Tomfoolery

by Graham Ison

  Fox took a sip of champagne. ‘I must be mistaken, then,’ he said, ‘but you look very much like a man called Harley. I’ve got it. There was a picture of him in the papers. Something about him being missing from home.’ He paused, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘Or was it something to do with a jewel robbery …?’ There had been nothing in the papers to connect Harley with a jewel robbery; Fox had made sure of that. But Harley could not be so certain. ‘Perhaps you just look like him,’ added Fox.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Spencer. ‘I’ve only recently returned from the South of France. Been there for some years, as a matter of fact.’ He carefully replaced the bottle in the ice bucket and walked slowly towards the door. Then he paused with his hand on the knob. ‘If there’s anything else, sir, just ring. I’m the waiter for this floor.’

  As the door closed, Fox leaned over and took his personal radio from his briefcase once again. ‘He’s a cool customer, I’ll say that for him, Rosie,’ he said, and then addressed himself to the radio. ‘Henry, this is Fox. Our man’s up and running. Or I’m a Dutchman,’ he added. Then he took another sip of champagne. ‘Good health, Rosie,’ he said. ‘Be a shame to waste this.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, sir, why have you decided not to nick him straightaway?’

  ‘Because, Rosie, I am hoping that he’ll make for his bolt-hole, wherever that is. And that if we wait long enough his blonde accomplice will turn up.’

  DI Henry Findlater’s team of surveillance officers were fanned out around the hotel, covering the service entrances as well as the main door. Findlater was in his element with this type of operation and had spent several years as the officer in charge of one of the Criminal Intelligence Branch’s surveillance units before transferring to the Flying Squad. Fresh-faced and youthful-looking, he had barely met the minimum height limit prevailing at the time he had joined the police. That, added to his portly appearance and the owl-like glasses he wore, made him seem an unlikely policeman. All of which was an advantage to a surveillance officer.

  Nevertheless, the speed at which the bogus waiter departed nearly took them by surprise. It was obvious that he had only paused to strip off his white waiter’s jacket and put on a blazer before running out of the back door of the hotel into the car park. He made his way quickly to a red Ford Escort XR3i and drove off at high speed.

  Swann, eating a sandwich and sitting behind the wheel of Fox’s Granada, saw Spencer’s racing start and smirked. ‘That’s it, my son,’ he said to himself. ‘Give it all you’ve got.’

  But Findlater’s team were a match for the fleeing waiter, and by the time Spencer had cleared Brighton on the A23, the surveillance officers were well placed to maintain observation. One vehicle was ahead of Spencer and two behind. All three changed places from time to time — a system the police called leap-frogging — but just to be on the safe side Findlater had deployed two motorcyclists as well. Each was a former traffic patrol officer and had passed out of the Hendon Driving School with an advanced classification.

  It had obviously not crossed Spencer’s mind that he could have been followed, particularly as Fox had been careful not to reveal that he was a police officer. Nevertheless, he studiously observed the speed limits, and even on the motorway resisted the temptation to drive faster than seventy miles an hour. He certainly had no desire to be stopped by the traffic police.

  At Junction 7, Spencer joined the M25, going clockwise, and merged with the heavy traffic. But Findlater’s men were still with him.

  When Spencer reached Junction 10, still driving impeccably, he turned off the motorway, north towards London. All the time the surveillance officers maintained a running commentary and succeeded in keeping their target in sight.

  Fox and Rosie, meanwhile, had finished their champagne and were being driven by Swann over the same route as that taken by the suspect. From time to time Fox told Swann to slow down; wherever Spencer was going, he would be surrounded by surveillance officers and would not be allowed to escape until Fox arrived.

  After following the A3 for a short distance, Spencer turned off at Pain’s Hill and eventually came to a standstill in the driveway of a secluded house in the countryside around the pretty Surrey village of Stoke d’Abernon.

  *

  It was nearing seven o’clock when Swann drove slowly into the road leading to Spencer’s final destination.

  Fox got out and walked up to Findlater’s car. ‘Well done, Henry,’ he said. ‘Anything to report?’

  ‘He arrived about forty minutes ago, sir. Let himself in with a key. Then we sighted him through the downstairs front-room window. He switched on the lights and just before he pulled the curtains he turned on the television and poured himself a Scotch. Well, I think it was Scotch, sir.’

  Fox grinned, ‘I’ll forgive you if it was cold tea,’ he said. ‘How many of you on this stunt, Henry?’

  ‘I used eight altogether, sir. I hope that was all right.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Fox. ‘Hang on.’ He walked back to his car and opened the boot. Returning to Findlater, he handed him a bottle of Scotch. ‘That’s for your lads,’ he said. ‘But not before you’ve put the cars to bed. You can send them home now. And thanks.’

  Gilroy and Fletcher joined Fox and Rosie Webster. ‘What’s the score, guv’nor?’ asked Gilroy.

  ‘Get the cars out of sight, Jack, then we’ll go and have a chat with our Mr Spencer … or in my case, another chat. I’ve got some scores to settle with him personally.’

  Fletcher was deputed to knock at the front door while the other three remained out of sight.

  After a few moments Spencer opened the door. Since arriving, he had changed into a pair of casual trousers, a shirt, and a sweater with a motif on it.

  ‘Tom Harley?’ asked Fletcher.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Jim Murchison sent me,’ said Fletcher and offered to shake hands. With an involuntary reaction, Harley held out his hand. In one fast flowing movement, Fletcher seized the other’s wrist, jerked it and turned his man so that Harley suddenly found himself with his face against the wall, his arm secured in a painful hammer lock and bar.

  ‘What the bloody hell —?’

  Fox appeared from outside. ‘Well done, Perce. Not bad for an old man.’

  Harley turned his head. ‘Look, I can explain,’ he spluttered, still believing that Murchison’s friends had come to sort him out.

  ‘Oh, you’re going to, my son, believe me,’ said Fox. ‘In fact, you and I are going to do quite a lot of talking.’

  Recognition dawned. ‘Here,’ said Harley, ‘I know you. What’s the problem?’

  ‘The champagne was not chilled to the correct temperature,’ said Fox and beckoned Rosie and Gilroy to come into the house.

  For a moment Harley believed him. ‘You surely haven’t followed me all this way just to —’ He stopped suddenly as the absurdity of his own words became apparent to him. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ he asked.

  ‘Release him, Perce,’ said Fox, ‘and make sure he’s not carrying.’

  Fletcher let go of his prisoner and quickly searched him. Then he stepped back. ‘Clean, guv,’ he said.

  ‘I am Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad,’ said Fox, ‘and you and I have got some serious talking to do. Oh, as a matter of interest, where is your blonde girlfriend?’

  ‘I’m saying nothing,’ said Harley.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Fox. ‘That means she’s expected. Perce, go and loiter in the bushes, there’s a good chap, so that when her ladyship arrives she won’t be tempted to do a runner when she finds that we’re holding a party in her house. She’s got form for doing a runner.’

  Fox led the way into the sitting room, turned off the television and looked round. ‘Do yourself quite well, don’t you, Thomas?’ he said.

  ‘Now look here.’ Harley spoke with an upper-class drawl which Fox presumed was his natural accent. ‘I don’t know what this is all about, but if you haven’t got a search war
rant you’d better get off my premises now.’

  ‘We don’t need a warrant,’ said Fox, still appraising the richly furnished room. ‘You invited us in.’ He met Harley’s gaze. ‘Now sit down and make yourself comfortable. This could take some time.’

  Harley sat down and crossed his legs, looking perfectly composed. ‘What exactly do you want?’ he asked. He had lost none of the coolness that he had displayed when Fox had confronted him in the hotel.

  ‘We have quite a few questions to put to you about certain matters,’ said Fox. ‘But I think it would be a good idea if we waited until your accomplice arrives. When is that likely to be?’

  ‘As you’re so damned clever,’ said Harley, ‘I suggest that you find out. If I remember correctly, I’m not obliged to say anything unless I wish to do so.’

  ‘My word,’ said Fox. ‘You sound as though you’ve been in trouble with the police before.’ But Fox knew that Harley had no criminal record … so far. ‘Or is it that you just watch a lot of television?’ He glanced at the ceiling, apparently in thought. ‘No,’ he continued, ‘it can’t be that, otherwise you’d have muttered some American jargon about reading your rights.’ He looked at Harley and smiled. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you needn’t think that I’m going to sit here all night waiting.’ He turned to Gilroy. ‘We’ll take Mr Harley to Bow Street and lock him up, Jack. Leave a team here and wait for the woman. When you’ve arrested her you can take her to …’ Fox looked thoughtful. ‘Better make it Paddington, I think. Then we can talk to them another day. Next week, even … if it takes that long.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Harley clearly did not like the sound of the arrangements; he was showing his first signs of panic. Until now he had thought that he might be able to talk his way out of whatever the police suspected him of. But then he didn’t know Tommy Fox, and he didn’t know just how much Fox knew. Furthermore, he had never fallen foul of the Flying Squad before. And that, he was about to discover, was a whole new experience.

  ‘They all say that,’ said Fox.

  ‘I tell you, I don’t know this blonde woman you’re talking about,’ said Harley regaining his composure. ‘But I warn you, when I get hold of my solicitor you’re going to have a lot of explaining to do.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fox appeared unconcerned by the threat.

  ‘Yes, really. Forcing your way into my house, assaulting me, holding me prisoner and making threats.’

  ‘Sounds quite serious,’ said Fox conversationally, allowing his glance to travel round the room once more. ‘I must say, Thomas, old fruit, you seem to have done awfully well for a waiter. They obviously pay you handsomely in the South of France. I’m surprised you came back.’

  ‘I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t,’ said Harley with feeling.

  ‘Rosie,’ said Fox suddenly. ‘Have a gander round upstairs. See if you can see any trace of a female resident.’ For the next few minutes Fox ambled about the room humming an unrecognisable tune.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ said Rosie, returning from her examination of the bedrooms. ‘There’s no clothing, no perfume, and nothing in the bathroom that would indicate a woman’s presence.’

  ‘Oh, well.’ Fox shrugged. ‘There’s no future in that, then.’

  Fletcher was called back inside and instructed to send for reinforcements. Within forty minutes of his putting the phone down, six Flying Squad officers in the shapes of Detective Inspector Denzil Evans, Detective Sergeant Crozier and four DCs arrived at the front door of Thomas Harley’s house at Stoke d’Abernon.

  ‘Right,’ said Fox. ‘Got a job for you, Denzil.’ He took a form from his briefcase, filled in a few details and scrawled his signature at the bottom. ‘Just to be on the safe side,’ he said, ‘as we’re in alien territory, there’s a superintendent’s written order to search. So get searching. You know what we’re looking for.’ He held on to the form for long enough to make Evans hesitate. ‘And don’t bugger up any fingerprints, Denzil. They could be crucial in this case.’

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Evans, piqued that Fox should think he needed telling.

  ‘And now,’ continued Fox, turning to Rosie, Gilroy and Fletcher, ‘we shall remove our Mr Harley to Bow Street police station.’

  *

  ‘What d’you make of him, then, guv’nor?’ asked Gilroy in the car on the way back to London.

  ‘Bogus,’ said Fox. ‘Very bogus. Probably the sort of chap who carries a comb.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Detective Inspector Denzil Evans was not greatly taken with being dragged away from a promising observation in order to search some damned house that was not even in the Metropolitan Police District. Particularly as the observation might, just might, have led to the arrest of a villain he had been seeking for some time. But a summons from the head of the Flying Squad was not a thing to be ignored.

  The simple solution, as far as Evans was concerned, was to search the house as quickly as possible. And the only way to do that, without incurring Fox’s wrath for missing something that might be important, was to do it methodically.

  He split his team up and directed them to start with the loft, the garage, the outhouse and the dustbins because in his experience, the lofts, garages, outhouses and dustbins were nearly always the places where searching policemen found what they were looking for. Good, hard, incontrovertible evidence.

  Evans himself, working on the principle that the leader of the team should not add to the confusion by taking part in the search, wandered around the ground floor of the house, looking at various books and ornaments. In the large sitting room he came across Thomas Harley’s grand piano, a huge white instrument. Evans sat down and opened the lid of the keyboard. He rubbed his hands together and with a brief smile of pleasure, started to play a Rifkinesque version of ‘The Entertainer’. To him it seemed eminently suited to the occasion.

  To the accompaniment of Evans’ ragtime, DS Crozier and DC Bellenger climbed reluctantly into the loft and started poking about. And got dirty. But they also got lucky.

  ‘Guv!’ Crozier shouted down through the loft trap. There was no reply. He shouted again and the music stopped.

  ‘What?’ Somewhat irritably, Evans closed the lid of the piano and stood up.

  ‘There’s something in the cold water tank. Up here in the loft.’

  ‘It’s not a ball, about five inches in diameter, attached to the side of the tank by a metal rod, is it?’ asked Evans sarcastically as he mounted the stairs.

  Crozier groaned. ‘No, guv. It looks like a plastic box.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Evans, and climbed the loft ladder.

  ‘Mind you don’t put your foot through the ceiling,’ said Crozier helpfully as Evans joined him.

  ‘I have been in a bloody loft before,’ said Evans. ‘Now, what are we looking at?’

  ‘It’s in the tank, guv.’

  ‘I know it’s in the tank. Give us some bloody light.’ Evans took the proffered torch and directed the beam into the water. Lying on the bottom of the tank was a plastic box about nine inches long by six inches wide. ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘Dunno, guv.’

  ‘Well fetch it out.’ Evans stood upright and banged his head on a beam. ‘Sod it!’ he added.

  Crozier, remembering that Fox had made a point about not ruining any fingerprints, said, ‘Bit risky, guv’nor. We might cock it up. I think it’d be a good idea if we got the fingerprint blokes down here straightaway and let them do it. They’ve got all the gear. If there’s any dabs on the outside of that thing, we might smudge them.’

  For a moment or two, Evans gazed intently at his sergeant. ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, ‘I think you’re right, Ron. Get on the dog-and-bone and give ’em a bell, there’s a good chap.’ Crozier sighed and started to descend the loft ladder. ‘And once you’ve done that, you can give the other lads a hand with the garage,’ added Evans, looking down through the trap.

  *

  The fingerprint team arrived tw
o hours later and made a big thing of examining what they described as ‘the problem.’ They drained the cold water tank and carefully removed the plastic box with a pair of giant callipers.

  ‘Ever tried your hand at one of those machines in an amusement arcade where you try to pick up a bar of chocolate?’ asked Evans, leaning against an upright with his hands in his pockets.

  The fingerprint experts placed the box in a large container and put it in the back of their van.

  ‘Can’t you tell me what’s in it?’ asked Evans, who was now thoroughly irritated by the whole procedure.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the fingerprint officer, ‘when we get back to the Yard. It’s all taped up, you see.’ He paused on the doorstep. ‘You coming then, guv?’

  ‘Don’t seem to have much option,’ said Evans moodily. ‘Bloody prima donnas,’ he added as he followed them out of the door.

  *

  ‘We’ve just had a message from Denzil Evans, sir,’ said Gilroy.

  Fox yawned and stretched. ‘What did he have to say?’

  ‘He’s found a package in the cold water tank of Harley’s house at Stoke d’Abernon.’

  ‘Well, what’s in it, Jack? Or is Denzil keeping that a secret?’

  Gilroy shrugged. ‘No idea, sir. Denzil said he didn’t want to bugger up the fingerprints, so he got the experts to go down there and take it back to the Yard.’

  ‘Bloody terrific,’ said Fox.

  *

  Woman Detective Constable Marilyn Lester glanced at the monitor in the Special Branch office at Heathrow Airport and saw that the Air France Boeing 727 from Nice had touched down right on schedule at twenty minutes to one. For a brief moment she considered skipping it and going to lunch. Then she changed her mind, picked up her suspect book, and strolled out to the controls.