by Graham Ison
‘Seems reasonable for a receptionist,’ murmured Gilroy, but the humour was lost on Hawkins. ‘You had occasion to be dissatisfied with him, did you?’ he asked.
‘No …’ Hawkins drew the word out. ‘But there was just something about him that made me feel uneasy.’
Gilroy dismissed that as Hawkins being wise after the event. ‘We’ll look into it, Mr Hawkins, just in case there’s any connection.’
Hawkins shook his head wearily. Recent occurrences had all been a bit too much for him. Added to which, the chairman of the company that owned the hotel had made it plain, in a short and acrimonious interview, that he was not unduly impressed by Hawkins’s management skills. ‘I really don’t understand it. Any of it.’ He shook his head again. ‘The hotel business never used to be like this,’ he added miserably.
Gilroy could see that he was unlikely to make much progress here. ‘Perhaps if I have a word with your personnel manager, he can give me full details,’ he said.
‘Yes, of course.’ Hawkins’s hand moved towards the telephone.
Gilroy stood up. ‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘I’ll pop into his office on the way out.’
*
‘I spoke to some of the staff —’ began Gilroy.
‘Naturally,’ murmured Fox.
‘But there wasn’t much they could add. Wilkins, they said, kept himself very much to himself. He liked a flutter on the gee-gees and he was always willing to give out a few tips about what to back, but he never talked about himself or his family, if indeed he had one.’
‘Got to be something in it, Jack. This Wilkins doing a runner straight after the blagging. It’s too good to be kosher.’ Fox shook his head slowly. ‘Right, then, the plan is this …’ Gilroy looked nervously expectant. ‘First of all, have a look at Wilkins’ room in Earl’s Court, and his home address. Then have a word with the National Insurance people in …’ He paused, flicking his fingers.
‘Newcastle, sir.’
‘Very likely.’ Fox smiled. ‘They might have a record of our Mr Wilkins.’ He sucked through his teeth. ‘We should be so lucky,’ he added. ‘See to it, Jack.’
*
The room in Earl’s Court was clean. Not clean domestically, but clean evidentially. The scenes-of-crime team went over it methodically, but there was nothing. No fingerprints, no tell-tale pieces of correspondence, nothing of a personal nature. In fact, nothing that would indicate that Wilkins had ever been there. Or, for that matter, had ever existed. That view was confirmed by another resident at the hostel who said that he had never seen Wilkins there.
The address in Pimlico where the mysterious Wilkins claimed to have been living when he applied for his job at the hotel did not exist.
‘He’s obviously a bloody villain, guv’nor,’ said Gilroy.
Fox looked pensive. ‘I think you’re probably right, Jack. Find him, there’s a good chap.’
Chapter Two
On the Sunday afternoon following the jewellery theft that was now occupying much of Detective Inspector Gilroy’s time, the police launch that covered that stretch of the River Thames between Teddington Lock and Shepperton was making its way slowly up river. The crew, a sergeant and two constables, gave a friendly wave to a foot-duty PC standing on the embankment and then carried on admiring the numerous young ladies who were stretched out, in the briefest of swimsuits, on the decks and roofs of the cabin cruisers that crowded the river during the holiday season.
But the PC on the bank cupped his hands and shouted. ‘Ahoy, Thames Division,’ he cried.
‘Blimey,’ said one of the river policemen, ‘he must be a Captain Hornblower fan,’ and grabbed a loud-hailer. ‘What’s the problem, mate?’
‘Something in the river,’ shouted the PC.
‘I hope it’s not a body,’ said the sergeant. He was not averse to dealing with dead bodies, in fact they were almost a commonplace, but he was only too aware of how difficult it was to get hold of a coroner’s officer on a Sunday afternoon. He eased the throttle down, put the launch about and edged it into the bank. Then he throttled up again slightly, sufficient to hold the vessel against the current. ‘What’s up, mate?’
‘A bloke in a launch, Sarge,’ said the foot-duty constable, leaning forward and supporting himself against the cabin roof of the police launch, ‘reckons he saw something pretty solid down there.’ He pointed to a spot about four or five yards out from a slipway.
The sergeant yawned. ‘We’ll take a look,’ he said, opening the throttle. The foot-duty PC relinquished his hold of the cabin roof just in time to prevent himself from falling in the water.
‘You’ll have to be a bit sharper than that, skipper,’ said one of the crew with a grin. ‘He got away.’
*
‘It seems,’ said Fox, appearing in the doorway of Gilroy’s office, ‘that our water-borne colleagues have found the car.’ He let go of the message flimsy so that it floated down on to Gilroy’s desk. ‘These villains had the bloody audacity to dump it in the river practically within spitting distance of Kingston nick, in whose station yard it now drips, surrounded no doubt by signs bearing the legend “Preserve for Fingerprint Examination”.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Well, it’d better be,’ he added darkly.
Gilroy glanced at the message. ‘I suppose we might get something out of that,’ he said. ‘Can only have been in the water for three days at most. Could get the local lads to do house-to-house, I suppose.’
Fox shook his head slowly. ‘My dear Jack, the bloody thing was found in a stretch of the river miles from any dwelling. You don’t seriously think that the sort of villainry we’re dealing with would have dumped it in broad daylight with a gaggle of witnesses looking on, do you? Waste of time, that’d be.’
Gilroy shrugged. ‘We’ll get the lab boys to give it a going over then, sir.’
‘Indeed, Jack,’ said Fox. ‘Bring all our scientific resources to bear, eh?’
They came up with a single fingerprint.
‘And whose is it?’ asked Fox.
‘Bloke called Murchison, guv,’ said Gilroy. ‘James Murchison. He’s thirty-five now. Got a bit of form for breaking, but he’s been clean for a while, it seems.’
‘Splendid. Find him, Jack.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gilroy and sighed. But not until the door had slammed behind Fox.
*
At Gilroy’s behest, Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher put himself about. Making use of his string of informants, he let it be known that he was seeking the whereabouts of one Jim Murchison who, it was thought, could assist the police with their enquiries. Nothing happened. No one seemed to have heard of Murchison, or if they had they didn’t know where he was, or if they did they weren’t saying.
*
Detective Chief Inspector Maurice Barker had joined the Metropolitan Police after the momentous decision of a former Commissioner to place the Criminal Investigation Department under the command of the Uniform Branch. Nevertheless, on the basis of received prejudice, it was something that Barker resented.
‘Maurice.’ The chief superintendent in charge of the Kingston Division was a young man, graduate of the Special Course at Bramshill, but, in the view of most of the CID officers at the station, suffered the grave disability of lacking experience. It was a view based upon the fact that he had never been a detective.
‘Yes, sir?’ Barker stopped at the foot of the stairs.
‘That missing person report …’ The chief superintendent paused. ‘Harley, Thomas Harley. Somewhere up Kingston Hill, Coombe Lane, perhaps.’
‘Not seen it, sir.’
‘Oh?’ The chief superintendent raised an eyebrow. It looked like a criticism. ‘Well, perhaps you’d look into it. Seems a strange business.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Good.’ The chief superintendent turned on his heel.
Barker stood on the threshold of the CID office and glared. ‘Missing person. Harley. Who knows anything about it?’
‘That’d be a Uniform job, wouldn’
t it, guv?’ said a detective sergeant, a youngster called Purvis.
‘Not any more it isn’t. Get me the report. Now.’ Barker was not happy.
Moments later DS Purvis appeared in Barker’s office with the Missing Persons file that he had collected from the front office of the police station. He placed it on the desk and turned to go.
‘Hold on,’ said Barker. He scanned the report, made a few notes and then stood up. ‘Take that back to the front office and get the car out. We’re going to see this Mrs Harley.’
‘But, guv —’
‘But guv nothing. Get a move on.’
*
The house lay between Kingston Hill and Coombe Lane. The entrance was guarded by wrought-iron gates, but the drive, which could have taken three cars, was empty. To one side there was a double garage, and on the other, but lying well back, a swimming pool.
‘I should think this drum’s worth a bob or two,’ said Purvis.
Barker grunted before ringing the bell.
Susan Harley was about thirty years of age. She was wearing a shapeless grey tweed skirt and a cream blouse, and her brown hair was straight and short with a fringe. The overall appearance was one of dowdiness, not helped by the unfashionable horn-rimmed glassed she wore.
Introductions over, Barker followed her into the spacious sitting room that looked out on to the landscaped gardens. ‘I’ve come about your husband, Mrs Harley,’ he began.
‘You mean you’ve found him?’ Susan Harley contrived to look anxious and hopeful at one and the same time.
‘No.’ Barker shook his head.
‘Then —’
‘My chief superintendent has directed that the CID make some enquiries.’
‘I see. Well, about time. It was three days ago that I telephoned the police station. Since then I’ve heard nothing.’
‘Mrs Harley,’ said Barker patiently, ‘hundreds of people are reported missing every year. It doesn’t necessarily mean that there is anything suspicious about such disappearances —’
‘But you think there is about this one?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Then why are you —?’
‘Until I have the facts, I shan’t know. Now perhaps you’d tell me about it.’
Mrs Harley leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. ‘I was expecting him home last Thursday, nearly a week ago. He didn’t arrive and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Yes,’ said Barker. ‘That much we have on record at the station.’ He glanced across at Purvis to make sure that he’d started taking notes. ‘You expected him home, obviously?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘And you’ve had no phone call? Nothing like that?’
Susan Harley shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘And when did you last see him? Incidentally, his first name’s Thomas, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ She paused for a few moments. ‘That morning. When he went to work.’
‘What time would that have been?’
Mrs Harley considered the question and then, ‘About half past seven, I suppose.’
‘And that was the last time you saw him or heard from him, was it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where does your husband work, Mrs Harley?’
‘A firm of insurance brokers in the City.’
‘What’s the name of this firm?’
‘Good heavens, I don’t know.’ Susan Harley tidied her fringe with her fingers. It was a nervous gesture and she started to look a little distraught.
‘You don’t know where he works?’ Barker raised his eyebrows.
‘For God’s sake, Inspector, or whatever you are, there are some married couples who don’t know all each other’s business. Why are you treating me like a criminal? All I did was to telephone the police station and tell them that my husband was missing.’ Mrs Harley opened her handbag and rummaged around until she found a tissue. Then she dabbed at her eyes.
Barker waited until she had calmed herself. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Harley, but we do need to know as much as possible about your husband’s life-style. Are you sure that you don’t know where he works?’
Mrs Harley sniffed and put the tissue back in her bag. ‘No,’ she said, ‘except that I think it’s …’ She paused. ‘No, it’s no good. I really can’t be sure.’
Barker tried another tack. ‘Has this sort of thing ever happened before? Your husband going off without telling you, I mean.’
‘No.’ The woman looked up at him, her eyes slightly red. ‘Well, yes, once or twice, but he’s always turned up again. It was usually some sort of urgent business, so he said, but it’s never been as long as this before. And he usually telephoned.’
‘I see. Has he ever been away from home before? When you’ve known where he’s gone, I mean.’
‘Quite frequently.’
‘On business?’
‘Yes. Sometimes.’
‘And sometimes not?’ Barker was puzzled by this woman. She had reported her husband missing but seemed very reluctant to assist in discovering his whereabouts.
‘He was a very keen golfer. He’d sometimes go away for golf weekends.’
‘And where does he play golf?’
‘Over Richmond way somewhere, I believe. I don’t really know.’
‘Richmond?’ Barker sounded surprised. He was not a golfer, but he knew that the famous Coombe Hill Club was on the division and wondered why Thomas Harley wasn’t a member of a club that was practically on his doorstep. Judging by the house, he could certainly have afforded it. But then Barker didn’t know about waiting lists.
‘I’m afraid I’m not much interested in golf.’ Susan Harley sounded resigned to being a golf widow.
‘What about friends?’
‘What about them?’
‘Did he have any?’
‘Well, of course he did. Everyone has friends, but if you mean did I ever meet any, then the answer’s no.’
‘You mean he never brought any of them home, here? Business acquaintances … that sort of thing?’
‘No. We were never great ones for dinner parties, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Did he ever mention any of them … by name?’
Susan Harley gave that some thought. ‘I think there was someone called Frazer …’
‘Was that a surname, or a Christian name?’
‘I really don’t know. I think it was someone he played golf with.’
It was rapidly becoming apparent to Barker that he was not going to get very far with Harley’s wife.
‘D’you know whether he had any enemies? People he may have upset in the course of business. Anything of that sort.’
Mrs Harley looked suddenly alarmed. ‘Why d’you ask that? Are you suggesting that he may have been murdered?’ There was a probing intensity about her question.
Barker wondered about that, but showed no signs that it interested him. Instead, he shook his head and smiled. ‘No, but we have to explore every possibility. D’you have a photograph of Mr Harley, by any chance?’
Susan Harley pursed her lips. ‘Not that I can immediately put my hands on. There might be some old holiday snaps, but I think they’re in a box room somewhere.’
‘It would be helpful if you could look them out, Mrs Harley. Perhaps you could give me a ring at the station.’
‘Yes, all right.’ She sounded hesitant. ‘My husband wasn’t a great one for having his photograph taken, as a matter of fact.’
‘One other thing, Mrs Harley. Did your husband travel to work by car?’
‘Yes. Always.’
‘Can you tell me what sort of car he owns?’
‘A red one.’
Barker smiled patiently. ‘Yes, Mrs Harley, but what make?’
‘Oh, a Ford, I think.’ Susan Harley looked vacantly at the chief inspector. She obviously took little interest in cars.
Barker nodded. ‘And the number?’ he asked hopefully.
&n
bsp; ‘No idea, I’m afraid.’
*
Barker slammed the door of the car and put on his seat belt. ‘There’s something bloody odd about that woman,’ he said, ‘and I don’t think she’s telling us all she knows. Either she’s frightened out of her wits, or she’s covering something up.’ He glanced at his detective sergeant. ‘Did you get the impression that she doesn’t want to find her husband?’ he asked.
‘Funny things, women,’ said Purvis with a wisdom beyond his years.
*
Detective Sergeant Purvis turned out to be much luckier than most CID officers are, or, indeed, ever expect to be. The very first golf club he telephoned in the West London area had one Tom Harley among its members. But the secretary, a Major Carfax, having claimed that at one time during his military service he had been in ‘intelligence’, would not say any more on the telephone. He expressed the view that just because his caller said he was a police officer did not necessarily prove that he was one. It was an argument which Purvis could not refute.
Having attempted to lay the enquiry off on his DCI, only to find that Barker bounced it straight back, Purvis took a car and drove to the club.
‘Major Carfax?’
‘Yes.’
‘DS Purvis, Kingston CID, I telephoned —’
‘Yes, of course. D’you have a —?’
‘Yes,’ said Purvis, and produced his warrant card.
‘Well,’ said Carfax, indicating a chair with a sweep of his hand, ‘what can I do for you?’ He was a bristly sort of man with a clipped moustache, and wore a hacking jacket of a cut that would have drawn Tommy Fox’s unstinting approval.
‘You told me on the phone that Thomas Harley was a member of this club …’
‘Was? He still is.’ Carfax looked enquiringly at the detective.
‘Yes, well that’s just the point,’ said Purvis. ‘He’s missing.’
‘What d’you mean, missing?’
‘Just that. He went to work last Thursday morning and hasn’t been seen since. His wife’s had no phone calls, no letters, nothing.’
‘How very strange.’ Carfax thought about that for a moment or two and fingered his moustache. ‘What d’you suppose has happened to him, then?’