Underneath The Arches

by Graham Ison

  ‘In that case,’ said Fox, ‘I’ll have to talk to her again, won’t I?’

  ‘Must you?’ Barnes looked desperately at the detective.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fox coldly. ‘I must.’

  *

  ‘Thought you might be interested to see these, guv’nor,’ said Detective Sergeant Percy Fletcher. He spread a number of glossy photographs on Fox’s desk.

  ‘Where did you get those from, Perce?’

  ‘I was doing the rounds of the porn shops, guv, beating on the ground, like you said. And I came across these. They’re photographs of the original photographs, so the experts tell me.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Fox lined up the six black and white half-plates in front of him and continued to study them. ‘Pretty graphic, aren’t they, even for Soho.’

  ‘I tried tracing them, but it was hopeless, guv,’ said Fletcher. ‘It seems that they photograph the original prints and then run hundreds off the new negatives. It’s a licence to print money. My snout picked them up from another supplier who got them from a bloke in a pub. If I’d gone on long enough, I’d’ve finished up in Portobello Road market most likely.’

  Fox nodded. He knew the futility of trying to trace the origin of pornographic photographs. ‘Should have asked me first, Perce. I happen to know who took these lurid snaps of Lady Dawn Sims.’

  *

  ‘Recognise them?’ Fox slung the photographs of Dawn Sims on to a bench in John Wheeler’s studio.

  The so-called society photographer put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Where did you get those from?’

  ‘On sale in some sleazy sex-shop in darkest Soho,’ said Fox. ‘But someone’s stolen your copyright. I should sue if I were you.’

  ‘Very funny,’ said Wheeler, shuffling the photographs into a neat pile and handing them back to Fox. ‘I suppose you’re going to do me for that.’ He had an expression of resignation on his face.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Well, they don’t leave much to the imagination, do they. I mean, there’s no doubt they’re obscene.’

  ‘Strange to relate,’ said Fox airily, ‘it’s no offence to take pictures like these.’ He waved the bunch of prints in the air. ‘If it was, there’d be a few husbands convicted of photographing their wives and girlfriends. Which is all you did, really, given that you were screwing her at the time.’ Wheeler went to say something, but Fox carried on. ‘The offence subsists in selling such material, but quite frankly, the police are on a hiding to nothing if they waste their time trying to prove that anything is obscene these days.’

  ‘I didn’t sell them,’ said Wheeler wearily. ‘I wouldn’t have flogged pictures of a girl I was having an affair with, would I? At least, not pictures like those.’

  ‘So how did they reach what is loosely known as the open market?’ asked Fox. ‘Who did you give them to?’

  ‘I gave Dawn the only copies that were made,’ said Wheeler. ‘I even destroyed the negs. You can turn this place upside down if you want to.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said Fox. ‘I thought that’s what had happened. I just wanted to be sure.’

  ‘Sheila won’t be getting to hear about this, will she?’ asked Wheeler imploringly. He knew that if his lover, Sheila Thompson, learned of the existence of the photographs, she’d leave him.

  ‘Not unless you tell her,’ said Fox cheerily.

  SIXTEEN

  WHEN DICK AND MAISIE ELWELL and their two teenaged children got home after spending Christmas with Dick’s parents in Scotland, they had an unpleasant shock. Their house had been burgled. The only good thing about it all was that the Elwells had been the victims of professional thieves. Admittedly, the drawers had all been emptied and the contents of cupboards and wardrobes strewn about, but there was no graffiti and none of the other gratuitous vandalism that is, all too often, present in this age of social decay.

  The television was gone, along with the video-recorder, the new hi-fi, several valuable pieces of Mrs Elwell’s jewellery, Dick Elwell’s personal computer, a power drill, a food processor, five small silver cups that Dick Elwell had won at his golf club, and a stack of popular CDs from the bedroom of Trudy Elwell, the Elwells’ seventeen-year old daughter. Not surprisingly, Dick Elwells’ collection of opera CDs had been left.

  Fortunately for the police who arrived from nearby Sutton Police Station, Dick Elwell was a meticulous man. The serial number of every item of stolen property that possessed one had been recorded by him and was handed to the police when they arrived.

  The police made sympathetic noises, promised to send a scenes-of-crime officer, and added the break-in at the Elwell’s home to the list, knowing that there was a less than one-in-ten chance of the thieves ever being arrested.

  *

  ‘There’ve been two more warehouse-breakings that seem to have Sliding Dawes’s handwriting on them, guv,’ said Gilroy.

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Fox, tossing a file into his out-tray. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘A place out at Dagenham, sir. Suppliers of camping equipment and the like.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Fox.

  ‘I’ve got the list here,’ continued Gilroy. ‘Jeans, sweaters, tents and groundsheets.’ He shot a quick glance at Fox. ‘And tommy-cookers, sir.’

  ‘What?’ Fox looked sharply at his inspector.

  ‘They’re a sort of spirit stove that you can cook on when you go camping, so I believe, sir,’ said Gilroy.

  ‘I do not go camping, Jack,’ said Fox. ‘Unless there’s a hotel with at least three stars, I don’t go at all. What about the other place?’

  ‘Food wholesalers, sir. Dried foods mainly. Rice, flour, curry powder, dried milk, pulses, sugar and salt. That sort of thing.’

  ‘What the hell’s Dawes up to, Jack? Is he going to make the biggest curry in the world and get himself into the Guinness Book of Records?’

  ‘Maybe, sir,’ said Gilroy with a grin.

  ‘Well I’ve got news for him,’ said Fox irritably. ‘He’s going into the record books all right, for the most counts on one indictment ever seen at the Old Bailey, if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

  ‘What are we going to do, sir? Spin his slaughter at Croydon?’

  ‘Did the lads on obo there see this gear arrive?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well then, how do we know it’s down to Dawes?’

  Gilroy paused. ‘I think he’s rumbled the surveillance, guv’nor. And I think he’s got another slaughter somewhere.’

  Fox nodded gloomily and idly unwound a paper clip. ‘I’ve got a nagging suspicion that you might be right, Jack,’ he said.

  ‘D’you want to spin the slaughter at Croydon then, guv?’

  ‘Don’t see that we’ve much option, Jack. I’m not having that weaselly little bastard thumbing his nose at me any longer. Do the business, Jack, will you.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Gilroy and went off to get a search warrant for Dawes’s warehouse at Croydon.

  *

  ‘Vince, what news?’ Dawes ushered Vincent Carmody into the sitting-room of his house in Oxford Road, Putney, and poured sherry.

  ‘It’s going well, Harry,’ said Carmody, settling himself on the settee. He knew better than to sit in Dawes’s favourite Rexine-covered armchair. ‘We’ve got the new slaughter set up down Hounslow and it’s all legit.’

  ‘What d’you mean, all legit?’ Dawes paused in the act of handing Carmody a glass of sherry. ‘How can it be legit?’

  ‘I mean we done like what you said, Harry. It’s a company. Carmody Trading Ltd. There’s a sign over the door and we’ve even got a van with it on the side. All registered up Companies House. I done what you said and saw your mouthpiece. He done all the necessary.’

  ‘I like it, Vince. Yes, I definitely like it,’ said Dawes. ‘It’ll take more than bleeding Tommy Fox to work that one out.’

  ‘Yeah, well I hope so,’ said Carmody. He didn’t share Dawes’s views that F
ox could be that easily deluded.

  *

  It was Detective Sergeant Rosie Webster who was credited with finding the first crack in the Dawn Sims murder case. But it was Fox, needless to say, who pushed a case-opener into that crack and levered it apart.

  ‘I’ve just had a bell from Property Index, sir.’

  ‘How nice,’ said Fox. ‘And?’

  Rosie studied the piece of paper in her hand. ‘There was a burglary-dwelling reported yesterday on Sutton’s ground. A Mr and Mrs Elwell.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Rosie. Do we have to be wearied with rubbish like that?’

  Rosie smiled at her boss. ‘Ah, but you’ll like this, sir,’ she said. ‘Mr Elwell had his second-hand personal computer nicked.’

  ‘Poor chap,’ said Fox.

  ‘But he’d kept the serial number.’

  ‘Good for him.’

  ‘And it was one of those nicked in the ram raid at Kingston, a month or two back.’

  Fox leaned forward, suddenly interested. ‘Where did he get it from, Rosie? A car-boot sale?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Rosie laid the piece of paper on Fox’s desk and planted a finger on it. ‘That’s where he got it from, sir.’

  Fox studied the information that his detective sergeant had put before him and chuckled. Then he sat back in his chair. ‘What’s the time, Rosie?’

  Rosie turned and looked at the clock over Fox’s door. ‘Just gone midday, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Fox. ‘In that case, my girl, I shall give you a Scotch.’ And he walked across to his drinks cabinet.

  *

  Fox tapped out Gilroy’s extension number and waited. ‘Have you got the search warrant for Sliding Dawes’s slaughter at Croydon yet, Jack?’ he asked when his DI answered.

  ‘Yes, sir. Got it in front of me.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fox. ‘Well, tear it up and send Ron Crozier to see me.’

  Gilroy replaced the receiver and stood up. ‘D’you know, Denzil,’ he said to Evans, ‘it never used to be like this on the Squad before Tommy Fox arrived.’

  ‘Helps to brighten the day though, doesn’t it, Jack,’ said Evans who had been fortunate enough, of late, to avoid most of the flak.

  *

  ‘They tell me that you used to be an actor, Ron,’ said Fox, grinning at Detective Sergeant Crozier.

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Crozier sighed inwardly. Whenever there was some dodgy plan that Fox wanted to put into action, his opening gambit was always the same. Fox knew damned well that he’d once been an actor. It was only a few weeks back that he’d had to take the part of a storeman.

  ‘Splendid. Now, you’d better sit down and listen carefully to what I want you to do.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Rosie Webster came up with a useful gem of information this morning. A gentleman by the name of Richard Elwell, Esquire, a burgess of the Borough of Sutton, had his drum done over during the Christmas break and the thief or thieves made away with, among other things, his second-hand personal computer.’

  ‘I see, sir,’ said Crozier.

  ‘Ah, but you don’t, Ron, not yet,’ said Fox. ‘The assiduous Mr Elwell had made a note of the PC’s serial number and also, happily, recalled where he had acquired it. Namely, a charity shop being run under the auspices of the Hayden Trust. But the said PC was among those stolen in the recent ram-raid at Kingston.’ He sat back and linked his fingers together. ‘There, Ron, how does that grab you?’

  ‘Where did they get it from, sir? The charity shop, I mean.’

  ‘Don’t know, Ron,’ said Fox airily. ‘But you’re going to find out.’

  ‘Oh, right, sir.’ Crozier made to stand up.

  ‘Where’re you going, Ron?’

  ‘To make enquiries at this charity shop, sir.’

  ‘No, no, Ron. You miss my drift. You don’t need to be an actor for that sort of enquiry.’

  ‘Oh!’ Crozier relaxed again. He should have known that there would be more to it than that.

  ‘Given that the head of the Hayden Trust is a Mr Freddie Hayden who also happened to know the late Lady Dawn Sims whose body was found in Sliding Dawes’s lock-up at Lambeth, I should like you to conduct enquiries of a more arcane nature.’

  ‘Thought you might, sir,’ said Crozier.

  ‘Very perceptive of you, Ron. Now, what I want you to do is to get a job with Hayden Trust, unpaid only if absolutely necessary, and find out what goes down there.’ Crozier was completely bemused. ‘But, sir,’ he said, ‘is there any evidence to link the theft of a personal computer in Sutton with the death of Lady Dawn Sims?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ said Fox. ‘Until you find some.’ And then he outlined precisely what he had in mind for Crozier.

  *

  ‘Would that be Gentleman John Hooper by any chance?’

  Freddie Hayden’s chief security officer thought that he knew the voice on the telephone but, like all old coppers, didn’t show out beyond admitting that he was indeed called Hooper.

  ‘Tommy Fox here, John.’

  ‘Hallo, guv. How are you?’

  ‘Very well, John.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Thought I’d buy you a lunch, John.’

  Hooper was immediately on the defensive. He knew that there was rarely such a thing as a free lunch, but when the head of the Flying Squad offered one, there was definitely a catch in it. ‘What’s the score?’ he asked.

  ‘Thought it’d give us a chance to talk over old times, John, swap a few yarns. You know the sort of thing.’

  ‘Yeah, I do,’ said Hooper suspiciously. ‘Where and when?’

  *

  Detective Sergeant Ron Crozier was wearing a second-hand Marks & Spencer suit that he had picked up at a jumble sale. It was not a very good fit, but that was intentional. He wore a shirt, originally white, with frayed collar and cuffs, a nondescript tie that looked as though it should mean something, and a pair of black shoes that needed repairing.

  The grey-haired woman who looked up as he entered her office, was about fifty-five, and was dressed in a grey skirt and red blouse. She wore spectacles with blue frames and had the air of a woman who was doing good works and wanted everyone to know that she was. ‘Yes?’ she said in a rather peremptory tone.

  ‘I was wondering if you wanted any help,’ said Crozier in his most conciliatory voice.

  ‘Help? What sort of help?’ The woman appraised Crozier with a critical eye.

  ‘I wanted to do some charity work,’ said Crozier, adding the word ‘ma’am’ after a short interval.

  Somewhat mollified by this respectful approach, the woman invited Crozier to take a seat. ‘Well, now,’ she said, ‘we’ll have to see. Have you done anything like this before?’

  ‘No, but I’ve heard about the Hayden Trust and I think it’s doing very good work.’ Crozier leaned forward confidentially. ‘To be perfectly honest, ma’am,’ he said, ‘I’m out of work and it’s driving me mad sitting around at home all day doing nothing but watch the telly. So I thought to myself, there are lots of people worse off than you, and if you can’t afford to give money, at least you can give them your time.’ He grinned. ‘What I’ve got a lot of lately.’

  ‘Well, I must say,’ said the woman, her animosity ebbing by the minute, ‘that that is a very public-spirited attitude.’ She shuffled a few papers. ‘We wouldn’t be able to pay you anything, not wages, I mean …’ Crozier looked slightly disappointed. ‘But we could probably run to the occasional meal and a few expenses. Legitimate expenses, of course,’ she added hurriedly.

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Crozier. ‘I wasn’t looking for a job, not as such. I have got the dole money, after all.’

  The woman opened a small card index that rested on the corner of her desk and skimmed through it. Then she plucked out a card. ‘Now we do need some help at our depot at Epsom. I’m afraid it’s rather heavy work, packing and loading. That sort of thing. And taking relief supplies to either Heathrow or Gatwick Ai
rports.’ She glanced briefly at Crozier over the top of her spectacles. ‘The trouble is, very few people want to get involved in the aspects of our project that entail hard work. They all imagine that it consists of charity balls at the Grosvenor House and that sort of thing. But the real workers are the people who hump the stuff around. They’re the true backbone of our organisation.’ She preened herself slightly as though struck by some invisible ray of self-righteousness.

  ‘Suits me,’ said Crozier.

  ‘Splendid. When can you start, Mr, er —’

  ‘Crozier. And I can start as soon as you like.’

  *

  John Hooper sat down opposite Fox in the restaurant just off the Strand that Fox had selected for their meeting.

  ‘John, nice to see you,’ said Fox. ‘What are you drinking?’

  ‘Seeing it’s you, guv, a large brandy,’ said Hooper.

  The menus came and went and during the meal, Hooper and Fox discussed old colleagues, old cases and old senior officers. The conversation was much the same as that conducted between any two policemen of mature years and service.

  When the brandy came, Fox got to the crux of his meeting. ‘Met your boss the other day, John,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, he told me,’ said Hooper. ‘Something to do with a murder, he said.’

  ‘That’s right, John. Lady Dawn Sims.’

  Hooper nodded. ‘He wanted to know about you.’

  Fox grinned. ‘Oh, and what did he want to know?’

  ‘What sort of copper you were, whether you were straight. All that sort of thing.’

  ‘I hope you advised him accordingly, John.’

  Hooper drained his brandy and looked hopeful. ‘Course I did. What was it that instructor used to say at the training school? Blue uniforms are thicker than pound notes.’

  ‘Did he really? Can’t say I’ve ever heard that before.’ Ordering two more brandies, Fox offered Hooper his cigarette case and then got to the point. ‘The Hayden Trust, John.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘This is strictly between you and me, you’ll understand.’