by Graham Ison
‘Billie Crombie?’ Fox looked thoughtful. ‘Refresh my memory, Denzil,’ he said.
‘Billie Crombie was the man who was shot dead at Catford Greyhound Stadium, sir,’ said a thoroughly confused Evans.
‘This is absolutely ludicrous—’ began Harris’s solicitor.
But Fox cut in. ‘Oh yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Mr Blunt’s job.’
‘This is a bloody stitch-up,’ Harris burst out. ‘You set me up with those New York coppers to get me sent back.’
Fox ignored Harris and turned to the solicitor. ‘Have you any idea what he’s burbling on about?’ he asked.
‘My client tells me that he was interviewed by the New York police, Chief Superintendent, and accused of implication in a murder over there,’ said the solicitor, determined not to let Fox have the interview all his own way.
‘Really?’ Fox contrived to look astounded at this proposition. ‘Where on earth did you get that piece of fiction from?’
‘My client informed me on the telephone,’ said the solicitor. ‘When eventually he was permitted to make the call … which is his statutory right.’
‘What an extraordinary thing for him to have said.’ Fox smiled sympathetically at Harris.
‘Do you deny that such an interview took place?’
‘I know nothing about the activities of the New York Police Department,’ said Fox airily, ‘but if anyone is going to answer questions it is your client. Not me.’
‘I have already said that my client has nothing to say.’
‘Pity,’ said Fox. ‘Now then … the questions.’
‘I have said before, and I say again, my client is not answering any questions. But apart from anything else, Mr Harris is now under arrest and you may ask him only such questions that will remove ambiguity, assist in the recovery of stolen property, or to safeguard the life of another. I put it to you that none of those provisions applies.’
‘I entirely agree,’ said Fox mildly. ‘He’s been arrested for conspiracy to murder Billie Crombie and it would be most improper to question him about that. Most improper.’ He smiled helpfully. ‘But he’s not under arrest for the murder of Gina West, a prostitute found murdered in a West End hotel on the twelfth of October last,’ he continued, drawing his list of prepared questions across the table. ‘Now then, if you’re ready, Denzil—’ he glanced quickly at Evans, who was sitting close to the recording machine — ‘you may turn on the Wurlitzer and we shall begin. Mr Harris,’ he said, ‘where were you on the night of the twelfth of October last?’ He looked up expectantly.
‘My client has already answered that question on another occasion,’ said Harris’s solicitor.
And so it went on. Fox asked question after question, not expecting answers … and not being disappointed. He had played this game before and he knew that a blanket refusal to answer any questions would not have the same impact on the jury as if each specific question was repeated in evidence … together with Harris’s refusal to answer it. The questions were sufficiently damning on their own, and Harris’s refusal to answer made them doubly so. But one question got a reply. Fox produced the envelope that Jason Morley had received at his flat in Richmond. ‘I am now showing exhibit “GJ Seventeen” to Mr Harris,’ he said for the benefit of the tape-recording. ‘Do you recognize that letter, or the address which is written thereon, Mr Harris?’
Harris gave the envelope a cursory glance. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t know anyone who lives there. And, to save you asking, I’ve never been to the place in my life.’
‘Excellent,’ said Fox. ‘Do you have the form there, Denzil?’ He reached out a hand.
‘Yes, sir.’ Evans, now on surer ground, produced a printed form and handed it to Fox.
‘This form,’ said Fox, ‘is my authorization for the taking of an intimate sample from your client.’
‘I can tell you now—’
‘Just a moment.’ Fox held up a hand and then swiftly wrote a few details on the form in front of him. After signing it with a flourish, he put his pen down and leaned back in his chair. ‘You have a question?’ He smiled benignly.
‘What d’you want an intimate sample for?’ asked the solicitor. ‘And of what, may I ask?’
‘Semen,’ said Fox, the expression on his face appearing to imply that such a course of action was both obvious and inevitable.
Harris scoffed. ‘I should cocoa,’ he said.
The solicitor frowned at his client and turned his attention to Fox again. ‘Why?’
‘Because Gina West had engaged in sexual intercourse immediately before her death. Almost certainly with her killer. And I intend to submit an intimate sample from your client for DNA analysis, it being my contention that it was your client who murdered Miss West.’
‘You seem to have forgotten that my client furnished an alibi for that date, Chief Superintendent.’ Now it was the solicitor’s turn to smile. ‘Furthermore, you will be aware that an intimate sample cannot be taken without my client’s consent.’ The solicitor paused. ‘And he so refuses.’ He made a note in the book on the table in front of him and looked up. ‘Sections 62 and 65 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act refer … Chief Superintendent.’
‘And you will be aware,’ said Fox, ‘that a jury is entitled to infer guilt from such a refusal. Section 62, sub-section 10, of the same act refers … as I’m sure you’re aware.’ He grinned insolently at the solicitor. ‘Incidentally,’ he added, turning to Harris once more, ‘did you know that Miss West’s post-mortem examination revealed that she was HIV positive?’
‘Do what?’ Harris sat up sharply. White-faced, he gripped the edges of the table and stared at Fox. ‘You’re bloody lying,’ he said.
Harris’s solicitor glanced at the ceiling and groaned … inwardly. Neither reaction was recorded on the tape of course, but then Harris’s solicitor was a shrewd lawyer.
At the end of thirty minutes of almost totally unproductive interrogation, Fox smiled, sat back in his chair, and lit a cigarette. ‘Right, Denzil,’ he said, ‘you may now charge Mr Harris with the murder of Miss Gina West and conspiring with others to murder Mr Crombie. Oh, and let Mr Brace know we’ve cleared up one of his little jobs. Once we’ve done that, we can start talking to Mr Harris about the unfortunate death of Mr Kevin Rix, a number of robberies from lorries, a few cases of living on immoral earnings, one or two dodgy massage parlours, several cases of causing grievous bodily harm … ’ He smiled at the solicitor. ‘Never rains but it pours,’ he said. ‘Much the same in your trade, I suppose?’
*
Morrie Isaacs had been assured that no criminal proceedings would be taken against him and that he had really been in custody for his own protection. He was further assured that Tango Harris and the Crombie brothers were now locked up along with most of their respective henchmen. This last piece of information had a remarkably restorative effect on Morrie Isaacs’s memory and, in what proved to be an unsuccessful attempt to ingratiate himself with the police, he now claimed to be almost certain that he could recognize the malcontents who had thrown petrol bombs into his West End restaurant thereby reducing it to a smoking shell and killing his barman into the bargain.
There was, however, one slight problem. In any crime where proof relies upon identification, it is customary to hold an identification parade. But police cannot submit suspects to this ordeal without their consent.
Gary and Kenny Crombie were ill disposed to assist the police under any circumstances, and when their solicitor advised against such a course of action, they were only too ready to agree with him. After all, that was the sort of the advice they were paying him for. Or the British taxpayer was.
The alternative, in the face of such a refusal, is to hold what is called a group identification. And police, if they think it is warranted, may go ahead and do it … even if the suspects don’t much care for the idea.
Consequently, Detective Superintendent Gavin Brace, a Uniform Branch inspector, two sergeants, and enough officers
to ensure that the Crombies didn’t run away were gathered at Waterloo Underground station in the rush hour.
Standing in a corner, and surrounded by a ring of policemen, the uniformed inspector faced Gary and Kenny Crombie … and their solicitor. ‘Right,’ began the inspector, ‘I’ll tell you what it’s all about. First, Mr Gary Crombie will go up on one escalator and the witness will come down on the other one … ’ The inspector coughed self-importantly. ‘Then we shall repeat the exercise with Mr Kenneth Crombie going up ditto.’
‘I can’t stand heights,’ said Gary Crombie.
The inspector looked at him over the top of his clipboard. ‘There is no need for jocularity,’ he said, and coughed again. ‘This is a serious business.’
At a signal from the inspector, a police officer at the top guided Morrie Isaacs on to the downward escalator at the same time as Gary Crombie was told to start the upward journey. In among the crowds of other passengers were a number of detectives whose task was to prevent the escape of either of the Crombies.
But things did not go quite as planned. As the downward Morrie Isaacs passed the upward Gary Crombie, Crombie waved vigorously at him and shouted: ‘Morrie. Morrie Isaacs. How are you? Long time no see.’
Isaacs, unnerved by this greeting from the suspect, half waved back. ‘Oh, hallo,’ he said lamely.
‘Bloody brilliant,’ said Brace from his vantage point near the booking hall. As the officer in the case, he was allowed no part in the proceedings.
The same thing happened again when it was Kenny Crombie’s turn to go up the escalator. ‘Morrie, darling,’ he yelled. ‘How ya doing? Still churning out that muck you call food, you old poofter?’ And he waved again. Gary and Kenny Crombie were taken from top of the escalator, placed in a police van, and driven straight back to Brixton prison where they were being held on remand.
‘Well?’ asked the uniformed inspector. ‘Did you recognize anyone?’
‘Of course, Officer,’ said Isaacs. ‘I recognized them both. And they recognized me. Didn’t you see them wave?’ He paused and glanced at a man stepping on to the escalator. ‘And that’s the third one,’ he said excitedly. ‘That’s Billie Crombie. Him there.’
‘Bloody brilliant,’ said Brace again and, disgusted with the whole proceedings, turned on his heel.
*
‘It was a blow-out, guv,’ said Brace savagely. ‘I reckon Morrie Isaacs had been got at in stir.’
‘How so?’ asked Fox.
‘We put the Crombies up on a group identification at Waterloo tube station … on the escalators.’
‘And did the bold Morrie Isaacs pick them out?’
‘Couldn’t fail,’ said Brace. ‘Both Gary and Kenny Crombie waved like boy scouts taking their semaphore badge and shouted at the tops of their voices. Isaacs couldn’t have failed to see them. And if that wasn’t enough, he identified some passing bank clerk as the late Billie Crombie.’
‘So their mouthpiece is now going to claim that Isaacs picked them out because they drew attention to themselves, I suppose.’
‘Exactly, sir.’ Brace looked downcast about the whole business.
‘Not to worry,’ said Fox cheerfully. ‘We’ll put Sharon Scrope in the box. She’s willing to testify that she saw Gary and Kenny — and the late Billie — set off to torch Isaacs’s restaurant, and that they came back and told her all about it. They insisted on watching the television news to see if there was a mention of it, so she says.’
Still Brace looked doubtful. ‘D’you reckon she’ll stand up and say all that, guv?’
‘Too true,’ said Fox. ‘She’d do anything to put those two down. By the way, there was something else you ought to know, Gavin.’
‘What’s that, guv?’
‘Sharon Scrope said that Billie told her they’d worn stocking masks when they torched Morrie’s restaurant.’
‘Thanks very much, guv’nor,’ said Brace.
*
‘Randolph Steel, you are charged in that you did murder one William Crombie on Saturday, the twentieth of October, at Catford Greyhound Stadium, against the peace. You are further charged in that you did murder one Kevin Rix on or about the tenth of November, in Greater London, against the peace. Do you wish to say anything in answer to the charges? You are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be put in evidence.’
‘Get stuffed,’ said Randy Steel.
The custody sergeant duly wrote it down.
*
‘D’you reckon you’ll get them down, Tommy?’ Deputy Assistant Commissioner Dick Campbell poured two stiff measures of whisky and placed one in front of Fox.
‘We’ll give it a run, sir,’ said Fox, taking a sip of Scotch. ‘Now that we’ve got all the baddies in custody, most of the not-so-baddies will be prepared to give evidence … I hope.’ He grinned and put his glass down.
‘As a matter of interest, Tommy, how did you manage to persuade Tango Harris to come home?’ asked Campbell.
‘Had a few quiet words with the New York police and they explained the error of his ways, sir. Apparently, he was quite amenable. Wouldn’t surprise me if he became a born-again Christian.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The trial of the surviving members of Crombie Incorporated was a lame affair, and Fox saw it as little more than a programme-filler to precede the main event, the extravaganza of Tango Harris.
The proceedings were enlivened throughout by Arlene Fogg who occupied the dock as she had occupied everything else in life. Bang in the centre. Her two sons flanked her together with those of their cohorts who had not switched allegiance and earned themselves a place in the later, more prestigious, Harris trial.
But the Crombies were beaten before they started. Counsel tried their desperate best to shake the prosecution case, but the jury weren’t having it.
On several occasions, the judge was tempted to have Arlene Fogg removed from the dock for her vociferous outbursts but decided to bide his time until the verdicts were delivered. Then he gave her ten years.
Gary and Kenny Crombie were sent to prison for life for the murder of Harry Dodge, Morrie Isaacs’s barman, and collected quite a few concurrent sentences for other lesser offences.
The small fry went down for anything between eighteen months and ten years.
Sharon Scrope, who was commended by the judge for her courage in coming forward to give evidence, later sent a packet of condoms to each of the Crombie brothers … care of Parkhurst Prison.
And Fox bought a case of Scotch for the Flying Squad.
*
‘The Gina West murder, Tommy,’ said DAC Campbell.
‘Down to Tango Harris, sir. He killed her because she wouldn’t accept him as a ponce, but mainly to send a message to Billie Crombie that he was taking over. She was one of Billie’s girls, you see.’
‘Yes, I know, but have you got enough to get him down for it?’
‘Piece of cake, guv’nor,’ said Fox. ‘Alfie Penrose has admitted that he took out the lease on the flat at Richmond in the name of John Phillips. And he told the solicitor that his previous address was Harris’s place at Buckhurst Hill. Once the John Phillips credit card arrived at Richmond — which was the only reason he’d taken the place — he spun the solicitor this fanny about having to give up the lease for business reasons. But Penrose claims that he was acting on Harris’s orders.’
‘What was the point of all that?’ asked Campbell.
‘It was a sort of double bluff, sir. Harris knew we’d track it straight back to him but he thought that it would be so bloody obvious that we’d think it had to be a setup by Billie Crombie.’
‘But you’ll need more than Penrose’s testimony.’
‘Tango Harris gave us the rest, sir. After he’d killed Gina West, he over-egged the pudding and sent a letter to Crombie at Richmond, knowing bloody well that the Old Bill would get to hear of it. Unfortunately for Harris, he’s not too well up in forensic science. The blank sheet of paper in the envelo
pe bore a couple of nice fingerprints. Harris’s fingerprints. On top of that, he refused an intimate sample, which entitles the court to infer guilt, because it’s pretty certain that it was him who screwed her before he topped her. Or someone did,’ he added with a laugh. ‘The application form for the credit card had a print on it too, and although Fingerprint Branch are sure it’s Penrose’s, there are only seven points of similarity. Not that it matters. Penrose is giving evidence for the Crown.’
*
‘Put up Thomas Walter Harris.’
The full panoply of the law was arrayed in Number Two Court at the Old Bailey. The jury, apprehensive and in awe of the responsibilities that had been thrust upon it, sat silently taking it all in.
Huge masses of paper, the result of hours of painstaking statement-writing by countless detectives, stood in piles on a table in the centre of the courtroom. Alongside the paper mountains was the fearful collection of weaponry that members of Fox’s team had seized from the warehouses at Greenwich and Wanstead and from sundry other places with which Tango Harris was connected, either directly or through the co-conspirators who now crowded into the dock with him. There were revolvers, a rifle or two, four or five sawn-off shot-guns, a sledgehammer that the prosecution hoped to prove had smashed first a man’s hands, then his feet, and finally and fatally his skull. There was an electric drill, said to have made holes in more than one kneecap, or to have been used for unlicensed dentistry, and lastly the small electric generator that had brought incredible suffering to several of Harris’s enemies — usually through their genitalia — among whom, the Crown alleged, was Kevin Rix.
Harris himself was dapper, and ostensibly unconcerned by it all. His light-grey suit, white shirt, gold cuff-links, purple tie, and matching pocket handkerchief all testified to his perceived station as a leader of the criminal fraternity. His immaculately cut hair — what little remained of it — manicured fingernails and horn-rimmed glasses gave the impression of a successful businessman, which is how he saw himself, rather than the worst possible type of villain … which is how Fox saw him. To the casual onlooker, Harris could as easily have been standing trial for some fraudulent breach of company law.
