by Graham Ison
‘Then how did your sister survive, given that she had no success as a model?’
‘I tremor to think.’ Jane wrapped her arms around herself as though suddenly cold. ‘I helped her out when I could, but I keep trying to put the obvious solution out of my mind, Thomas.’
‘Which was what?’ Fox didn’t particularly want to be harsh on this girl, but if she was implying what he thought, it could have a serious bearing on his investigation.
‘She met a lot of people in her social life, and although she thought it rather amusing to be plain Dawn Mitchell, she didn’t exactly hide the fact that Daddy was an earl. I suppose she found it useful. It certainly helped me in my profession. People think it’s rather funny to have their loos designed by someone called Lady Jane. As far as I know, Dawn first started using the name Dawn Mitchell for her modelling career, and that didn’t come to anything.’ Jane broke off to stub out her half-smoked cigarette. ‘But I know, and I’m sure you do too, that models are often regarded in the same way as aspiring actresses. What’s it called, the casting-couch syndrome?’
‘That might have improved her chances of getting a job,’ said Fox, ‘but it wouldn’t have made her any money … not immediately, anyway.’
Jane looked at Fox with her disturbingly direct gaze. ‘I don’t know whether you’re being particularly dense,’ she said, ‘or whether you’re just trying to let me down lightly, but I think she might have made use of her contacts to offer herself to willing partners for money.’
It hadn’t been Fox’s intention to be considerate — he was wanting Dawn’s sister to say what she thought — but now he was brutal. ‘Are you suggesting that your sister had turned to prostitution, Jane?’
There was a long pause before Jane spoke again, and when she did, she stared at the carpet. ‘I suppose I am,’ she said.
‘D’you have any proof of that?’
Jane looked at Fox. ‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s just a feeling. But if she’d become a high-class call-girl, there wouldn’t be any proof, would there? Not if she’d gone to bed with someone and they’d given her money. It’s a bit difficult to tell the difference between that and an affair. But perhaps I’m being rather silly.’
‘But there must have been a reason for you to think that.’ Fox tried, gently, to coax something more out of her.
‘Well, she couldn’t have lived on fresh air, could she? And I don’t think she would have worried too much about the morals of the thing, not if she was prepared to pose for porn photographs. She always did confuse sex with love, and I’m sure that the affair she had with that photographer wasn’t her first, or her last.’ Jane ran her hands through her hair, pushing it back and holding it briefly at the nape of her neck. ‘Oh God!’ she said. ‘What a thing to think about one’s own sister.’
‘There’s a big difference between having an affair and going on the game,’ said Fox coldly. Personally, he didn’t think so in this particular case, and the possibility that Dawn might have been a call-girl threw his enquiry wide open. It also reminded him that Denzil Evans’s further enquiries into Dawn’s address book and telephone bill had not yet produced a result.
Jane drained her glass and stood up. ‘Thomas, I don’t feel like cooking for myself this evening. Talking to you about Dawn, and facing a truth I didn’t want to face, has knocked me over a bit.’ She stood in front of him, her arms by her sides, suddenly forlorn and helpless. ‘There’s an Italian restaurant just round the corner from here. I suppose you wouldn’t consider keeping me company over a spaghetti bolognese, would you?’
*
Commander Willow pushed his way through the crowd that thronged the entrance hall of Marlborough Street Magistrates Court and opened the door to Number One Court.
‘Help you, sir?’ An elderly constable barred the way.
‘Commander Willow, One Area Headquarters,’ said Willow in a way which implied that the PC should have known who he was.
‘See your warrant card, sir, please.’
Willow fumbled in his pocket and eventually produced the document. ‘I’m interested in the case of Sandra Nash, soliciting prostitution,’ he said curtly.
The PC glanced at the clipboard in his hand. ‘That’s right, sir,’ he said. ‘Answering bail this morning.’ He looked up at Willow. ‘You a witness, sir?’
Willow glared at the PC and wondered whether he was being facetious. ‘No, I’m not. I’m investigating a complaint against police.’
‘Jolly good, sir,’ said the PC as though he were beyond such things. ‘Why not take a seat on counsel benches.’
Two or three ladies of the night appeared before the magistrate and were duly fined, before the court official called Sandra Nash. After a short pause, during which her name was repeated outside the court, more as a formality than in hope of finding her, the PC at the door cried, ‘No answer, your worship,’ in stentorian tones.
The magistrate, to whom this state of affairs was by no means unusual, nodded. ‘Issue a warrant,’ he said. ‘Next.’
Willow, his face black with rage, stalked out of the courtroom. ‘You’d better start making some enquiries, Sergeant,’ he said to the hapless Sergeant Clarke. ‘And you’d better find some answers.’ He swept through the swing doors without a thought for Clarke who was nearly struck in the face by one of them. ‘Furthermore,’ continued Willow as he crossed the pavement to his car, ‘you can tell the custody sergeant at West End Central that I shall want to know what steps he took to verify that bloody woman’s address before admitting her to bail.’
‘I shall do that this afternoon, sir,’ said Clarke, scrambling to get into the car before it drove off.
‘Well, make sure you do. Someone’s been damned slipshod, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why have you waited until today?’ Willow leaned forward. ‘Back to Edmonton, driver.’
‘The custody sergeant who dealt with it has been on annual leave, sir. Back late turn today,’ said Clarke.
‘Is he indeed. Well, get down to West End Central and sort it out.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Clarke looked miserably out of the car window. ‘I see they’re putting the Christmas lights up already, sir,’ he said, but Willow was reading a file.
*
‘There is a possibility, Denzil,’ said Fox, ‘that Dawn Sims, alias Mitchell, was on the game, albeit discreetly. How far have you got with that list of names?’
‘Working through it, sir, slowly but surely,’ said Evans apprehensively.
‘Let’s make it quickly but surely, shall we?’ There was an edge to Fox’s voice. He hoped that Dawn Sims hadn’t been a prostitute, not only because it would make his enquiry that much easier, but because he had rather taken a liking to Earl Sims. He knew that if it came out that his daughter was a tom, it would probably kill him. And he would rather not have to tell Jane that he’d confirmed it, either.
He reflected on their meal the previous evening. Jane Sims was not as hard and worldly as she pretended to be. Once out of her flat, she had shaken off the gloom that had descended on her and her conversation had been bright and animated. She had talked about everything and anything but her sister in a determined effort to put the whole distressing subject out of her mind. But it hadn’t escaped Fox’s notice that she was very anxious to learn as much about his personal life as possible. She had consumed more red wine than was probably good for her, and more than one large brandy, and by the time he had escorted her back to her flat she had been just a little unsteady on her feet. She had thanked him for keeping her company and, after the briefest of pauses, had pecked him on the cheek before disappearing indoors.
*
‘I’m PS 27. You wanted to see me?’ The sergeant who strolled casually into the Sergeants’ Room at West End Central Police Station had exactly twenty-nine years and forty weeks service and allowing for leave due, had only another fifty-six days of police duty between him and his pension, and the general stores in Cornwall that for years he and h
is wife had screwed and scraped to buy.
‘I’m Sergeant Clarke, One Area Headquarters.’
‘Are you now,’ said PS 27, whose name was Walters. ‘Bit off your patch, aren’t you, son?’ He pulled out a packet of small cigars and without offering it to Clarke, lit one. His worn and shiny uniform strained across his substantial paunch, and there was a pencil stuck behind his right ear.
‘I’m assisting Commander Willow in the investigation of a complaint against police,’ said Clarke pompously.
‘Oh?’ Walters’s smile vanished from his face. The last thing he wanted to get involved in, in the twilight of his long and undistinguished career, was a complaint. Especially if he was on the receiving end.
‘It concerns a Sandra Nash who was charged at this station with soliciting prostitution on Friday the second of November.’ Clarke took out his pocket-book and referred to it. ‘I’ve got the charge number here somewhere,’ he added.
‘What about her?’ asked Walters warily, wondering whether it was yet time to call in his Police Federation representative.
‘My commander wishes to interview her —’
‘Oh, is that all?’
‘Not quite,’ said Clarke who was still smarting from having been called ‘son’ by the older sergeant. ‘It would appear that her bona fides were not properly checked for bail. And you were the custody sergeant, so I was told.’ Sergeant Walters lumbered to his feet. ‘Better get the charge book then, hadn’t I?’ he said. ‘Don’t go away, son.’
It was a good five minutes before Walters returned, clutching the large book.
‘Any luck?’ asked Clarke.
‘Depends what you mean by luck,’ said Walters. He put the book on the table and started thumbing through its flimsy pages, thinking that it might be better for all and sundry if the entry couldn’t be found. ‘Here we are. Sandra Nash. Resides at 54 Purbeck Row, Paddington. Address verified from driving licence in the prisoner’s possession.’ He glanced up. ‘That her, is it?’
‘Yes, but it’s 54 Purbeck Terrace, surely?’
Walters swung the book round. ‘Look for yourself old cock.’
Clarke examined the entry closely before looking up at Walters. ‘But when I rang up, I was told Purbeck Terrace,’ he said. There was an element of agitation in his voice. ‘Who d’you speak to?’ asked Walters. ‘When you rang in.’ Clarke looked at his pocket-book desperately hoping to find something that he knew wasn’t there. ‘I didn’t get his name,’ he said.
Walters laughed, slammed the charge book shut and stood up. ‘Take a word of advice from an old hand, son,’ he said. ‘Always get the bloke’s number and make a message of it.’ Whistling tunelessly, he tucked the charge book under his arm and walked out of the office straight towards the photocopier. He had known official documents to disappear before, particularly where complaints against police were concerned, and he would be much happier once a copy of Sandra Nash’s charge sheet was secure in his locker.
ELEVEN
THE SECURITY GUARD SAT IMPORTANTLY behind a battery of telephones and a computer screen at a curved counter in the ornate reception area of Freddie Hayden’s office building. ‘And what can we do for you, sir?’ he asked, with an exuberance that was unmatched by his competence.
‘Thomas Fox to see Mr Hayden.’ Fox made a habit of never mentioning that he was a police officer when dealing with an officious flunkey like the security guard.
‘Have an appointment do we, sir?’
‘I have,’ said Fox scathingly, ‘but I don’t know about you.’ He had telephoned Hayden earlier that morning and Hayden had made it sound as though he was doing Fox a favour by claiming to rearrange his day’s programme.
The chastened security guard ran his finger down a list and then, grabbing at a telephone, tapped out a number. After a brief conversation, he waved an arm towards a bank of lifts. ‘Take the lift to the second floor, sir,’ he said. ‘Mr Hayden’s secretary will meet you.’
The woman who was waiting in the second-floor lift lobby exuded efficiency. She was about forty, with immaculate blonde hair and was conservatively dressed in a dark suit with a white blouse. ‘Mr Fox?’ The woman smiled at Fox and then glanced at Gilroy.
‘Yes.’
‘If you’d like to come with me, gentlemen, Mr Hayden is waiting.’
The office into which Fox and Gilroy were shown was huge. The thick pile carpet was a light green and stretched from wall to wall, and the desk from behind which Hayden rose was a good ten feet wide. The vertically-slatted blinds were closed to protect the great man from the outside world.
‘Mr Fox, Mr Gilroy, how d’you do?’ Freddie Hayden was a bluff-looking man with iron-grey hair, and wore a well-cut, and doubtless expensive, suit. Fox reckoned that he was about fifty-two years of age. ‘I must say that I was horrified to hear of Lady Dawn’s death.’ Hayden swept off his gold-rimmed spectacles with his left hand and offered his right to Fox. ‘Do come and have a comfortable seat, gentlemen,’ he said and led the way to the other side of the office where two leather couches faced each other across a glass-topped occasional table upon which was a glass sculpture of a bird. ‘I’ve asked Toni to arrange for some coffee. I daresay you could do with a cup.’
‘Thank you.’ Fox sat down at one end of a couch and Gilroy settled himself at the other.
Hayden sat in the centre of the opposite couch and spread his arms along the back. ‘I’m a little mystified as to what I can do to assist you,’ he said, once his secretary had served the coffee. ‘But you may rest assured I shall do all I can to help you catch the loathsome person responsible for this horrendous crime.’
‘Oh good,’ said Fox. He was not impressed by Hayden’s type. He had met too many of them in the past. Professing great support for the police, they would not hesitate to deploy the finest counsel possible if ever they found themselves charged with a motoring offence. Neither would they be reluctant to make the most outrageous allegations against the officer who had summoned them. ‘How did you know that Dawn Mitchell was, in fact, Lady Dawn Sims?’ he asked by way of opening the important part of the interview.
Hayden wavered only briefly. ‘Well, I didn’t, to be perfectly honest, Mr Fox,’ he said. ‘Not at first.’ He smiled in a deprecating way and smoothed his hand across his knee. ‘But my wife loves that sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing?’ Fox grinned. He had detected a trace of Cockney accent lurking deep beneath Hayden’s urbane manner.
‘Oh, mingling with the aristocracy, you know. But still, she’s likely to be one herself soon.’
‘One what?’ Fox genuinely wondered what Hayden was driving at.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you this really, Mr Fox, but if one can’t trust the police, well …’ Hayden stood up and walked across to his desk. Slipping a key from his pocket, he unlocked a drawer and took out a letter. ‘There,’ he said, ‘have a look at that. But,’ he added hurriedly, ‘I’d be grateful if you kept it to yourself.’
Fox took the letter — it was on notepaper headed Downing Street — which stated that the Prime Minister had it in mind to recommend Mr Frederick Hayden to the Queen for an honour. It went on to say that he should not mention to anyone that he was being considered, but enquired if Mr Hayden would be prepared to accept the honour should the recommendation be acted upon. ‘Very good,’ said Fox, and returned the letter.
‘I’ve heard, unofficially of course, that the PM has a knighthood in mind,’ said Hayden and, obviously deciding that Gilroy’s lower rank did not qualify him to read the confidential communication, carefully folded the letter and replaced it in his desk, locking the drawer again and putting the key back in his pocket. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen one of those before, Mr Fox, eh?’ Hayden asked with a chuckle before sitting down again.
‘No,’ said Fox quietly. No one could ever draw him on his Queen’s Gallantry Medal. ‘Am I right in understanding that the first time you met Dawn Sims was at the Crawleys’? A dinner party in August, I
believe.’
‘Yes, that is so. A charming girl.’
‘And afterwards? Did you see her again?’
‘No, unfortunately not. My wife and I wanted to invite her to dinner, but we could never seem to get hold of her. Tessa left countless messages on Dawn’s answerphone, but we never got a response. I’m afraid that we gave up eventually. I suppose she felt that a couple of older people, like ourselves, were not the sort of company she wanted to keep. A shame really. I had hoped to recruit her for my charitable work, you know.’
‘Why? What was so special about her?’
Hayden looked surprised at the question. ‘Her father’s an earl,’ he said.
‘Yes, I know. But how did you know?’
‘To be honest, Mr Fox, I knew, the moment I met her, that she was more than just an aspiring model. One can always tell. I made it my business to find out.’
‘How did you do that?’
Hayden smiled. ‘I have my contacts,’ he said in a way which implied that a network of informants such as his was not available to a mere policeman.
‘Yes,’ said Fox thoughtfully. He was beginning to tire of the unctuous Hayden. ‘And you didn’t see her again after the dinner party?’
‘No.’ Hayden paused. ‘I don’t know if it’s of any use, Mr Fox,’ he said, ‘but she did ask me if there were any openings for a model in any of my enterprises.’
‘She asked you this over dinner, did she?’
‘Yes. Yes, she did.’
‘And were there any openings?’
‘No. Not my line of business, I’m afraid.’
‘But you do own a fashion house, Mr Hayden.’ Fox looked directly at the magnate. In addition to finding out about Hayden’s charity connections, Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher had spent some time at Companies House in Islington and had provided Fox with a detailed analysis of the companies that Hayden owned. One fact that had caught Fox’s eye was Hayden’s interest in a haute couture fashion house that appeared to be in a good way of business, and which, naturally, employed a string of models.
