by Graham Ison
There was no indication on the outside of the building that any sort of business, nefarious or otherwise, was being carried on within, but then Fox didn’t expect an illegal drinking den to advertise itself too overtly. He knocked at the door. An unsavoury-looking individual opened it an inch or two. Fox kicked the door wide and in doing so, propelled the minder half across the hallway to collide with a shabby table.
‘‘Ere, what’s the game. You looking for trouble?’
‘Strange to relate, dear boy, it’s what I’m paid for,’ said Fox. ‘And we’ve come to enjoy ourselves.’
‘If you’re from Crombie, you can tell him that he’ll be mixing it with Tango Harris from now on.’
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Fox, ‘we’re from the Flying Squad and right now, mixing it with Tango Harris is our full-time occupation.’ He glanced over his shoulder as the territorial support group started to come through the door. ‘And if your dainty little forefinger goes anywhere near that alarm button, my son, you’ll be sleeping at the local nick tonight … until we can fix you up with a bedsit in Brixton.’
The doorman, who had heard that the Flying Squad were frequently armed when they went out on raids, promptly placed both hands in the air and stood stockstill. ‘There’s nothing wrong here, guv’nor,’ he said, his whining voice indicating that he was very quick to grasp that the odds were overwhelming.
‘Pleased to hear it,’ said Fox, ‘but you won’t mind if we satisfy ourselves as to that alleged state of affairs, will you?’
The main room of the club contained about fifteen tables, each with a red-shaded lamp on it. In one corner of the room was a bar presided over by a black man in a red jacket whose job in life was to serve the three leggy waitresses who bustled between there and the tables.
For a few moments, Fox stood and took in the scene. But he was in no hurry. He had arranged for the uniformed inspector in charge of the TSG to place a few of his men at the rear of the premises where the fire exit gave on to a labyrinth of passageways leading eventually to another street.
The men sitting at the tables were a mixture, but consisted mainly of a few Arabs and a leavening of tired businessmen. Each man was accompanied by a woman. Fox knew instinctively that the glasses in front of these so-called hostesses would contain nothing stronger than fruit juice, and although their ‘guests’ had paid vast sums for their own refreshment, they too would not easily get drunk. Unless they were willing to pay much more for the privilege. Fox, though, knew that they weren’t there for the alcohol alone — they could buy that at standard prices at the pub down the road — but for the entertainment. Such as it was.
The uniformed officers filed in and started on the routine task of taking names and addresses.
Fox walked across to the bar. ‘Who’s running this place?’ he enquired.
‘Who’s asking?’ The barman, a surly expression on his face, wiped the top of the counter with a sponge cloth. Obviously aware that the presence of a large number of uniformed policemen spelled trouble anyway, he was determined to be as awkward as possible.
But Fox was not in the mood to play games. He leaned across the bar until his face was within inches of the barman’s. ‘You’re nicked,’ he said. And turning to a PC said, ‘Put him in the van, lad.’
‘What’s the charge, sir?’
‘Obstructing police in the execution of their duty,’ said Fox. ‘For a start.’
Thanks to the fact that the doorman had been effectively immobilized by the constant presence of one PC, it was some minutes before the putative owner of the club was aware of the presence of police. By then it was too late. Emerging from his office in the far corner of the bar, he stopped and waved his hands distressfully in front of his body. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked of no one in particular.
A comely redhead in a very short flared skirt placed her tray of dubious-looking drinks on a side table. ‘We’ve been busted, Mickey, that’s what,’ she said. ‘What d’you want me to do?’
‘Cover yourself up, for Christ’s sake,’ said the owner, nodding at the girl’s naked breasts. ‘They’ll have you for that.’
‘Wouldn’t be the first,’ said the redhead drily. She was worldly wise enough to know that there wasn’t much chance of the police prosecuting a waitress for being topless. Not these days, anyway.
‘You, I take it, are Mr Michael Finn?’ Fox smiled politely.
‘Yes. There’s no trouble here, officer, I assure you,’ said Finn anxiously. ‘Just a few friends having a few drinks. There’s no money changing hands.’
‘Leave it out,’ said Fox, leaning heavily on his umbrella. ‘Several of my officers have already elicited from your customers that they have paid for intoxicating liquor.’
‘But it’s not intoxicating liquor, Officer,’ said Finn with a smirk. ‘It’s just that they think it is.’
‘Oh, splendid,’ said Fox. ‘In that case I shall do you for theft. As well. You will have ample opportunity, at a later stage, to explain what those optics contain … the ones labelled whisky and gin and brandy and vodka … ’ Fox waved his umbrella towards the bar. ‘And now,’ he went on, as if dismissing that minor problem, ‘where are the peep-shows?’
Even in the dimly lit room, it was apparent that Finn’s face went much paler. ‘Nothing like that goes on here, Officer.’ He paused, peering closely at Fox’s face. ‘You must be new around here,’ he added.
‘I suppose you could say that,’ said Fox. ‘I’m the head of the Flying Squad.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ Finn sank into a chair which fortunately was quite close by.
‘Tell me, Mickey,’ said Fox, adopting a conversational tone, ‘how much a week does Tango Harris take out of this dodgy enterprise?’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’ Even Finn realized that he sounded unconvincing.
‘Strange thing, that,’ said Fox. ‘The bonehead on the front door mentioned him in the very first sentence he uttered.’
‘I’ll sack him,’ said Finn, an edge of malice in his voice.
‘Could run up against the employment laws there,’ said Fox. ‘Very difficult to get rid of staff these days.’
‘Found it, sir.’ Gilroy appeared at Fox’s elbow.
‘Found what?’
‘Upstairs, sir. Two or three booths where privileged clients can peer through a window into a bedroom and watch a tired-looking jessie screwing a bird who’s old enough to be his mother. To the accompaniment of music.’
‘What sort of music, Jack?’
‘“Ride of the Valkyries”, I think, sir,’ said Gilroy.
‘How appropriate,’ said Fox. He turned to Finn. ‘And I don’t suppose for one moment that you’ve paid a fee to the Performing Rights Society, Mickey.’
*
It was Detective Sergeant Fletcher’s fate, or so it seemed to Detective Sergeant Fletcher, always to be on the fringe of Fox’s enquiries. But not only on the fringe. Apart from obeying Fox’s frequent injunctions to get out and beat on the ground, Fletcher often found himself doing the less attractive tasks. Today’s job was to put the fear of God — and Tommy Fox — into the prostitute population of central London. This he did by the simple expedient of mentioning to a few policemen at two or three police stations that Tommy Fox was launching an offensive. Fletcher knew, deep down, that it was the quickest way of sending his message to the ladies of the town.
*
‘You’re asking a lot, you know,’ said Jean Rogers, the call-girl known professionally as Cheryl.
‘So’s Tango Harris,’ said Detective Sergeant Rosie Webster. ‘And all the while that he’s allowed to roam free, girls like you are going to be in danger.’
‘I’ve told you all I know about him.’ Jean Rogers had not worked since the day of the attempted attack on her, and had remained in her Clarges Street flat under police guard. When Rosie Webster had last interviewed her, she had made a long statement setting out all that she knew about the vice business in London. And Tango Harris’s i
nvolvement in it. ‘You’ll never stamp out prostitution, you know,’ she said.
Rosie laughed. ‘We’re not trying to,’ she said. ‘It would take more than the resources of the Metropolitan Police to eradicate something that’s been going on since the beginning of time. But we don’t like the Tango Harrises of this world leaning on people. Even less do we like girls like you being murdered because you won’t play ball.’
‘Unfortunate choice of phrase,’ said Jean Rogers drily.
For a moment or two, Rosie studied the prostitute seated opposite her. ‘You’re an elegant, well-educated girl,’ she said. ‘Why in hell’s name did you get involved in this business?’
‘Money … that’s all. It might surprise you to know that I was educated in a convent. I’ve even got some A-levels. But I wanted a bit more out of life than working in some dreary office from nine till five every day. I wanted somewhere decent to live, and a car, and designer clothes.’
‘Well, now you’ve got it, was it worth it?’
For a moment or two, Jean Rogers looked sad. ‘I don’t know any more,’ she said. She stood up and walked across the room to a secretaire. When she turned to face Rosie again, she was holding a card in her hand. ‘I still don’t know if I’m doing the right thing,’ she said, ‘but I’ve known this girl for about four years. Billie Crombie was her ponce until she got a visit … as I did. Then, like me, she was forced into working for Harris. There was no argument. It was made very plain that if we didn’t cooperate, we’d get a beating.’ She handed the card to Rosie. ‘A beating that would disfigure us for life.’
‘You should have gone to the police,’ said Rosie.
Jean Rogers scoffed. ‘You’re joking,’ she said. ‘What good would that have done? What were we supposed to do? Walk into Savile Row and tell the desk sergeant that we didn’t like our new working arrangements? He’d probably have referred us to an industrial tribunal. When he’d stopped laughing.’
Rosie Webster shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t, you know. It’s this very wall of silence that stops us getting at people like Harris … or Crombie for that matter. Or the people who’ll take their places once we’ve locked them up.’
Jean Rogers nodded towards the card she had handed Rosie. ‘What’ll happen to her?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then what—’
‘It’s better you don’t know, Jean, but believe me, the mere fact that Harris is her ponce will give us the leverage we want. Trust me.’
Jean Rogers ran her hand through her long black hair and smiled. ‘I never thought I’d see the day when I had to ask the police to help me run my business,’ she said.
‘This card … ’ Rosie Webster glanced at the pasteboard in her hand. ‘Fay. Is that her real name?’
‘No, of course not. Her real name’s Dorothy Roberts.’
‘Where does she live?’
‘St James’s somewhere, I think. But you can find out surely? Her phone number’s on the card.’
‘How come you know her?’
Jean Rogers hesitated for a moment. ‘There are one or two punters,’ she said, ‘who like two girls together, and they like a bit of a show to start with. It turns them on. If ever I got one of those, I’d give Dorothy a call … and vice versa.’ She sighed. ‘If you’re going to make it with another woman, you like to know her.’ It all sounded very matter-of-fact.
‘Was Gina West approached by Harris, d’you know?’
‘Yes.’ There was no hesitation in Jean Rogers’s reply. ‘She was one of Billie Crombie’s girls and I think that she, like us, finished up in the middle. She told me that two of Harris’s people visited her one day and told her that Harris had taken over from Crombie. And that their cut had gone up to seventy per cent. It was exactly the same as the visit I had. They also said that they’d be watching us to make sure that we didn’t cheat them.’
‘Did she go along with it?’
Jean Rogers shook her head. ‘The suggestion is that she refused to work for Harris and got murdered as a result.’
‘By Harris … or some of his people?’
‘It would hardly be anyone else, would it? I got the impression that Harris was set to take over everything that Crombie was running. Strip joints, massage parlours, clubs. The lot.’
‘How did you hear that?’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Jean Rogers. ‘You’re a policewoman. In my trade you get to hear all sorts of things. I even know of one or two girls on the game who regularly feed titbits to MI5. Didn’t you know that we make the best spies?’
‘Yes,’ said Rosie. ‘That’s why I’m talking to you.’
Chapter Sixteen
The stooped, loping figure of Spider Walsh fought briefly with the velvet curtain over the door and emerged blinking into the saloon bar.
‘Over here,’ said Fox, who was languishing in a seat in the far corner.
‘Hallo, Mr Fox.’ Walsh, who fancied himself as Fox’s favourite informant, surveyed the clientele of the pub suspiciously and then eased himself into the seat beside Fox.
‘I hope you’re not wasting my time, Spider.’ Fox placed a five-pound note on the table. ‘Get yourself a drink … and don’t forget to bring me the change.’
Walsh snatched at the money and stood up again. ‘Would I do a thing like that, Mr Fox?’ He looked reproachfully at the detective.
‘Yes,’ said Fox. ‘Get a bloody move on.’
A few minutes later, Walsh returned and sat down again. He took the head off his glass of Guinness and sighed audibly. ‘Cheers, Mr Fox.’
‘I haven’t come here just to fill you up with stout, Spider. What have you got?’
‘It’s not much, Mr Fox.’
‘Is it ever,’ murmured Fox.
‘But I’ve heard a whisper.’
‘Good grief,’ said Fox. ‘You want to be careful.’
‘I think it might be worth a bit.’ Walsh shot a sideways glance at Fox.
‘That depends, Spider. What is it?’
‘I’ve heard that there’s this swish club—’
‘Where?’
‘Down Dagenham, Mr Fox.’
Fox scoffed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Spider. It can’t be swish and be in Dagenham. Swish and Dagenham do not go together.’
‘Well, anyhow … ’ Walsh pressed on, completely impervious to Fox’s sarcasm. ‘Seems Billie Crombie had a finger in running it, like. But then Tango Harris give him the big E.’ Walsh looked round furtively, as if afraid that the mere mention of Tango Harris’s name would get him into serious trouble.
‘I have to say,’ said Fox, ‘that this hot information of yours comes as no surprise.’
‘Ah, but there’s more, Mr Fox.’
‘Your generosity knows no bounds, Spider. What more could there possibly be?’
‘There’s another finger operating down Dagenham, name of—’
‘Tinsel Walters,’ said Fox. ‘I know. So what?’
‘Oh! You know then?’
‘There is little that goes on among the criminal fraternity to which I am not privy, Spider, but what do you know of Tinsel Walters and his activities?’
‘Well, he reckons that Dagenham’s his territory, and that he is going to teach Tango Harris not to go poking his nose in down there.’
‘Interesting.’
‘Word is that he’s going to give this club a sorting out.’
‘Is he now. Date, time, and place been whispered in your shell-like by any chance, Spider?’
‘Nothing pacific, like, Mr Fox.’
‘The word is “specific”, Spider. Not that you’d know what it meant anyway.’ Fox paused. ‘Then again you could well be right.’
*
‘Perce.’
‘Yes, guv,’ said DS Fletcher.
‘Tinsel Walters. Seems to think he’s the king of Dagenham. Get out and beat on the ground, Perce. See what comes up, there’s a good fellow.’
‘Right, guv.’ Fletcher sighed inwardly. Here we go again, h
e thought.
*
Dorothy Roberts, known to her clients as Fay, walked swiftly through the lobby of the hotel, looking neither to the left nor to the right. She wore a black suit with a white blouse and black court shoes. There was a leather bag over one shoulder and she carried an expensive briefcase which undoubtedly contained a credit-card machine. It was five o’clock in the evening and she looked the epitome of the successful young businesswoman. Which, in a sense, she was. The hall porter took the envelope she dropped on his counter and swept it into a drawer, making no other acknowledgement of her arrival. She walked across to the lift and rode to the second floor.
It had been an easy task for Detective Sergeants Buck-ley and Rosie Webster to follow the call-girl from her flat in St James’s. She wasn’t expecting to be followed and hadn’t noticed them.
The man who opened the door of the second-floor room was about thirty-five years of age. His suit would have cost at least two thousand dollars in New York and he probably paid ten times what the man in the street would pay for a haircut. But money was no object to him. He was in London on business and fully intended to combine that business with a certain amount of pleasure. And right now, that pleasure took the shapely form of Dorothy Roberts. After all, he could afford it. The sweat of his late father’s brow had made sure of that.
He ushered the girl towards the settee in his sitting room — he had a suite, of course — and opened a bottle of champagne.
At eight o’clock the American admitted the floor waiter who wheeled in dinner for two. At half-past ten Dorothy Roberts went home.
At twenty minutes to eleven, Roy Buckley and Rosie Webster knocked at the door of the American’s suite.
‘Good evening, sir. We’re police officers.’ Buckley displayed his warrant card. ‘I wonder if you could spare us a moment of your time.’
‘Of course,’ said the American, tightening the belt of his robe and casting an appreciative eye over Rosie’s figure. ‘Do come in, officers. What seems to be the problem?’
Buckley affected a flat and slightly nasal tone, giving the impression that he was very much the stylised policeman. ‘It’s about the prostitute who just left your apartment, sir,’ he began.
