Underneath The Arches

by Graham Ison

  That done, he sat back and thought about his visit to the theatre with Jane Sims. When he had collected her from her flat — and later in the crush bar when he had bought her a drink — she had been bubbling over with excitement at seeing Starlight Express and had told him that she couldn’t remember the last time that she had had an evening out. But her outfit of grey skirt and jumper, grey stockings and flat grey shoes had caused Fox to raise an eyebrow at what he considered to be her ‘county’ uniform. And he determined that he would have to persuade her, albeit gently, to make more of her attractive figure. The only relief to her greyness had been a white blouse, the collar of which peeped out over the neckline of her jumper.

  ‘Denzil,’ said Fox, when Evans returned from court, ‘I think we’ll pay Hope-Smith a visit. Rattle his bars for him a bit.’

  Hope-Smith was not at all pleased to see Fox. After his recent experience at the hands of the police at Chelsea, he had, in fact, taken a violent dislike to detectives. With a bare minimum of civility, he invited Fox and Evans into his sitting-room.

  Well,’ he said truculently, ‘and what d’you want this time?’

  ‘The photographs of Dawn Sims,’ said Fox. Evans shuddered inwardly.

  ‘Er, what photographs?’ The direct approach had obviously unnerved Hope-Smith. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m talking about the obscene photographs that Dawn Sims gave you. Photographs of herself which can only be described, at best, as provocative.’ Fox fixed Hope-Smith with a steely glare.

  ‘How did you know I’d got them?’ Hope-Smith’s shoulders sagged with resignation as he walked across to a bureau and unlocked it. From an inner drawer, he withdrew copies of the six photographs that had been taken by John Wheeler, and handed them to Fox.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Fox and grinned. Evans breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t mind his governor taking risks, but he knew that Fox would always expect him to back him up. ‘How many clients did you procure for Dawn Sims, as a matter of interest?’ asked Fox, and Evans’s breathing seized up once more.

  ‘What makes you think —’

  ‘Because she wasn’t the last girl you suggested should go on the game to support you, was she?’

  ‘Have you been talking to that damned stripper, Trixie what’s-her-name?’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘She’s the bloody woman who made that spurious allegation that I’d raped her,’ said Hope-Smith.

  ‘Oh, did you suggest that she turned to prostitution as well, then?’ Fox gazed mildly at the unemployed oil man.

  ‘You know bloody well I did,’ said Hope-Smith angrily.

  ‘Just answer the question,’ said Fox. ‘How many clients did you procure for Dawn Sims?’

  ‘Look, I don’t have to —’

  ‘There is but a whisker between me talking to you here and conveying you to the nearest nick and continuing our conversation there,’ said Fox. ‘You haven’t forgotten, I hope, that I am investigating the murder of Dawn Sims and right now, Jason dear boy, you are well and truly in the frame.’

  ‘But I —’

  ‘Because you knew her, you falsely claimed to be out of the country when she was murdered, you’ve been fiddling your income tax, you’re in possession of obscene photographs of the murdered woman and you have attempted to turn other young women to prostitution so that you could live off their immoral earnings. And, on top of all that, you got the sack for running a brothel in Kuwait.’ The last was a wild guess, but from what Evans had told Fox, it was probably nearer the truth than the story of the parties that Hope-Smith had organised.

  White-faced, Hope-Smith sank into a chair. ‘How the hell d’you know all that?’ he gasped.

  ‘Because I’m a detective,’ said Fox. ‘A very senior detective with a lifetime’s experience of hunting down the unrighteous, most of whom, I may say, make you seem like a rank amateur. Now are you going to answer the question, or am I going to nick you for murder?’ He leaned back in his chair and waited.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ said Hope-Smith, running his hands through his hair. ‘I seem to have got into a load of bother here, don’t I?’

  ‘And I’ve only just begun, dear boy,’ said Fox mildly.

  ‘It was her idea.’

  ‘Who are we talking about now?’

  ‘Dawn.’ Hope-Smith gestured towards the photographs resting on the coffee table. ‘She gave me those. Her old man cut off her allowance, you see, and she was desperate for money. She wanted to see if I could sell them. She said she had lots of copies.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘One or two, but we didn’t get much for them. Pictures like that are dirt cheap in Soho. After all, you can buy the same sort of thing in almost any corner-shop newsagent’s now.’

  ‘So you suggested that she went on the game, is that it?’ Fox went on relentlessly.

  Hope-Smith put his elbows on his knees and pressed his head between his hands. Then he looked up. ‘It was her idea,’ he said, ‘but she didn’t know where to start.’

  ‘So you pointed her in the right direction, I suppose?’

  ‘More or less, yes. I said that I could find some high-class clients who’d be willing to pay for her services. She’d got a good flat, you see.’

  ‘So I saw,’ said Fox drily.

  ‘And I started to make contacts for her.’

  ‘Crummy little civil servants like Harry Barnes, you mean?’

  Hope-Smith looked at Fox with an air of desperation on his face. ‘I can’t remember the names,’ he said.

  ‘Well you’d better start remembering,’ said Fox. ‘Because they’re all murder suspects, along with you.’

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ said Hope-Smith. ‘She was a lovely girl.’

  ‘So lovely that you were willing to send her out on the streets,’ said Fox. That was a deliberate exaggeration; there was some difference between entertaining clients in a cosy flat and working a King’s Cross beat. ‘How many clients did you introduce to her?’

  ‘About six, I think.’

  ‘You think? And who were they?’

  ‘I honestly can’t remember their —’

  ‘Oh come now, Mr Hope-Smith. Where did you find these men?’

  ‘West End clubs mainly.’

  ‘How did you approach them? Go touting round the tables, did you?’

  ‘No. If I met someone who looked as though he’d got some money and was on the lookout for a good time, I’d offer to put him in touch with Dawn. And I’d suggest that he gave her a gift.’ Hope-Smith gave Fox an imploring look, willing him to believe what he was saying. ‘They all knew what giving her a gift meant.’

  ‘Did you suggest an amount?’

  Hope-Smith nodded miserably. ‘Depended on what I thought they could afford,’ he said. ‘But it was usually upwards of two or three hundred pounds. I remember on one occasion I met an Arab I’d known in Kuwait who was over here on a business trip. I suggested to him that the price was a thousand. He didn’t argue. We had champagne that night.’

  Fox stood up. ‘You’re just a stinking little pimp really, aren’t you, Smith?’ he said, intentionally omitting the first half of Hope-Smith’s hyphenated name.

  ‘I’m not happy about Hope-Smith,’ said Fox, when he and Evans had returned to the Yard. ‘He’s a lying little toad.’

  ‘Are you going to nick him, guv?’ asked Evans.

  ‘No, Denzil. At least not yet. He’s getting over-confident. Thinks he’s got away with it, you see.’

  ‘Got away with what, sir?’

  ‘I don’t know, Denzil,’ said Fox. ‘That’s the problem. But he’s been up to more than he’s admitted, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Supposing he does a runner, guv?’ said Evans. ‘After all, he’s disappeared before.’

  ‘You can’t run away from a name like Jason Hope-Smith,’ said Fox.

  *

  ‘So you’re John James Stedman,’ said DAC Campbell as he gazed at the piece of
human detritus that lounged in the chair of the interview room at Parkhurst Prison.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Good. Well perhaps you’d care to explain what that load of toffee’s all about.’ Campbell threw Stedman’s letter of complaint on the table.

  ‘It’s a complaint. About that other copper what come down here and —’

  ‘I can read, and I can also read what the law says about wasting police time,’ said Campbell nastily. ‘It seems to me that you’re just sitting here in Parkhurst whiling away your time by making false complaints that have no foundation whatever.’

  ‘So what you going to do? Have me up in court and get me fined? Cos I ain’t got no money.’ Stedman gave Campbell a surly grin.

  ‘That’s it exactly,’ said Campbell. ‘Except that it won’t be a fine. They’ll just tack a bit on the end of your ten years. Then I’ll have a word with a friend of mine in the Prison Department at the Home Office and get you moved to Barlinnie.’ The fact that the prison most hated by the criminal fraternity was in Scotland, and not therefore administered by the Home Office, was a factor that did not lessen the impact of Campbell’s empty threat. He knew that Stedman wouldn’t know much about the internal workings of Her Majesty’s Government.

  ‘Now look —’ Stedman sat up, an anxious look on his face.

  ‘I take it you wish to withdraw this complaint?’ asked Campbell.

  ‘Well, if you think that’d be best …’ said a worried Stedman.

  Campbell grinned. ‘I think it would, friend,’ he said. ‘And I don’t suppose that we’ll be hearing from you again, will we?’ It wasn’t really a question.

  *

  Crozier drove the blue Commer van out of the Hayden Trust depot at Epsom and on to the main road. After he had driven half a mile, he glanced in the driving mirror and was pleased to see one of Henry Findlater’s motor-cyclists on his tail. Fortunately for the arrangements that Fox needed to put in hand, the traffic was heavy and it took Crozier nearly two hours to reach Carmody’s warehouse at Hounslow.

  Once again, Carmody appeared on the forecourt and supervised the loading of Crozier’s van with a mixture of stores that was much the same as before.

  But then it all started to go wrong. For Carmody. As Crozier got back into the driving seat, two Vauxhall Carltons swept round the rear of the premises and blocked the exit. The next moment, the warehouse was teeming with Flying Squad officers, led by DI Evans, who had paused only long enough to send a radio message to Fox saying that the raid had begun.

  ‘Here, what the bloody hell —?’ began Carmody, but in his heart, he knew what was happening. He had experienced this sort of thing before. Many times.

  ‘Flying Squad,’ said Evans tersely, ‘and we have a warrant to search these premises.’ He waved a printed form under Carmody’s nose.

  ‘You won’t find sod-all here, copper,’ said Carmody. It was a show of bravado. He knew fine that there was enough evidence in the warehouse to send him back to prison once more. For a substantial stretch.

  ‘If that’s the case,’ said Evans, ‘you’ve got nothing to worry about. Righto, lads, get to it,’ he added to his team.

  Straightaway, the members of Evans’s group of detectives fanned out all over the warehouse, examining its stock and taking careful note of serial numbers, batch numbers and any other data that they hoped would identify the contents of the heavily-laden shelves as stolen property.

  After an hour of feverish activity, Evans turned to Carmody and his four assistants. ‘You’re nicked,’ he said. ‘Possession of stolen property.’ And he threw in a caution, just for good measure. Evans was a careful policeman.

  Fox had not needed to tell Detective Inspector Gilroy how to position his cars to prevent any escape from the Hayden Trust depot and now, with Gilroy beside him, he strolled nonchalantly into the small office in the corner of the warehouse.

  ‘Who the bloody hell are you?’ asked Tinsley. He was bristling with rage at this incursion into his domain. An incursion that had occurred without his consent. Tinsley was very proprietorial when it came to the supervision of the Epsom depot.

  ‘Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad.’ Fox smiled disconcertingly at the depot overseer. ‘And you I take it are Alec Tinsley, company quartermaster sergeant — retired?’

  Ignoring Fox for a moment, Tinsley strode to the doors of the warehouse and glared at the Flying Squad cars and the group of detectives who were waiting to be unleashed. Then he turned back to Fox. ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he demanded truculently.

  ‘The meaning of this, old dear, is that I am about to execute a search warrant in respect of these premises in my unending quest for stolen property.’

  ‘Oh, are you? I suppose you know who owns this set-up, do you?’ Tinsley waved an arm as if to encompass the entire warehouse, and then thrust his hand into the pockets of his grey warehouse coat.

  ‘Mr Frederick Hayden, according to my usually trustworthy informants,’ said Fox.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Tinsley, ‘and he ain’t going to be best pleased when he hears about this.’

  ‘I think that goes without saying,’ said Fox, and turning to Gilroy, added, ‘You may begin, Jack.’

  ‘Mr Hayden’s got friends in high places,’ said Tinsley, ‘and he can bring influence to bear.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said Fox as he watched Gilroy’s team of detectives setting about a thorough search of the warehouse stock. ‘Tell me, Alec old thing, just to save us a lot of time and trouble — both of us, that is — perhaps you’d be so good as to tell me where you keep the gear that Carmody sends you.’

  ‘Who?’

  Fox sighed. ‘Oh well,’ he said. ‘We can do it the hard way, if that’s what you want.’

  An hour later, when Gilroy’s men had found ample evidence that the warehouse contained huge quantities of stolen property, Swann, Fox’s driver, ambled in. ‘Mr Evans is on the radio, guv,’ he said. ‘Wants a word.’

  ‘Got five bodies, guv,’ said Evans once Fox had made contact with him. ‘Where d’you want them?’

  ‘Take them to Charing Cross nick, Denzil. I rather like that place. It’s got couth.’

  ‘How did you get on, guv?’ asked Evans.

  ‘Splendidly, Denzil dear boy,’ said Fox. ‘I’ve got about six prisoners to add to the collection, including the odious Mr Tinsley.’

  *

  The arrival of Detective Chief Superintendent Fox and eleven prisoners at Charing Cross Police Station did nothing to improve the mood of the custody sergeant. Out of Fox’s hearing, he mumbled about the arrests not having been taken to the nearest police station, and went on to complain about the job not being the same as when he had joined it some twenty years previously.

  Despite that, the prisoners were duly processed and placed in the cells until Fox decided that he felt like questioning them. ‘Let me see your list, Denzil,’ he said, having taken over half the CID office. And he settled himself at the desk of an ousted detective sergeant and started to peruse the details of the stolen property that Evans had found in Carmody’s slaughter. And where it remained, under guard, until arrangements could be made for its transfer to the bulk property store of the Metropolitan Police.

  *

  ‘Enjoy your trip to the Isle of Wight, sir?’ asked DAC Campbell’s secretary.

  ‘Yes and no,’ said Campbell. ‘Bring your book in, Brenda. I want to dictate a report. A short report.’

  Brenda sat down in a chair opposite Dick Campbell’s desk and crossed her legs. Then she opened her shorthand notebook and waited, pencil poised.

  ‘I refer to the Deputy Commissioner’s minute and to the complaint, at 1A hereon, made by John James Stedman …’ Campbell glanced up. ‘Stick his CRO number in there, Brenda.’ The girl nodded. ‘… a prisoner serving ten years in Parkhurst Prison for robbery. I have this day interviewed Stedman who, after a short discussion, expressed the wish to withdraw his complaint.’ He handed the file to his secret
ary. ‘Date it today and I’ll sign it before I go home,’ he said.

  *

  ‘What’s the plan of campaign, sir?’ asked Gilroy.

  ‘I think we’ll have Vincent Carmody out of his nice warm cell and give him a bit of a talking to,’ said Fox. ‘And if his answers come up to snuff, I daresay that you and I will be taking a trip to Putney there to lay hands on Sliding Dawes.’ Fox rubbed his hands together. ‘I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time, Jack,’ he added.

  ‘But supposing he doesn’t grass on Dawes, sir?’ asked Gilroy.

  Fox shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Jack, you’re such a pessimist,’ he said. ‘I can’t understand why you never became an accountant.’

  TWENTY ONE

  FOX CAST AN EAGER GLANCE at Vincent Carmody as though he were some rare specimen of biological interest that he had been allowed to examine. ‘Fancy you getting yourself captured again.’

  ‘I want my brief,’ said Carmody. It was the standard response of any villain the moment he reached the interview stage. Particularly when it was Tommy Fox doing the interviewing.

  Fox nodded. ‘Daresay you do,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’d go further. Right now, you are in desperate need of legal advice.’

  ‘Well then?’

  ‘But first,’ said Fox, ‘we’ll have a little chat.’

  ‘I want to make a phone call,’ said Carmody. ‘It’s my right.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’re probably correct there, Vince. Just jot the number down on this piece of paper and I’ll ensure that one of my officers puts you in touch with your chosen subscriber forthwith.’

  Carmody took Fox’s pencil and scribbled down a number. Then he leaned back, a triumphant sneer on his face, convinced that the Metropolitan Police had, indeed, changed its ways.

  Fox examined the slip of paper and roared with laughter. ‘You are joking, aren’t you, Vince?’ he said.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Only that it happens to be Sliding Dawes’s phone number, old son. And if you think I’m letting you warn him that he’s about to be nicked, you’ve got another think coming.’