by Jason De'Ath
“Well, I’ve got a day of bloody meetings tomorrow with the brass; if I start getting any real flack, perhaps I’ll just have to change his mind.”
“I don’t know what they expect from us, sometimes, sir.” moaned Cambridge.
“Results – that’s all their interested in. They forget what it’s like to be at the sharp end. I’d swear sometimes they’d settle for anyone being charged, regardless of whether they’re guilty, or not...”
Chapter Eighteen
(25 August 1965)
It was a bright summer’s day; the morning breeze had an icy edge to it, but the sunlight was already thawing out the night air, with its hint of industry already subtly distilling out. Ackroyd had a strange sense of purpose as he strolled into Scotland Yard that morning – there was a distinctly positive charge to the atmosphere in the team office. Late on the Tuesday evening, the hard-bitten Paris had played ball and supplied a list of names and places Jameson was likely to frequent, which they were now busily analysing.
“What have we got?” enquired Ackroyd leaning over Teddy’s shoulder.
“Ah, morning, sir. We’ve got plenty of locations to check out. Oddly, not a lot of friends listed in the London area; a few in Liverpool – I’ll get on to the scouser lads to look into that. One place is of particular interest, though: La Matrice des Curios is an antiques shop in Shepherd’s Bush owned by a Denise Deneo – we’re checking her out, now; sounds like a good place to fence stolen jewellery and such, and Deneo has a flat above the shop.”
“I want you to get a warrant to search that place.” instructed Ackroyd – he had a deepening sense of anticipation of breaking this case in the very near future. “What have we got on this Paris clown?”
“Hang on, sir – Alger!” called Teddy to the young constable, who had just got himself a coffee, “Bring the Super’ everything you’ve dug up on Dickie Paris, will y’u?”
“On it, sir.” Taking a gulp of coffee, DC Alger began foraging in the filing cabinet behind his desk, moments later handing a bundle of notes to Ackroyd.
Richard Paris had been born Richard Pariseau in Troyes, France in 1911. Following WWI, his father decided to relocate his family in the East End of London; Richard was eight years old and had a “funny” accent, so was bullied relentlessly; he was forced to get tough if he wanted to survive and at the age of twelve, joined a boxing club. By the time he was turning twenty, life had gotten very hard; he was a half-decent boxer, but there was no money to be made in the legitimate sport, so he turned to bare-knuckle boxing to make a living. This was a world of illegal gambling controlled by criminals. Paris quickly rose to be a top fighter, backed by a major criminal gang boss and earned the ring-name ‘Lion Fist’. By the time WWII broke out, he was earning big money, but rationing and conscription disrupted many of the organised criminal activities and Paris soon found himself ducking and diving to avoid the draft, rather than fists. But new opportunities presented themselves, courtesy of the Luftwaffe. Like many of his criminal contemporaries, he resorted to burglary and black marketeering. Following the war, times were still hard well into the 1950’s and, not getting any younger, he decided to focus his criminal career working as a mob enforcer. By 1960 he broke away from the criminal gangs and after a stretch in Wormwood Scrubs, became an independent black marketeer, bookmaker and all around fence, later finding work as a minder and doorman/bouncer in order to provide more reliable income to support his wife and daughter. He had briefly come into contact with Arthur Jameson while they were both in the Scrubs in 1959, but they didn’t cross paths again until late 1962, when Arthur was based in Soho and making a nice living from burglary in the suburbs.
As Ackroyd finished reading the potted history of Richard ‘Dickie’ Paris, DC Pawson sidled over to him, looking decidedly smug: “Sir, I think I know this name...” he announced, pointing out a name on his list, “She’s a prostitute working out of Soho. I reckon she’s got to be worth a visit.”
“Okay, you and Cartwright can get on that right away, then.” directed Ackroyd with a demonstrative sideways nod of the head.
Hopkins Lane was situated near the epicentre of the Soho area where a Victorian factory building had been converted into a seedy collection of bedsits, for the sole use of prostitutes run by a powerful criminal gang. They operated largely untroubled by the police, many of whom were in the pockets of the gang bosses. DC’s Pawson and Cartwright had parked their car a couple of streets away, so approached the building entrance on foot from the bottom of the lane, noting a number of the working girls and their punters going in and out.
“We’re in the wrong business.” commented Cartwright.
“I don’t think you’d get much clientele, Tom.” quipped Pawson, “You just haven’t got the figure, mate.” “So, how do you know this particular whore, then?” asked Cartwright in a somewhat unforgiving tone. “When I was in uniform, I worked this area for a time. Most of the force are on the pimp’s payroll in this district; they operate more or less freely – you have to tread careful. I brought Molly in one time – she was out in half an hour and I was told to look the other way. I didn’t much like it, but what can you do? I’m just a constable and I had DI’s telling me not to sniff around certain places. That’s one of the reason’s I had to get out of that station... Mind you, it worked out pretty well, getting the job at the Yard.”
“Someone must have appreciated your due diligence, then.” scoffed Cartwright.
“Hard work got me this job. I’m thinking of putting in for the sergeant’s exam.”
“Let me know if you do, so I can get my transfer in.” sneered Cartwright, and not entirely for the sake of mirth.
The detectives entered the building to be met by a couple of heavies; the constables waved their warrant cards and were reluctantly allowed past and directed to Molly’s location. There was a peculiar odour permeating the air, which defied obvious identification, but probably contained a mixture of a variety of intoxicating substances (both legal and illegal), bodily fluids and cheap perfume.
Molly had a room on the first floor. Pawson knocked purposefully on the door of Room 14. The door was flung open exposing the half-naked man in the background who was hastily getting dressed. Molly was stark naked. She had been a beautiful girl in her youth, but time and depravity had taken its toll over the last twelve years; still only thirty years old, she remained attractive, though noticeably withering.
“What the fuck’s your problem?” she screamed. The detectives contemptuously displayed their identification, “Oh fuck’s sake, that’s all I need.” she groaned as the rather respectable looking man scurried past them.
“Put some clothes on, Molly.” complained Pawson. She donned a dressing gown.
“You can’t harass me, right: we’re all protected.” she insisted.
“We’re not here to give you trouble, Molly...” explained Pawson.
“Do I know you?” she enquired, unsure how DC Pawson knew her working name.
“We have met before, a few years ago: I arrested you.”
“Oh, I thought you might ‘ave been a customer.” she mocked with a smirk.
Pawson ignored this comment: “We’re looking for a man...”
“Wrong building; try the pub ‘round the corner. They’ll love you.” she sneered, referring to a well-known meeting place for gay men.
“You’re hilarious. Look Molly, we’re not interested in you, we’re just looking for information about a very dangerous man.” Pawson handed her the mug shot of Jameson, “Do you know him?”
“Dangerous?” she exclaimed, “Yeah, I know ’im. ’E a’n’t dangerous.” she contended.
“Don’t you ever read the papers?” countered DC Cartwright.
“Oo rattled your cage?” she scornfully remarked. The detectives starred at her stubbornly.
“Molly, unless you want us to stay here all day, I suggest you start being a bit more cooperative.” Pawson advised.
“Yeah, yeah, all right. Look �
�e’s a regular, comes once a week – if you know what I mean?” she added with a cheeky grin.
“You should be on stage...” noted Pawson ironically; she concurred with a theatrical flourish. “When did you last see him?” pressed Pawson.
“About a week ago.”
“Does he have a regular appointment?” asked Cartwright slightly excited.
“Keep y’u pants on. No; ‘e just turns up roughly once a week – okay?” she stated petulantly.
“Did he mention anything about the murder?”
“No. ‘E ‘as a shag, an’ leaves. Now, why don’t you two toddle off – unless you want a threesome?”
“Look, Molly, this man may have murdered someone in cold blood. He raped a young woman and tried to kill her... If he comes back, just give us a bell – alright?” Pawson handed her a piece of notebook with his Scotland Yard phone number written on it. “Think of it as paying a debt to society. Do something decent for once in your life.” “Yeah, whatever.” was her curt response, but she kept the piece of paper.
Back out in the street, Pawson commented to Cartwright: “There’s still a heart somewhere under that damaged shell; the little girl that was abused and forced to grow up too quick: she still cares.”
“You reckon?” retorted Cartwright cynically, “Well, I think we should get this place staked out.”
“Nice idea... Not sure how the locals will take it, though.”
Ackroyd had spent a peaceful morning in the office, with the majority of his team combing the streets for the elusive Jameson. But it was Jameson that took the initiative by contacting Ackroyd by phone once more:
“Ello, Mr Ackroyd – it’s Arfur, again.”
“Hello Arthur. Are you ready to come in?”
“I dunno, Mr Ackroyd, I’m still scared of bein’ stitched-up...”
“Look, Arthur, your mother’s very concerned for your welfare; why don’t you come in for her sake...? I’ve told her I’ll do my best for you. You can trust me Arthur – I promise there will be no stitch-up.”
“Fing is, I didn’ leave those shells in the ‘otel, so they must ‘ave been planted. ‘Ow can I trust anyone?”
“Who do you think would want to fit you up, Arthur?”
“You lot...the old bill; ‘cause I fit the frame, an’ y’u need to pin it on someone.”
“I promise you I would never plant evidence – that’s not the way I do things; you have my word on that.” “But everyone finks I did it, don’t they?”
“Your mum and dad don’t, Arthur... I’m open to hear your story.”
“I got an alibi, but I can’t prove it.”
“Just give us the names and let us do our job, Arthur.”
“I can’t do that Mr Ackroyd, the place is full o’ geli’; they’re dangerous men.”
“Look, we have tests we can do: they might exonerate you.”
“What if someone fiddles wiv the tests t’set me up...? I’ve jus’ seen a copper – I ‘ave t’go; I’ll try ring later.” The phone went dead.
This last display of supplication got Ackroyd thinking that perhaps if he could persuade Pat or Ernie Jameson to make a public appeal for their son to come forward, that might just do the trick. Arthur was obviously running the tightrope and a little nudge might be all that was needed. He decided to drive over to see Mrs Jameson immediately and hope to catch Ernie when he returned home for lunch.
Pat Jameson was grateful for Ackroyd’s visit and was keen to cooperate, but didn’t think she had the nerve to make the radio appeal Ackroyd was suggesting; however, she thought she could persuade her husband to do it.
“I know my boy’s innocent, Mr Ackroyd, ‘e’s just running scared of doin’ more time.”
“Do you think he’ll listen to his father?” queried Ackroyd, who would have preferred Pat to do the broadcast.
“Yeah, ‘e knows ‘is dad’s only ever looked out for ‘is best interests. ‘E’s always done ‘e’s best for that boy.” she affirmed as she lit a cigarette, offering one to Ackroyd, which he accepted. “I don’ ‘no’ why ‘e’s been in all this trouble; ‘e wasn’t a bad kid. I’m sure that bang on the ‘ead didn’t ‘elp. ‘E’s a good boy really, Mr Ackroyd.”
“Well, I’d like to give him the chance to prove that, Mrs Jameson. He’s doing nothing for his case by carrying on giving us the run around... If he can prove his innocence, we can move our investigation on and look for another suspect. At the moment, I’m under pressure to get your boy under arrest; that’s all the brass are interested in. This situation is doing no one any favours.”
There was a clanking of keys at the front door, signalling the return of Ernie Jameson for his lunchtime coffee and jam sandwich. The door could be heard to open; Ernie having noted Ackroyd’s car parked outside, headed straight for the living room: “Mr Ackroyd. Is there any news?” he enquired anxiously.
“Arthur has been on the phone to me, again. He sounds like he might be starting to panic. I’m worried what he might do, what with him being so fearful of going to prison.”
“What can we do?”
“Well, I was thinking perhaps a radio appeal from yourself might persuade him to give it up. We could get the papers in on it as well, in case he doesn’t hear the broadcast.”
Pat gave her husband an adjuring look of desperation which instantly compelled Ernie to comply: “Yeah, okay. If you fink that would ‘elp, I’ll do it. Definite.”
“Good man. I’ll get it organised with the BBC and let you know the arrangements forthwith.”
That evening Ernie’s radio broadcast went out on the BBC Home Service and a transcript was provided to all the major newspaper groups for publication the next day. That wasn’t to be the end of the day’s developments, though: a phone call [traced to the Soho are] by an anonymous female, reported that Jameson had been spotted in the area of Hopkins Lane. It appeared that DC’s Pawson and Cartwright may have been just a few hours from crossing paths with their quarry. A less encouraging event, though, was another threat to Vera’s life: a phone call made to the hospital, which was untraceable, was made at around noon by a man promising to “do her in as soon as the chance arises”. Ackroyd surmised that this was probably a hoax, as it didn’t sound like the sort of thing Arthur Jameson would say; nonetheless, it was a concern, particularly if Jameson should turn out to be innocent after all.
However, Ackroyd’s next priority was the raid on La Matrice des Curios which was set for early the next morning. The intention was to spring a complete surprise on Denise Deneo, in the hope that either Jameson would be caught holed-up there or, there might at least be some evidence found that would be of use to the enquiry. The team had managed to gather some background information on Miss Deneo, despite her (unexpectedly) not having any criminal record. She was a 39 year old spinster who had inherited her antiques business from her mother. Her father had been seriously injured during the war, but lingered on until he died in 1955, when her mother took over the business. Her mother then chose to run the shop with Denise as her employee, until she died suddenly in 1957. Since then, Denise had been leading a seemingly quiet and blameless life; she appeared to be respectable. So, why was she on Paris’ list?
Chapter Nineteen
(26 August 1965)
The bijou antiques shop in Caxton Lane, Shepherd’s Bush was just off the Uxbridge Road, close to Shepherd’s Bush Common. At 6 AM in the morning, it was still pretty quiet as Ackroyd drew up in his Wolseley and parked outside the shop front; two additional squad cars parked in the Uxbridge Road adjacent to the shop. They weren’t expecting much trouble from Denise Deneo, but there was always the possibility that Jameson was hiding out in her flat, so six burly police officers had accompanied Ackroyd and DS Cambridge – it had not escaped Ackroyd’s attention that the location of the antiques shop was in relatively close proximity to the sighting of Jameson in Ealing.
Ackroyd and Cambridge stood outside the shop’s entrance and peered into the darkness within: all was quiet. A lit
tle further down Caxton Lane was a turning which gave access to the rear of the premises – the three uniformed officers were sent to guard that exit. DS Cambridge hammered on the glass of the door with a determination intended to wake even the most comatose of sleeper. They waited for a few minutes before repeating the exercise. Eventually, a rather bleary-eyed woman, with bleached blond hair wearing a red fleece dressing gown and fluffy slippers could be discerned nervously creeping around in the back of the shop: she was like a deer caught in a car’s headlights.
“Miss Deneo? Police... Can you open up, please?” demanded Cambridge. She approached the door gingerly and unbolted the various locks. She opened the door with a look of sheer terror on her face. “Miss Deneo I have a warrant to search your premises – please step aside.” Cambridge continued, handing her the warrant document as he entered the shop; just as she was digesting this, Ackroyd took the warrant back and brandished his identification card. “Miss Deneo?” Ackroyd challenged for clarity.
“Yes. What...?” she started.
“Miss Deneo, we have reason to believe that you may be harbouring a fugitive and that your premises may hold evidence pertinent to a murder investigation.” stated Ackroyd as the three detective constables accompanying him trudged past her to begin their search.
“What is this? What murder?”
“Are you an acquaintance of an Arthur Jameson, Miss Deneo?”
“Well, yes, I do know an Arthur Jameson. What’s this about?”
“Do you read the papers, Miss Deneo?”
“Not if I can help it. What’s Arthur supposed to have done?”
“He’s suspected of committing murder, among other things. How long have you been a friend of Arthur?”
“A couple of years, I suppose. Murder? I can’t believe that.”
“Is he on the premises?”
“No. No I haven’t seen him...for about a week.” “What exactly is your relationship with Jameson?” “We’re friendly – that’s all.” she protested.
