by Graham Ison
But Tanner – if it was him – was careful, and that reinforced the views of the police that, at last, they had got the right man. And, as Evans said, if it wasn’t Tanner then his behavior made it almost certain that he was guilty of something.
Despite the suspect’s extreme caution, the police managed to keep him under observation without apparently alerting him to their presence. He reached the top of Victoria Street and paused opposite Westminster Abbey, looking around. Seemingly satisfied that he was not being watched, he nevertheless ambled slowly along the west side of Parliament Square in front of the old Middlesex Guildhall, clearly aware that such behavior would increase the difficulties of anyone who happened to be following him.
“This bastard knows a thing or two about surveillance,” said a detective into his sleeve.
Reaching the north-west corner of the square, the suspect waited until the traffic lights turned to green and suddenly darted across the road towards the Treasury, risking his life as he weaved in and out of vehicles that had just started to move off. But it was to no avail; several of Evans’s team, anticipating such a ploy, were already on the other side of the road. Pausing only to buy a newspaper, the man adopted the same routine when he reached Parliament Street at the top end of Whitehall but, again, some of the detectives were already on the opposite pavement waiting for him. Pushing his way irritably between parties of dawdling tourists, the man finally reached Westminster Underground Station and ran down the steps, two at a time.
As the target bought a ticket to Waterloo, the officer who was immediately behind him banged some money down and asked for Temple in an attempt to allay any suspicion that the man might have that he was being pursued.
A woman detective constable received news of their quarry’s destination by radio and, pushing her police pass into the automatic barrier, followed the suspect down to the platform.
Evans, having heard all of this over the air, and knowing that his target would inevitably be delayed by having to change at Embankment Station, raced across Westminster Bridge by car, taking three other officers with him. It was a calculated risk but, by good fortune, Evans succeeded in getting those officers in place on the concourse at Waterloo Station by the time the suspect stepped off the escalator, followed by other members of the team, and made his way over the foot-bridge to the other main-line station at Waterloo East.
“He’s bought a ticket for St John’s,” said an anonymous voice over the air.
Working on the principle that if there isn’t a crowd make your own, seven or eight officers, each giving the impression that they were unknown to each other, crowded on to the platform. The man they were following appeared to suspect nothing, presumably believing that, even if he had been observed drawing cash, he was now far enough away not to have to worry any more.
At St John’s Station, in south-east London, the man alighted without a backward glance, strolled out into the hot July sun and waited patiently until he was able to cross Lewisham Way at the point where it met Loampit Hill. He turned left and then, almost immediately, right into Sandrock Road. Ten minutes later, he entered a house in one of the maze of streets bounded by Shell Road and the railway line that ran between St John’s and Ladywell.
“Got the bastard,” said Evans.
“If he’s our man,” said DS Hurley and received a sour look from the DI.
*
The army authorities in Cyprus responded with alacrity when Fox asked for the services of the soldiers who had first spoken to the man “Jock” and, within hours, the two men were, once again, in Fox’s office.
“Hallo, sir,” said Corporal Wayne Higgins. “Never expected to be back here so soon. Have you caught him then?”
“That rather depends on what you tell us,” said Fox. And he told the two soldiers that his plan encompassed their sitting in an observation van in Lewisham from about half-past five the following morning. Initially, it all sounded rather exciting, and certainly a change from their mundane military duties. But it didn’t take long for them to discover what most policemen had already discovered: that there’s no fun, no romance and no drama in it.
*
Ever since the mid-eighteenth century, Shepherd Market, two hundred yards north of Piccadilly in London’s Mayfair and within spitting distance of the finest hotels, has been the haunt of prostitutes. From time to time, efforts had been made to suppress their trade; the Sexual Offences Act and the Street Offences Act had made a slight dent in the 1950s and 1960s, but overall they had had about as much success as Canute’s attempts to turn the tide. Consequently, the area is still used by young women offering their bodies for sex, but now in uneasy juxtaposition with young homosexual men doing the same.
Quite a few members of Detective Inspector Jack Gilroy’s team of Flying Squad officers had served in the West End before becoming detectives, and they were familiar with the curious relationship that existed between policemen and prostitutes. In the old days, the girls would be arrested in rotation – once a fortnight usually – and taken to the police station where they would be charged and bailed to appear at court next morning. There they would plead guilty, pay a nominal fine, and carry on working. It was all very civilized.
On the first evening of the combined SO1 and Flying Squad operation to find Chester Smart, Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher loped through Shepherd Market. He was well-versed in the ways of the area and had served for several years as a CID officer at West End Central Police Station.
“Hallo, love,” called one girl, more brazen than the rest. “Long time, no see. Looking for a freebie?” she asked and grinned lasciviously. She knew Fletcher – and knew him to be Old Bill – but, for all that, she knew that she was unlikely to be arrested by a plain-clothes officer. At least, not for tomming; that wouldn’t be playing the game.
Fletcher grinned back and stopped. “You always were a cheeky bitch, Paula,” he said, lowering his voice, and glancing at the girl’s short skirt. “You’ll catch your death in that pelmet.”
“’Bout all I will catch tonight, Mr Fletcher,” said the girl softly. “Trade’s bloody awful. Load of wimps about these days, all frightened of catching Aids.”
Fletcher put his head closer to Paula’s, giving the impression to the other women that he was arranging a mutually agreeable price. “I’m looking for Chester Smart,” he whispered. “Any idea where I might find him?”
A sudden look of alarm crossed Paula’s face. “What d’you want that bastard for?” she asked in equally low tones.
Fletcher weighed up whether to tell the girl and, realizing that if he told her the truth he was more likely to get her help, said, “We’re going to nick him.”
“Time someone did,” said the girl quietly. “He’s not my minder, but he keeps an eye on Marlene over there.” She nodded towards a redhead lounging in a doorway, her lipstick like a neon sign even at that distance. “But she won’t tell you nothing. She’s terrified of him. Anyway, what d’you want him for?”
“We want to talk to him about the murder of Anna Coombs,” said Fletcher, his head still close to Paula’s, “but keep that to yourself.”
“’Struth!” said Paula. “We heard about her, poor little tart.” There was little affecting their trade that West End prostitutes didn’t get to hear about; it was all a matter of self-protection. “He usually comes round first off about eleven, to collect,” she said. “Know what he looks like?”
“Only that he’s black,” said Fletcher.
“As black as your hat,” said Paula. “And he’s got a chiv scar down his left cheek. Usually dressed in black trousers and one of them white jackets flecked with black. Know what I mean? He sometimes wears a big black hat an’ all, like a… what do they call ’em, fedoras?” She paused, worried that she had said too much. “But I never told you nothing, Mr Fletcher.”
Fletcher grinned. “Make it look good then, Paula,” he said.
“I’m not into that sort of malarkey, you filthy sod,” shouted Paula s
uddenly and slapped Fletcher’s face.
“Bloody tramp,” Fletcher shouted in response and hurried out of Shepherd Market to the catcalls of the other prostitutes.
Twenty
For far too long, Chester Smart had had things his own way. As far as he was concerned,” he had convinced himself that he was above the law. That it couldn’t, or wouldn’t, touch him. And he had become over confident. Consequently when he had alighted from his Mercedes and strolled along Curzon Street, he had failed to notice a number of men hanging about in the shadows. Or rather, he had failed to register their presence. Not that furtively loitering men were anything unusual, particularly at that time of night, when they were frequently to be seen in the area summoning enough courage to engage the services of a prostitute, female or male. But if Smart had noticed these men, he would also have noticed that they were different from the usual punter, for they each had a steely glint in their eyes, even though they gave an impression of being uninterested in the passing scene. Or in Chester Smart.
Looking rather like the sort of happy-go-lucky black man often seen in American television crime programs, Smart lolloped along the street. But it was a pose, and one that belied his true character. There was nothing happy-go-lucky about this man. He was sinister and ruthless and would not hesitate to use violence if it served his own ends. And he had frequently used it in the past.
Smart turned into Hertford Street, still ambling and occasionally smiling at passers-by. Turning left and walking a few yards further, he finally came into Shepherd Market itself.
It is well known that policemen can be nasty when the mood takes them, and this is particularly true of Flying Squad officers. The moment that Smart had been sighted leaving his car, arrogantly parked on a double yellow line, DC Bellenger had called up the vehicle removal squad that DI Jack Gilroy had arranged to have standing by, on overtime of course. This implementation of traffic law would, in his view, serve a dual purpose in addition to the parking fine which would go some way towards paying for the crew’s overtime. It would undoubtedly hinder Smart’s escape if foolishly he decided to do what policemen call “a runner” – in other words, to attempt to escape – and secondly, it would save documenting the vehicle as prisoner’s property once Smart had been arrested.
The moment that the late Anna Coombs’ pimp had turned the corner into Hertford Street, the tow-away squad moved in, and long before Smart had reached Shepherd Market, his Mercedes was on its way to the car pound at Hyde Park. Courtesy of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.
Paula had not been quite accurate when she had described Chester Smart’s hat as a fedora. It was, in fact, a wide-brimmed felt. But it was black. And he raised it extravagantly in a mocking parody of courtesy when he entered Shepherd Market. “Why, hallo, ladies,” he cried, and smiled around at the girls. Receiving no response, he walked across to the prostitute called Marlene and took a wad of notes from her handbag. He gazed at them for a moment, then peeled one off and stuffed it into the girl’s cleavage. “You’re not doing too well tonight, my child,” he said in low menacing tones. “You’ll just have to try harder, or uncle will get cross with you.” He turned to another girl, little more than eighteen, and took money from her too, pushing a note between her breasts before retracing his steps. He glanced at Paula, seemingly engaged in conversation with a “trick”, smiled, and made his gangling way out again, intent on visiting the rest of his stable who had pitches in and around Grosvenor Square.
The “trick” was DS Percy Fletcher who had returned just before eleven in the hope of finding the pimp. Fortunately, Paula was there too; she could as easily have been with a client.
“That’s him, Mr Fletcher,” said Paula quietly, as Fletcher stood back.
“Bless you, Paula,” whispered Fletcher. “I owe you one.”
“Huh!” said Paula. “That’ll be the day.” And then in a loud voice, “I told you before, the answer’s no.”
Not wishing to compromise his informant, Fletcher waited until he was out of earshot of the other girls to transmit a terse message over his personal radio.
The chase was on.
Smart was not happy walking about London at night – he considered it a dangerous place – and, intent on driving to Grosvenor Square, he made his way back to Curzon Street only to find that his Mercedes was no longer where he had left it. Momentarily nonplussed by this liberty that someone had obviously taken, he stopped and stared around, as though such a hostile and threatening stance would immediately cause whoever had taken his precious car to restore it.
And that’s when the Flying Squad pounced.
However, even the most finely-honed plans have a tendency to go wildly awry at times. Usually when they are least expected to.
“Chester Smart!” DC Bellenger was perhaps a little too far away when he shouted.
Smart, his antennae immediately detecting danger, did not wait to see who wanted him or why. He guessed, accurately as it happened, and promptly took off in the direction of Park Lane.
Alerted to this unexpected and disastrous turn of events, DI Gilroy’s team of eight, reinforced by another eight SO1 officers, began chasing Smart.
Smart ran across the road, narrowly avoiding being run down by a Ford Scorpio, and, turning into Park Street, crossed again and pounded towards Grosvenor Square, scattering pedestrians in his path. At one point, he cleared an overturned waste-bin with an athletic bound, and an elderly American tourist clutched his wife, forcing her against a wall, and muttered something about Chicago.
Unfortunately, Flying Squad officers have a great liking for beer and this tends to be something of an impediment when they are called upon to display physical attributes above and beyond their idea of the call of duty. But they persisted, never letting Smart out of their sight. One of their more enterprising number, DC Sean Tarling, hailed a taxi and directed the driver to “follow that man”.
Having been convinced that he was not taking part in the making of a film without being paid the recognized Equity fee, the cab driver entered into the spirit of the affair. “Is that him over there, guv’nor?” he enquired.
“Yeah, that’s him,” said Tarling, still fighting to regain his breath.
“Want me to run the bugger down, guv?”
“No, for Christ’s sake don’t do that. We need to talk to him.”
“Don’t look like he wants to talk to you, guv.”
At that moment, Smart saw the slow-moving cab and sensing that he was still in danger, turned into Upper Grosvenor Street. It was a clever move. And it was a one-way street. The wrong way. The cabbie was prepared to chance it, but the volume of traffic coming towards him precluded any chance of his forcing his way after the fleeing Smart.
Tarling leaped from the cab and paused. “How much?” he asked.
“Forget it, guv,” said the cabbie. “You’ll lose him.”
“Thanks,” said Tarling and, pausing only to avoid a black Ford Scorpio, raced after the errant pimp.
Reaching the point where South Audley Street joins Grosvenor Square, Smart, now well into his stride, hurtled along the front of the American Embassy with Tarling and several others in hot pursuit.
A uniformed constable of the Diplomatic Protection Group gazed on impassively as the black man swept past him, followed at intervals by a number of heavies who looked remarkably out of breath. “You entering him for the Derby?” he shouted, recognizing Tarling as one of his own as he thundered by.
Tarling had got his second wind now. “Get stuffed, you fat prat,” he shouted back and grinned at the constable’s sudden change of expression. But Tarling knew that an officer on such a sensitive post was not allowed to abandon it, whatever the provocation.
Smart had now skirted two sides of the square and was into Brook Street before the pursuing police had even reached the first corner.
And it was then that the pimp came unstuck.
As he passed a darkened doorway, an exquisitely-shod foot extended itself
into his path. Smart tripped, his arms and legs whirling and thrashing the air in his attempt to retain his balance, but his momentum was, ironically, the cause of his downfall. Literally. He crashed to the ground and slithered for nearly three yards before stopping, winded and completely spent.
Interested passers-by now saw a well-dressed man emerge from the doorway and kneel on the inert figure of Chester Smart, and heard this picture of sartorial elegance say, “You’re nicked, my son.” Fox stood up, a closed cut-throat razor in his left hand, and looked despairingly at the handcuffed figure on the ground. “I presume, dear boy,” he said, “that you carry this just in case you are overcome with the desperate need to have a shave. Although I must say,” he continued, stooping to twist his prisoner’s head round and inspect the wispy beard on the point of the man’s chin, “that you don’t seem to have done a very good job.”
DC Tarling was the next officer to arrive on the scene and slumped against the black Ford Scorpio now stationary in the kerb. “Blimey, guv’nor,” he said, “How did you get here?”
“Happened to be passing,” said Fox airily, seeing no profit in dispelling the mystique with which his actions were usually surrounded. In fact, one of his informants had told him that Smart also controlled some of the women who plied their trade in Grosvenor Square, and he had deduced that the pimp was likely to finish up there if the Flying Squad failed to catch him earlier.
A number of other breathless Flying Squad officers arrived and two of them seized the figure of Chester Smart and dragged him into an upright position. “What’s the charge, guv?” asked one of them.
“For a start, assault on police,” said Fox. “He kicked my foot.”
*
The van looked old and dilapidated, but the engine was in top-class condition. The two police officers and the two soldiers who had occupied it from half-past five that morning, had to wait nearly five hours before anything happened.