The Sweeney 01

by Ian Kennedy-Martin

  What could you say to Rosswell and his squad about Eddie Mavor? No real point in saying more than the coroner’s jury would conclude: ‘Murder — by a person or persons unknown.’ Mavor had done it all. Name the crime, Mavor had a finger, arm or boot in it at some point over his thirty-seven years: grievous bodily harm, housebreaking, big-steal robbery, blackmail, perjury, vice of every shade, shape, size and description, including reverse white-slavery — whores from Beirut, Turkey and Greece, to London. And blue movies, in some of which parts of him had appeared, and not the parts you saw in a Doris Day film.

  Then there were the hard times, when Mavor couldn’t get it together. And there were five pubs in the Bermondsey area where he could be bought drinks by his friendly neighbourhood policemen in plain clothes. And sometimes more than a drink — some-times a tenner slipped under the table when the poor bastard, on his fifth vodka straight before lunch, would stop talking about himself and his mates in the glorious past, and would start talking about his mates and their acquaintances in the future. ‘D’you know that Aussie villain,’ Arry Avon, down the Mile End, selling more bastard radios than Sony have, in this Queen’s country this annum. And no bastard wonder, ‘cos he’s nicked the lot. Seven thousand Sony Sports Elevens; a fiver, a kick up the arse, and he’ll even service the sodding things...’

  Sometime in January 1967 Regan met Kim. Regan a Detective Sergeant then, in the Flying Squad. Some bloody madman had thieved a pantechnicon containing eleven thousand dozen packets of Tampax. The News of the World got hold of it — made it into a funny ha-ha joke item. Regan was in the doghouse with his bosses at the time. He’d stepped on some DI’s corns at the Yard. So he got slung ‘The Case of The Missing Tampons’. It pissed him off for two months.

  He got some clues that moved him south of the river. Then the Bermondsey nick suggested Mavor as a possible information source. Mavor had done it for five tenners and a bottle of Smirnoff. The connection he made with Mavor at a personal level was sound. The man liked and trusted him. Within weeks, Mavor’s calls to the yard and pub chats were producing real results and that’s what it’s all about. Because most of the promises of information from such sources are like dressed crab, all dress, no meat. From ‘67 to ‘69 Mavor and his fortunes lived in the valley. Then at the end of ‘69 he took off for a peak. And he made it. And his calls to the Yard stopped. And then it was other snouts talking about Mavor. ‘Saw him in a Roller the other night — brand-new vehicle. White. Didn’t match his girl — coon. That TV singer, personality, what’s ‘er name...?’ And Mavor was into the high life, and running some clubs, and property companies, and paying ‘a certain’ amount of Income Tax. Fraud S quad looked him over in 1970, and decided whatever rackets he was into weren’t too bent. They’d bear him in mind, rather than fool around testing for pressure points. Jack Regan got a call in February 1971 from Mavor saying some mick, who was giving him agro, was the collector on some regular dock-thieving game out of King George V docks. It was a good tip. Regan got the mick, and six lock-up garages containing twenty grand of Heinz’s 57 Varieties, i.e. every kind of stolen goods from copper pipe to digital electric clocks. But it was the last time he heard about Eddie Mavor until the day Mavor paid somebody a debt in a Jensen in Wotton.

  So what do you say to Superintendent Rosswell? A man who lived on his wits, lost them, spread about the interior of a luxury car. On the man’s CRO file, a report indicating that he’d done small services for the Force, and naming Regan as contact. Rosswell had a murder squad but he didn’t really know where to start on a London villain. He didn’t want the Yard crashing in, but he didn’t mind Regan because he’d sussed the man’s lack of interest.

  Regan was not interested for two reasons. A villain gets killed by another villain. That villain’s going to get chopped by the CID sooner or later for other villainies. Also Mavor had stopped giving him information long ago, so he felt no real connection, like he’d been chatting Mavor two days ago and then the bastard is topped.

  Regan listened to the coroner’s summing up — another very boring man. He checked his watch — two pm. There would be time to view the mortal remains at Gloucester Mortuary, and be back in London around six or seven.

  There was only one minute stirring of slightest interest in Regan’s mind about Mavor’s exit. Shot-gun at close range in the main square of a bloody village, broad daylight, no one in sight, no witnesses. That sounded like a cool kill. It sounded like professionals. And Regan was always interested in professionals. He was one himself.

  Detective Chief Inspector Haskins didn’t know what to make of Lieutenant Ewing of the San Francisco Police. First of all he thought it might be a problem of rank. There is the fact that a simple lieutenant in the American CID can be a very elevated individual, depending on his personal ‘reputation’, and where he works from. Haskins had met lieutenants in New York who wielded more power than their captains, DA’s, or Congressmen. At first he thought that was why Ewing was cold towards him — perhaps Ewing thought that his contact at the Flying Squad should be at superintendent level.

  There was another factor. Haskins knew from long experience of contact with Yank cops at Scotland Yard that they regarded their trips to London as a gravy train. They might be looking for some real bastard US killer. However, once in London, they never forgot to enjoy themselves. US cops were turning up in Flying Squad offices. New Scotland Yard, perhaps half a dozen a year. And more, recently, as everybody now accepted that Interpol was falling apart at the seams. So these blokes came to London and they enjoyed themselves. So why, Haskins wondered, was Ewing such a pain in the arse?

  On the morning after his arrival Ewing requested a working breakfast with Haskins. Ewing suggested his hotel; Haskins accepted. The eating part of the breakfast was made agonizing by Ewing’s simple device of refusing to say a word. Haskins found himself in the unreal position of the chatterbox sounding off about ways and means for the visitor to locate his quarry in England. The nearest Ewing got to even acknowledging Haskins’ presence was a slight nod from time to time. He said more to the waiter about how the bacon should be real crispy, like almost burned, than he said to the senior English policeman.

  They were well into their second coffee when Ewing at last spoke. ‘I knew Denny,’ he said.

  Haskins’ eyes queried the introduction of a so far unmentioned name.

  ‘Dennis O’Hagen. The guy Purcell executed.’

  Haskins now thought he had the clue to the man’s mood and silence. ‘A close friend?’

  Ewing’s eyes thoughtful, as if really considering the depth of the relationship for the first time. ‘Not so close. A buddy.’

  ‘It’s never happened to me in the Force,’ Haskins said gently. The murder of a colleague that I knew as a friend. Can I ask you, how does it hit?’

  ‘I can speak only for me.’ It was the first time Ewing was really conversing. ‘I don’t care about a dead man, because it’s illogical — they’re beyond care. What I care about is their wives and children. O’Hagen had no children. He’d just gone through a lousy divorce — stunk.’ He paused for a moment. ‘So you ask me what do I feel about Denny O’Hagen? I feel I got a job on. Find Purcell, get him Stateside. Get him in a court. Other than that I don’t feel anything.’

  To Square One, Haskins thought. Ewing’s just a cold fish. He hadn’t met a lot of them but undoubtedly they must exist. Ewing was obviously a clever man, but he had no feelings, and that was in a way demonstrated by his conversational reticence. You had to feel enthusiasm to talk about anything. Haskins felt all this but at the same time made a mental note not to dismiss this man’s character with such bald explanations. There were always other elements. Haskins decided to reserve judgment on Ewing until he knew him better. And he would know him better because his boss, Superintendent Maynon, had said: ‘I want you to really look after this chap. I spent two very happy months care of the Frisco PD in 1965, with a man called Ed Renly, who’s now Chief there. When Ewing goes back he’l
l tell Ed you didn’t fail in your helpfulness and your hospitality.’

  The next thing the reticent Ewing said hit Haskins between the eyes like a blow from a fist.

  ‘O’Hagen was a long-time policeman, old timer, knew a lot of guys. They’ve thrown some dollars together. They’ve put up fifty thousand — that’s roughly twenty thousand pounds on the rate of exchange. I’d like you to spread the news around...’

  ‘What do you mean, spread the news around?’ Haskins asked carefully.

  ‘The first of you British cops to get a bead on Purcell gets ten thousand pounds. The other ten thousand pounds is on offer to your informers and your underworld for information.’

  Haskins couldn’t avoid the schoolteacher voice. ‘No English policeman is allowed to take that kind of money for doing his job.’

  ‘You didn’t have to say that, Chief Inspector,’ Ewing said. He had turned away and called out to a waiter for a third coffee, then turned back to Haskins. ‘Between ten and twenty thousand is available for the information that grabs Purcell. Now if you’re going to quote me regulations it’s because you’re a senior officer and you have to be an official person.’

  ‘I’m not quoting you regulations in the abstract: no English policeman is allowed to touch your money.’

  ‘Put it this way. I don’t know how long it’ll take, but when I leave England I expect to have Purcell. And I don’t expect to have the money.’

  Detective Chief Inspector Haskins was anxious to get the meal over and get back to the Yard. He was anxious to report to his boss, Superintendent Maynon, that he thought Lieutenant Ewing was a dangerous man.

  It so happened that they had a use for a dangerous man in the Flying Squad, to deal with an entirely separate matter.

  Jack Regan stood in Gloucester City Mortuary and studied the corpse of Eddie Mavor. The body had been washed a couple of times in forty-eight hours and the head turned right-profile by some bland mortician. The head was turned right-profile because the left profile was still in the Jensen. It would be a bland, experienced mortician who had turned that head, probably because he’d been present over the years on too many occasions when people, including policemen, had vomited whilst viewing mutilated remains.

  The mortician wasn’t there. The Exhibits Officer was. Regan went from the cold slab over to the table where Mavor’s clothing and effects were laid out.

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Randwell, sir.’ The DS was about twenty-five years old and gave off enough nervousness to suggest this was his first day at work, and if he didn’t get his answers right, it might be his last,

  Regan studied the table with the personal effects and the swab test-tubes. Trousers, jacket, pants, each item of clothing in a separate paper bag. A wallet, keys, driving license, some papers, these in separate little polythene bags. ‘Shoes?’

  The Exhibits Officer selected one of the paper bags and brought out an expensive pair of Italian-made shoes. Regan turned them over. He was looking for mud on the soles. He wanted to know if Mavor had stopped off anywhere on the M4 motorway from the time he left his night-club in London — this time had now been established by one of his employees — up to his death in Wotton. Any stops he made off the M4 would more likely have been to villages or farms. There was not a trace of countryside mud or grass on the shoes. It was a matter of no significance. It was just Regan’s logical approach to any corpse — begin at its extremities.

  ‘Now swabs.’ He looked at the stoppered test-tubes in a wooden rack. ‘What swabs did you get?’

  ‘Usual, sir — nose-swabs and swabs from under each fingernail, sir.’

  Regan looked along the line of test-tubes. Each test-tube labelled: ‘index finger left’, ‘index finger right’, and so on. ‘Anything obvious from the fingernail swabs?’

  ‘No, sir,’ the young sergeant said, his voice slowly gaining confidence. ‘Except he took a little while to die. On the basis that there is little to get a swab from under three of the nails, because he broke them in death throes.’

  ‘Why d’you say that?’ Regan hated inexperienced coppers making sweeping statements.

  ‘Well, it seemed an obvious explanation to me, sir.’

  ‘He could’ve broken his nails grappling with his killer,’ Regan suggested.

  ‘I suppose so, sir,’

  ‘Where are the swabs from the area around the head-wound?’ Regan asked.

  The young sergeant went pale. ‘What swabs, sir?’

  Regan groaned inwardly. ‘Are you telling me the body’s been washed and there are no swabs from the head-wound area?’

  ‘I wasn’t asked, sir.’ The young officer’s face now going from pale to pink.

  ‘So now we’ll never know whether he was shot close up, with powder particles round the wound, struggling with his murderer and breaking his nails in the process, and maybe the struggle being seen or heard by witnesses — or whether he was dropped in a second by a first-class marksman.’

  The Sergeant was now visibly trembling. ‘The Chief Superintendent didn’t ask me to take swabs of the wound, sir.’

  ‘Nobody had to ask you, Sergeant,’ Regan snapped. ‘The Chief Super doesn’t come into it. You’re the Exhibits Officer. You’ve missed an extremely important swab. Why don’t you just go away — get out of here.’

  The young sergeant didn’t attempt a monosyllable of defence. He went.

  Regan located the brown paper bag containing the jacket of Mavor’s suit. It was bespoke, but the tag came from a well-known West End company. There were some East End tailors who made suits for robbers, with extras like secret pockets in the fold of the armpit or in the shoulder padding. Regan went through all the pockets again. The Gloucester police had missed nothing — cleaned out. Regan moved to the polythene bags that contained the contents of Mavor’s pockets. The first contained a wallet. It was an expensive Dunhill wallet, crocodile leather, gold-cornered. It contained three brand new twenty-pound notes, driving licence, endorsed twice for speeding, car insurance, and a slim, leather-backed note-pad which Mavor had used as his telephone book. Perhaps a hundred names, companies, telephone numbers in it — mostly around London — enough to keep Rosswell’s murder squad busy for at least a month. Each address written in Mavor’s spidery, illiterate hand. He’d written one address in the Shell Building on the Embankment as Room 505, spelling it ‘Shel’ Building. He’d spelt Marylebone High Street ‘Marlbone High St’. Then, stuck in the middle of his address book, a page torn from a book of matches. On one side, the book of matches advertised a night-club, the ‘Glory Hole’. On the other side an address: 14 Carlyle Buildings, Jamaica Road, SE1.

  Regan picked up the typed notes that one of Rosswell’s staff or maybe the Exhibits Officer had made. He had listed the exhibits of the various swabs, noted that nothing of obvious interest had been found, but they would be sent on to the forensic experts for analysis. Then he had copied out, this time a little more literately, the contents of the address pad, and numbered the hundred and thirty addresses it contained. The address on the back of the book of matches was listed last.

  Regan studied the police notes, then studied the back of the book of matches. The first thing that intrigued him about it was that he’d heard about the Glory Hole night-club. It had opened three weeks ago. He had yet to go there, but he could make one assumption. That Mavor went there, met somebody, wrote an address on the book-matches with the idea presumably of transferring it later to the address pad. This address was possibly the last Mavor ever collected.

  The second thing that intrigued him was the way the Exhibits Officer or the Gloucester Police clerk had interpreted the address. It was the way Mavor wrote his fours — the style where the upright is a diagonal which joins at the top of the second upright. But Mavor’s handwriting was spidery and imprecise. Regan was sure the number was four. The Gloucester lot had written it as nine, which it did look a lot like.

  So they were going to look up 19 Carlyle Buildings, Jama
ica Road SE 1, when the address Mavor had written was 14.

  Regan didn’t want to spend another two year-like hours with Superintendent Rosswell explaining the ‘four’ for ‘nine’ theory. He would get his Sergeant Carter to phone Gloucester CID. He did a quick check through the other polythene and paper bags. Nothing he could see of obvious interest — definitely forensic laboratory stuff how.

  There was one other thing that intrigued him about the address Mavor had written on the book of matches. All the other addresses in the address pad reflected Mavor’s recent life of ease and plenty, addresses of his fellow night-club owners, and new, powerful friends and showbiz people — no addresses at all from his old life of the Bermondsey days of poverty relieved by fivers and tenners slipped by Regan under a pub table. Except for that address. Regan knew Carlyle Buildings off the Jamaica Road — a crime ghetto in the last of real slum London. The last address Mavor collected was one from his past. Regan didn’t want anything to do with this dead snout. He wanted to get on with Theodoraki the Greek, and the man who had just bought a hotel in Dam Square, Amsterdam. Nonetheless, there was something there that was just interesting enough. Regan knew he’d look up the address that the Gloucester Police had got wrong. He didn’t know why, but he knew he’d do it.