Underneath The Arches

by Graham Ison

  ‘This is my brother James,’ said Jane and turning to the young man, added, ‘This is Thomas, the policeman I was telling you about.’

  ‘How d’you do,’ said Fox as he shook hands. ‘Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad.’

  ‘Ah! You’re the one who’s investigating my sister’s death.’

  ‘Yes.’ Fox glanced at Jane Sims who was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Are you all right, Jane?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not really. James has just arrived from Yorkshire. Daddy’s dead.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Fox quietly. Although he had met the old man only once, and then briefly, he had taken a liking to him. ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘Last night,’ said Jane. ‘It was a heart attack.’

  ‘I’m afraid that the shock of Dawn’s murder was just too much for him,’ said James Sims.

  ‘But how did he find out? That it was a murder, I mean.’ Fox recalled Jane saying that Earl Sims never read newspapers and didn’t watch television.

  ‘It was that damned nurse that we’d hired, I’m afraid,’ said Sims. ‘Can’t blame her really, and she thought she was being kind, but she’d read about it and asked father if he’d seen the latest account in the newspaper.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it was just too much for the old boy.’

  ‘So you’re the new Earl Sims, I take it?’ asked Fox.

  James Sims nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘for what it’s worth.’ He glanced at his sister who had sat down on the settee and then turned back to Fox. ‘I’m most awfully sorry,’ he said. ‘Very remiss of me, but I haven’t offered you a drink.’

  Fox waved a deprecating hand. ‘I think that Jane’s more in need of one than I am,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, d’you really think so?’ Sims hesitated. ‘I always thought that in cases of shock —’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fox, ‘I know all about that, but if I were you, I’d give her a very large Scotch.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Sims managed a grin. ‘Always believe in co-operating with the police,’ he said. ‘At least in matters of that sort. Same for you?’

  ‘Thanks.’ Fox sat down opposite Jane.

  ‘I’m sorry, Thomas. Not being very hospitable, but Daddy and I were very close.’

  ‘Understandable,’ said Fox gruffly. He watched as James Sims poured healthy measures of whisky into chunky tumblers.

  ‘Was there anything in particular you wanted to see Jane about?’ asked Sims. ‘Or me for that matter, if you think I can help.’

  ‘It’s nothing urgent,’ said Fox, ‘but perhaps you and I could have a chat at some time, just so that I can put you in the picture.’

  ‘Yes, I’d be grateful. I’ve been in the States for about six weeks, on business … and a holiday. Got back to Yorkshire yesterday and walked straight into this lot.’ The young man shook his head. ‘So I flew down today to break the news to Jane. I thought it would be better than telephoning.’ He nodded at his sister, hunched up on the settee, clutching her glass and staring into space. ‘As Jane said, she and the guv’nor were very close.’

  ‘I gathered that,’ said Fox. He looked at Jane. ‘I’ll come and see you in perhaps a day or two’s time.’

  ‘I’m very grateful to you for keeping Jane informed of what’s going on, Mr Fox,’ said the new Lord Sims as he shook hands.

  Fox paused, briefly. ‘What exactly d’you do in the States, Lord Sims?’ he asked.

  Sims grinned. ‘I sell expensive British motor cars to New Yorkers,’ he said. ‘Or at least, I try to, but the recession doesn’t help.’

  Jane stood up and, still holding her glass, insisted on seeing Fox to the door. ‘Thank you, Thomas dear,’ she said and placed a hand on his arm.

  Fox nodded briefly. ‘My friends call me Tommy,’ he said.

  *

  It was about six o’clock on Sunday morning and snowing. Not hard, but just enough to leave a thin layer on roads that had, so far, been unsullied by traffic. Huddled in what the police call a nondescript observation van, and cursing the engineers who had installed the inadequate heater, Detective Sergeant Ernest Crabtree and Detective Constable Joe Bellenger were suddenly alerted to the arrival of a Ford Transit van outside the warehouse in Croydon that they had been watching for several days.

  ‘Hallo!’ said Bellenger.

  ‘Hallo, Joe,’ said Crabtree drily.

  The two officers watched as a man got out of the Transit and opened the doors of the warehouse. The van drove in and the doors were closed again. Ten minutes later, the van left the warehouse and drove away.

  The police van followed but DS Crabtree, knowing that they would be spotted sooner or later, immediately sent a radio call to DI Findlater and continued to give a running commentary on the Transit’s movements until some of Findlater’s motor-cyclists reported that they were in place and had taken over the mobile surveillance.

  The Transit drove at a sedate speed for several miles until it pulled into a lay-by on the A23 Brighton Road and stopped.

  Alerted to this strange turn of events, Findlater and other members of his team moved into position and watched. Over the next thirty minutes or so, half a dozen cars stopped long enough for the driver of each to load a personal computer or a video-recorder into his boot. The registration numbers of the cars were duly noted by the police and, making a snap decision, Findlater detailed some members of his team to follow two of the vehicles.

  *

  ‘And what was the outcome, Henry?’ asked Fox.

  ‘Both the cars that were followed finished up at car-boot sales, sir.’

  ‘Different locations?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but both between Croydon and the coast.’

  Fox lit a cigarette and nodded thoughtfully. ‘Nice one, Henry,’ he said.

  ‘D’you want the observation maintained on the warehouse, sir?’ asked Findlater.

  ‘Too bloody true I do, Henry,’ said Fox.

  *

  DI Denzil Evans’s enquiries had an interesting result too.

  The personnel manager of the oil company repeated what he had previously told DS Fletcher about the Kuwaiti operation being a separate company. Nevertheless, he offered to make a phone call to see what he could find out. ‘Hope-Smith wasn’t made redundant,’ he said when eventually he put the phone down after a lengthy conversation. ‘He was kicked out.’

  ‘Did they tell you why?’ asked Evans.

  ‘Seems he was running his own little harem out there. And got caught by the police.’

  ‘Could you elaborate on that?’

  ‘Yes, sure.’ The personnel manager laughed. ‘Apparently, he was living on the outskirts of the city in some huge bungalow, complete with swimming pool …’ The manager paused. ‘And about four nubile young Kuwaiti girls who ministered to his every need, so my opposite number out there tells me. As if that wasn’t enough, Hope-Smith was very keen on parties and it seems that he was in the habit of inviting some of his friends to a rave-up every Saturday. Not only were there goings-on in and around the pool with the young Kuwaiti girls but the alcohol was flowing freely as well. And that, inspector, is a flogging job in Kuwait. The management decided that the easiest way out was to make profuse apologies to the government and put Mr Hope-Smith on the next plane to London. I don’t think he knows just how lucky he was.’

  Fox gave a knowing smile when he received Evans’s report. ‘Told you he was a prat,’ he said.

  FOURTEEN

  VINCENT CARMODY WAS BY WAY of being Harry Dawes’s second-in-command. It was Carmody who had set up the new slaughter — as Dawes’s depository of stolen property at Croydon was known in criminal circles — and it was Carmody who had taken over the running of Dawes’s operation for the disposal of that property following the intense interest that the Flying Squad had suddenly taken in the ageing fence’s activities.

  But now that Dawes’s complaints had resulted in the removal, or so he thought, of the surveillance team that had, for days, dogged his every move
, he felt sure enough of himself to allow Carmody to visit him.

  ‘Well, Vince, and how’s it going?’ Dawes placed a glass of Manzanilla in front of his lieutenant.

  ‘The stock’s moving again, Harry,’ said Carmody, taking a hefty swig of his sherry.

  Dawes frowned at what he regarded as Carmody’s sacrilegious treatment of his best fortified wine. ‘Well, that’s good news,’ he said. ‘Where’s it going?’

  ‘Car-boot sales have picked up again and one or two market traders are showing an interest. But what with Christmas and the recession —’

  ‘I know, Vince. These is hard times, but what about the other outlet?’ Dawes leaned forward, an earnest expression on his face. ‘Still taking their usual quota?’

  ‘Yeah. I had to lean on him a bit, like you said, Harry. He wanted out.’

  ‘Did he indeed? Well that bastard owes me, and he’d better not forget it.’ Dawes laughed, a grating cackle of a laugh. ‘What’ve you heard, Vince? The Old Bill still sniffing round, are they?’

  ‘Ain’t heard nothing, Harry.’ Carmody drained his glass.

  ‘Another drop of the Manzanilla, Vince?’ Dawes hovered reluctantly with the decanter. ‘It’s a dry sherry from Sanlucar de Barrameda, you know,’ he said, hoping to instil some sense of appreciation into Carmody’s palate.

  ‘Is that a fact?’ Carmody would much rather have had a pint of lager.

  ‘I put the bubble in for bleeding Fox, you know.’

  ‘Eh?’ Carmody sounded apprehensive. It didn’t seem like a good idea to upset the filth, particularly when that filth happened to be Tommy Fox, the mention of whose name was usually guaranteed to put the fear of Christ up the average criminal.

  ‘Don’t worry, Vince,’ said Dawes. ‘We’re living in a different age now. The law can’t just go around stamping all over innocent citizens like they used to. I had a word with my brief and made a complaint of harassment. After all, Vince …’ Dawes spread his hands expressively and smiled. ‘It’s not as if I had any form, is it?’

  ‘No, I s’pose not,’ said Carmody, aware that with about sixteen previous convictions behind him, he was not in the same happy position as Dawes.

  ‘Well, keep up the good work, Vince,’ said Dawes and looked on disapprovingly as Carmody downed his glass of sherry in a single swallow.

  Vincent Carmody stepped out into Oxford Road and turned up the collar of his Barbour against the sleeting snow, unaware that two police officers had just been detailed to follow him.

  *

  ‘I have decided,’ said Fox, ‘that we are going to put the frighteners on the villainry.’ His audience of Flying Squad officers looked at him expectantly. ‘We are going to spin a few drums.’

  There was a collective groan. The prospect of executing search warrants at some unearthly hour on a cold winter’s morning did not fill the assembled detectives with a powerful enthusiasm.

  ‘When, guv?’ asked Detective Sergeant Crozier.

  ‘Tomorrow morning. Bright and early.’ Fox beamed at his men before turning his attention to DI Evans. ‘Perhaps you’d be so good as to pop round to Bow Street Court and secure a handful of warrants, Denzil.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Evans. ‘Er, what addresses, guv?’

  ‘Henry Findlater has them.’ Fox nodded towards the surveillance DI. ‘They are the fruits of his observation. Most of them are persons who appear to specialise in car-boot sales. And particularly in the car-boot sale of stolen property, so it would seem.’

  ‘And where will you be while we’re searching these premises, guv?’ asked Jack Gilroy, well knowing what Fox’s answer would be.

  ‘Oh, I think I’ll come along, Jack,’ said Fox. ‘Join in the fun. At least, with one of the teams.’ Even he realised that whatever other attributes he possessed, ubiquity was not one of them.

  *

  ‘Sergeant Clarke?’ asked the voice on the telephone.

  It was not often that Clarke’s wife suggested an early night. In fact, hardly ever, but tonight she had been very affectionate. And then the phone had rung. ‘Yes. Who’s that?’ snapped Clarke.

  ‘It’s the custody sergeant at Vine Street.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ve got a marker on the PNC for a Sandra Nash. Says not to be released to bail without reference to you.’ Clarke could not immediately recall why he had put Sandra Nash’s name on the Police National Computer. He pushed his wife’s hand away and she turned over, complaining. ‘What about her?’ he asked.

  ‘You tell me, mate. But she’s in custody here at Vine Street. Soliciting prostitution.’

  ‘Great!’ shouted Clarke into the mouthpiece. His wife muttered something uncomplimentary as one of the children in the next room started crying. ‘Hold her until I get there.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s all very well, sarge,’ said the Vine Street custody sergeant, ‘but I’ve got no reason to hold her just like that. I mean, what’s it all about? She wanted for something else, is she?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Clarke, swinging himself out of bed and putting his feet on the floor.

  ‘Yes what?’ The custody sergeant started to sound exasperated.

  ‘It’s in connection with a complaint against police.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the custody sergeant, ‘that’s nice that is. Bloody nice. Well my guv’nor’s not going to be too happy holding her on the say-so of some sergeant from One Area Headquarters.’

  ‘There should also have been a marker on the computer that she’s wanted on a warrant for non-appearance at Marlborough Street,’ said Clarke with a measure of malice. ‘Anyway, Commander Willow’s the one who wants her, skip, so if you can hold her until the afternoon sitting of the court, he would doubtless appreciate it.’

  ‘Bloody hell, I’d better stand up,’ said the custody sergeant. ‘What’s old Pussy Willow doing getting mixed up with toms then?’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Clarke, and dipping the receiver rest, tapped out the home telephone number of Commander Willow.

  *

  At four o’clock the following morning, those members of the Flying Squad who had been nominated to take part in the raids, assembled in the canteen of Cavendish Road Police Station near Clapham Common. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the pretty, young West Indian girl behind the counter had been working overtime producing tea, and fending off the good-natured badinage of detectives who would rather have spent an hour in bed with her than in searching houses.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ The immaculate figure of Tommy Fox, leaning heavily on his umbrella, appeared in the doorway of the canteen. He was attired, as usual, in his light grey cashmere overcoat and this morning sported a snap-brim trilby that would not have looked out of place in the owners’ enclosure at any of the racecourses in England. He lit a cigarette, declined a cup of tea from a passing sycophant and smiled. ‘Shall we begin?’ he asked.

  There was a murmur from the detectives who began standing up.

  ‘Everyone knows where he’s going, Jack?’ Fox glanced at Gilroy.

  ‘Yes, sir. We’ve got eight drums to do, all within about ten miles of here.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fox. ‘The breaking down of doors will commence at 5 a.m. precisely then, gentlemen.’ He looked round. ‘Ah, Denzil,’ he said, catching sight of Evans, ‘I shall come with you this morning.’

  The assembled members of the Flying Squad breathed a collective sigh of relief. All except for Denzil Evans and his team.

  The house that DI Evans had been assigned to search was in a respectable street on the outskirts of Purley. The properties were a mixture of detached and semi-detached houses, and most of the driveways had company cars parked on them.

  ‘Well, the villainry seems to be going up-market,’ said Fox as Swann brought the car to a standstill behind the Vauxhall Carlton being used by Evans.

  ‘You can tell they’re rich, guv,’ said Swann morosely, ‘they’re still in bed.’

  ‘Stop moaning and give me my umbrella,’ sai
d Fox as he got out of the car.

  It was still snowing and Evans, quickly surveying the house, sent one of his men round to the back garden before stepping up to the front door and banging loudly on the wooden panel.

  ‘There’s a doorbell there, Denzil,’ said Fox mildly.

  ‘Might not hear us, guv,’ said Evans. He didn’t want to be in this place at this time of the morning and had no intention of being felicitous, particularly to the occupants of the house.

  After several more knocks on the door and a number of rings on the bell, lights went on, first on the upstairs landing and then in the hall. Finally, the carriage lamp next to the front door spread a pink glow over the waiting detectives and a key was heard turning in the mortise lock. The door was opened, tentatively and on a chain. ‘What on earth is it?’ asked the young woman whose head appeared in the gap.

  ‘Police,’ said Evans, whose keenness to gain access to the premises was now inspired more by the need to escape from the freezing cold outside than a desire to search for stolen property inside. ‘Mrs Wilson, is it?’

  ‘How do I know that you’re the police?’ asked the woman. Evans held up his warrant card and the woman stared at it. ‘Well what d’you want?’

  ‘We have a warrant to search these premises, madam, and I must inform you that I am empowered to enter by force if necessary.’ Evans blew on his fingers.

  Reluctantly, the woman closed the door sufficiently to release the chain and then opened it wide. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she asked, wishing that she had slipped a wrap over her revealing nightdress before coming down the stairs.

  ‘Is your husband at home?’ asked Evans.

  ‘If you mean my boyfriend, yes. And he won’t be too pleased at being woken up at this hour. What time is it, anyway?’

  ‘Five o’clock,’ said Evans, moving into the hall.

  ‘Five o’clock!’ The woman marched belligerently to the foot of the stairs. ‘Tom, you’d better come down here. It’s the police.’ She turned back to Evans. ‘Well, are you going to explain what the hell this is all about?’ she demanded.