad.’ Bundy leaped to his feet with alacrity, although Fox had to admit that it was more likely Rosie’s presence than his own that caused the sudden movement. ‘I understand that you wish to see me.’ He stared at Bundy with a distasteful expression on his face.
‘Yes, I bloody do.’
‘Well, I can’t say it’s mutual,’ said Fox. ‘What d’you want?’
‘Are you her boss?’ asked Bundy, pointing at Rosie.
‘As much as anyone is,’ said Fox drily.
‘Well, that bloody statement was taken under duress.’
‘How strange.’ Fox managed to look quite perturbed. ‘D’you know, I’ve listened two or three times to the tape recording of your statement, voluntarily made I may say, and I could hear no indications of duress at all. You were speaking quite freely. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you seemed very anxious to get all your misdeeds off your chest.’ Fox shook his head sadly. ‘But I suppose that on the advice of your counsel, you’ll claim in court that this lady officer beat you up and forced you to make it,’ he said. ‘Well, my son, I shall be the one laughing at the back of the court. But I shan’t be the only one. Not by a long chalk.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘All right, Tommy,’ said Commander Alec Myers, ‘so you’ve got the Surbiton robbery nicely wrapped up, and you’ve got a lot of evidence that could eventually put Danny Horsfall down ... if you can get some corroboration. But I have to point out that there is the little question of the murder of one David Pogson. To say nothing of a missing Cézanne.’
‘Oh yes, of course, sir,’ said Fox. ‘I knew there was something I’d forgotten.’
‘Well, what’s happening, Tommy?’
‘All in hand, sir. All in hand.’
*
Charlie Shiner, the retired detective inspector who was now the chief security officer of the safe deposit company upon which Lenny Feather’s avaricious eyes had settled, entered Fox’s office carrying a roll of plans and a brief-case.
‘Long time no see, Charlie.’ Fox shook hands.
‘Been doing some digging, Tommy,’ said Shiner, dropping into one of Fox’s armchairs. ‘And there’s one member of our staff that I’m not too happy about.’
‘Why?’
‘Only been with us for a couple of months. If that.’ Shiner opened his brief-case. ‘Six weeks, as a matter of fact,’ he continued, pulling out a sheaf of papers. ‘Most of our employees have been with us for years. Perhaps you could give this bloke a run through records.’
‘What’s his name, Charlie?’
‘Beresford. Winston Beresford. That’s his application form.’ Shiner handed over a sheet of paper.
‘Do any checks on this before you took him on?’
Shiner nodded. ‘We got him to write to the National Identification Bureau and get a printout, which he had to submit. You can do that now, since the Data Protection Act came in.’
‘Yeah, but it’ll only tell you if he’s got a record. Won’t tell you what’s on it.’
‘Don’t care,’ said Shiner. ‘If he’s got a record, we don’t want him. Even if it’s only for reckless driving.’
‘So? Anything?’
‘Nothing.’ Shiner sounded dubious. ‘But we couldn’t check his date of birth.’
‘Why not?’
‘Born in the West Indies. Couldn’t produce a birth certificate. I wasn’t happy, but I got overruled.’
Fox nodded. The whole system of criminal identification hinged on dates of birth, and if a convicted person cared to change his, there was a good chance of the computer showing no trace of him. On the other hand, it might just be that a person had no previous convictions. But policemen were inordinately suspicious. More so than the average employer to whom the acquisition of new staff in these days of labour shortage was often paramount. ‘Oh dear me!’ Fox dropped the application form on the desk and laughed.
‘What’s funny?’
‘His previous employers, that’s what’s funny.’
‘You know them?’
‘Not half. Merpax Trucking.’
‘Yeah,’ said Shiner. ‘I had a word with them. Some bloke called Paxton. A director, I think. Said that Beresford had been employed as a travelling security guard. Used to take care of vulnerable loads going to the continent. Very trustworthy, it seemed. Left because he was fed up with spending nights away from home ... and the usual.’
‘The usual?’
‘Yeah, wanted more money.’
Fox leaned back in his chair and stretched. ‘Well, I think that could be the answer to our little problem, Charlie. Or I’m a Dutchman.’ He leaned forward, suddenly. ‘A Dutchman. I wonder ...’
Shiner grinned. ‘Care to let me in on all this, Tommy?’
‘The principal shareholders in Merpax Trucking are a company of which Danny Horsfall is managing director.’
‘The Danny Horsfall?’
‘As you say, Charlie. The Danny Horsfall. Recently Merpax allegedly lost a valuable Cézanne that was on its way to Amsterdam. Actually, they didn’t just lose it. A fake was substituted for it somewhere along the way. I’m just wondering if your Mr Beresford was the guard on that run.’ A look of intense satisfaction spread over Fox’s face. ‘Don’t tell me, Charlie, but he’s a night-duty guard at your safe deposit, and he’ll be on duty on the night that the heist’s scheduled to go down.’
‘Got it in one, Tommy.’
‘So much for being fed up with spending nights away from home.’ Fox grinned.
‘Bit careless of Horsfall, isn’t it? Espec
ially if he knows you’ve been sniffing about down at Merpax.’
‘Not careless, Charlie, just bloody cocky. Mr Horsfall’s getting too big for his boots. I think we’ll have to get him fitted up with a new pair ... in Dartmoor, preferably.’
‘So Beresford’s going to let the team in, is that the way of it, d’you reckon, Tommy?’
‘Looks that way, Charlie,’ said Fox. ‘Nice one, that, but unfortunately for Mr Horsfall, not nice enough.’
*
In pursuit of their enquiries, detectives will often trample about like a herd of undisciplined elephants. But only when it suits them. It gives their quarries — and indeed supercilious members of the public — the impression that they are not very good at their job. That they are clumsy, and inept, and are really overpaid clodhopping amateurs. The sort of Scotland Yarder that Conan Doyle so loved to ridicule. This is an impression which they are happy to cultivate. It tends to catch the over-confident off their guard. But when the mood takes them, these same detectives can be very discreet and very cunning. This was such an occasion.
‘Henry,’ said Fox. ‘This Beresford bloke ...’ He handed Findlater a photostat copy of Beresford's job application form. ‘Do a discreet enquiry on him, will you. I want to know everything about him. Where d’you live, by the way?’
Findlater looked surprised. ‘Worcester Park, sir.’
‘Right,’ said Fox. ‘If he gets so much as a whiff of our interest, you’ll be supervising a team of hairy women traffic wardens in Islington for the rest of your service.’
*
It took Findlater and his small team about forty-eight hours of intensive legwork and computer-based diligence to come up with the answers. It was not entirely the result of text-book detective work. Aspiration and inspiration naturally play their part, but the most important element is perspiration.
‘He’s got form, sir,’ said Findlater. ‘His date of birth was wrong and he’s called Winston, but —’
‘But he changed his surname as well, yes?’
‘Only slightly, sir. His name’s Winston Ford. After he got done, he added the “Beres” bit to the front of it and —’
‘And buggered the computer in the process.’
Findlater wrinkled his nose slightly. Strong language offended his Calvinistic principles. ‘Quite so, sir,’ he said.
Fox grinned. ‘A bit of a smart-arse, then?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But not smart enough, eh? Right, what’s his form?’
Theft, sir. He’s got one previous, about four years ago. Involved, with others, in the theft of some paintings and other objets d’art from a country house. Went down for three and got out after two. Remission for good conduct.’
Fox sniffed. ‘And went straight to work for Merpax as a security guard, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And lo and behold, during the course of his employment there, a valuable Cézanne goes adrift. The hand of Danny Horsfall is quite definitely apparent here, Henry.’ Fox sighed with satisfaction. ‘It’s all falling into place.’
‘D’you want him nicked, sir?’
‘Yes, Henry, I most definitely do. But not till after the party.’
*
The party to which Tommy Fox had referred was, of course, the raid on the safe deposit. He still couldn’t understand what had made Horsfall revert so blatantly to straightforward crime, after meticulously covering his tracks with his plethora of complex commercial enterprises, but he damned well meant to find out.
‘This, gentlemen ...’ Fox smiled at the assembled detectives and paused. ‘And Miss Webster, of course,’ he added, catching sight of Rosie. ‘This is what you might call a classic Flying Squad operation.’ He tapped a large-scale plan of the safe deposit building which was exhibited on a board in the briefing room. Then he indicated the man sitting beside him. ‘And this, for those of you who don’t know him, is Charlie Shiner, one-time detective inspector, and known, during the course of a long and distinguished career, as the Sheriff of Ealing. Scourge of wrongdoers in West London.’ Fox’s audience grinned and Shiner inclined his head in acknowledgement of the detective chief superintendent’s quite ingenuous compliment. ‘And now to work,’ continued Fox.
‘The ground floor of this building is the reception area where a leggy blonde sits filing her nails and generally looking helpful, but for the most part doing sod-all else. The manager has his office here, too. You can tell he’s the manager, he’s the only one whose jacket matches his trousers ...’ Fox waited for the dutiful titter of laughter that usually followed this joke. They had all heard it before, but they laughed just the same. ‘But the ground floor is of no great interest. It’s the basement that we’re interested in. That’s where the boxes are kept. Charlie.’ He turned to Shiner who stood up.
‘Right, lady and gents,’ said Shiner, picking up a ruler. ‘This plan shows the basement area. Off this central corridor there are eight cages, each of which is a separate locked depository containing about two hundred boxes.’ He tapped the plan eight times. ‘So in all, about sixteen hundred safe deposit boxes are held. And,’ he added, forestalling the question he knew would come next, ‘we don’t know what’s in any of them.’
‘Straight up, guv?’ asked a DC sitting in the front row.
Shiner shrugged. ‘We don’t care, frankly. For all we know, they could contain drugs, stolen property, or cash that belongs to people who don’t want the Inland Revenue to know about it.’
‘You ought to be thinking about one of those,’ said Fox to the DC who had made the comment. ‘All the bloody overtime you’ve been incurring.’
Shiner waited for the laughter to subside before going on. ‘We obviously don’t know what this little team is after. It might be something specific. On the other hand, they might just be doing a general trawl to see what they can pick up, knowing that half the depositors won’t dare show out if they’ve been ripped off. Either way, this team’s going to be in there for some time.’
‘How’re they going to effect entry, Charlie?’ asked DI Evans.
Shiner glanced back at the map, then flicked it over the top of the board to reveal a plan of the ground floor. The best bet is probably here,’ he said, indicating a doorway at the back of the building. ‘It’s always worried me as being a vulnerable point, and despite the fact that it’s been reinforced, it’s secluded in that back alleyway. They’ll have to make a noise, but given the traffic these days, and providing a patrolling PC doesn’t happen to wander round there for a jimmy or a quick drag, they could spend an hour or so making an entry with a good chance of getting away with it.’
‘We’ll make sure that none of the feet strays that way,’ said Fox, alluding to the Uniform Branch of the Metropolitan Police in his usual derogatory way, and again getting a laugh. ‘But I think it’ll be easier for them than that. Charlie.’
‘Yes,’ continued Shiner. ‘We recently — six weeks ago — took on a new night security guard called Winston Beresford. Mr Fox got Mr Findlater to make some enquiries ...’ Shiner nodded towards DI Findlater. ‘And he came up with the fact that Beresford’s real name is Winston Ford. He’s got previous for theft from a dwelling, and until six weeks ago was working for a company with which Danny Horsfall is associated.’
‘Cheeky sod,’ said Evans.
‘He’ll be on duty on the night in question,’ continued Shiner, ‘and it’s a racing certainty that he’ll let them in.’
‘But if we’re going to be in there, won’t he tip the blaggers the wink?’ asked Evans.
‘Yes,’ said Fox cheerfully, ‘he probably will. If he wants a bloody good hiding and about twelve years to boot.’
*
Waldo Conway pushed his way apprehensively through the revolving doors of New Scotland Yard and looked around.
It was lunch-time and several groups of people were standing about. Some were waiting for friends from other departments, or were visitors keeping appointments. Others were waiting for collea
gues before going out on police business, or to visit a public house, there to pretend that they were garnering information.
Outside, in the roadway, three black cars were drawn up. In two of them, the driver was sitting behind the wheel, but the driver of the third was hovering by the rear door. That was the Commissioner’s car and he was expected down at any moment.
As a consequence of this disturbing event, the PC on duty homed in on Conway faster than he would have done normally and cast a suspicious eye on him. With twenty-eight years’ service, he prided himself on recognising a villain when he saw one. ‘Yes?’
‘I’ve got to see Mr Fox,’ said Conway.
‘Got to?’
‘Yeah, well he like sent for me.’
‘And who’s Mr Fox?’
Conway was taken aback. He couldn’t believe that anyone at Scotland Yard, particularly a policeman, didn’t know Fox. ‘He’s the boss of the Flying Squad.’
‘Oh, that Mr Fox.’ The PC grinned. ‘Might’ve guessed. Hang on.’ He half turned and then paused. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Waldo Conway.’
‘Right, Mr Conway. Take a seat.’
Five minutes later, DI Evans appeared. ‘Waldo, come with me.’
‘ ’Ere,’ said Conway, ‘what’s coming off, then? I got a bell to say that Mr Fox wanted a word.’
‘It’s all right, Waldo,’ said Evans, ‘you’re not getting nicked again ... not yet, anyhow. Mr Fox is busy, so you’re going to have to talk to me.’ And Evans led Conway into one of the ground-floor interview rooms near the Press Bureau.
‘What’s this all about, Mr Evans?’
‘Sit down, Waldo, and stop panicking.’ Evans slipped off his jacket and hung it over the back of a chair before sitting down. Then he ferreted about in the drawer of the desk until he found a few sheets of paper. ‘We’ve arrested Eugenie.’
‘Yeah, I heard. What’s that all about, then?’
