Underneath The Arches

by Graham Ison

  Underneath the Arches

  Graham Ison

  © Graham Ison 1994

  Graham Ison has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1994 by Little, Brown and Company.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY ONE

  TWENTY TWO

  TWENTY THREE

  ONE

  AT JUST AFTER 5.30 A.M., WHEN London was beginning to come to life and a bandit vehicle could meld with the capital’s traffic without arousing too much suspicion, a transit van drew up outside a warehouse in Balham and two men in balaclavas got out. They looked around briefly, then opened the wicket door and went in.

  *

  Two days previously, Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox of the Flying Squad had made a decision to let the robbery run.

  Fox, a firm believer in what the police these days call a hands-on approach — but which his subordinates called interfering — had decided that he was going to oversee the operation in person and had convened a conference of Numbers Three and Four teams to ensure that it all went smoothly.

  He would not have allowed the robbery to go ahead had there been any risk of injury to members of the public, but the early-morning theft of video-recorders from a warehouse was not seen as likely to endanger anyone.

  Except perhaps the night-watchman and he had been briefed not to put up any resistance. In fact, it had been suggested that he be as co-operative as possible. And he was. Probably because the night-watchman, for one performance only, was to be a detective sergeant called Crozier.

  ‘This heist that’s supposed to be coming down the day after tomorrow, Ron,’ Fox had said. ‘I need a good man to take the night-watchman’s place. Someone who can act the part, doesn’t get all excited and, indeed, almost appears to be wanting to co-operate.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Detective Sergeant Ron Crozier had replied in resigned tones. In an unguarded moment when the Scotch was flowing, he had allowed it to become known that he had been an actor before joining the police, twenty-three years previously. Consequently, whenever Fox visualised a role for an ex-actor, it was Crozier who got the job. And Crozier was not pleased. It was not that he foresaw any danger in the assignment but that he might be missing some of the action.

  The police could have captured the villains in the act of robbery, but they were anxious to know where the video-recorders were going. Which was why Fox intended to mount an elaborate surveillance.

  ‘There have now been seven of these robberies over the last six weeks.’ Fox had addressed himself once more to the conference at large. ‘All from warehouses. And these bastards have had off anything from carpets to men’s clothing and children’s toys. I ask you, children’s toys.’ Fox made it sound as though innocents’ Christmas stockings had been plundered. ‘I am told that our great new intelligence-gathering arm,’ he had gone on, contriving a sour expression that had brought dutiful laughter from his audience, ‘has been working overtime, to say nothing of their divers band of so-called informants, in an attempt to discover who is handling these stolen goods. But to me, as a simple policeman, it appears that these heists are taking place to order, and are selective into the bargain. Only certain items were nicked, almost as if these light-fingered operatives have got a shopping list.’

  And that was all that the combined resources of the Flying Squad and the National Criminal Intelligence Service had been able to discover, apart from an unconfirmed snippet from a previously untested informant that there was to be another raid early in the morning, two days hence, on a warehouse in Balham.

  *

  Crozier, who had got well into the part, was wearing a grey warehouse coat and spectacles with plain glass lenses. ‘Morning, lads,’ he said, as if the arrivals were making a routine delivery. ‘You’re early.’

  One of the robbers raised a jemmy in Crozier’s direction. ‘If you know what’s good for you, mate,’ he said, ‘you’ll mind your own business. Don’t give us no trouble and we won’t give you none. Got it?’

  ‘I’m no hero, mate,’ said Crozier, affecting some spurious alarm, ‘and I ain’t getting me head stove in for the sake of a few quid’s-worth of video-recorders.’

  ‘Very sensible,’ said the villain and ripped the phone out of its socket. Just to be on the safe side, he followed this up by kicking the socket off the wall and stamping on it.

  Very quickly and very efficiently, the two robbers picked out just eight of the higher-priced video-recorders and loaded them into the van. In little more than five minutes, the raid was all over.

  Detective Inspector Henry Findlater, sometime head of the Criminal Intelligence Branch surveillance unit, but now a member of the Flying Squad, had been given the responsibility of following the robbers after the raid. When the transit van drove away from the warehouse and out into the main road, two motor-cyclists started to play leap-frog, from time to time changing places with each other, and at other times allowing one of the disreputable looking cars or vans that formed part of Findlater’s team to take a turn in keeping their quarry under observation.

  Fox, and Detective Inspector Denzil Evans’s team of detectives, were eventually directed by radio to a series of arches beneath a railway bridge in the London borough of Lambeth which, for some reason, is always described as being south of the River Thames. In point of fact, it is due east, but this minor geographical discrepancy was of no great interest to the police.

  But it was when the robbers arrived at a lock-up beneath those arches that things started to go wrong. For the robbers.

  Unaware that at least ten pairs of eyes were watching from various vantage points, one of the robbers tried to open the padlock on the doors to the lock-up while the other swung back the rear door of the transit van. After several attempts, the first robber gave up and jemmied the hasp and eye off the door and he and his accomplice went in.

  Seconds later, they came running out, slammed the rear doors of the van and jumped in. Hurriedly starting the engine, and once crashing the gears, the two robbers drove off at high speed.

  Parked some way away, Tommy Fox was informed of this minor drama. ‘Well don’t hang about,’ he said to his driver, the lugubrious Swann, ‘get to it.’ Then he grabbed the handset of the radio and instructed DI Findlater to continue the surveillance. Findlater, in his own vehicle some distance away, sighed. Those had been his instructions anyway.

  Swann muttered to himself and swinging the Granada in a U-turn, drove straight to the lock-up.

  Fox got out and crossing to the still-open doors, peered in at the cavernous interior. On the bare concrete floor, close to one wall, was the body of a woman. A very dead woman.

  Fox was still contemplating this complication to what he regarded as a straightforward robbery when he was joined by DI Evans.

  Evans too, stared at the body. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly so,’ said Fox wearily. ‘Why is it, Denzil,’ he went on, ‘that simple heists always seem to develop some uncalled-for complexity these days? Do these villains do it deliberately?’

  ‘Want them nicked, guv’nor?’ asked Evans.

  ‘Oh yes,
Denzil, most decidedly.’

  ‘But what about the slaughter, sir?’

  ‘Are you talking of this slaughter?’ asked Fox, waving a hand at the body, ‘or were you employing the criminal vernacular to describe a place where stolen property is secreted?’

  ‘Well, guv, we do want to know where the gear’s going, don’t we?’ As usual, Evans was having trouble keeping up with Fox’s rapid changes of plan. He was fairly certain that they were now saddled with a murder, but he could never quite work out Fox’s strategy for any given set of circumstances.

  ‘Denzil, dear boy,’ said Fox patiently, ‘you’re not suggesting, I hope, that robbery takes precedence over a suspicious death, are you?’

  ‘Well, no, sir.’

  ‘And would you agree with me, Denzil, that this has all the hallmarks of a murder?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Evans wondered how he had managed, with no effort on his part, to become the butt of another of Fox’s little homilies on semantics.

  ‘Then we shall begin. One, send a message to Henry and tell him to make sure that he doesn’t lose those two villains. But tell him to “house” them, not to nick ’em … not yet. Two, do the usual in respect of this.’ Fox pointed at the body and walked back to the Granada. Reaching in through the open window, he took his packet of cigarettes from the top of the dashboard just as Swann was thinking of helping himself to one.

  With a sigh, Evans crossed the yard to his own car and proceeded to call out all the people required to record the murder scene. And, with any luck, to provide the investigating officers with as much information as possible to begin their enquiries.

  *

  Detective Inspector Henry Findlater wondered how long it was all going to go on. The two villains in the transit van had now slowed to a pace sedate enough not to attract the attention of any traffic policemen who might be about, but in their desire to put as much distance between themselves and the dead body in the lock-up at Lambeth, they had not worried too much about where they were going. Finding themselves eventually in Nine Elms Lane driving south, they carried on until they reached Prince of Wales Drive in Battersea.

  With a nonchalance that required a great deal of self-control, they got out of the van, closed the doors and sauntered away. Minutes later, they hailed a taxi.

  *

  Fox, hands in the pockets of his light grey cashmere overcoat, watched the team from the forensic science laboratory at work. He had accepted, phlegmatically, that yet another promising operation had been brought to nought by unforeseen circumstances. In this case, a murder.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Fox. A trifle cold this morning, I thought.’ The dour Aberdonian tones told Fox that John Harris, the Home Office pathologist, had arrived.

  ‘Morning,’ said Fox. ‘Got a body for you.’

  ‘Ah! Splendid.’ Dr Harris rubbed his hands together in ghoulish anticipation. It was the only emotion that Fox had ever seen him display. ‘What sort?’

  ‘Dead,’ said Fox, determined that one day he would get a smile from the pathologist.

  ‘No, I meant what sex, age, that sort of thing?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Fox, ‘come and have a look. Saves all the explanations, don’t you think?’

  The dead woman was aged somewhere between twenty-eight and thirty-four, according to Harris, and she had been strangled. Manually. The pathologist knelt down and pointed out the bruise-marks of fingers on one side of her throat, and a deep thumb-mark on the other.

  Harris took the temperature of the body and of the lock-up, made inaudible comments to himself about rigor mortis in the shoulder muscles and in the face, and eventually came to the conclusion that death had occurred anything between six and ten hours previously. But, he added with the caution of his profession, more likely ten. He also added that his tentative opinion about the cause of death was subject to the results of a post-mortem examination.

  *

  It’s a long way from Battersea to Lewisham and the cab fare must have cost an arm and a leg, but the two villains were eventually set down in Brockley Rise where they split up. One went westwards, towards Honor Oak, the other to the east in the direction of Blythe Hill.

  The team of watchers took note of the addresses to which they had gone and, having informed Findlater, set up a discreet observation. Findlater sent a message to Fox and waited for further instructions.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Fox, having overseen the removal of the unknown woman’s body, had returned to Scotland Yard and now sat in an armchair in his office, his feet on a small table, drinking a cup of coffee and perusing The Times. And waiting for the arrival of Detective Inspector Jack Gilroy.

  Gilroy arrived at the same time as Findlater’s message. ‘Ah, Jack.’ Fox replaced the telephone receiver as Gilroy entered the office. ‘Sorry to drag you out.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘Didn’t realise you were late turn today.’

  Gilroy ignored the jibe. It was, after all, only eight o’clock. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘We’ve got a problem, Jack.’

  ‘So I understand, guv’nor. The lads in the Squad office have just been filling me in.’

  ‘Denzil’s at the mortuary waiting for John Harris to start the day’s butchery, and Henry Findlater has just called in to say that he’s “housed” these two villains. It will come as no surprise to you, Jack, to learn that they are habitués of that vast hinterland of iniquity known as Lewisham. Pop out and nick them, there’s a good chap.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Gilroy turned to leave.

  ‘Better take them to Bow Street. It’s handy.’

  ‘Not any more it isn’t, sir. Bow Street nick’s been closed. The court’s still there, of course.’

  ‘What?’ Fox dropped his unfolded newspaper on the floor, a startled expression on his face. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Jack?’

  ‘It’s all happening at Charing Cross now, sir.’

  Fox shook his head. ‘No one tells me anything, Jack. Where in Charing Cross, as a matter of passing interest?’

  ‘The old hospital, sir.’ Gilroy knew very well that Fox was aware that the police station had moved, but Fox had obviously decided to be perverse this morning.

  ‘How very apt,’ said Fox. ‘Oh, and Jack …’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The van which they abandoned, together with the contents thereof, principally eight high-quality videorecorders, has been removed to Battersea Police Station.’

  ‘Right, guv.’

  ‘Make sure you count the video-recorders, Jack. They’re a funny lot down at Battersea.’

  *

  By the time that Jack Gilroy had assembled his team and fought his way through the morning rush-hour traffic to Lewisham, it had gone ten o’clock, but Findlater’s observation was still in place and he was able to tell Gilroy that the villains were still at home. Using what he believed to be initiative, but what Fox regarded as the norm, Findlater had despatched one of his officers to check on the electoral roll. The officer had drawn a blank. In common with many people, the villains firmly believed that putting one’s name down for a vote would almost certainly volunteer them for payment of council tax. Consequently, each of the addresses to which the robbers had been followed was shown in official records as unoccupied. Which came as no surprise to anybody.

  Undismayed by this lack of information, Gilroy and his team went first to the house in Honor Oak. Their knock was answered by a small girl with a dirty face, who, with one finger in her mouth, looked shyly round the door at the detectives but said nothing.

  ‘Your daddy at home?’ asked Gilroy.

  The small girl nodded but still said nothing.

  ‘Who is it, Sharon?’ An uncouth female voice bellowed from somewhere in the house.

  The small girl ran away towards the voice, leaving the door ajar. Gilroy and Detective Sergeant Buckley followed.

  ‘’Ere, who the bloody hell are you?’ The woman was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.

 
‘Police,’ said Gilroy.

  ‘So? I never invited you in.’

  ‘Didn’t have to, missus,’ said Gilroy. ‘We’ve got a warrant. Where is he?’

  ‘Oh my Gawd,’ said the woman, ‘not again.’ She walked to the foot of the stairs and was about to shout when Gilroy put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Leave it out,’ he said and went upstairs, two at a time and into the front bedroom where he knew, from years of experience, that he would find who he was looking for.

  ‘What the bloody hell —?’

  ‘Flying Squad,’ said Gilroy. ‘And you’re nicked.’

  ‘What the bleedin’ hell for?’ The man swung his feet out of bed and scratched his head.

  ‘How’s robbery grab you?’

  The second arrest, at Blythe Hill, went much the same as the first. The youth at that house, whose vociferous mother attempted, unsuccessfully, to protect him from the wicked police, was also in bed.

  By midday, Gilroy was back at Scotland Yard. ‘Both prisoners are now in intensive care at Charing Cross, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Hospital?’ asked Fox.

  Gilroy grinned. ‘No, sir. Police station.’

  ‘Shame. Who are they, by the way?’

  ‘One of them is called Sidney Budgeon and the other is Walter Chesney, guv’nor.’

  ‘Splendid work, Jack. I take it that both are known to us? Professionally, of course.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The usual form for blagging and related offences.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Fox. ‘Does make life easier when you know who you’re talking to. In that case, Jack, I think I shall go and have a chat with these gentlemen. But not before I have a quick audience of the commander. After which I may not wish to see them at all.’

  ‘Really, sir?’ Gilroy looked suitably perplexed.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Jack. I have it in mind to unload this murder enquiry onto the local police. Be good experience for them.’

  ‘But there’s still the robbery, guv’nor.’

  ‘Indeed there is, Jack.’ Fox appeared to have tired of the whole business. ‘You can pop down and have a chat to them about that.’