The Taming of Tango Harris

by Graham Ison

  ‘Or Arlene,’ said Crabtree with a grin.

  For a moment or two, Fox stared at Crabtree. ‘You may have a point there, Ernie,’ he said. ‘Although she doesn’t strike me as the Annie Oakley of Catford Bridge somehow … but you never know your luck.’

  ‘What’s next, guv?’ asked Gilroy.

  ‘Next,’ said Fox, ‘we wait and see what the Falconwood Five have to say. I’ve suggested that they’ll all go on the sheet for the murder of Frankie Carter. That ought to stir ’em up a bit. I shall now inform them that I am considering further counts … like the topping of Billie

  Crombie. That should make them run for the lifeboats.’

  ‘Anything else, guv?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘Ah, Perce! Glad you’re here. Given that Gina West was one of Billie Crombie’s girls and that he was into big-time vice, there are doubtless other young ladies about the West End who may well have a tale to tell. Get out and beat on the ground, there’s a good fellow.’

  ‘They’re not likely to talk, guv,’ said Fletcher.

  ‘We have got the Crombies in custody, Perce.’

  ‘Yes, sir, but not Tango Harris.’

  Fox nodded slowly. ‘You’re quite right, Perce. I knew there was something else I had to do.’

  But Fox decided to leave Tango Harris at liberty for a while longer. Apart from the fact that he rather enjoyed picking Harris’s soldiers off one by one and leaving him more and more isolated, he wanted to make absolutely certain that when eventually he ascended the steps at the Old Bailey, Harris would be facing an indictment about the size of the Encyclopaedia Britannica.

  Chapter Twelve

  Detective Superintendent Brace’s enquiries into the murder of Gina West had confirmed that she had been a high-class call-girl. And Sharon Scrope had said that Billie Crombie had been Gina’s ponce.

  But those sparse facts made Detective Sergeant Fletcher’s excursion into the vice centre of London no easier.

  Girls in the Gina West class of prostitute would not be found loitering in the darkened doorways around Soho. Among London’s network of hotel hall porters, head waiters, taxi drivers, and night-club doormen there would be many willing to provide a prospective client with the telephone number of a prostitute … but only when they were asked, of course. The mug, as he is known, would then ring the girl concerned and arrange for her to come to his hotel room, or even his private apartment, there to provide him with her specialized services.

  The select quality and attractiveness of the women ensured that a price of at least five hundred pounds would not seem excessive. But her ponce got a considerable slice of the take and there was, of course, a commission to be paid to whoever had made the introduction.

  And it was a risky business. From time to time, such girls were murdered, and it was not unknown for them to be attacked and even tortured by sexual deviants.

  The only factor in Fletcher’s favour was that when a murder had occurred, as in the case of Gina West, these women felt more than usually vulnerable all the while that the murderer was on the loose, and there was a greater willingness on their part to give information. Sometimes.

  Fletcher took a seat at the bar of a well-known West End restaurant whose proprietor would have been horrified to learn that his head waiter acted as a contact man for prostitutes. But Fletcher had no intention of advising the proprietor of this fact because he knew that the head waiter would get the sack. And that would cut off a very useful source of information. And right now, information was what he wanted. Which was why he was sitting at the bar with a whisky and water, watching the lunch-time clientele and waiting patiently until he caught the head waiter’s eye.

  ‘Hallo, Mr Fletcher.’ The head waiter glanced around briefly. ‘You lunching here today?’

  ‘On my pay, Albert? You must be joking.’

  Albert, who was better known to the patrons by a French name, dropped his voice. ‘I can always lose the bill, Mr Fletcher.’

  ‘I’m afraid those days are gone, Albert,’ said Fletcher. ‘For all I know, my Commissioner might use this place.’

  ‘You’re entitled to eat where you like, surely?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ said Fletcher. ‘But the Commissioner knows I couldn’t afford to eat here. Therefore, I’m on the take, or getting a freebie. Either way I’m out of a job.’

  Albert shrugged. ‘What can I do for you then, Mr Fletcher?’

  ‘You’ve heard about Gina West’s murder, I suppose.’

  ‘Who hasn’t? Are you working on that one?’

  ‘Sort of. What I want, Albert, is the name of another girl … preferably from the same stable.’

  Albert looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Fletcher,’ he said, conscious that he might be overheard by others in the bar. ‘More than my life’s worth. You know what things are like … especially at the moment. I’d love to help, but if I’m seen giving information to the police … ’ He shrugged and, signalling to the barman, pointed at Fletcher’s glass. ‘Guest of the house,’ he said. Moving his head nearer Fletcher’s ear, he whispered, ‘I won’t tell the Commissioner,’ and moved away to greet two patrons who had just entered the restaurant.

  Fletcher finished his drink and took his coat from the doorman. In the pocket was a printed card. And on the card was a name and a telephone number. There was no address, but then prostitutes of Gina West’s calibre don’t work like that.

  *

  It had taken Fletcher only ten minutes to ring the Yard from West End Central police station and get a subscriber check on the telephone number of the girl who called herself Cheryl. According to British Telecom records, her real name was Jean Rogers and she lived in a flat in Clarges Street.

  It was two o’clock in the afternoon and it was unlikely that Cheryl would be working. Fletcher pressed the buzzer on the intercom beside her front door.

  ‘Yes?’ A woman’s voice crackled out of the metal box.

  ‘Miss Rogers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ said Fletcher.

  The door opened an inch or two on the chain. ‘How do I know?’

  The girl carefully scrutinized Fletcher’s warrant card and then admitted him.

  It was an elegant flat, richly furnished, with a view across Green Park to Buckingham Palace. Jean Rogers was elegant too. About thirty years of age, she was tall and slim with long black hair. ‘What is this all about?’ she asked with the sort of haughtiness that men often find attractive. With a movement of her hand, she invited Fletcher to sit down on a settee, and then sat down herself, opposite him.

  ‘Did you know Gina West?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘No. Should I have done?’

  Fletcher held up the card which had been left in his pocket by Albert, the head waiter. ‘I thought you might have done,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said the girl.

  ‘She was murdered last month in a hotel room near here.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But what has that to do with me? Incidentally, how did you know where I lived, if that card was all you had?’

  ‘I’m a detective,’ said Fletcher. ‘Let’s stop beating about the bush, Miss Rogers, shall we? I know what you do for a living.’

  For the first time since his arrival, Jean Rogers smiled. ‘Are you here on business or pleasure?’ she asked.

  ‘Business. Mine, not yours.’

  The girl glanced at her watch, a Baume and Mercier. ‘I have an appointment in about half an hour’s time,’ she said.

  ‘That’s early.’

  ‘It’s never too early for sex, but I doubt that you’ve come here to discuss my working practices.’

  ‘Who’s your ponce?’ asked Fletcher.

  Jean Rogers raised her eyebrows. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Miss Rogers, I’m not looking to do someone on an immoral earnings charge. Frankly, I couldn’t care less how you make your money, but, without wishing to alarm you, Miss West was murdered by someone who wanted to take o
ver what they saw as a very lucrative empire. It was a message from one ponce to another that he was muscling in. Taking over. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal.’ The haughtiness had returned.

  ‘Let me mention two names,’ said Fletcher. ‘Tango Harris and Billie Crombie.’ Jean Rogers ran her hand nervously through her hair. ‘I can see that they register,’ he went on.

  ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that I know anything about either of them, are you, Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes, I am. But let me tell you what’s happened so far. Billie Crombie is dead. Murdered. And his two sons, Gary and Kenny, are on remand in Brixton Prison awaiting trial.’

  ‘That really makes no difference to me.’

  ‘So your ponce is Tango Harris, then.’

  Jean Rogers had started to look quite agitated. ‘I didn’t say that.’ She stood up. ‘Look, I really must get ready,’ she said.

  Fletcher stood up, too. ‘Is it Tango Harris?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes.’ The girl whispered the answer. ‘Now leave me alone,’ she added.

  ‘Miss Rogers, we are going to nail Tango Harris. For too long, he has been running rings round the law, pleasing himself what he does. He has murdered people, taken huge profits out of prostitution, drugs, armed robbery, and a host of other illegal ventures that I won’t weary you with.’

  Jean Rogers sat down again, quite suddenly. ‘I don’t think you know what you’re asking,’ she said. ‘Like an actress, my face is my fortune, to say nothing of other parts of my anatomy. If Harris sends some of his people to see me, I shall never work again. If I live. I’ve got nothing to say, to you or anyone else.’

  Fletcher sighed. ‘Supposing we lock Harris up?’

  The girl laughed and ran a hand through her hair once more. ‘And when’s that going to happen? You’re not the first policeman who’s promised that, you know.’

  ‘We’ve got six or seven of his associates in custody already,’ said Fletcher, ‘and Harris’s turn will come.’

  ‘Yes, maybe. I’ll make a deal with you, Sergeant. When you come here and tell me that Harris has just been put away for thirty years, I might have something to say.’

  Fletcher shrugged. He knew that was the best he was going to get. It was always the same. Harris, and to a lesser extent, Crombie, had succeeded in terrifying potential witnesses by the threat of violence. And it was violence that they wouldn’t hesitate to use. And had used. Over and over again. ‘We could provide you with protection.’

  ‘That would do wonders for my business, wouldn’t it?’

  A policeman on the door while I’m ministering to the needs of a tired businessman.’

  *

  When Percy Fletcher got back to the Yard, he found Fox’s office empty. Knowing the way Tango Harris worked, he was concerned that Jean Rogers might be in some danger. If Harris found out that the girl had been visited by police, he would assume that she had given them information. ‘Seen the guv’nor?’ he asked a DC who was walking down the corridor.

  ‘In the Squad room, skip. Bit of a thrash going on.’ The Flying Squad office was full of people. In the centre stood Tommy Fox, a glass in his hand.

  Fletcher stopped next to Jack Gilroy. ‘What’s going on, guv? Harris been nicked?’

  ‘No, Perce. Rosie’s promotion’s come through.’

  ‘Oh, bloody hell,’ said Fletcher. ‘That means she’ll be posted. Or will the guv’nor try and hang on to her?’ Gilroy shrugged. ‘Don’t see how he can stop it. Not these days. There was a time in this job, Perce, when crime was considered to be the most important thing the job had to cope with. Now it’s five-a-side football and the Metropolitan Police Band. If I had my time over again, I’d become a bandsman.’

  ‘I doubt it, guv,’ said Fletcher. ‘They’re all civvies now.’ He pushed his way through to where Rose Webster was talking to Fox. ‘Rosie,’ he said. ‘I just heard. Congratulations.’

  Rosie Webster poured a glass of Scotch and handed it to Fletcher with a smile. ‘Thanks … Perce,’ she said.

  Fletcher took a sip of whisky and looked around. ‘Can we have a quiet word somewhere, guv?’ he said to Fox. It was not that he didn’t trust the other officers, it was just that the hubbub of conversation made it impossible to talk seriously.

  Fox moved out into the corridor. ‘What is it?’

  Fletcher explained how he had tracked down Jean Rogers, and then went on to summarize his interview with her. ‘It looks very likely that she was one of the Crombie harem that got taken over by Harris, guv,’ he continued. ‘If I’d known, I wouldn’t have gone in cold. It was unfortunate really. A shot in the dark.’

  Fox looked thoughtful. ‘Splendid, Perce.’

  ‘It is, guv?’

  ‘Yes, dear boy. You’ve just given me an excellent reason for preventing those prats in Personnel and Training from posting Rosie to Hampstead.’

  ‘Is that where she’s going, sir?’

  ‘Not any more, Perce,’ said Fox. ‘Not anymore.’

  *

  ‘That bastard Harris is well informed, guv’nor,’ said Gilroy. ‘So they tell me, Jack. About what in particular?’

  ‘One of the lads on the intercept rang in to say that one of Harris’s bloody snouts has just been on the phone, telling him that Percy Fletcher went to see Jean Rogers, alias Cheryl, yesterday afternoon.’

  Fox stood up. ‘How long ago was this, Jack?’

  Gilroy glanced at his watch. ‘No more than ten minutes, sir.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘It is, sir?’ Gilroy looked puzzled.

  ‘We shall go and visit Miss Rogers.’

  ‘Do we know where she is, guv?’

  ‘At home, Jack,’ said Fox. ‘At least, she should be,’ he added mysteriously.

  *

  ‘Good afternoon, Miss Rogers. I’m Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad. May we come in?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Jean Rogers opened the door wide and then led the way into her sitting room.

  ‘This is Detective Sergeant Webster,’ said Fox, indicating Rosie.

  ‘Really?’ Jean Rogers sounded uninterested.

  ‘I’m here. Miss Rogers, because we have reason to believe that your life is in danger,’ said Fox.

  Jean Rogers looked alarmed. ‘How? In what way?’

  ‘We don’t know precisely, but we intend to guard you from now on.’

  ‘It’s all because that policeman came to see me yesterday afternoon, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s only partly the reason,’ said Fox. ‘The real reason is that you’ve got Tango Harris for a ponce.’

  *

  Gilroy, Fletcher, Bellenger, and Rosie Webster were with Jean Rogers in her flat in Clarges Street. Forty-eight hours had elapsed since Fox’s visit and the imposition of a strong guard. Other officers, in cars and on foot, were in Clarges Street and were the first to see the two men approach.

  Inside the flat, Gilroy was informed of the sighting on his personal radio. Jean Rogers was ushered into her bedroom and Rosie, dressed in shirt and jeans, slipped off her earrings and prepared to answer the door.

  The buzzer sounded and Rosie lifted the handset of the intercom. ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Miss Rogers?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s the police here. Can we come in?’

  Rose opened the door an inch or two and stepped back.

  The first man through the door was stocky, but slightly shorter than Rosie, and with a full head of black hair. As he moved forward, he released the blade of the flick-knife in his hand. But he was totally unprepared for what happened next.

  Rosie grabbed his hair with both hands, suddenly forcing his head downwards. At the same time, she brought her knee up and smashed it into the man’s nose. Keeping her grip on his hair, she pulled him forward and then threw him past her so that he hit the floor with a satisfying thud. The second man’s mouth opened in astonishment at the ferocity of the attack on his partner, and that left him vulnerable.
Rosie took a pace forward, grabbing his shoulders and bringing her knee up at the same time … straight between his legs. The man screamed in agony and fell backwards into the hallway outside the front door.

  Detective Sergeant Ernie Crabtree had followed the two men up the stairs and now looked down at the writhing figure at his feet. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘What a very distressed gentleman.’

  When the call came into the Flying Squad office, Fox shouted for Swann and raced to Clarges Street. But by the time he arrived, an ambulance was already drawn up outside Jean Rogers’s block of flats.

  Inside the flat, the two would-be attackers were being placed in stretcher-chairs by the ambulance attendants, watched by a group of Flying Squad officers.

  ‘Well,’ said Fox. ‘That looks like two more of Tango’s jolly helpers that we’ve picked off. I suppose they’re down to you, Rosie.’

  ‘No problem, sir,’ said Rosie. ‘They refused to fight.’

  Fox sighed. ‘Bloody promotion’s gone to your head, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s blood on the carpet, sir,’ said Rosie, aware of the forms that had to be completed in connection with damage to property.

  Jean Rogers appeared from the bedroom. ‘Don’t worry about the carpet,’ she said. ‘I have a little man in every so often to clean it.’ She walked to the cocktail cabinet and took out a bottle of gin. ‘I don’t know about you,’ she said, addressing Fox and his officers, ‘but I could do with a drink.’