The Laundry Man

by Graham Ison

  For a second or so, Evans stared at Conway and then shook his head slowly. ‘You know perfectly well what it’s all about, Waldo. Apart from keeping her out of your way, she’s been arrested for handling stolen property. Namely, the proceeds from the heists at Surbiton and Armentières. There’s a good chance that she’ll be extradited to France for that, incidentally.’

  ‘Blimey!’ said Conway.

  ‘What Mr Fox is interested in, on account of he’s clearing up the loose ends ...’ Evans paused. ‘Doesn’t like loose ends, doesn’t Mr Fox.’

  ‘Yeah, I heard,’ said Conway again.

  ‘He wants to know why you held your hands up to the Surbiton job so readily when we nicked you last time ... or was it the time before?’ Evans grinned disturbingly at Conway. ‘Particularly as Bundy’s now coughed to that job. And we happen to know, from personal experience, that he’s no friend of yours.’

  Conway appeared to consider that proposition for some time. ‘Well ...’ he said at last.

  ‘Well what?’ Evans inclined his head.

  ‘Well, I thought it was down to Genie.’

  Evans scoffed. ‘You thought that she’d been out blagging building societies and supermarkets?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re a lying bastard, Waldo. You told us that you were with Genie all Easter weekend. But now you’re telling me that you thought she was out blagging. See my problem, Waldo?’

  Conway pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘D’you mind, Mr Evans?’

  Evans shook his head. ‘They’re your lungs, Waldo,’ he said.

  Conway took some time finding a box of matches and lighting his cigarette. Then he exhaled a lungful of smoke. ‘If I tell you what I was doing, will it get TIC’d?’

  ‘Depends what it is, Waldo. We don’t take things like murder into consideration.’

  ‘Oh no, it ain’t nothing like that, Mr Evans.’ Conway looked startled at the DI’s suggestion.

  ‘Well, what was it?’

  ‘I was doing a job for Danny Horsfall.’

  ‘I might have known,’ said Evans, shaking his head wearily. ‘What exactly?’

  ‘I had to meet a lorry driver, down Essex, and take a crate off of him.’

  ‘Meet him where?’

  ‘A service area on the A12, just past the M25 turn-off.’

  ‘What sort of lorry was it?’

  Conway shrugged. ‘Can’t remember,’ he said. ‘It was one of them big ones. A container job.’

  ‘Didn’t have Merpax Trucking written on it by any chance, did it?’

  Conway raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah. How d’you know that, then?’

  ‘Because I’m clever. And what did you do with this crate, Waldo?’

  ‘I had to deliver it.’

  ‘Deliver it where?’

  ‘Down Danny’s drum in Epping Forest.’ Conway was starting to look very sorry for himself.

  ‘And what was in this crate?’

  ‘Search me, Mr Evans.’

  ‘I was coming to that next, Waldo,’ said Evans.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Well of all the double-dealing two-faced little toe-rags,’ said Fox when he had read the statement which Evans had taken from the luckless Conway. ‘What did you do, Denzil?’

  ‘Told him the matter would be reported.’

  ‘Reported! There’s a bloody sight more to this than parking on a double yellow line.’

  Evans looked aggrieved. ‘Well, you didn’t want him nicked again, guv, surely? I mean, he’s out on bail. It’ll just be a case of adding another count to the indictment.’

  Fox gave that some thought. ‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Denzil. Go on at this rate, though, and there won’t be any room left on his bloody indictment.’

  ‘What do we do now? Make some enquiries?’

  ‘Like what?’ asked Fox.

  ‘Down at Merpax. Or Robinson, the driver?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘No, Denzil. We’ll leave it for the time being. I don’t want to upset this safe deposit job that’s coming off. If we start poking about down at Merpax again, they might think we’re there for a different reason. Like we’ve got wind of Winston Beresford, for instance. We can always sort the Cézanne out afterwards. A sort of mopping-up operation, as you might say.’

  *

  The heist was due to go down at one o’clock in the morning, a fact which made Fox swear horribly. Nevertheless, he decided that such an opportunity for a bit of fun at the expense of the wicked was too good to miss.

  Charlie Shiner had told Fox that the night-duty guards came on at eleven, and it had been arranged that the Flying Squad would be in place shortly before this time.

  Several anonymous but high-powered cars blended discreetly into the urban night-life at about half past ten and remained on watch. Their task was to alert the handful of officers inside the safe deposit building of the imminent arrival of the robbers, and then to join in the arrests at the crucial moment.

  Charlie Shiner had warned his late-shift guards to say nothing of the presence of the police when they were relieved by the night-duty men.

  At about a quarter past eleven, Fox strolled down into the basement from Shiner’s office and came face to face with Winston Beresford. ‘You must be Winston Beresford, otherwise known as Ford,’ he said pleasantly.

  Beresford went for his gun, but his movement was instantly stemmed by a lilting Welsh voice. ‘I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,’ said DI Evans.

  Beresford turned to find that his nose was about three inches from the muzzle of Evans’ pistol.

  ‘You got a firearms certificate for that?’ Fox enquired as DS Fletcher disarmed Beresford. ‘No? I thought not, somehow. You can always tell, you know. It’s a sort of policeman’s instinct.’

  ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ asked Beresford nastily. But he knew already.

  ‘Thomas Fox ... of the Flying Squad. And you, my son, are nicked.’ Fox lit a cigarette and gazed at the West Indian. ‘But I have a little job for you first.’

  ‘What you talking about, man?’ Beresford was extremely perturbed by this unexpected turn of events but was doing his best to put a brave face on it all.

  ‘As you well know, your friend and employer, the revered Mr Daniel Horsfall, has arranged to have this place screwed this evening.’ Holding his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, Fox used it as a pointer to sweep an arc round the eight cages containing the safe deposit boxes. ‘Or, more accurately, at one o’clock tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Dunno what you talking about, man.’ Beresford rolled his eyes to take in Fox, Evans and Fletcher.

  ‘Oh, but you do, old son,’ said Fox. ‘At one o’clock precisely, your job is to open the door and let in sundry robbers and others of ill repute. The plan is that they make hay for a while, cleaning out all these jolly little boxes, and then have it away on their dancers. For this little service you were doubtless to receive a sweetener which I’ll wager you had no intention of declaring to the Inland Revenue.’ He turned to Evans. ‘Wouldn’t have declared it for tax, would he, Denzil?’

  Evans shook his head gravely. ‘Racing certainty that he’d have overlooked that, guv,’ he said.

  Beresford glanced at the telephone and Fox smiled. ‘Don’t even think about it, my son,’ he said. ‘Now,’ he continued, sitting down, ‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Come the fateful hour, and a timid tapping on the door, you will pop up and open it. Mr Evans here — a Welsh clay-pigeon champion, as it happens — will be right beside you with his shooter in your ear. There will be several other officers hereabouts similarly armed, and even more of the same on the outside. Just in case you were thinking of doing a runner.’ Beresford’s brain suddenly went into top gear. ‘If you have nicked me, mister, I ain’t doing none of that.’

  ‘Oh, but you are, Winston old love,’ said Fox. ‘It’s all a matter of arithmetic, you see. Decline to assist and you will be looking at about twelve years’ worth of porrid
ge ... just for being here. Open the door like the one o’clock fairy and who can tell how that may benefit you.’

  ‘You mean you’ll let me go?’ A sudden light of hope gleamed in Beresford’s eyes.

  ‘Dear me, no, Winston,’ said Fox. ‘We’re talking more of a sliding scale here. But I promise you this, say one word to Mr Horsfall’s gentry when you open the door and you’ll be looking at the wrong end of a lifetime in the nick.’ Fox smiled amiably. ‘The first few months of which will undoubtedly be spent in the sick bay,’ he added. ‘Removing the bullets.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Beresford, his shoulders suddenly drooping.

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased,’ said Fox.

  *

  It was at a minute to one that a transit van and a Vauxhall Carlton appeared in the street outside the safe deposit building and turned into the alleyway that led to its rear. In accordance with instructions, a Flying Squad Jaguar pulled across the entrance to the alleyway and stopped. Fox was a careful man and had decided that, foolproof though his plan was, one always had to make allowances for the almighty cock-up that not infrequently blighted police operations of this kind.

  Aware that a rather nasty policeman with a gun was secreted behind the door, and that other policemen were outside, Winston Beresford opened it when the robbers knocked. The first man in was the egregious Lenny Feather, followed by fourteen other hoods, the last seven of whom were Flying Squad officers who had materialised, as if by magic, out of the gloom.

  It was mayhem. The moment that Tommy Fox announced his presence, the visitors, rightly sensing that they had nothing to lose but their liberty, started to fight a desperate rearguard action in an attempt to escape. The air was blue with oaths and the satisfying crack of truncheons on thicker-than-normal skulls as one by one the team of would-be robbers fell victims to the Flying Squad onslaught. After what seemed an eternity — it was in fact about two and a half minutes — the eight members of Danny Horsfall’s team lay or sat awkwardly on the floor in varying stages of inertia. In one corner, Denzil Evans was supervising the collection of a small arsenal of firearms which had been taken from them, but which they had not had time to draw.

  ‘Dear me, what violent fellows,’ said Fox, nursing bruised knuckles. And addressing the recumbent villains, continued: Tor the benefit of those of you who can hear me, you're all nicked for robbery.’ Somewhat unnecessarily, but aware of the niceties of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, he added, ‘And anything you say will be given in evidence.’ He turned to Evans. ‘If we can understand it, that is.’

  *

  Three of the prisoners required hospital treatment for their injuries, as did four members of the Flying Squad, but the other five villains were removed to the nearby police station. This latter group included Lenny Feather, which was fortunate. It meant that Fox could get on with his enquiries without delay. ‘So you’re Lenny Feather.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I do, Lenny,’ said Fox. He took a slender folder from DS Fletcher. ‘And this,’ he continued, opening it, ‘is your life. At least, as far as the Metropolitan Police is concerned. So you’re a safe-blower and electrician by trade?’

  ‘I ain’t saying nothing,’ said Feather. Fox dropped the folder casually on the table. ‘Don’t blame you really,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’d say anything if I’d just made a monumental balls-up of a job that Danny Horsfall had commissioned me to do.’

  ‘Dunno what you’re on about.’

  ‘Oh, but you do, Lenny. Yes indeed, Danny Horsfall wanted that safe deposit place done, and he got you to get a little team together to knock it over, Right?’

  ‘Wrong,’ said Feather.

  ‘Oh, that’s a surprise. I shall have to give my informant a sharp talking to.’

  ‘I don’t know no Danny Horsfall,’ said Feather sullenly.

  ‘How odd. He knows you.’

  ‘You’re trying to con me,’ said Feather.

  ‘On the contrary, old cock,’ said Fox. ‘It’s Horsfall who’s conning you.’

  ‘Look,’ said Feather, running a hand exasperatedly across his forehead. ‘I’ll have the safe deposit blag, but that’s it. I don’t know no Horsfall, and I don’t know what you’re getting at neither.’ Feather turned sideways and attempted to cross his legs.

  ‘I’m not bothered about the safe deposit job,’ said Fox. ‘Not a bit. After all, that’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Some you win, some you lose. And you’re bang to rights for that one. No, Lenny, old dear, I’m talking about murder.’

  ‘Eh?’ Feather sat up sharply and turned to face Fox once more. ‘I don’t know nothing about no murder, and that’s straight.’

  ‘Shouldn’t use words you don’t know the meaning of, Lenny. That’s what my old mum always used to say. Now, I’m going to talk to you about the murder of one David Pogson. He was an art dealer, in business in this fair city of London, but unfortunately someone topped him and dumped him in the river. Apart from the crime of murder, Lenny, I think there may also be an offence of polluting the river under some bye-law or another.’

  ‘I ain’t never heard of no one called —’ Feather broke off. ‘What d’you say his handle was?’

  Fox smiled. ‘Nice try, Lenny. Pogson was the gent’s name. Mr David Pogson.’ He leaned closer to Feather. ‘Between you and me, Lenny, he was a bit of a villain. Got one or two previous, if you take my meaning.’ He leaned back again. ‘But no excuse for putting several lethal holes in him.’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what any of this has got to do with me.’

  ‘Very simple, Lenny. Now listen carefully. When we took the bullets out of Mr Pogson we preserved them carefully. Then we found a gun which our ballistics expert matched to the bullets aforesaid. With me so far?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Feather nodded reluctantly.

  ‘And lo and behold the said gun had got fingerprints all over it. Identifiable fingerprints.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Oh yeah, Lenny. Your fingerprints.’

  ‘Eh?’ Feather was unable to hide his astonishment at this blatant police stitch-up. ‘You’re having me on,’ he said.

  ‘Alas, no, Lenny. Your dabs were all over it.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Fox. ‘But a jury at the Old Bailey will.’

  ‘Where d’you find this shooter then?’

  ‘In a flat in Pimlico occupied by a mutual friend of ours, one Waldo Conway, Esquire.’

  ‘The bastard!’

  ‘My sentiments exactly, Lenny. In fact, I said as much to Mr Evans here. That Waldo Conway, I said, is a right bastard.’

  ‘I don’t mean bloody Conway,’ said Feather. ‘I’m talking about that bastard Horsfall. He’s had me over.’

  ‘Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that. In what way, may I enquire, has the redoubtable Mr Horsfall had you over?’

  ‘He’s bloody stitched me up.’

  ‘I fear that we’re into the realms of tautology here,’ murmured Fox. ‘How has he stitched you up?’

  ‘That bloody shooter. Horsfall gave me a bell, see. He said as how I was to nip round to see him, and when I got there, he bunged me this shooter and he says, ’Ere, Lenny, he says, take that shooter round Waldo Conway’s drum and bung it somewhere in his gear.’

  ‘Good gracious,’ said Fox, ‘and did you?’

  ‘Yeah, course I did.’

  ‘For a fee, presumably?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Currency of the realm changed hands? In other words, Lenny, he bunged you?’

  ‘Well of course he did. Wouldn’t have done it else, would I?’ Feather stared at Fox amazed that the detective should think that he would do anything for which substantial payment was not forthcoming.

  ‘Mr Horsfall didn’t say anything about not putting your fingerprints all over this weapon, then?’

  ‘Nah!’

  ‘Tell me, Lenny, as a matter of professional interest, was Mr Horsfall wearing gloves when he
handed you this gun? The gun that you eventually planted on Waldo Conway, heretofore mentioned?’

  ‘Nah!’

  ‘Oh!’ said Fox.

  ‘But it was wrapped up in a handkerchief when he bunged it me.’

  Fox shook his head slowly. ‘There are great advances yet to be made in the field of primary education in this country, Denzil,’ he said. Evans shook his head sagely. ‘Right,’ continued Fox, ‘I take it that you are prepared to make a statement regarding this matter?’

  Feather looked gloomy. ‘Well, I don’t know about that —’

  ‘Or perhaps you’d rather stand the topping of Pogson all on your jack? Yes?’

  ‘I’ll make a statement,’ said Feather.

  ‘Good, good,’ said Fox. ‘Very wise. Denzil, be so good as to switch on the great wurlitzer, will you,’ he added, pointing at the recording machine in the corner of the room.

  Lenny Feather went on to recount how he had received a telephone call from Danny Horsfall and had then gone to his office where he collected a gun. This gun, Feather continued, he had taken to Waldo Conway’s flat in Pimlico where he had exchanged it for a weapon that he had found at the top of a wardrobe. This had all been done during Conway’s absence, an absence which had been engineered by a simple telephone call suggesting that Conway meet someone in a pub regarding ‘a little bit of business’.

  ‘Well,’ said Fox, ‘that all seems to be extraordinarily satisfactory, Now let’s get back to the safe deposit heist.’

  ‘What about it?’ Feather was clearly displeased at being reminded of his latest felonious failure.

  ‘What were Horsfall’s instructions to you regarding that little enterprise?’

  ‘Who said Horsfall had anything to do with it?’

  Fox sighed. ‘This fiction you’ve just trotted out about the shooter, Lenny, will undoubtedly be denied by Mr D. Horsfall, well-known West End trader, and impeccable businessman ...’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Although villains of the calibre of Lenny Feather took longer than most to grasp an incontestable line of logic, he got there eventually. ‘There was twelve boxes what Horsfall wanted nicking.’

  ‘Which twelve?’