by Graham Ison
“What enquiries, sir?” asked Evans, by now completely mystified.
“Into the whereabouts of one Kevin Povey, Denzil. Who else?”
Thirteen
Sailor Pogson did not appear to have enjoyed his brief sojourn in Charing Cross police station and he glared malevolently at Fox when the detective entered the interview room. Fox smiled, promptly switched on the tape recorder and cautioned the bent accountant.
“Why haven’t I been granted bail?” Pogson demanded.
“Because I need to talk to you, Sailor.” Fox sat down and gazed at Pogson. “And, apart from anything else, I thought you might run away if we let you out.”
“I’ve sent for my solicitor.” Pogson was sitting with his arms folded and a truculent leer on his face.
“Very wise,” said Fox. “If ever I saw a man who needed a solicitor, it’s you.”
“And what about my wife?”
“Oh, we released her without charge.”
“I should bloody well think so, too,” said Pogson angrily.
“I think she saw that she was heading for trouble, Sailor.” Fox selected a cigarette from his case and spent some time getting his lighter to work. “Probably worked that out not very long after she married you, but then women are strange creatures, don’t you think?”
“What d’you mean, heading for trouble?” Pogson sat forward slightly, suddenly taking a keen interest in what Fox was saying.
“My officers found a necklace in the safe in your bedroom at Bromley. Didn’t amount to much. Probably a grand at best, and that’s on a good day. However, your good lady claimed that it was her property.”
“It is,” said Pogson rapidly.
“So my officers arrested her. But, lo and behold, Sailor, when they got her to the nick, she had a change of heart. Quite amazing really. Said she’d never seen it before, that it was yours, and that she knew nothing about it, or the jewelery in a briefcase in the loft, which she kindly pointed out to us.” Fox smiled at the accountant who had now slumped in his chair.
“The silly cow,” said Pogson. “Why the bloody hell couldn’t she keep her mouth shut?”
“She’s probably wondering why she didn’t do that the day she said ‘I will’, Sailor,” said Fox. “However, there might be a way in which you can assist me.”
That comment clearly interested Pogson, and he resumed his upright position. “What exactly are you suggesting?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Don’t get too excited, Sailor, old sport, but it has been known that those who assist the police are sometimes treated more benevolently by the courts than those who are hostile. Got the idea?”
Pogson took out a handkerchief and polished his rimless spectacles. Then he put them on again. “What’s it worth?” he asked bluntly, his accountancy training never far beneath the surface.
“I am very interested in talking to a man called Kevin Povey. I think that he might just be able to assist me with my enquiries into two brutal murders. Namely, those of Wally Proctor and Robin Skelton.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” said Pogson.
“Oh dear!” said Fox. “That’s what you said the first time I mentioned Robin Skelton.”
“I don’t know any Kevin Povey.” Pogson spoke earnestly and with a note of regret. Having had a sort of lifeline thrown him by Fox, he was disappointed that he had no information to offer about someone who was dearly of interest to the head of the Flying Squad. “I could put out a few feelers, I suppose.”
“Not from in here, you couldn’t,” said Fox, waving a hand around the interview room.
“Well then, what about bail?” Pogson had driven hard financial bargains all his life, and he found no difficulty in applying the same techniques to any other transaction.
Fox raised a hand. “Let’s not run before we can walk,” he said. “The gear we found in your office and at your place at Bromley. Where did it come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“What d’you mean, you don’t know?” Fox afforded Pogson one of his best cynical looks. “Did this jewelery just materialize, as if by magic? Did you open your safe one day and find this small mountain of valuable tomfoolery, and say to yourself, Goodness me, where did that come from? Is that the form, Sailor?”
Pogson sighed. “It came through the post.”
“Did it really? When?”
“It was two days after Wally Proctor was murdered. This package arrived at the office. Wasn’t even registered. A small cardboard box, addressed to me. I opened it and there it was.”
“And how much jewelery did this magic box contain, Sailor?” Fox had a half smile on his face, as though disbelieving the whole story.
“The stuff you found at City Road and at Bromley.”
“Including the necklace?”
“Yeah, including the necklace. I’d given that to the missus. She’s always been on about wanting one of that sort. As a matter of fact, I was going to buy her one when this lot turned up.”
“Good gracious,” said Fox, “how fortuitous. I don’t suppose for one moment that you still have the box and the wrapping in which this mystery prize arrived, have you?”
“Yes, I do, as a matter of fact,” said Pogson.
“Really? Where?”
“It’s in a safety deposit box.”
“Why the hell did you keep the jewelery in your office and at Bromley, but put the wrapping paper and the empty box in a vault, Sailor? Have you gone barking mad in your old age?”
“It was insurance,” said Pogson. “I knew that if you lot came sniffing round, you’d never believe a story like that.”
“How true,” said Fox.
“So I hung on to it, so that you could examine it forensically.”
“Scientifically,” murmured Fox. “However, none of that explains away Bert Glass’s allegations that he frequently delivered stolen jewelery to your office.”
Pogson smiled a tired smile. “D’you honestly believe the word of a tuppenny-ha’penny thief like this Glass person, of whom, incidentally, I have never heard?”
“If you’ve never heard of him, Sailor, how d’you know he’s a tuppenny-ha’penny thief?”
Pogson paused for only a moment. “Got to be, hasn’t he? After all, you said that he’s admitted to taking stolen jewelery to people’s offices.”
*
DI Henry Findlater scored at last. For five days now, he and his small team had kept watch on the Lockhart house to see if lover-boy would return. Each day, Peter Lockhart would drive the short distance to his surgery and return home at about six. But on the morning of the fifth day, Lockhart emerged from his house holding a suit-carrier and an executive briefcase and got into a hire-car that had been waiting for about ten minutes.
Playing a hunch, Findlater had telephoned the Special Branch unit at Heathrow Airport and asked them to watch for a dentist called Peter Lockhart. Two hours later, he received a radio message to say that Lockhart had boarded an aircraft for Amsterdam along with several other dentists, all of whom were attending a one-day conference there.
At two o’clock the same afternoon, the man accurately described by Rosie Webster parked his car a hundred yards away and was admitted to the Lockharts’ house by Julie Lockhart. She appeared to be wearing a black diaphanous gown of some sort, and warmly embraced her visitor.
The watching officers noted the registration number of the man’s car and, to be on the safe side, waited until he left at five o’clock that afternoon and followed him to a house in Wimbledon.
*
At seven o’clock the same evening, Fox received a telephone call from Dickie Lord, the ex-DI now operating as an independent insurance investigator.
“I thought you might be interested, Tommy,” said Lord. “I’ve just had another enquiry drop on my desk. A forty-five-year-old widow living in Brighton has put in a claim for the loss of jewelery.”
“How much?” asked Fox.
“About fifty grand’s worth,” said
Lord.
“Brighton’s outside the Metropolitan Police District,” said Fox.
“I know that,” said Lord. “The question is, do the villains know it?”
*
Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher had spoken to Janet Mortimer on the telephone and received her assurance that none of her girls was entertaining David Rice that evening, either in a hotel or at his pied-k-terre. What Fletcher and DC Matt Hobson had not allowed for, however, was that Rice might have used a different “agency”. But that was exacdy what had happened. When they knocked at the door of the Pimlico flat at eight o’clock, it was opened by Rice wearing a dressing gown and clutching what appeared to be a very large gin and tonic. And he looked extremely embarrassed. But he looked even more disconcerted when Fletcher told him who he and Hobson were, and produced his warrant card.
“I, er, I have someone with me at the moment,” said Rice.
“That’s quite all right, sir,” said Fletcher reassuringly. “This is not a confidential matter. At least, I don’t imagine it is.”
“You’d better come in then.” Rice led the way into the sitting room of his small flat. “Er, this is Mrs Rice,” he said, indicating the barefooted girl reclining on the sofa. She was about twenty-seven and her attractive shape was barely disguised by the black satin wrap she was nearly wearing. To Fletcher’s expert eye, she was clearly a prostitute and to her experienced eye, he was obviously Old Bill.
“These gentlemen are from the police, darling,” said Rice. “I don’t think we’ll be very long.” He looked hopefully at Fletcher, then back at the girl. “So perhaps if you were to have your shower now…” He glanced at the two detectives. “We’re going out shortly,” he added, as if to encourage them not to take up too much of his time; time for which he was obviously paying dearly. Fletcher wondered idly if Rice’s libido would run out before his money did.
The girl swung her legs off the sofa and stood up, gathering her robe around her. “Okay, honey,” she said, and with a seductive grin and a wink at Fletcher, she went through into the bedroom and closed the door behind her.
“Now, gentlemen, what can I do for you?” Rice was clearly more relaxed now that the girl had left them. He was on the short side, perhaps no more than five feet nine, and was overweight, his fleshy, florid cheeks undoubtedly the result of an excessive addiction to alcohol. And he was sweating. Fletcher could quite understand why Janet Mortimer’s girls called him the Fat Luvvy.
“Bit of a mystery really,” said Fletcher, as he and Hobson accepted Rice’s invitation to sit down. He took a piece of paper from his inside pocket. “The police recently recovered a stolen car,” he began, “and we found this piece of paper in it, among other things.”
“Oh, really?”
“The odd thing about it, Mr Rice, is that it has your name, address and telephone number on it.”
“Good Lord!” Rice seemed genuinely surprised, as well he should. Fletcher had scribbled the name and address only minutes before calling at Rice’s flat. “I don’t understand that.”
“Nor do we, Mr Rice. That’s why we’re here.” Fletcher smiled and adopted a puzzled expression.
“Whose car was it, do you know?”
“Not at the moment, no. It bore false plates and, as yet, our lab people haven’t been able to bring up the numbers on the engine block and the chassis.” Fletcher offered the piece of paper to Rice, who studied it with great interest. “We do believe, however, from other evidence found in the car, that it probably belonged to a diamond merchant.” Fletcher continued convincingly with his fictitious tale. “And frankly, Mr Rice, that worries us. You see, we are currently investigating the murders of two jewel thieves that have occurred in London in recent weeks. Furthermore, we are looking again at a murder that took place on a houseboat in Shepperton five years ago.”
Rice looked extremely concerned at this revelation. But it was not the reaction of a guilty man, more the response of someone who had only ever read about murders. And now, here were the police making enquiries about a piece of paper that had his name and address on it. “I really can’t explain it,” he said, handing the scrap of paper back to Fletcher. “Diamonds, eh?” He shook his head.
“You have no idea how your name and address came to be in a stolen car then?” Fletcher raised his eyebrows enquiringly.
“No, no idea at all, officer.”
“We have reason to believe that a man called Kevin Povey may be implicated.” Fletcher dropped the name casually into the conversation. “I suppose that name doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“Good grief!”
“I see it does, Mr Rice.” Hobson decided to enter into the charade.
“Well, no, I mean, not Kevin Povey, but Gordon Povey does. I suppose that Povey is not too uncommon a name, but the odd thing about it is that the Gordon Povey I knew was a diamond merchant.”
“Really?” Fletcher looked suitably astonished.
“Perhaps you can tell us where we could find him, Mr Rice,” Hobson asked.
“I’m afraid he’s dead. Died about five years ago, I think.”
“Oh, well, that rules him out,” said Fletcher. “But can you tell us anything about him?”
“My wife and I got to know the Poveys in the South of France…” Rice looked across the room, a reflective expression on his face. “Must have been about ten years ago. Our yachts were moored alongside each other in Cannes. We seemed to be there at the same time each year and we got into the habit of having dinner together. But that was all. Just the odd dinner a couple of times a year, sometimes on our yacht, sometimes on theirs, and occasionally in Cannes itself.”
“Sounds like a coincidence, Mr Rice,” said Fletcher. “I take it from what you were saying that Mr Povey was a legitimate diamond merchant?”
Rice nodded. “Rather different from the sort of confidence tricksters we’re talking about.” Fletcher grinned as if to dismiss Gordon Povey as being beyond reproach.
“Oh, absolutely,” said Rice.
“And the name Kevin Povey doesn’t mean anything to you?”
“No, it doesn’t. I believe the Poveys had a couple of children, but we never met them. They were grown up and had long since left home, so I understand.” Rice paused, wondering whether to tell the police about a further coincidence. “It’s very odd, but I heard this name only the other day.”
Fletcher frowned. “Oh?”
“Yes. I heard a young lady mentioning Kevin Povey. Very strange, that. Twice in a week.”
“And who was this young lady, Mr Rice? It would obviously be helpful if we could talk to her.”
Rice looked away. “I really have no idea,” he said vaguely. “We were in a club somewhere – I can’t even remember where – and this couple were at the bar next to us. No idea who they were, but the woman mentioned Povey. Not to us, of course, but I just happened to overhear their conversation and the name rang a bell.”
Fletcher grinned. “A West End club, was it?”
“Yes, it was, as a matter of fact, but, as I said, I can’t remember which one.”
“Oh, that’s easily explained,” said Fletcher. “We’ve been mentioning his name around the clubs in the West End for about a week now, in the hope that someone might know where we can find him. Happens all the time, you know. Detectives will often push out a name in places that a suspect has been known to frequent. We call it casting bread on the waters.” He stood up. “Well, we’ll just have to put this piece of paper down to some extraordinary coincidence, Mr Rice,” he said, patting his pocket. “These things happen, but we always have to follow up leads, you know. I should forget all about it if I were you.” He smiled amiably and then paused. “I suppose your wife wouldn’t recall any more about this Gordon Povey, would she?” he added, glancing meaningfully at the closed bedroom door.
A look of apprehension crossed Rice’s face. “Er, no, not possible,” he said and gave a nervous laugh. “Different wife, you see. Got divorced.”
Fletcher gave an understanding nod. “Oh, I see. Well, thank you for your time. I hope we haven’t held you up for too long.”
“Oh, er, no, not at all.”
“Do have an enjoyable evening then.”
“What?”
“You said that you and your wife were going out, Mr Rice,” said Fletcher, and glanced once more at the bedroom door.
“Oh, yes, of course,” said Rice, and gave another nervous laugh.
*
The man whom DI Findlater and his team had followed to Wimbledon from Julie Lockhart’s house was called Jeremy Ryan. By examining the electoral roll, the detectives discovered that his wife’s name was Beverley. Armed with that information, they next visited St Catherine’s House and searched the marriage records. Fortunately for Findlater, they were married, almost something of a novelty these days. Using as a guide the ages of the couple at the time of their wedding, and the wife’s maiden name, they found the Ryans’ dates of birth in another section of the General Register Office.
Back at New Scotland Yard, DC March fed this information into the Police National Computer. “Bingo!” he said.
“Known?” asked Findlater.
“Yes, sir. Jeremy Ryan has one previous conviction for theft from an office, three years back. Nothing on Beverley Ryan.”
“Good,” said Findlater. “Draw the file.”
Jeremy Ryan’s criminal record showed that he had been convicted of stealing documents from the office of an insurance broker in Chelsea and had been placed on probation for two years.
“How very interesting,” said Fox when this information was laid before him. “Henry, go and see this insurance broker and find out exactly what documents this Ryan stole. Oh, and as young March is so good at doing searches at St Catherine’s House, get him to see if he can find anything on a Gordon Povey. Percy Fletcher’s come up with some information that he was a diamond merchant. Might be a coincidence, but we’d better do a bit of digging, I suppose. Died about five years ago, so Perce says. Tell March to work back from there. Gordon Povey’s supposed to have had two children. Never know, one of them might be called Kevin.”