by Graham Ison
‘We have reason to believe that there is stolen property on these premises,’ said Evans. ‘I take it that you’re not Mrs Wilson,’ he added.
‘No. I’m Judith Ransome. Not that it’s got anything to do with you.’
‘I see. Well, we need to talk to Mr Wilson. Is he coming down?’
‘I’m here. And what the bloody hell’s this all about?’ Wilson, wearing a short dressing gown and smoothing his ruffled hair, came slowly down the stairs.
Evans sighed and went through the whole official rigmarole again.
‘Bloody stupid,’ said Wilson. ‘I’m an estate agent, in a good way of business. What would I be doing with stolen property? I shall be complaining about this. I shall write to my MP. The Home Secretary even.’
Fox hooked his umbrella over his arm and took off his trilby, smoothing the brim with his sleeve. ‘You know what you’re looking for, Denzil, don’t you?’ he asked.
‘Yes, guv.’ Evans needed the helpful assistance of his detective chief superintendent like he needed a hole in the head.
‘Are you in charge?’ Wilson rounded on Fox, a malevolent glare on his face.
‘Indeed.’ Fox smiled amiably.
‘And who are you?’
‘Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad. Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox.’
‘Is that so?’ Wilson thrust his hands into the pockets of his dressing gown. ‘Well, I hope you’ve got a good reason for disturbing honest people at this time of a morning. I don’t wonder the police are losing public support if this is the way you behave.’
‘Mr Wilson,’ said Fox, appraising the scantily-clad figure of Judith Ransome, ‘I never do anything without a good and sufficient reason. It’s the way we’re trained, you know.’
Wilson followed Fox’s gaze. ‘Go and put some clothes on,’ he said sharply to his girlfriend. ‘If you’ve no objection?’ he asked sarcastically, turning back to Fox again.
‘Not at all.’ Fox smiled and waved a hand of dismissal. ‘This car boot sale you went to last Sunday morning, Mr Wilson —’
Wilson’s eyes narrowed. ‘How did you know about that?’ he asked.
‘I had my officers follow you.’
‘What?’ Wilson spat the word and contrived, at the same time, to fill it with the indignation of innocence. ‘Is this a police state now then?’
‘Alas no,’ said Fox.
‘Found it, guv.’ DS Crozier appeared from upstairs carrying the keyboard of a personal computer. Behind him, DC Tarling struggled with the visual display unit.
‘Definitely the one?’ asked Fox casually.
‘Yes, guv. I’ve checked the number,’ said Crozier.
‘Splendid. Better take the place apart then.’ Fox turned to Wilson. ‘This personal computer was stolen from a dealer in Kingston,’ he said. ‘And you, old son, have got some explaining to do.’ He flicked a piece of dust from the crown of his trilby. ‘And by the way, you’re nicked for the possession of stolen property.’
‘What’s going on?’ A barefooted Judith Ransome reappeared at the foot of the stairs dressed in jeans and a sweat-shirt.
‘I’ve just arrested your boyfriend for possession of stolen property,’ said Fox.
‘You bloody idiot,’ screamed the girl at Wilson, ‘I told you it was too chancy.’
‘Shut your mouth, you stupid bitch,’ said Wilson angrily.
‘Oh dear,’ said Fox.
*
Only one of the eight houses that the Flying Squad had set out to search had been unoccupied — and that, it transpired, was because the owners had caught an early flight to the Canaries — but Fox was not too concerned about what he saw as small fry. Three men and one woman had been arrested for possessing stolen property. The remainder, it seemed, had been fortunate enough to dispose of their illicitly obtained goods at the car-boot sales that were now interesting Fox.
Tom Wilson, the man whom Fox had arrested, made a full confession, although he declined to admit more than the one offence. That didn’t worry Fox too much because Wilson had put the finger on Harry Dawes with an indecent haste. Well, not Harry Dawes directly, but on Vincent Carmody who, Findlater’s team had proved, was the next best thing.
‘Are you going to nick Sliding Dawes, guv?’ asked Gilroy.
‘I think not, Jack,’ said Fox. ‘I am far from satisfied that we shall derive any benefit from such a course of action. We’ll let the bastard sweat for a while.’
FIFTEEN
‘I’M COMMANDER WILLOW, ONE AREA Headquarters.’ Willow laid his warrant card on the front-office counter at Vine Street Police Station where, in pursuance of his enquiries, as the police are wont to say, he had arranged to meet Sergeant Clarke and interview Sandra Nash.
‘All correct, sir,’ said the station officer, unimpressed by the visitation of a commander from another area. But then the station officer, having recently failed the promotion examination to inspector for the third time, was impressed by very little these days.
‘You have a Sandra Nash in custody here, I believe, Sergeant?’
The station officer turned to a large book that lay open on his desk. ‘We do indeed, sir,’ he said. ‘Sandra Nash, soliciting prostitution in Swallow Street last night.’ He looked up. ‘And your Sergeant Clarke’s in the canteen, sir. Said he was waiting for you.’
‘Perhaps you’d get the custody sergeant to put Sandra Nash in an interview room,’ said Willow. ‘Oh, and tell Sergeant Clarke to meet me there, will you.’
‘Yes, sir. Immediately, sir.’ There wasn’t quite enough sarcasm in the sergeant’s voice to warrant a rebuke.
It was an apprehensive Sandra Nash that was brought into the interview room by a woman police constable. She had been arrested for soliciting and had expected to be released on bail almost immediately. But then the custody sergeant had told her that she was to be detained overnight because there was a warrant out for her arrest. In any event, he had added, she would not be going into court before half-past two as a senior officer wished to interview her in connection with an important enquiry he was conducting. And that had worried her.
‘Are you Sandra Nash?’ asked Willow.
‘Yeah, s’right.’ The girl dropped casually into the chair on the other side of the table from where the commander was sitting, crossed her legs and gazed at her fingernails with a blank and disinterested expression. She was about twenty-eight and wore a short, flared black skirt and a red satin blouse that strained at the buttons. Although she had spent a night in the cells, she had taken pains with her appearance. Her long, black hair was brushed straight and her make-up, although heavy, was freshly applied. ‘And I’m losing business being locked up in here an’ all,’ she said insolently. ‘What’s it all about anyway?’
‘D’you wish me to stay, sir?’ asked the WPG who had brought the girl to the interview room.
‘No thank you,’ said Willow, secure in the knowledge that Sergeant Clarke’s presence fulfilled the regulations regarding the interviewing of a female prisoner. He turned his attention back to Sandra Nash. ‘I understand that you are the common-law wife of John James Stedman who resided, prior to his arrest —’
‘D’you mean was I shacked up with him?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’
‘Yeah, I was. But we split, when he got nicked.’ Sandra was still concerned that she might be in some sort of serious trouble, probably as a result of having been Stedman’s live-in lover.
‘I am investigating a complaint against police made by Mr Stedman,’ said Willow pompously.
‘D’you mean you’ve kept me banged up here for hours on end just for that?’ Suddenly, Sandra realised what this was all about. It wasn’t she who was in trouble, it was some copper. She relaxed. And decided to have a bit of fun just to get her own back.
‘I’m afraid it’s unavoidable, madam,’ said Willow.
‘Oh is it?’ Sandra undid the top button of her blouse and smiled impishly at Willow. ‘Here, you haven’t got a fag have you? I’m
dying for a smoke and that cow out there wouldn’t give me one.’
‘No,’ said Willow. ‘I don’t smoke, and neither does my sergeant.’
‘No,’ said Sandra thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t think you would.’ She grinned at Clarke. ‘I’ll bet you still enjoy a screw though, don’t you, love,’ she said to him. ‘You can always pop round my place for a freebie if you feel like it.’
‘Madam! I must warn you —’ Willow started to go red in the face.
Sandra pushed two fingers down the front of her clearly visible black lace bra and gently rubbed the division between her breasts. ‘You don’t half turn me on when you get all angry like that,’ she said, and wrinkled her nose. Behind the commander’s back, Clarke grinned at the girl.
‘Were you present at 27 Winsome Terrace, Buckhurst Hill, Essex, on Wednesday, the tenth of —’
‘D’you mean when Johnny was nicked?’
Willow glanced up from his sheaf of papers. ‘Yes, when Stedman was arrested by Flying Squad officers under the command of Detective Chief Superintendent Fox.’
‘Yeah, I was.’
‘Yes, well, Stedman has alleged,’ continued Willow, hurrying on, ‘that on that occasion, Mr Fox stole two hundred pounds in cash, seven compact discs and two dresses.’
‘Did he really?’ Sandra undid another button and putting her hand inside her bra, moved one of her breasts to a more comfortable position. She smiled wickedly at Clarke who was trying desperately to keep a straight face at this latest affront to his governor’s dignity. ‘You were saying?’ The girl smiled sweetly.
Willow was clearly embarrassed by the prostitute’s behaviour. ‘Just compose yourself, young woman,’ he said sharply.
‘That’s what I was doing,’ said Sandra. ‘But hurry it up will you, I’m busting for a pee.’
‘I want a statement from you saying exactly what occurred on that occasion, Miss Nash.’
Sandra stood up and, placing her foot on the seat of her chair, pulled up her skirt so that Willow could not avoid being treated to a flash of white thigh. ‘This copper come in with a “W” … She smoothed her hands seductively up her black nylon stocking and adjusted the clip of her suspender.
‘You mean Mr Fox came with a search warrant?’ Willow fixed his gaze on the far wall.
‘S’what I just said, weren’t it?’ Sandra straightened her skirt and sat down again. ‘And he searched Johnny’s gaff.’
‘And did you see him take anything?’
‘Yeah, loads of gear. Reckoned it was nicked. And it was.’
‘Ah!’ said Willow. ‘Including, I presume, Stedman’s two hundred pounds, the seven compact discs and the two dresses?’
‘Nah! I took them.’ Sandra leaned forward so that Willow was obliged to look away or stare down the front of her blouse.
‘I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down —’
‘Knickers!’ said Sandra and smiled provocatively.
‘Young woman, I am trying to conduct an enquiry here.’ Willow’s temper was beginning to fray quite dramatically.
‘They was mine … and the two hundred quid was the housekeeping. Johnny give it me right under the copper’s nose. He’d just been paid, see. Least, that’s what he said.’
Willow moved his chair back a foot or two. ‘Let me get this straight,’ he said. ‘You are saying that Stedman actually gave you the two hundred pounds, and that the seven compact discs and the two dresses were your property?’
‘S’right.’
‘Why did you go to America, as a matter of interest?’ asked Willow.
‘Fancied a holiday. Bit of sun and a few men who appreciate a girl like me. Not that it’s got bugger-all to do with you.’ Sandra Nash pulled the front of her blouse back and forth a few times, wafting some air into her neckline. ‘It ain’t half hot in here,’ she said.
*
‘We do not seem to be getting very far,’ said Fox.
‘Well, at least we’ve got a good idea where this stolen gear’s going, sir,’ replied Gilroy.
Fox scoffed. ‘A couple of car-boot sales,’ he said. ‘There’s a bloody sight more to it than that. Have a look at the list of stolen property, Jack. There’s a hell of a lot of it and you can’t tell me that an operator like Harry Dawes is just going to get rid of it at car-boot sales.’
‘So what do we do, guv?’
‘And we’re no nearer to solving the murder of Dawn Sims alias Mitchell, either,’ continued Fox, ignoring his detective inspector’s question. ‘Something will have to be done. If no better reason than that the Commissioner’s starting to breathe down my neck.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gilroy. He detected the signs. Any time now, Fox was going to start thrashing about. The irony of it was that he very often managed to solve crimes by doing just that. But God help anyone else who tried it.
*
Jane Sims seemed to have recovered somewhat from the trauma of her father’s death when Fox next called at her flat near Knightsbridge, even though he suspected that her cheerfulness was a little artificial. But that was academic; he was about to put her into sombre mood again.
‘I’m sorry about the other day,’ said Jane as she handed him a drink. This time she had not asked what he wanted; had just poured Scotch.
‘Understandable,’ said Fox. ‘Your brother gone back to America, has he?’
‘Not yet,’ said Jane. ‘He’s still in Yorkshire, sorting things out, but he’ll be going back soon, I think.’
‘Funeral go all right?’
‘As well as such things can go, I suppose.’ Jane shivered slightly. ‘The Yorkshire Dales are pretty inhospitable at the best of times, but it poured with rain all the time we were at the cemetery.’ She took a sip of her whisky. ‘What was it you wanted to see me about the other day, Tommy?’ she asked, hoping to steer him away from the subject of her father’s death.
Fox took out his cigarette case and offered it to her, but she shook her head. He noticed that the ashtray now appeared to have a permanent place on the coffee table.
‘I’m afraid that your sister —’ He broke off, wondering how best to put it. But then he decided that Jane was likely to be irritated by anything other than directness. ‘It seems that Dawn had become a call-girl, more or less,’ he said.
‘What d’you mean, more or less?’
‘We have now traced at least five men who have admitted to paying her for sexual intercourse.’
‘Oh no!’ Jane ran a hand through her hair. ‘I was hoping that it wasn’t true when you suggested the possibility the other day. D’you think that one of them killed her?’
‘The five we’ve seen were a pretty gutless lot,’ said Fox. ‘Not that that’s any guide, of course. But if they were clients then there are almost certain to have been others who we have yet to trace.’
‘D’you think you’ll be able to find them?’
‘I hope so. We’ve all sorts of enquiries going on at the moment. But we need a slice of luck.’
Jane smiled at that. ‘I thought you were all terribly professional,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that the sort of thing that only happens in books?’
‘Don’t you believe it.’ Fox grinned at her. ‘We just need that one break, that’s all.’
Jane leaned forward, her elbows on her knees and her face cupped in her hands. ‘Do you honestly believe that you’re going to find Dawn’s killer?’
Fox had grave doubts. He knew that the clear-up rate for murder in London was higher than for most other crime, but he was afraid that the killing of Dawn Sims might just fall into the twenty per cent of unsolved cases that lay on the books to haunt the officers of his Department. ‘Of course we shall, Jane,’ he said.
‘What sort of men were they? The ones that Dawn —’ Jane broke off, unable to put into words what her sister had been doing before she was murdered.
Fox wondered why she wanted to know. ‘A pretty sleazy bunch.’
‘I don’t doubt that, but what were they?’
/>
‘A civil servant, a bloke who owns a string of garages, someone in television —’
‘And where did she do this? Did she meet them in some crummy hotel room, or what?’ Jane was obviously intent on extracting all the sordid details.
‘As far as we knew, she entertained them in her own flat in Edgware Road.’
‘My God, how sordid it all sounds.’ Jane felt in the pocket of her jeans and pulled out a handkerchief. Some loose change fell on to the edge of the sofa on which she was sitting and scattered on the floor. Snuffling and dabbing at her eyes, she stood up. ‘Let me get you another drink, Tommy,’ she said and, taking his glass, turned quickly so that Fox should not see that she was crying.
Fox wisely ignored her distress and gathering up the coins from the carpet, placed them on the coffee table. ‘I thought the nobility never carried money,’ he said.
*
Barnes, the civil servant who had reluctantly admitted to being one of Dawn Sims’s clients, was not happy to see Fox again.
And Fox was not happy at having his time wasted. ‘Mr Barnes, you’re buggering me about,’ he said.
Barnes blinked. ‘I’m not sure that I —’
‘It’s this simple, Mr Barnes. I am investigating a murder and I do not appreciate people like you telling me lies.’
‘I thought I was very open with you,’ said Barnes, making a vain attempt to preserve some of his dignity. As a senior civil servant, he was unaccustomed to people abusing him in his own office.
‘You may have thought that you were being open, but I know you weren’t. When Mr Evans and I saw you last, you told us that on the night of the fourteenth and fifteenth of October, the night of Dawn Sims’s murder, you were at home with your wife.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Your wife has told us that you were not at home. Furthermore, she said that she didn’t know where you were.’
‘You’ve spoken to my wife?’ Barnes was unable to keep the dismay from his voice.
‘In a murder enquiry, Mr Barnes, we talk to whomsoever we please.’ Fox paused. ‘Well?’
‘I was at home. I swear I was. I don’t know why my wife should have told you that I wasn’t. It doesn’t make any sense at all.’ Barnes picked up a slip of paper from his desk and glanced at it briefly before screwing it up and throwing it into his waste-paper basket.