The Taming of Tango Harris

by Graham Ison

‘Gone.’ The girl walked across to one of the sun loungers and picked up a towel.

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well he must have said something.’

  ‘He just said he was going away on business.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘The day before yesterday.’

  ‘Did he say when he would be coming back?’ Fox was annoyed with himself. He had lifted the surveillance that he had put in place merely to annoy Harris, but even if he hadn’t, he had to admit that it would have been easy for Harris to escape from his mansion at Buckhurst Hill by any one of a number of ruses.

  ‘No. I think he’s gone to London.’

  ‘Whereabouts in London?’

  The girl shrugged and clasped the towel round herself. ‘I really don’t know. He never lets on. But he said he’d be back soon.’ She didn’t sound too hopeful about that.

  Evans appeared in the doorway behind Fox. ‘Searched the house, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Just the butler, sir. Leastways, that’s what he calls himself.’ Evans looked round the pool. ‘Where’s Tango Harris, sir?’

  ‘Legged it,’ said Fox shortly.

  Evans nodded towards the girl. ‘But Melody lingers on, eh, sir?’

  Fox gave his DI a withering glance. ‘Don’t ever think of becoming a stand-up comic, Denzil,’ he said. ‘You’d fall flat on your face. You’d better fetch this so-called butler down here.’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be much help, guv,’ said Evans with a smirk and retraced his steps to the house.

  ‘D’you mean to say that he didn’t leave a telephone number or an address in case some business cropped up?’ Fox took a pace or two nearer Harris’s girlfriend.

  Melody leaned her head to one side as she towelled her wet hair. ‘No, nothing,’ she said.

  ‘Has he ever gone away like this before?’

  The girl appeared to give that some thought. ‘Not while I’ve been living here, no.’

  ‘And how long’s that?’

  ‘About six months.’

  ‘Very helpful,’ said Fox and turned as Harris’s butler entered the pool house. He was dressed in a conventional black suit and stood with his feet together and his shoulders slightly bowed while clasping his hands nervously. ‘Good afternoon, sir. I’m Trevor, the butler, sir. I understand you were seeking Mr Harris, sir.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I regret to say, sir, that the master left no details of his movements, beyond assuring me that he would return shortly.’ The butler dropped his voice to a whisper and with a limp-wristed movement pointed a forefinger in the direction of Harris’s bed-mate. ‘Have you enquired of Miss Melody, sir?’

  ‘Yes I have enquired of Miss Melody, dear boy, and she appears to know as much as you do. Did Harris take his car with him?’

  The butler winced slightly at the omission of a prefix to his employer’s name. ‘One of them, sir, yes.’

  ‘One of them! How many’s he got then?’

  ‘Just the three now, sir. He sold the Bentley quite recently.’

  ‘Which one did he take?’

  ‘I believe it was the Porsche, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Trevor,’ said Fox. ‘You’re very kind.’

  The butler bowed slightly. ‘Will that be all, sir?’ he asked.

  Tor the moment, Trevor. Thank you so much.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The butler turned and made his way back to the house.

  ‘Camp as a row of pink tents,’ muttered Fox. He turned to Evans. ‘Have you got the number of Harris’s Porsche, Denzil?’

  Evans flipped open his pocket-book. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Circulate it,’ said Fox.

  *

  ‘Harris’s car has been found in the long-term car park at Gatwick Airport, sir,’ said Gilroy.

  ‘That was quick,’ said Fox.

  ‘Bit of luck really, sir. There was a bomb scare and the local Old Bill checked all the registrations in that section of the car park. And up came Harris’s Porsche.’

  ‘So where’s the bugger gone?’ asked Fox.

  Gilroy shrugged. ‘No idea at this stage, sir, but he made a call to Melody last night.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘We couldn’t tell, sir, but we’ve got British Telecom laying on a trace in case he rings again. If his car was at Gatwick, though, it’s an odds-on chance he’s gone abroad.’

  ‘That’s a skilful bit of detective work, Jack,’ said Fox acidly. ‘Get hold of Ron Crozier for me, will you. On the double.’

  *

  Detective Sergeant Ron Crozier had two girls — one still at university — and a wife who did a part-time job in the travel business. He had started out his adult life as an actor, but after three years resting more than he was working, he decided to become a policeman … just until something better turned up. After two years on the beat at Marylebone Lane police station, and twenty-two years in the CID, nothing had. The one mistake he had made was to tell Fox, in a careless moment, of his previous occupation. From then on, when any job cropped up that required what Fox perceived as acting skills, the name of DS Crozier sprang automatically to his mind.

  ‘Ron, dear boy, how d’you fancy being an estate agent?’

  Crozier remained impassive in front of Fox’s desk. ‘Never really thought about it, sir. I’ve still got another six years to do for pension.’

  Fox raised an eyebrow. ‘What a droll fellow you are, Ron,’ he said. ‘Sit down and listen. I’ve got a little job for you.’

  Crozier took a seat and sighed inwardly. He knew all about Fox’s ‘little jobs’.

  *

  Wearing a dark suit and carrying a briefcase, Crozier arrived at the gates of Tango Harris’s impressive dwelling at Buckhurst Hill. He presented the security guard with a business card, hastily but professionally produced by the Yard’s printers, on which was an address of a non-existent estate agent and the telephone number of a line which was kept permanently linked to a Metropolitan Police establishment as cover. Just in case anyone felt like checking credentials.

  The security guard returned from his cabin and handed the card back to Crozier. ‘You’re to go up to the house, Mr Collins,’ he said and opened the gate.

  Crozier was admitted by Trevor, the butler, and conducted into a sitting room. Melody, doing her lady-of-the-house bit, rose gracefully from a chair. ‘What’s all this about, Mr Collins?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve come to take details of the house, madam,’ said Crozier in his best estate-agent voice. ‘And to give a valuation, of course.’

  ‘But what for?’ Melody appeared genuinely mystified by Crozier’s arrival.

  ‘Ah!’ said Crozier thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps Mr Harris didn’t tell you. He’s placing the house on the market.’

  ‘He’s what?’ Melody was unable to keep the rage out of her voice.

  ‘If it’s not convenient, madam, I could come back another day.’

  ‘I think you’d better,’ said Melody. ‘When Mr Harris is here.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ Crozier adjusted the horn-rimmed glasses with the plain lenses that he was wearing and looked sympathetic. ‘I was given to understand that Mr Harris would not be returning, madam. I believe that mention was made of auctioning the contents. My partner is dealing with that side of things, of course.’

  ‘Well I’m telling you, here and now, that nothing’s happening until I’ve spoken to Mr Harris.’ Melody marched across to the drinks table and poured herself a large vodka to which she added a mere hint of tonic water. ‘And when I speak to him, I shall give him a piece of my mind.’

  Crozier smiled inwardly. He could hardly wait to read the transcript of the next conversation between the girl and Tango Harris. ‘Of course, madam,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a ring in a couple of days’ time, if you wish.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Melody. ‘The deal’s off.’ She took a gulp of vodka and tonic and banged the glass do
wn so violently that liquid spilt over on to the polished surface of the table.

  ‘How did it go, Ron?’

  *

  ‘I reckon she’s about to do her Congreve bit, guv’nor,’ said Crozier.

  ‘What the devil’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Fox.

  ‘“Nor Hell a fury, like a woman scorn’d” … sir.’

  ‘Bloody actors,’ said Fox. ‘Get out.’

  ‘She telephoned Tango Harris last night, sir,’ said DI Henry Findlater who, among his other duties, had been made responsible for overseeing the intercept on Harris’s Buckhurst Hill telephone.

  ‘So the little cow knew all along where he was.’

  ‘So it would seem, sir.’ Findlater glanced down at the sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘The number goes out to a hotel in New York.’

  ‘New York!’

  ‘Yes, sir. That’s in America, sir.’

  ‘I know where bloody New York is, Henry. What’s been done about it?’

  ‘Nothing as yet, sir. I thought you’d want to speak to Joe Daly yourself.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Fox angrily. Joe Daly, the legal attaché at the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square, was in reality the senior resident FBI agent in London. ‘What did she have to say to the bold Tango?’

  ‘Well, after he’d torn into her for calling him at that number, she shredded him, sir. Led off alarming about him putting the house on the market without telling her.’

  ‘And what was his reaction to that?’ asked Fox.

  ‘He denied it, sir, and that made it worse because she swore that he was deliberately deceiving her. In short, she didn’t believe him.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Overall it was a pretty acrimonious conversation, sir. And it wasn’t helped by the fact that Harris asked who this estate agent was.’

  ‘What did she say to that?’

  Findlater permitted himself a smile. ‘She said that she didn’t know, sir. Told Tango that she had forgotten to ask for his card.’

  ‘Dozy tart,’ said Fox. ‘Bet that pleased him.’

  ‘On the contrary, sir,’ said Findlater. ‘He seemed quite upset about it.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Denzil Evans had been dispatched, hot-foot, to Criminal Intelligence Branch in an effort to discover if there were any reasons why Tango Harris should have gone to New York in particular. Fox was more than familiar with the ways of the criminal fraternity, in which Harris saw himself as a leading light, and was certain that he would not just have stuck a pin in an atlas. He must have a contact.

  Evans walked through the door reading a file. ‘Ten years ago, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, splendid,’ said Fox and paused. ‘What the hell are you talking about, Denzil?’

  ‘A bloke called Pearson, guv’nor. Charlie “The Rat” Pearson.’

  Fox sighed. ‘Sit down and begin at the beginning, dear boy, will you.’

  ‘About ten years ago, guv, there was an American called Charlie Pearson over here from New York. Attempting to muscle in on the drugs trade. Seems he was in touch with Tango Harris … among others. Well Tango had no interest in the drugs game at that time and tried to point Pearson in the right direction. Didn’t see him as a threat, you see.’ He glanced up. ‘There’s just a brief note on Harris’s file about it, but it all came to nothing. Drugs Squad got word from the FBI and chased Pearson out. End of story.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said Fox and stood up. For some seconds he stared out of the window at the Victoria Street traffic. Then he turned. ‘In that case, Denzil,’ he continued, ‘I reckon the Americans owe us one. Where did this Pearson come from?’

  ‘New York, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Denzil, you said that, but New York’s a big place.’

  Evans hurriedly consulted the file. ‘Manhattan, sir,’ he said at length.

  ‘Excellent.’ Fox sat down again. ‘Find out which police station — or whatever they call them — takes this Manhattan and I’ll give them a ring.’

  ‘How do I do that, sir?’ Evans closed the file, a plaintive look on his face.

  ‘No idea,’ said Fox cheerfully. ‘But you’re a detective. So detect.’

  *

  ‘I had the New York office check it out for you, Tommy.’ Joe Daly turned from the side table with two cups of coffee and set one down in front of Fox.

  ‘Any joy?’ Although Fox had got some information from Harris’s criminal intelligence file, he saw no harm in trying to elicit a little more from the archives of the FBI.

  ‘They confirm it’s a hotel in Manhattan and he’s there. Must be costing him a bomb, I reckon.’

  ‘Does it look as though he’s stopping?’

  Daly shrugged. ‘Who’s to tell. A guy can say he’s going to stay in a hotel for a month and leave the next day … but he’s booked in for two weeks, according to the special agent who did the enquiry.’

  ‘Did your man see Harris … talk to him?’

  ‘Nope. I asked the agent just to make a few enquiries and then leave it alone. I reckon that if we’d interviewed him, he’d have taken off straightaway.’

  ‘And if he leaves, we’ve lost him.’ Fox was furious that Harris had managed to slip through his fingers. He had thought that leaving him until last would make the gang leader think that he was untouchable. But obviously something — or someone — had alerted him to the fact that Fox was closing in. And ironically, the very phone call that had told the police where Harris was could be the cause of his moving on.

  ‘I guess so. But we could arrest him now if you’re prepared to start extradition proceedings.’

  Fox scoffed. ‘I want that bastard at the Old Bailey next month, not in five years’ time, Joe. And with your legal system, he could spin it out for ever. Appeal after appeal after appeal. You never stop over there.’

  Daly laughed. ‘I don’t see how you’re going to get him back any other way.’ And after a pause, added, ‘We could start deportation proceedings. If what you say is true, he’s an undesirable alien.’

  ‘He’s that all right,’ said Fox. ‘But from what I hear, deportation can take as long as extradition. Anyway, how long can he stay if you don’t institute any proceedings? In the States, I mean.’

  ‘Officially, ninety days. The New York office checked with Immigration and they confirmed that he came in as a tourist. That means he had to produce a return ticket, but … ’ Daly shrugged again. ‘So what’s a return ticket? With his record, he’d never have gotten a visa, but as a ninety-day tourist he didn’t need one. Unfortunately, Tommy, the reality of the thing is that once he’s there he can lose himself just by moving about.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fox. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Any information about associates … contacts?’

  Daly shook his head. ‘Nothing, Tommy. I’m sorry.’ For moment or two Fox remained silent, looking round Daly’s office. He was determined not to let on to the American what he knew about Charlie ‘The Rat’ Pearson. ‘I think I’ll go and get the bastard,’ he said at last.

  ‘Now hold on, Tommy. I know how you feel about this scum-bucket, but you can’t just go to New York and kidnap him.’

  ‘Can you put me in touch with a hard-nosed detective at the local police station, Joe?’ he asked, by no means certain that Denzil Evans would find a name to talk to.

  ‘If you mean the precinct house that takes in the hotel,’ said Daly with a smile, ‘then they’re all hard-nosed. Wouldn’t survive else. And sure, I can put you in touch. I’ll make a phone call and let you know.’

  ‘Splendid chaps, you Americans,’ said Fox. ‘But first, I have to talk to a certain young lady from Buckhurst Hill.’

  *

  Fox decided not to waste time going to Buckhurst Hill himself and sent Gilroy and Rosie Webster to bring Melody and Trevor the butler to Rochester Row police station.

  Melody was not happy. And some of Harris’s aggressive influence had obviously rubbed off. ‘I want to know why I’ve been brought her
e,’ she began truculently. ‘And secondly, I want Mr Harris’s solicitor sent for … immediately.’

  ‘You know that Tango’s not coming back, I suppose,’ said Rosie, ignoring Melody’s tantrum.

  ‘Of course he is.’

  ‘Why did you lie to the police when you said that you didn’t know where he was, Melody?’

  ‘I didn’t know and I don’t know now.’

  ‘He’s in a hotel in New York, which you well know, because you telephoned him there the night before last and spoke to him. So how come you say you don’t know where he is?’

  Melody’s eyes opened wide. ‘How did you know that?’ she asked.

  Rosie ignored the question. If the girl was too dim to work it out for herself, Rosie wasn’t going to help her. ‘He’s not coming back, you know.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘And you’re quite happy to wave goodbye to him and this rich life you’ve been living, are you?’

  ‘He’s going to send for me. We’re going to live in Florida.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘Oh, you poor innocent child,’ she said. ‘Tango’s there on a ninety-day visit and there’s no way he’d get a residency permit … not now we’ve given them details of his record. The New York police have been keeping him under observation for us. And he’s already shacked up with some gorgeous American bimbo—’ The last part wasn’t true, of course, but Rosie didn’t see why she shouldn’t discomfit Melody a little bit more.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Rosie smiled sympathetically. ‘He won’t be sending for you, my love. The moment my guv’nor asks them, the New York police will lock him up pending extradition proceedings.’

  ‘But I—’ Suddenly the girl began to realize that her artificial life with Tango Harris was not as idyllic as she had at first thought. And that, apart from anything else, it had come to an abrupt end.

  Rosie lit a cigarette. ‘Face up to it, Melody, you’ve been used. And you’re not the first. Tango Harris picked you up because he fancied your body and now he’s discarded you — like he did Penny Sinclair — because you’ve become an encumbrance to him and his business. And he’s found someone he likes better. You’re history, my love. The next time you see him will be when you’re in the dock at the Old Bailey … playing Ethel Le Neve to his Doctor Crippin.’