Tomfoolery

by Graham Ison

  ‘You must be joking,’ said the hall porter in alarm.

  Rosie looked pointedly out of the window. ‘Ah, good,’ she said. ‘My car and driver are still there.’ She turned back to the hall porter. ‘D’you want to slip a mac on over your uniform before we go, Charlie?’ she asked.

  ‘All right, all right.’ Charlie held up his hands in an attitude of surrender.

  ‘I knew you’d see it my way,’ said Rosie.

  *

  Rosie Webster dialled the number of the Operations Chief Inspector at West End Central police station. ‘Hallo, guv,’ she said when the chief inspector answered, ‘I’ve got a snippet of information for you about a naughty hall porter at a certain hotel not a million miles from where you’re sitting.’

  ‘It’s a terrible waste of my time, going over all this again, Jim,’ said Fox, ‘but I am known to be an exceedingly fair man.’

  James Murchison looked at the detective doubtfully. ‘Oh, yeah?’

  ‘Indeed, Jim.’ Fox smiled at the prisoner.

  ‘What about Sandra?’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘What’s happened to her?’

  ‘Oh, we threw her out. Not connected.’

  ‘Well, I told you that,’ said Murchison.

  ‘Indeed you did, Jim, but unfortunately we can’t just take the word of a small-time villain like you. We have to check these things, you see. But as it happened, you were quite right.’ Fox leaned closer, like a Harley Street consultant about to discuss a rather unsavoury complaint with a rich patient. ‘In fact, Jim, she was getting her arse screwed off by some rich Arab in a West End hotel not very far from another West End hotel where you were doing some screwing of an entirely different nature.’

  ‘You’re putting me on.’ Murchison’s hands had started to open and close, but whether from fear or anger was not entirely clear.

  ‘Alas, Jim, it’s true,’ said Fox, who never saw any point in giving aid and comfort to the villainry. ‘And she got a grand for her pains.’ He smiled owlishly. ‘And I do mean pains. Twenty-four hours she was at it.’ He paused for a moment, calculating. ‘By my reckoning that works out to roughly forty-two quid an hour. Not a bad rate of pay, that.’

  ‘I’ll bloody kill her,’ said Murchison.

  Fox tutted. ‘Now, now, Jim. I have to point out that a threat to murder constitutes a criminal offence, but as I said earlier I’m an eminently fair man, so I’ll overlook it on this occasion. But be warned.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Now then,’ he continued, ‘about this heist in which you played a not insignificant part …’

  ‘Don’t know nothing about it.’

  ‘A hundred grand is a pretty big one, Jim,’ said Fox as if the other had not spoken.

  ‘How much?’ Murchison’s eyes opened wide.

  Fox whistled softly. ‘That was very good, Jim, the way you did that. Almost as if you didn’t know. And how much did you get out of it, eh?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. All right, so I nicked a car. So what? What’s that, a carpet at worst?’

  ‘Three months is a very conservative estimate of the amount of porridge you’re lined up for, Jim,’ said Fox. ‘But the thing that astounds me’ — he glanced reflectively at the walls of the interview room — ‘is the number of poor little buggers like you who get sod-all out of a job and are then prepared to stand it all on their tod.’ He turned to Gilroy. ‘Often said that, haven’t I, Jack?’

  ‘Indeed you have, guv’nor.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Fox, looking at Murchison once more. ‘What did you get for that little bit of wheel-artistry? Not that it was up to much, from what I hear. The management of the hotel were apparently quite aggrieved at the amount of rubber you left on their nice clean forecourt.’

  ‘I’m telling you, copper —’

  ‘The interesting thing, Jim, is that there were at least three other people involved.’

  ‘Two,’ said Murchison without thinking.

  ‘Well, well.’ Fox beamed at Murchison and leaned forward. ‘So tell me.’

  ‘I keep telling you, I don’t know nothing about no jewellery heist.’

  ‘Then how did you know how many people were involved, dear boy?’

  ‘It’s what you said,’ said Murchison lamely.

  ‘I said three.’

  ‘No, before that. You said two.’

  Fox shook his head. ‘Now listen, my friend. The Jaguar XJ6 that you dumped in the river had your fingerprints on it, in parts of the said vehicle that prove categorically that you were the driver. I’ve already told you that. And you are going on the sheet for stealing that elegant vehicle. And you’re going on the sheet for stealing a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of jewellery. Although we have recovered the car, we haven’t recovered the jewellery. Now that’s not very helpful. But if you insist that no one else was involved you can have it all by yourself.’ Fox folded his arms and gazed at the prisoner. ‘And, for your information, judges’ wives always seem to own a lot of jewellery, and they seem to stay in hotels quite a lot. Get my drift, Jim?’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, sir,’ said DS Crozier, as he opened the door of the interview room.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Thought you might want to see this message.’ Crozier held out a computer printout. ‘Came in a couple of minutes ago.’

  Fox read the message twice, slowly shaking his head as he did so. ‘Interesting,’ he said, handing it back to Crozier.

  ‘Want me to do anything, sir?’

  ‘Not for the moment, Ron.’ Fox faced Murchison again. ‘Things are definitely worsening, Jim,’ he said, a sympathetic expression on his face. By Fox’s standards there was great profit to be derived from receiving arcane and significant information in the middle of an interrogation and he was a great one for leaving his suspects with something to worry about. As he often said, it tended to concentrate their minds wonderfully.

  ‘What the bloody hell are you talking about?’ The naked fear was quite apparent on Murchison’s face. He knew all about the Flying Squad and their methods, and had a terrible premonition that he was about to get stitched up.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Fox. ‘I do believe you’re going to be awkward.’

  ‘You’re trying to con me into making a statement,’ said Murchison.

  ‘If you make a statement,’ said Fox airily, ‘it’ll be entirely of your own free will.’

  ‘You’re trying to lean on me,’ said Murchison. ‘And that’s what my mouthpiece’ll say.’

  Fox scoffed. ‘Lean on you,’ he said. ‘Believe me, my dear James, if I was leaning on you, you’d be under no illusions about it.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘The Department of Social Security have turned up a bit more on Harley, sir. They’d already been approached by Kingston CID and gave them the information about the insurance brokers where he worked, but now they’ve found a trace of him at another West End hotel where he was working until about a year back. Left suddenly.’

  ‘What have you done about it, Jack?’

  Gilroy grinned. ‘Ordered a car, sir. I’m going up there now.’

  ‘Good. And when you’ve done that, go and see these insurance brokers and see what you can dig up there.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d know all about Tom Harley,’ said the impeccably dressed hotel manager.

  ‘You would?’ Gilroy frowned.

  ‘Surely you remember the robbery we had here about a year ago, Inspector.’

  ‘Not offhand, no.’ Gilroy was always amazed that people in London expected detectives to be familiar with every crime that had been committed in the capital over the last twenty years.

  ‘We had about ten thousand pounds taken from the safe one night. Obviously an inside job.’

  ‘Was that proved?’

  ‘No one was ever arrested, if that’s what you mean,’ said the manager. ‘But it was proved to my satisfaction. Harley was employed here as an assistant manager and he had access to the saf
e. He was on night duty that night and in the morning ten thousand pounds had gone. And so had Harley. That’s good enough for me.’ The manager gazed cynically at Gilroy as though he were not awfully bright.

  ‘You don’t know who investigated it, I suppose?’ asked Gilroy, hoping to save himself a search of records.

  The manager pursed his lips, thinking. ‘Some fellow from Savile Row,’ he said slowly. ‘Can’t remember his name …’ He paused again. ‘Brace? Could it have been Brace?’

  ‘Gavin Brace. Detective Chief Inspector at West End Central?’ said Gilroy.

  ‘That’s the chap. He’ll put you in the picture.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Gilroy. ‘And you’ve never seen or heard of this Harley again?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. Believe me, you chaps would have been the first to know if I had.’

  ‘Have a look at this photograph, will you?’ Gilroy produced the golf club print.

  ‘Yes, that’s him,’ said the manager without a moment’s hesitation. ‘You’ve found him, then?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Gilroy, ‘but we’re working on it.’

  *

  Detective Chief Inspector Gavin Brace ran a hand through his thick grey thatch of hair and made a big show of looking behind him. ‘I always get nervous when the Squad come wandering into my nice, quiet little nick,’ he said.

  ‘Quiet? West End Central. Do me a favour, guv,’ said Jack Gilroy. ‘I wanted to talk to you about a finger called Thomas Harley.’

  ‘Do you indeed?’ said Brace. ‘Better shut the door and pull up a chair, then.’ He produced a bottle of Scotch and two glasses from the bottom drawer of his desk and poured a liberal measure into each. ‘Are you going to tell me you’ve found him, Jack?’

  ‘I should be so lucky. No, but we’ve got him in the frame for another job.’

  ‘The jewellery heist?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  Brace grinned. ‘I’m glad you copped that and not me,’ he said. ‘I’ve quite enough on my plate without grieving foreigners wanting their tomfoolery recovered before they go home.’

  Gilroy took a sip of Scotch. ‘Fat chance of that,’ he said, ‘but an early arrest is anticipated.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Brace grinned. ‘What can I tell you about Harley, then?’

  Gilroy outlined what the Flying Squad had learned about Thomas Harley so far. ‘I’d just like a bit of background on this safe job, guv. Might help to fill in the gaps.’

  ‘Straightforward, really,’ said Brace. ‘Except that we can’t find the bastard. He’d been employed as an assistant manager at this place for nearly a year. Eleven months, perhaps. No complaints about him up to the time the safe got screwed. Anyhow, friend Harley was night duty manager. The assistant managers take it in turn. Usual thing for big hotels …’

  ‘And had the key of the safe, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Brace. ‘Quite simply, when the day assistant manager turned up to take over, Harley had gone … and so had ten grand from the safe.’

  ‘What about the keys?’

  ‘Cunning bastard had taken those with him,’ said Brace. ‘So that he’d delay discovery. The manager had the only other set and he didn’t arrive until about nine. It would have been later, but they tried ringing Harley first — no answer — so then they rang the manager. Not best pleased, he wasn’t.’

  Gilroy laughed. ‘Sounds a bit like that business last year. That nick north of the river. D’you remember? Sixty quid of prisoners’ property went adrift from the station safe.’

  Brace laughed. ‘Yeah, I heard about it. Panic for twenty-four hours and then they found it in the chief superintendent’s safe. Some stupid skipper had forgotten to enter it in the book.’

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Gilroy. ‘You got nowhere, I presume?’ Brace shook his head. ‘No. We knew who we were looking for, but he just vanished. Put it in Police Gazette and Informations, but nothing. Tried the DSS at Newcastle and the DVLA at Swansea, and everywhere else we could think of.’

  ‘If only the Uniform Branch at Kingston had thought to do a computer search when Harley first went missing, we’d’ve been ahead of the field … slightly,’ said Gilroy. ‘The DSS said he used to be an insurance broker.’

  ‘That’s right, but he wasn’t there any more, obviously. They didn’t know where he’d gone, but they seemed to think he was out of the insurance business.’

  ‘Sounds as though he’s insuring himself now,’ said Gilroy. ‘Yeah, does a bit. But that still didn’t help. So when you find him, Jack …’

  Gilroy waited until he had reached the door. ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, guv,’ he said. ‘But for the past four years Harley has belonged to a golf club in the Richmond area. Under his own name.’ He shut the door quickly enough to drown Brace’s cry of anguish.

  *

  ‘How far’s that hotel from the one where the heist was, Jack?’

  ‘About twenty minutes’ walk, sir,’ said Gilroy.

  ‘Is it indeed?’ said Fox. ‘Now that’s what I call taking the piss.’

  ‘Shall I get the Devon and Cornwall police to make a few enquiries about this moody funeral, sir?’

  ‘No thank you, Jack,’ said Fox, adjusting his tie, a beautiful silk creation he’d picked up at Liberty of Regent Street. ‘You see, what will happen is that they will go round there, trampling all over the place, metaphorically, of course, and they will doubtless obtain a statement. But because they are not conversant with the intricacies of the enquiry’ — he paused, savouring the phrase — ‘… they will not ask all the relevant questions. The result is that we will have to go down there and do the business ourselves. So we might as well do it from scratch … So get on the blower to this vicar of Bray —’

  ‘Cray, sir.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s the vicar of Cray. Cray Magna, sir.’

  Fox stared briefly at Gilroy. ‘If you say so, Jack, if you say so. Anyway, get on to him and tell him that he’s been specially selected for a visitation.’

  *

  The chief security officer at the insurance broker’s office was a retired detective sergeant called Stan Druce. He had forgotten how busy working policemen were and all he wanted to do was talk about old times and old friends.

  But Gilroy had a lot on his plate. ‘This Harley, Tom Harley, who used to work here, Stan. What can you tell me? I spoke to some clown in personnel, but he either didn’t know or didn’t want to say.’

  Druce scoffed. ‘Funny lot up there,’ he said, shutting the door of his minute office. ‘Want a cup of tea, Jack?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m a bit pushed.’

  ‘Yeah, I s’pose so,’ said Druce. ‘Job’s changed, hasn’t it? To be perfectly honest, I’m glad I’m out of it.’ His wistful expression told Gilroy that that was a lie. ‘Harley.’ He leaned back in his chair, fingertips together, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Went out under a cloud.’

  ‘What sort of cloud? Thieving?’

  ‘No, nothing like that.’ Druce grinned. ‘The gee-gees,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve heard he likes a flutter,’ said Gilroy.

  ‘You can say that again. Word is that he was into the bookies for about fifteen grand. This was about two years ago.’ Druce rocked forward and placed his elbows on his desk. ‘Well, you know how it is, Jack. Once you’ve been in the job you pick up the vibes. One or two phone calls. A snippet here, a snippet there. Know what I mean? Anyhow the upshot was that the partners got to hear about it, and that was that.’

  ‘Gave him the chop, then?’

  ‘Not half. Brokers are terrified of taking risks anyway, but one of their own who’s into the bookies for that much, well …’ Druce inclined his head. ‘Know what I mean, Jack?’ he said again, and tapped the side of his nose.

  *

  ‘I do hope there’s nothing wrong,’ said the vicar of Cray Magna.

  ‘Remains to be seen,’ said Fox without enthusiasm. ‘Tell me about the burial of the late Mr Thomas Harley
. If he is the late …’

  The vicar nervously explored the muddle on his desk until he found a large book and several accompanying pieces of paper. ‘This is the burials ledger,’ he said. ‘Interesting, you know, that a ledger is also a flat gravestone.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Fox. ‘That’s very interesting indeed. I didn’t know that. Did you know that, Jack?’ he asked Gilroy.

  ‘No, sir. Can’t say that I did.’

  The vicar resumed his seat and opened the burials ledger on his knees. ‘Ah, here we are,’ he said. ‘The nineteenth of July.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘The day of Mr Harley’s interment.’

  ‘His what?’

  ‘Interment, Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fox with a grin. ‘For a moment I thought you said internment.’

  The vicar smiled bleakly. ‘It was a perfectly ordinary funeral … except —’

  ‘Except what?’ Fox sat forward, an interested gleam in his eyes.

  ‘Well, it wasn’t handled locally. It was a London firm of funeral directors.’

  ‘Was it really? Well, well. Which one, may I ask?’

  ‘Er, yes.’ The vicar examined his records again. ‘Firm called Marloes … of Edgware Road, I think. I must say that I’d never heard of them.’

  ‘Nor me,’ said Fox, who regarded himself as something of an authority on undertakers in London. ‘Do go on.’

  ‘I got a telephone call about four days beforehand asking if I could arrange the burial of a Mr Thomas Harley.’

  ‘And you were able to fit him in, to coin a phrase.’ Fox grinned.

  The vicar swallowed. ‘Oh, yes. We don’t have that many funerals down here. The residents of Cray Magna have quite a reputation for longevity.’

  ‘Didn’t you think that it was a little strange?’

  ‘Unusual, but not strange.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘They explained that Mr Harley had died from a heart attack … in London, and that it was his widow’s wish that he be buried in the churchyard of the village where he was born.’ The vicar paused. ‘I have known it happen before. Not here, but in my last living.’

  ‘And you didn’t question it? Didn’t, for instance, examine your parish registers to see if, in fact, Harley had been born in the parish?’