by Graham Ison
‘Indeed there is,’ said Fox. ‘What is coming off is that you are going down for a very long time, together with your brother Kenny.’
‘You must be joking.’ Crombie scoffed and blew smoke into the air. ‘There wasn’t nothing in my drum … and you know it.’
‘There certainly wasn’t anything of value there, dear boy. Unfortunately, bad taste is not yet a criminal offence. No, I am talking of the information given me by Messrs Adams and Baker aforementioned.’ Fox casually threw two bundles of paper on the table.
‘What’s them?’
‘Those, dear boy,’ said Fox, ‘are copies of statements made by Cliff Adams and Barry Baker, and in view of the fact that they contain serious allegations against you, you are entitled to copies.’
Crombie fingered the edge of the pile of paper. ‘That’ll be a pack of bloody lies.’
Fox nodded sympathetically. ‘I thought so too,’ he said, ‘but I shall investigate what they have to say with vigour. Of course they will be charged with conspiring with you and others to commit all manner of offences,’ he said, but refrained from mentioning that the assistance of Adams and Baker would probably ensure them a minimal sentence, if not a reduction in the time they were already serving. ‘Now this … ’ Fox threw another statement on the table. ‘This is part of a statement made by Miss Sharon Scrope in which she gives details of all manner of villainy in which you and your brother Kenny were involved.’
Gary Crombie sat up sharply. ‘What’s that little cow been saying?’
‘Enough to put you and Kenny down for a long time … to say nothing of your own dear mother.’
‘She’s only trying to get her own back because Kenny and me—’ Crombie stopped, suddenly realizing that what he was about to say was not at all clever.
‘If you were going to claim that she only made that statement because you and Kenny raped her under Arlene’s supervision, you can forget it,’ said Fox. ‘You see, she refused to lay charges and if your smart brief mentions it in court, she will deny that it ever took place. Clever that, don’t you think?’
‘The little bitch,’ said Crombie.
‘Mind you,’ continued Fox, ‘by the time I get around to looking into it all, Tango Harris will have taken much of it over, I suppose. In fact, he’s probably done so already.’
At last Crombie got the drift of what Fox was driving at. ‘You want to know about Tango Harris, Mr Fox?’ he asked.
‘That would be extremely useful, dear boy.’
Crombie’s eyes narrowed. ‘What’s it worth?’
‘To you, at the going rate, about twenty years I should think. Each!’
‘What d’you mean … each?’
‘You, Kenny, and Arlene.’
‘Ma never had nothing to do with it.’ Gary Crombie sat up sharply. ‘It was all down to my old man.’
‘Ah!’ said Fox, ‘the Oedipus complex.’
‘Do what?’
‘Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. Might be worth mentioning to your counsel, though.’
‘Look, Mr Fox, supposing we was to grass up Tango Harris.’
‘Yes … ’ Fox drew the word out doubtfully.
‘Well, I mean would it help like?’
‘It would certainly help me.’
‘Yeah, I know. But would it help me?’
‘Oh, I see. Well, Gary, that would be a matter for the Crown Prosecution Service. But I might put in a word. If you came across with some good stuff. But you must understand that I can’t make any promises.’
Gary Crombie ignored that. He was firmly convinced that Fox could fix anything. ‘How about me and Kenny having a get-together with our mouthpiece … and Ma. I mean we could have a bit of a chat and see what we could come up with. Know what I mean?’
‘What a good idea,’ said Fox. ‘But don’t be too long about it.’
‘Kenny and Ma might not agree, though, Mr Fox.’ Crombie obviously thought it prudent to hedge his bets.
‘I can imagine. Particularly Arlene. Quite cantankerous when the mood takes her, I should think. But look at it this way. I’ve got more than enough to put you three away, but at the moment I am not at all sure of securing a conviction against Tango Harris. And all the while you’re picking oakum, or whatever they do in the nick these days, Tango will be out there enjoying the fruits of your labour.’
‘Not if I can bloody help it,’ said Crombie with feeling.
*
Fox was quite out of breath by the time he reached the second floor of Gerald Road police station in Belgravia. ‘This is a poxy nick,’ he said as he reached the doorway of the chief superintendent’s office. ‘Why haven’t you got a lift?’
‘Got to be fit to be in the Uniform Branch,’ said the chief superintendent, a youthful man called Miskin. ‘Who are you?’
‘Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad.’
‘Oh!’ Miskin stood up and shook hands. ‘This sounds like trouble.’
Fox closed the door and sat down uninvited. ‘There are three massage parlours on your ground,’ he began. ‘And they’re all run by Tango Harris who recently acquired them from the late Billie Crombie … following a takeover bid.’
‘Who?’
‘Oh, God!’ said Fox. ‘Let me explain.’
‘What d’you want me to do?’ asked Miskin when Fox had finished his summary of Harris’s activities.
‘To put it simply,’ said Fox, ‘raid them and secure sufficient evidence of Harris’s complicity to enable me to arrest him.’
Miskin looked appalled. ‘I haven’t got the men for that,’ he said. ‘Might be able to do one of them … ’ He turned in his chair and looked at a calendar. ‘Next Tuesday at the earliest.’
Fox shook his head. ‘This evening. And all three at once.’
Miskin laughed. ‘We can’t just go in at a moment’s notice,’ he began. ‘There’s nothing unlawful about a massage parlour … if massage is all they’re doing.’
‘Oh, do leave off,’ said Fox.
‘We have to mount observations, otherwise we’ve got no evidence and—’
‘I have.’
‘But there are warrants to be obtained and I’ll have to find the extra men.’ Miskin didn’t like being rushed and was fighting a desperate rearguard action.
‘Warrants!’ said Fox dropping a sheaf of papers on Miskin’s desk. ‘The Commander Operations has assigned the territorial support group to assist and I’ve got twelve Flying Squad officers standing by … downstairs. And that’s another thing,’ he added. ‘You haven’t got a car park.’
Miskin stared at Fox with a helpless expression on his face. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Anyway, what’s the hurry? I can’t just make the arrangements—’
‘You don’t have to,’ said Fox. ‘You can come along for the ride, if you like, seeing as it’s on your ground, but don’t keep on about arrangements. I’ve had some before,’ he added unkindly, ‘and I don’t want some lairy PC getting on the blower and advising the said massage parlours of police interest so that everything is squared away by the time we go charging in.’
Miskin bridled at that. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that any of my men would—’
‘Yes I am,’ said Fox brutally. ‘And so would mine, given half the chance. You see, most policemen don’t attach too much importance to massage parlours. Come to that, neither do I. If some pillock wants to pay a poxed-up whore an exorbitant sum of money for a quickie, why should we worry? Both willing partners, aren’t they? And it’s not exactly the crime of the century. But right now, Mr Miskin, it’s Tango Harris I want. And if one of his massage parlours turns out to be a brothel then I shall capture him for it.’
‘Well, I suppose you know your own business best.’
Fox grinned. ‘D’you know,’ he said, ‘it’s a long time since I’ve heard a Uniform Branch man say that about a CID officer.’
*
The canoeist was a hardy soul. Every morning he paddled from Hammer
smith to Battersea, reckoning that, even in winter, it was a better way to travel than crushed into a stifling, overcrowded train.
It was as he was approaching Putney Bridge that he spotted a dark shape floating in the water. He back-paddled briefly and steered his canoe towards it. Then he made vigorously for the bank, beached his craft, and ran to the telephone box in Lower Richmond Road.
As the police car came towards him, the canoeist took off his woolly hat and waved it.
The wireless operator wound down his window. ‘You the bloke who put up the call about a body floating in the river, mate?’
‘You can just see it over there.’ The canoeist pointed.
The two policemen got out of their car and walked to the river bank. ‘Job for Thames Division.’ The driver put his hands in his pockets and surveyed the broad sweep of the river. ‘Get on the set, Charlie, and do the business, will you.’
The operator turned away towards the car and the driver reluctantly took an incident report book from his pocket.
*
Signs advertising the hire and sale of adult videos and magazines and another advising of the availability of qualified masseuses were plastered over the blacked-out windows of the shop. Over the door another sign forbade entry to persons under the age of eighteen.
‘That’s a nice touch,’ said Fox. He had decided to lead one of the raids himself. Teams raiding the other two massage parlours were under the command of DIs Gilroy and Evans. Rosie Webster was with Fox.
‘Help you?’ A seedy-looking individual reading a magazine about motorcycling was seated behind the counter.
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Fox as he parted a screen consisting of plastic strips and disappeared into the rear of the premises.
‘‘Ere, ’old on.’ The motorcycle enthusiast leaped to his feet but suddenly gave a convincing impersonation of suspended animation as he saw the uniformed inspector standing in the doorway of the shop.
‘Are you the owner of this establishment?’ asked the inspector who had been designated to take care of the administrative niceties of the operation.
‘Manager,’ said the seedy one. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You’re being raided, that’s what’s going on,’ said the inspector and, accompanied by several uniformed PCs and a number of Flying Squad officers, followed Fox.
‘Well I’m blessed,’ said Fox. He had entered a dimly lit room off a corridor. On a high couch lay a naked man whose sexual needs were being attended to by a naked woman. Naked, that is, apart from a white boilersuit around her ankles.
The woman — she was about forty and had brassy blonde hair — was not in the least abashed by Fox’s sudden entry. ‘You’ll have to wait your turn,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Waiting room’s down the corridor.’
‘Oh, right.’ Fox detailed a constable to take particulars of the consenting adults involved and moved on. In the next room, much like the first he had entered, Fox was treated to the rare sight of a man tied hand and foot to a leather couch from which the stuffing was trying to escape. Riding him vigorously was yet another naked woman. Both were oblivious to Fox’s arrival until the flash of the police photographer’s camera alerted them.
‘What the bloody hell … ?’ the woman yelled, and stopped her physical exertions.
‘Photo-finish,’ said Fox. ‘And you can untie him and bring him into the paddock.’ He nodded towards the man whose panic-stricken face indicated quite clearly that he wished he was somewhere else.
*
‘That,’ said Fox, ‘seems to have been a successful operation.’ He surveyed the assembled Flying Squad officers gathered in the conference room. ‘What did your manager have to say, Rosie?’ Fox had last seen Rosie Webster leaning over the manager of the massage parlour-cum-adult-video shop in a most threatening manner.
‘Couldn’t wait to get out from under, guv,’ said Rosie. ‘Rather like the bloke we found in Room Four,’ said Fox and acknowledged the laughter with a nod. ‘Has he said what we want to hear?’
‘Got a DC taking a lengthy statement from him right now, sir. Falling over himself to tell us that he was only one of Tango Harris’s employees and didn’t know what was going on in the back room. Came as an awful shock to him to discover that the qualified masseuses wore nothing under their white boiler suits … just in case.’
‘Just in case?’
‘There’s a sliding scale for massage apparently, sir. Fully dressed, it’s thirty quid. Topless, it’s fifty, and boiler suit round the ankles costs seventy.’
‘And what do they get for that?’
‘Just a massage,’ said Rosie. ‘Oh, and a shower.’
‘Cheapskates,’ said Fox. ‘And what about the “personal services” we saw?’
‘I gather those are privately negotiated, sir,’ said Rosie. ‘But you-know-who gets a rake-off.’
‘How did you get on, Jack?’ Fox turned to Gilroy. ‘More of the same, sir. A brothel disguised as a massage parlour. There’s ample evidence to support charges, and the manager gave us a quick cough that it had been run by the Crombies until recently when it was taken over by Tango Harris.’
‘Denzil?’
‘We’re all right, too, sir,’ said Evans. ‘Only one slight complication, though.’
‘What?’
‘One of the customers was an MP.’ Evans looked sympathetic.
‘Which party?’
‘He was a Tory, sir.’
‘Oh well,’ said Fox, ‘I dare say they’ll be pleased to hear he’s normal. Incidentally, what’s happening about all the obscene videos … assuming they are obscene?’ The expression on his face implied that they couldn’t possibly be anything else.
‘All seized, sir,’ said Rosie. ‘Some poor uniformed inspector has been assigned to view them and make notes.’
‘How many were there?’
‘About four hundred out of the three raids, guv. Give or take.’ Rosie grinned.
‘Good grief,’ said Fox. ‘The poor sod.’
*
During the next three days, Fox instituted raids on a further fourteen massage parlours in and around the West End of London. In eleven cases, his officers found enough evidence to prosecute the owner for keeping a brothel, publishing obscene material, and living on immoral earnings. The managers of nine of the establishments were only too keen to tell the authorities that the owner in question was Tango Harris. The other five were part of the disintegrating Crombie empire. By engineering what he called a confluence of legislation. Fox was able to ensure that the premises were closed down and the stocks of videos and magazines seized pending a court order for destruction.
*
‘The river police have just found Kevin Rix in the Thames near Putney Bridge,’ said Gilroy.
‘Really?’ Fox stirred absently at his cup of coffee. ‘Making sure of a good place for the boat race, was he?’
‘That’s not till next April, sir,’ said Gilroy, attempting to match Fox’s cynicism.
‘Billie Crombie’s right hand, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Careless, leaving him floating about like that,’ said Fox. ‘Tango’s usual style is a motorway bridge. Still,’ he added, ‘I suppose they’re difficult to find these days, what with the recession and cut-backs and all that sort of thing.’
‘We don’t know that it’s down to Tango Harris, guv.’ Fox scoffed. ‘You got a better front-runner then, Jack? What’s the SP?’
‘He’d been shot. Twice in the head,’ said Gilroy reading from a message flimsy. ‘And the local CID reckon the body had been weighted, but broke loose.’
‘Do they indeed? Well I’m not having them mucking about with it. I’ll get the DAC to give it to Gavin Brace.’ Gilroy looked surprised. ‘It’s not on his area, sir, and anyway, he’s a bit tucked up.’
‘Really?’ Fox pretended to look surprised. ‘He’s practically tied up the Gina West job, and the murder of Morrie Isaacs’s barman is down to the bro
thers Crombie. No, Jack, he’ll be bored to death. Much better if I give him something to do.’
‘He was hoping to go on leave, sir.’
‘Leave,’ said Fox. ‘What’s that?’
Chapter Fifteen
Still persisting in going out and interfering when, according to his superiors, he should have been behind his desk dealing with the paperwork, Fox wound down the window of his Ford Granada and peered across the rain-swept street at the building opposite. ‘Is that it?’ he asked.
‘That’s it, sir,’ said Gilroy.
‘Where are the feet?’ Fox always used that disparaging term to describe the Uniform Branch.
‘Holed up in carriers round the corner, sir. Complete TSG. One, two, and twenty.’
‘Better call ’em up then.’ Fox had decided that the territorial support group, consisting of one inspector, two sergeants and twenty PCs would be adequate for the job. He intended that they should be there for a show of uniforms, but not otherwise to interfere. ‘Where’s my umbrella, Swann?’
‘In the boot, guv.’ The lugubrious Swann made no attempt to move.
‘Well do the decent thing, there’s a good fellow.’ Fox sighed at the inadequacy of his driver’s initiative.
Swann undid his seat belt and, mumbling some inaudible complaint, got out of the car and ambled round to its rear.
‘Can’t get the staff, Jack, that’s the trouble with the job today, you know.’ Fox stepped out into the roadway and took his umbrella from Swann. ‘This is supposed to be a near-beer joint, isn’t it?’
‘Supposed to be, sir. But our information is that there’s a full range of alcoholic refreshment available … apart from a few other entertainments.’
‘Splendid.’ Fox paused long enough to observe three police Transit vehicles moving slowly into the street before striding across to the entrance of the premises he was about to raid. ‘Seems to me, Jack,’ he said, ‘that we’re doing a hell of a lot of the feet’s work for them these days.’ He stopped at the doorway. ‘I mean to say, they’re the chaps who are supposed to deal with brothels and infractions of the licensing law, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Gilroy assumed that Fox was in one of his waspish moods.
