by Graham Ison
‘I see,’ said Fox. ‘It wasn’t Donald Dixon by any chance?’
Benson shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said.
‘Well, perhaps you’d be so good as to give us her present address.’
‘I’m afraid that I’ve no idea where she is,’ said Benson. ‘And quite frankly,’ he added bitterly, ‘I don’t care.’
But Fox had one more question to ask. ‘What was your wife’s maiden name, Mr Benson?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Benson. There was a blank expression on his face and he spoke listlessly. ‘But her married name was Meadows.’
And that appeared to be that. Fox knew from years of experience that he would have to be satisfied with the limited replies he had got so far. But it was something. A few inches further on. Benson had obviously been badly shaken by Fox’s revelations, and would take some time to digest them. In time, he might remember something else, but that would have to wait. Fox was acutely aware that he was in a foreign country, and in the presence of a local police officer. In London he would probably have removed Benson to the nearest police station. Right now, he would just have to leave it. But Fox was a wise and patient detective. The information he required would come in time. Of that he was sure.
But he had far from dismissed the possibility that Benson was implicated.
*
‘Some more of the jewellery’s turned up, sir.’ DS Crozier appeared in Fox’s office the day after the latter’s return from France.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Fox.
‘It was flogged to an unsuspecting jeweller but when he tried to lay if off, someone told him it was bent, sir. Enquiries were made through Interpol, and it turns out that some of it came from our hotel heist.’
‘Through Interpol?’ Fox frowned. ‘Where does this innocent jeweller have his premises, then?’
Crozier looked hesitant and moved towards the door. ‘Nice, sir.’ He paused. ‘It’s in the South of France.’
‘I know where Nice is,’ said Fox darkly. ‘I’ve just come back from the bloody place. Incidentally, how are we getting on with identifying the jewellery found in the coffin?’
‘Slowly, sir. Most of the losers have gone back from whence they came … like America, France and Saudi Arabia.’ Crozier grinned. ‘It’s a mammoth task, you know.’
Fox looked gloomy. ‘Why do I always have the difficult jobs?’ he asked.
‘That’s life, sir.’ Crozier refrained from pointing out that all the hard work was being done by Fox’s subordinates. And most of it by Detective Sergeant Crozier.
*
Fox’s Ford Granada stopped in front of the Harleys’ Kingston Hill house and he and Gilroy alighted. Fox had decided to have another talk with Susan Harley, mainly to check her story. It was an old theory. If her second account was inconsistent with her first, then there was a strong possibility that she was not as innocent as she had first claimed.
‘Looks sort of deserted, Jack.’
‘Does a bit,’ said Gilroy, pressing the bell-push.
There was no answer, and Fox walked along the front of the house and peered into one of the windows. ‘The furniture’s gone, Jack. That bitch has done a runner.’ He sounded outraged. ‘I reckon she knows more than she’s told us,’ he added ominously.
‘Racing certainty, guv,’ said Gilroy helpfully. ‘Perhaps we should have charged her.’
‘Regrettably, Jack, we had nothing with which to charge her. The fact that she might know that her old man’s a villain does not at present constitute an offence known to English law … unfortunately.’
‘Could have a chat with the neighbours,’ said Gilroy.
‘Oh, do leave off, Jack. You can’t even see any other houses from here. What are they going to tell us?’
‘Just a thought, sir.’
Fox stood with his hands in his pockets, staring morosely at the perfect gardens. ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Get Crozier to do the rounds of the local estate agents. See if any of them have got it on the market. I know that Harley’s thieved a few quid in his time, but surely to God he wouldn’t walk away and leave a drum that must be worth damn’ near half a million.’
Gilroy shrugged. ‘Be a London agent, I should think, for a gaff this size,’ he said. ‘Or an advert in one of those glossies … like Country Life.’
Fox nodded. ‘Could well be right, Jack,’ he said. ‘But tell Crozier to give it his best shot. In the meantime, get a warrant and do the place. Fingerprints are what we’re after.’
*
‘I’ve spent several hundred pounds of the Commissioner’s money on telephone calls, sir,’ said Crozier, appearing round the door of Fox’s office.
‘Congratulations, Ron. I’ll tell him. But what’s the result?’
‘Zilch, guv.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, sir. I’ve tried every estate agent in the Kingston area and practically every agent in London who might handle that sort of property. Nothing.’
‘Sod it,’ said Fox and stood up. ‘Tell you what, Ron, try the removal companies. See if you get any joy there.’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Oh, wonderful!’ said Fox sarcastically. ‘You going to tell me about it, then?’
‘A firm in Wimbledon’s got their furniture in store. Moved it out of the house a few weeks ago.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Mrs Susan Harley paid for six months’ storage in advance, sir. Said that she would contact them again before the period was up.’
‘Leave an address, did she, Ron?’
‘Yes, sir. Her bank.’
*
It took four days to get a result from Fingerprint Branch. A day to examine the house thoroughly, and three days to do an intensive search of fingerprint records. On the fifth day, Sam Marland, a senior fingerprint officer, sauntered into Fox’s office.
‘Well, Sam? Got good news, have you?’
Marland grinned and laid some files on the edge of Fox’s desk. ‘Depends what you mean by good news, Tommy,’ he said. ‘We found dozens of marks, but only two sets that meant anything.’
‘Go on then, ruin my day.’
Marland pushed a couple of files towards Fox. ‘These were found in various places in the Harley house, and we’ve ID’d them.’
‘Really?’ Fox showed a spark of interest. ‘Whose are they?’
‘Would you believe Jim Murchison’s and the bloke down the hole at Cray Magna,’ said Marland. ‘The bloke you say is Donald Dixon.’
*
‘It seems that the jewellery was sold in Nice about four weeks ago, sir,’ said Gilroy. ‘But not all of it came from our job. There’s some yet to be identified.’
Fox looked at his desk calendar. ‘So …’ he said slowly. ‘That means that it was knocked out about a week after Harley’s funeral … or rather the funeral of one Donald Dixon. Whoever he might be. And it could mean that there’s been another heist we know nothing about.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Is it Ronsard at Nice who’s handling this job, Jack?’
Gilroy shrugged. ‘Don’t know, sir. It doesn’t say on the message. But probably not or he’d have mentioned it when we were there, surely?’
‘Never mind, give him a bell — Pierre Ronsard, I mean — and get him to have a chat with this French jeweller. See if he can get any further details. Like who flogged him this gear. Description. Anything like that. You know the form, Jack.’ Fox glanced at his watch. ‘And then I think we’ll pop down to Brixton and have another little chat with friend Murchison. I’ve got a feeling that he knows more than he’s saying. Time we rattled his bars a bit.’ He paused. ‘We’ll get him to look at the photo of our Donald Dixon. That should get him going.’
*
‘Never seen him before,’ said Murchison after a brief glance at the photograph.
‘Really?’ said Fox. ‘I wondered if it was the hood who chatted you up in a pub in Dulwich and invited you to participate in a jewellery heist for a
n inadequate fee.’
‘I said before, I never knew it was a jewellery job,’ said Murchison. ‘Anyway, who is he? Got him banged up in here, have you?’
Fox grinned. ‘Oh, do leave off, Jim. I’ve got him banged up all right … in the deep-freeze. When we found him he had three very painful holes in his chest.’
‘You what?’
‘Don’t play the innocent with me,’ said Fox. ‘Right now you’re well in the frame for topping him.’
Murchison leapt to his feet with such violence that his chair almost fell over. His face had gone white and his fists were clenching and unclenching with an agitated rhythm. ‘You’re not laying no bloody topping on me,’ he said, his voice choking with fury.
‘Sit down, you prat,’ said Fox, ‘and stop play-acting.’ Murchison sat down abruptly. ‘Look at it from my point of view,’ continued Fox conversationally. ‘You, a male anon and a blonde woman blag a hotel for about a hundred K. They do a runner but we nick you. And then, lo and behold, we find a body in a coffin in a churchyard two hundred miles away. And, would you believe, it was the body of the said male anon who took part in the heist aforementioned and whom you spirited away from the scene in a motorcar which you subsequently scuttled in the River Thames.’
‘That’s a load of balls,’ said Murchison. ‘I don’t know sod-all about it. I told you, I dropped the pair of them off at Marble Arch, and I never saw neither of them again. As for him,’ he said gesturing at the photograph of the unknown of Cray Magna, ‘I tell you I’ve never seen him before.’
Fox’s face took on a pitying expression. ‘If I was in your shoes, James,’ he said, ‘I should consider my position very carefully.’ ‘Sod off,’ said Murchison.
Fox stood up and grinned. ‘See you again soon,’ he said. ‘In the meantime you take good care of yourself.’
*
‘What d’you reckon, guv?’
‘Murchison knew that was Dixon all right, Jack,’ said Fox, ‘but until we get some decent evidence to screw him down with, he’s just going to sit in Brixton laughing like a drain. We haven’t even got an ident that’ll put him at the scene of the heist, and although I’m happy with the fingerprint that tied him to the car, Marland says he can’t get sixteen points off it that’ll even put him down for nicking it. All right, he’s put his hands up to it, but Murchison’s right when he says that it’s only worth a carpet.’ He shook his head gloomily. ‘Frankly, I’ll be surprised if he even gets that. It’s a sad business, Jack.’
‘Why didn’t you put Dixon’s name to him, guv?’
Fox looked at his DI sharply. ‘Never show your hand, Jack,’ he said. ‘We’ll let the bastard sweat. And we’ll let him think we’re floundering.’
‘Well, aren’t we, sir?’ said Gilroy.
*
‘Ronsard says that the jeweller doesn’t remember much about the woman who sold him the stuff, guv’nor, except that she was English, a blonde, youngish and good-looking.’
‘Aha!’ said Fox, pleased that his detective instincts were still on course. ‘What a coincidence. And do we have a precise date for this business transaction, Jack?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gilroy. ‘The second of August. It was a Thursday,’ he added helpfully.
Fox stared at his DI for some seconds. ‘Really?’ he said eventually. ‘That’s particularly useful. A Thursday, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Gilroy looked puzzled. ‘Does that have some significance, then?’
‘None whatsoever, Jack.’
*
‘How far is Nice from Cannes, Jack?’
‘About twenty miles, sir,’ said Gilroy promptly.
Fox looked suspiciously at his DI. ‘You’ve just looked that up, haven’t you?’
*
‘Runs a second-hand car business in south-east London, guv. Lewisham way,’ said DS Crozier.
‘Who does?’ Fox looked malevolently at the sergeant. ‘I do wish people wouldn’t come into my office talking in riddles and expecting me to understand what they’re going on about,’ he added.
‘Ozzie Bryce, sir. The bloke I said used to run with Jim Murchison.’
‘Ah! Lewisham, eh?’ Fox smiled. Nastily. ‘I think we’d better pay Mr Bryce a visit. Nip up to Horseferry Road and get a “W”. And tell Mr Gilroy to assemble a team.’ Fox rubbed his hands together. There was nothing that he enjoyed more than executing a search warrant on the premises of a dodgy car dealer.
‘Yes, sir.’ Crozier went. There was nothing he liked less than going to a magistrates’ court to get a search warrant. Or a ‘W’, as Fox insisted on calling it.
Chapter Ten
The one thing that Tommy Fox could never do was disguise the fact that he was a policeman. Despite the elegance of his dress, it was the confidence of his step, the expression on his face — a mixture of arrogance and pity — and the direct, granite-like gaze that tended to alert the wicked to the disconcerting fact that the Old Bill had come among them. And so it was now.
‘Which one of you is Oswald Bryce?’ Fox stood in the doorway of the office and examined the two seedy men who were seated behind the desks. Each wore a shabby suit, and one of them had a smudge on his top lip that could have been mistaken for a moustache. Their furtive expressions implied that they were more than familiar with dubious business transactions and had never in their lives paid full price for anything.
‘I am. Who wants to know?’ The question was rhetorical. Bryce knew perfectly well who wanted to know.
But Fox knew anyway. He had studied the photograph on Bryce’s file before he had left the office. ‘Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad.’
‘Oh!’ said Bryce.
‘Thought you might say something like that,’ said Fox. He looked round the dilapidated office and cast a loving eye in the direction of the filing cabinet where he knew, by instinct, he would find documents relating to the forlorn group of cars that stood on the forecourt.
‘You won’t find anything dodgy here, guv’nor,’ said Bryce nervously.
Fox sat down. ‘You own this little set-up, do you?’ he asked, well knowing that to be the case.
‘Yeah.’
‘When did you last see Jim Murchison?’
‘Who?’
Fox remained silent and leaned back in his chair. Slowly he took a cigarette from his case and lit it. Then he watched the spiral of smoke drifting towards the ceiling before levelling his gaze, once more, at the car dealer.
‘Er — well, not lately,’ said Bryce.
‘How much not lately?’
Bryce appeared to give the matter some thought, then he glanced at his business partner. ‘Must be about a year, I should think, wouldn’t you, Sid?’
Fox pointed his cigarette at Sid. ‘And who is that?’ he enquired.
‘That? Oh, that’s Sid Meek —’
‘Meek, eh?’ Fox smiled. It was disconcerting. ‘How interesting. And where do you fit into this establishment?’ he asked the other man.
‘I’m — well — like, I’m an associate.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Fox as though much impressed by this particular crumb of information. ‘And how long have you been an, er … associate, may I ask?’
‘Couple of months, I s’pose,’ said Meek.
‘Then how would you know that it was a year since your partner — your co-associate, as one might say — had seen Jim Murchison?’
‘Well, I —’
‘You too are a friend of the said Murchison, then, is that it?’
‘Well, I sort of know him.’
‘Sort of know him. I see.’ Fox savoured that. ‘And how would you sort of know him, may I ask?’
‘Sort of seen him around, you know.’ Meek struggled on.
‘When, for instance?’
‘Can’t rightly remember.’ Meek scratched his temple with a grubby forefinger and assumed a frown that suggested he was giving the matter his complete and undivided attention.
‘What’s this about?’ asked Bryce, boldly t
aking the conversation back, but trying to sound helpful rather than hostile.
‘This, Oswald, dear boy, is about murder.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ Bryce paled slightly. ‘Not Jim. You don’t mean he’s been topped, surely.’
Fox grinned owlishly. ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘But given the company he keeps I daresay it’s only a matter of time.’
‘Well who, then?’
‘A gentleman by the name of Donald Dixon,’ said Fox. ‘I give him the courtesy of calling him a gentleman only because he had no previous convictions … unlike you.’ He turned to Meek. ‘Or you,’ he added.
‘I —’ began Meek.
‘And before you say anything else, Sidney, I got my sergeant to look you up.’ It was true. Before he had ventured into the hinterland of South-east London, Fox had made a point of reading up Meek’s criminal biography. And he had known that Meek was in partnership with Bryce even before he had got Meek to admit it.
‘Look,’ said Bryce. ‘I’d like to help, but —’
‘Where did you get the hearse that Jim Murchison used?’ Fox dropped the question quietly into the conversation. It landed like a boulder hitting a smooth duck pond.
‘Hearse? I don’t know anything about a hearse.’ Bryce mashed his cigarette violently into the ashtray and swallowed. Hard.
Fox shrugged and stood up. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to look for it.’
‘Hold on, I —’ Bryce stood up too and waved his hands aimlessly in front of his body.
Fox stepped out of the office and signalled to Gilroy and the rest of the team who were waiting on the road in two of the Flying Squad’s cars. With a panache that only the Squad’s drivers seem able to display, they swept on to Bryce’s forecourt and stopped, effectively blocking both its entrance and exit.
‘Now,’ said Fox, turning to face Bryce once more. ‘The Horseferry Road magistrate has this day granted me a warrant to search these premises.’ He wafted a piece of paper under Bryce’s nose. ‘Unless you feel like talking about this hearse …’ It was what Gilroy called a leap in the dark. Fox had no evidence to indicate that Bryce — or Meek, for that matter — knew the first thing about the so-called funeral of Thomas Harley, but Fox knew villains. For more than twenty years he had pursued and harried them relentlessly, and he knew their nefarious ways as a formicologist will unerringly chart the habits of ants.