Underneath The Arches

by Graham Ison

  ‘How did you know that?’ Hayden blurted out, surprised at how much Fox knew about him.

  ‘I have my contacts,’ said Fox and, deciding that there was nothing more to be gained by continuing the conversation, stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Hayden.’

  ‘I’m sorry that I can’t help further, but do feel free to contact me any time, won’t you, if you think I can be of assistance. And I do hope you catch this fellow.’ Hayden conducted Fox and Gilroy to the door of his office and opened it. Then he paused. ‘You probably know my chief security adviser,’ he said. ‘Fellow called Hooper. I believe he was one of your top bods.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard of him,’ said Fox as he shook hands.

  ‘What d’you make of him, guv’nor?’ asked Gilroy as he and Fox rode down in the lift.

  ‘Bogus, Jack. Definitely bogus.’

  ‘He seems to think that he’s in the running for a knighthood then, guv.’

  ‘That’s what he thinks. But the letter was the usual sort of thing from the Honours Office at Number Ten. But it didn’t mention what they had in mind. They never do. I’d laugh like a drain if it was only an MBE, Jack.’

  ‘Who’s this Hooper bloke he was on about?’

  ‘Gentleman John Hooper? He was a detective sergeant on the Fraud Squad for most of his service. Good copper was John.’

  ‘Not exactly a top bod then?’ said Gilroy as they crossed the reception area.

  ‘Depends how you judge it, Jack,’ said Fox. ‘When it came to avoiding paying for a round of drinks in the Tank, Gentleman John was unbeatable.’

  ‘Incidentally, did you know they’ve closed the Tank, guv?’ asked Gilroy, speaking of the bar that had, for years, existed on the ground floor of New Scotland Yard. ‘Turned it into a health centre apparently.’

  Fox stopped suddenly and turned to face Gilroy. ‘They’ve done what, Jack?’ he demanded. ‘That’s outrageous.’

  *

  ‘I suppose you realise, Sergeant,’ said Commander Willow, ‘that not only have I been made to look a complete fool, but that damned woman at 54 Purbeck Terrace has written a letter to the Commissioner?’ He glared out of the window as his car wound its way through the streets of Paddington.

  ‘Is it a formal complaint, sir?’ Clarke had mixed feelings about that. Much as he would like to see his pompous commander taken down a peg or two, he knew instinctively that if that happened, the name of Sergeant Clarke would not be entirely absent from any enquiry into the matter.

  ‘I have resolved it,’ said Willow, unwilling to reveal the details of the uncomfortable interview he had been subjected to by the deputy assistant commissioner who had charge of Number One Area. He leaned forward. ‘Number fifty-four, driver.’

  The house in Purbeck Row was much like the other in Purbeck Terrace, and Willow strode up to the door and rang the only bell.

  The man who opened the door was dressed in grubby trousers and a dirty singlet. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Police,’ said Willow.

  ‘Oh yeah?’ The man looked doubtful.

  Willow produced his warrant card. ‘I’m looking for a Miss Sandra Nash,’ he said.

  ‘Gone,’ said the man.

  ‘Gone. Gone where?’

  The man shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘Upped and left a week or two ago. I’ve let her room to another lady now.’

  ‘Is that so?’ asked Willow suspiciously. ‘Would it be possible to see the room that she occupied?’ He adopted a slightly more conciliatory tone.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the man, not moving, ‘if you’ve got a warrant. But I ain’t having nobody poking about in a room what’s occupied by someone else. Wouldn’t be right, would it?’

  *

  ‘Denzil,’ said Fox.

  ‘Sir?’ Evans clutched the file containing the results of his enquiries into Dawn Mitchell’s friends and acquaintances.

  ‘Find out when Hope-Smith is due back in this country next. I need to talk to him again.’

  ‘Right, sir.’ Evans waited, expectantly.

  ‘That’s all, Denzil,’ said Fox, looking up again.

  ‘I’ve got the list of Dawn’s —’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother with that now, Denzil, there’s no rush.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Evans marched back to the office he shared with Jack Gilroy and flung the file on his desk. ‘I shall get it right one day, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘Not while you’re still on the Squad you won’t,’ said Gilroy. ‘Leastways, not while Tommy Fox is still the guv’nor.’

  But Jason Hope-Smith no longer worked for the oil company in Kuwait. And he had moved from his flat in Chelsea.

  *

  The grim edifice of Parkhurst Prison stood back from the road between Cowes and Newport on the Isle of Wight. Many of its inmates were serving long sentences for crimes of violence and John James Stedman, who had been given ten years for armed robbery, fitted in well.

  Commander Raymond Willow had decided, reluctantly and in the absence of Sandra Nash, that he ought to interview the man who had made the complaint against Fox. He should have done that first of all, of course, but he was not very skilled at investigating complaints against the police and had been postponing the day when he would have to make the uncomfortable journey, by train and ferry, to the prison.

  ‘I am Commander Willow of the Metropolitan Police, and I am investigating the complaint that you made against Detective Chief Superintendent Fox of the Flying Squad,’ said Willow as the muscular figure of Stedman was escorted into the interview room. He was about thirty-two and had the surly look of a man who would rob his own grandmother if he thought it would avoid his having to do a day’s work.

  ‘Come to tell me it’s a whitewash, have you?’ asked Stedman as he sprawled into the chair on the opposite side of the table and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Certainly not. I’ve come to take a statement from you.’

  ‘Oh, what about?’ Stedman looked suspiciously at the policeman.

  ‘The allegations that you’re making against Mr Fox.’

  ‘That was all in the letter from my MP.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but I need a statement.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, Stedman —’

  ‘Mister Stedman.’ The prisoner grinned insolently at Willow.

  ‘Because,’ continued Willow, ‘you have made an allegation of a criminal offence. If that is substantiated, then it will go to court.’

  Stedman sat up. ‘You mean old Fox’ll get done?’

  ‘If it is proved that he stole money from you, it is possible that he will be prosecuted,’ said Willow stiffly.

  ‘So he might finish up in the nick with me?’ Stedman lit another cigarette from the stub of his first. ‘Well, there’d be a few in here that’d form a welcoming committee and that’s no mistake, I can tell you, copper.’

  Willow coughed and shuffled his papers. ‘But not unless you are prepared to make a statement.’ This, he thought, was his trump card. If Stedman refused, Willow might be able to write off the complaint as having been withdrawn. And that would reduce his report from some twenty or thirty pages to a single sheet.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll make a statement,’ said Stedman.

  ‘I see.’ Willow glanced at Clarke who produced some forms from his briefcase. ‘D’you wish to write the statement yourself, or shall I have my sergeant take it down at your dictation?’

  ‘No,’ said Stedman, ‘he can write it.’

  ‘I must warn you,’ said Willow, ‘that a false statement may, under certain circumstances, be construed as an offence which carries a penalty of up to two years’ imprisonment.’

  Stedman scoffed. ‘You’re terrifying me,’ he said.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It’s very simple really. Tommy Fox come round my drum in Buckhurst Hill and give it a spin on a “W” —’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Willow. ‘Are you saying that Detective Chief Superintendent Fox visited your premises and
executed a search warrant?’

  ‘I just did, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but we have to get it in language which a jury will be able to understand.’

  ‘I thought it was s’posed to be my statement, not yours,’ said Stedman who was well versed in the matter of statements. ‘Tell you what,’ he continued with a yawn. ‘I’ll tell the tale and you write down what you like. If it’s kosher, I’ll sign it.’

  ‘Perhaps that would be best,’ said Willow in his innocence.

  ‘Right. Like I said, Tommy Fox spun me drum and while he was at it, he nicked two hundred notes, seven of me best CDs and a couple of Sandra’s dresses. Reckon he’s one of them fetishists. What’s he do? Take ’em home and sniff ’em?’ Stedman leered at the commander.

  Willow listened to Stedman’s full story and waited while Clarke translated it into written English. ‘The titles of the compact discs are as stated in this letter, are they?’ He handed Stedman a photostat copy of the letter that Stedman’s MP had written to the Commissioner.

  ‘Yeah!’ Stedman unwrapped some gum, put it in his mouth and started to chew vigorously.

  Willow wrinkled his nose at the smell of spearmint and cast an eye over the statement that Clarke had prepared. Then he passed it across to Stedman. ‘Read that,’ he said. ‘You may alter or add anything you wish before signing it.’

  Stedman took the statement and quickly read through it. ‘That’s about the strength of it,’ he said, and taking Clarke’s pen, scrawled signatures on those parts of the form that Clarke indicated.

  TWELVE

  ‘SO MR HOPE-SMITH’S DONE a runner, has he?’ said Fox.

  ‘Looks that way, sir, yes,’ said Evans.

  ‘Interesting. I wonder why.’

  ‘Guilty knowledge, sir?’ Evans looked hopeful.

  ‘We’ll have to ask him. When you find him, Denzil. What have you done so far?’

  ‘I’ve put his name into the computer, guv, and enquiries are in hand.’

  ‘I should hope so,’ said Fox, ‘but don’t hang about, eh? Have you spoken to the Post Office?’

  ‘The Post Office, sir?’

  ‘Mr Hope-Smith, like everyone else, gets letters, Denzil, does he not?’

  ‘I suppose so, guv.’

  ‘Exactly, Denzil. Therefore, when he moves he would like still to get those letters, and given that there is always a time-lag between moving and telling all your friends — and other interested parties — of your new address, it is always advisable to put in a postal redirection form. Yes? Thus, Denzil, if you speak to the Post Office, they might just tell you where he’s gone.’

  ‘Oh, good idea, sir.’

  ‘On the other hand, he might just have disappeared,’ said Fox. ‘There again, he presumably has a telephone and given that modern people seem unable to survive without telephones these days, a call to British Telecom might give you his new number. And his new number will tell you where he is. Talking of telephones, what about this list of Lady Dawn’s friends that you garnered from her address book and her telephone account?’

  ‘I’ve had all of them checked out, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Most of them are people she met at parties and the like,’ said Evans, ‘and have little to say that might help. At least, not at the moment. I’ve got some of the lads checking their alibis, but most of them seem to be in the clear. But there are three or four who don’t fit into that bracket.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Evans put a sheet of paper on Fox’s desk. ‘These are men whose office phone numbers she had in her book, and they appear a few times on the phone bill, too.’

  ‘What sort of business are they in?’ Fox leaned forward and glanced at the list.

  ‘There’s a solicitor, a company director — owns a string of garages — a television producer and a fairly high-ranking civil servant.’ Evans grinned. ‘And they’re all married, sir.’

  ‘Well, well. And have you been to see them?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. Thought I’d get your views on it first.’

  ‘Very wise, Denzil,’ said Fox. ‘Very wise. I think we shall go and talk to these chaps. Should be fun, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I suppose so,’ said Evans hesitantly, not quite sure why Fox thought that it would be amusing. But then Evans’s sense of fun rarely accorded with Fox’s in circumstances like this.

  *

  Fox was fairly certain what sort of relationship had existed between Dawn Mitchell and the four men that Evans had named. He decided to visit the civil servant first on the grounds that he probably had more to lose than the other three by the exposure of what could well turn out to be a sexual scandal. Handled properly, he might be more co-operative if he was promised discretion. Not that a promise of discretion could be guaranteed.

  ‘Mr Barnes?’

  ‘Yes. You must be from the police.’ Barnes glanced at the clock and closed the file on his desk, pushing it to one side with an audible sigh. ‘But I really don’t know how I can help you.’ He was in his forties and Fox had been given to understand that he was well in line for greater things. Working on the basis that he had an office to himself, and a secretary, he hadn’t done too badly already.

  ‘Indeed. Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad.’

  ‘Oh, really? Isn’t that what’s called the Sweeney?’ Barnes stood up and shook hands. ‘Do sit down,’ he said.

  Fox had already formed the view that Barnes was one of those public servants who regarded the police with thinly-veiled contempt. ‘Some people refer to it as the Sweeney, so I’m led to believe,’ he said, and without giving Barnes time to relax, hit him with his first question. ‘I understand that you knew Dawn Mitchell? Lived in a flat in Edgware Road.’

  Barnes sat down, rather suddenly Fox thought, and stared at the detective, the light from his desk-lamp glinting on the lenses of his horn-rimmed spectacles. ‘Mitchell, Mitchell?’ he said. ‘I can’t say that the name immediately rings a bell. In what connection, may I ask?’

  ‘Oh, purely a social one,’ said Fox airily.

  ‘I’m sorry, Superintendent, but —’

  ‘Chief Superintendent,’ said Fox. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘Ah yes, of course. But I don’t think —’

  ‘She had your telephone number in her address book, Mr Barnes. And it also appeared on her itemised telephone account. It seems that she telephoned you more than once over the last three months.’

  ‘I talk to so many people on the phone, Chief Superintendent, that it’s easy to forget just who they all are. This is a very busy department, as I’m sure you’ll understand.’ Barnes glanced at the clock again.

  ‘And you telephoned her, Mr Barnes. At home.’ Fox had no evidence of that whatever, but it was worth a gamble.

  ‘Oh, er —’

  ‘Mr Barnes, shall we stop beating about the bush? My only interest in Dawn Mitchell, or Lady Dawn Sims as she was better known —’

  ‘What?’ Barnes was obviously shaken by that revelation.

  ‘I said that she was called Lady Dawn Sims.’

  ‘Good God! But I saw something about her in the papers. Hasn’t she been murdered?’ Barnes had gone quite white. ‘I didn’t know that Dawn was —’

  ‘I see that you do know her after all, Mr Barnes. As I was saying, my only interest in Dawn Mitchell is that she has been murdered. And my job is to discover her killer.’ Fox sat back in his chair and waited patiently.

  ‘Might this all come out? In the papers, I mean. You know what the tabloids are like.’ Barnes was suddenly a very worried man.

  Fox nodded. ‘Yes, indeed I do,’ he said. ‘But it has all come out, hasn’t it? The murder of an earl’s daughter is not something that’s easily hushed up.’

  ‘That wasn’t quite what I meant.’

  ‘Can I save you a bit of time, Mr Barnes?’ said Fox, fixing the civil servant with his best interrogation stare. ‘You visited Dawn Mitchell on several occasions and had se
xual intercourse with her for which you paid.’ It was a guess, but not much of one.

  Barnes’s chin dropped on to his chest. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. The bombast had gone.

  ‘Good!’ Fox waited until Barnes looked up in surprise at this apparent approval and then went on. ‘Now we can get down to the bones of the matter, if you’ll excuse the expression. How did you come to meet her?’

  ‘My wife —’

  ‘Oh, you’re married are you?’ Fox knew that, of course, but thought that he would express some astonishment just for the hell of it.

  ‘Yes, that’s the problem.’ Barnes was now a very rattled man.

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Fox. ‘But you were saying … about your wife.’

  ‘My wife is very involved in charity work —’

  ‘Which charity would that be?’ asked Fox, even though Evans had told him that too.

  ‘The Hayden Trust. I don’t know whether you’ve heard of it.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Mr Barnes.’ Fox turned to Evans. ‘Have you heard of the Hayden Trust, Denzil?’ he asked.

  Evans gulped. ‘I’m not sure either, sir,’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Fox and turned to Barnes again. ‘However, Mr Barnes, you say your wife is involved with this, er, Hayden Trust. How is that connected with Dawn Mitchell?’

  ‘Well, not directly, but the Haydens, Freddie and Tessa, invited us to a charity fund-raising dinner, and that’s where I met Dawn.’

  ‘And the Haydens were there, presumably.’

  ‘No, they weren’t. My wife said that Mr Hayden had gone abroad, something to do with the charity, and that Mrs Hayden was unwell.’

  ‘Really? How interesting. When was this?’

  Barnes frowned in thought. ‘Early September, I believe. I can’t remember the exact date.’

  ‘And it was but a short step from there into Dawn’s bed, I take it?’

  Barnes looked extremely embarrassed at Fox’s pithy assessment of his relationship with the dead girl, but he nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘And how did that come about? Proposition you, did she? Discreetly hand you a price-list and tell you it was all for charity?’ Fox found Barnes to be quite an odious character. Slowly, the image of a patronising civil servant was giving way to reveal an immoral little man who cheated on his wife.