by Graham Ison
‘How d’you know that?’ Carmody looked unhappy.
Fox shook his head. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure that Dawes’d be charged even if we did nick him.’ He turned to Gilroy. ‘There’s really no evidence to link Harry Dawes with this particular bit of villainy, is there, Jack? I reckon that our Vincent’s been going it alone.’ He turned to face Carmody again. ‘This little lot is firmly down to you, isn’t it, Vincent, old son?’
‘No, it bleedin’ ain’t,’ said Carmody and then stopped, realising that he had just fallen into the trap that Fox had set for him.
‘All in all, Vince …’ Fox continued as though Carmody had not butted in. ‘… I think the worse thing you could do is to tell Harry you’ve been nicked. He might think that you’re trying to take over his business. Apart from anything else, it’d spoil his holiday.’
‘What holiday?’ Carmody gave Fox a suspicious glance.
‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ said Fox as he started to weave his latest piece of fiction. ‘Off to the South of France is our Harry. Said something about needing to winter in the sunshine. Well, at his age, I suppose it’s essential. Nice to get away from the fog and frost of London. The cold plays havoc with old bones, you know.’
‘You’re not going to let him do a runner, are you?’ Carmody appeared appalled at the prospect that the police seemed prepared to let Dawes escape.
‘Has he committed some crime then?’ asked Fox airily, and gave Carmody an enquiring glance that did little to comfort him.
‘I ain’t saying nothing.’ Carmody lapsed into a moody silence, aware of the dangers of informing on the likes of Harry Dawes.
‘All right then.’ Fox stood up. ‘Put him down, Jack,’ he said, ‘and we’ll have a chat with Mr Tinsley, well-known old soldier and co-conspirator with our Vincent here.’
Carmody was about to protest at this latest allegation of Fox’s, but changed his mind and allowed himself to be led back to his cell.
Alec Tinsley was bristling with indignation when he was brought into the interview room. Divested of his warehouse coat when he was arrested, he was now attired in a brown chalk-striped suit with wide lapels and wide-bottomed trousers.
Fox surveyed this latest affront to his concept of sartorial elegance with a frown. ‘I didn’t realise they were still handing out demob suits,’ he said. ‘Or is that an exhibit on loan from the Imperial War Museum?’
‘I’m pissed off with the way I’m being treated here,’ said Tinsley. ‘I know my rights. Twenty-five years I spent in the army, and I know what’s what.’
‘Quartermaster sergeant, weren’t you?’ asked Fox, lighting himself a cigarette.
‘That’s right.’
‘Mmm!’ said Fox. ‘Didn’t get far in twenty-five years, did you? I met a general the other day with that amount of service.’
‘I want Mr Hayden to be informed,’ said Tinsley. ‘He’ll have one of his lawyers down here in no time at all.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on that, old son. I think he’s already taken the view that you’ve besmirched the reputation of his charity.’ Fox lowered his voice. ‘And I have reason to believe that there are things in the offing for Mr Hayden that might well be prejudiced if it became known that some of his employees were at it.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘If you don’t know,’ said Fox, ‘I’m afraid that I’m not at liberty to divulge that information. However, suffice it to say that not only does Mr Hayden deny that you work for him, he claims never to have heard of you.’ That was another of Fox’s fabrications. He had no intention of speaking to Freddie Hayden until the eleven prisoners that were locked up at Charing Cross had been interviewed. ‘Let me put the facts to you plainly, Alec, old sport. My officers and I examined the stock of the warehouse that you look after, and a substantial quantity of that stock was the proceeds of several robberies that have taken place over the last few months. And as you are in charge of it, it’s down to you.’
But Tinsley’s twenty-five years in the army had taught him one thing: when things go wrong, blame someone else. ‘I didn’t know nothing about that,’ he said. ‘But it might interest you to know that a bloke what was taken on recently, name of Crozier, has just come out of prison. Done five years for burglary.’
‘Yes, I know about him,’ said Fox. ‘He’s one of my detective sergeants and the only nicking he’s done is of blokes like you.’
‘What?’ Tinsley was clearly outraged at this deception. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Fox stood up. ‘I don’t know why I’m wasting my time talking to you,’ he said. ‘There’s ample evidence to charge you with handling stolen property, and that’s what I intend to charge you with. For starters.’
‘Hold on,’ said Tinsley. ‘I ain’t having this on my own. There’s others.’
Fox sat down again. ‘Now that, Alec, seems to me to be the most sensible thing you’ve said since arriving at this wonderful police station.’ He paused. ‘Well?’
‘One of the directors organised it all. I never knew that this gear was bent.’
Fox nodded amiably. ‘I suppose, Alec, old fruit, that with your vast experience of accounting for military stores, you can spot a fiddle a mile off?’
‘Too bloody right I can,’ said Tinsley.
‘Funny you missed this one then.’ Fox cast a despairing glance at Gilroy before looking back at Tinsley. ‘Who is this director then?’
For a moment or two, Tinsley remained silent. Then, reaffirming his earlier decision that if he was going down, one or two others would join him, he said, ‘His name’s Skinner, Peter Skinner.’
‘And where does he fit in?’ asked Fox.
‘He’s a trustee of the charity. And he’s a director of one of Hayden’s companies.’ Tinsley now adopted a whining tone. ‘I was only doing what he told me. He said that some of the donors to the charity didn’t want to be identified and we had to collect the stuff through an intermediate.’
‘I think you mean intermediary,’ murmured Fox. ‘And where will I find this Mr Skinner, Alec, old friend?’
‘He’s at head office. Same place as Mr Hayden.’
‘Splendid,’ said Fox. ‘I can see that I shall have to talk to him. In the meantime, I suggest that you go back to your cell and study the racing page. My informants tell me that Condominium in the two o’clock at Lingfield Park is a bit of a goer. Might be the only bit of luck you get this year. Or next, for that matter.’
*
‘Well,’ said Fox, when he was back in his office at New Scotland Yard, ‘that all went very satisfactorily.’ He beamed at Gilroy and Evans. ‘And now, gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘I think that the time has come to nick Sliding Dawes.’
‘What about this bloke Skinner, guv?’ asked Gilroy.
‘He’ll keep, Jack. We’ll deal with Sliding Dawes first.’ Fox rubbed his hands together. ‘What I want you to do, Denzil, is to take a team down to what Dawes thinks is his secret slaughter at Croydon and give it a spin. I’ll give you an hour, by which time Jack and I will be talking to Dawes, who, Henry Findlater tells me, is at home, and let me know the result. If it’s as I anticipate, we’ll bring laughing Harry Dawes back to Charing Cross and pop him in with the rest. Then we’ll see what Carmody has to say about that.’
*
Fox’s Ford Granada, with Swann at the wheel, drew up outside Harry Dawes’s house and stopped. For a good ten minutes, Fox sat in the passenger seat, watching. He had confirmed with one of Findlater’s surveillance team, who was stationed at the bottom of Oxford Road, that Dawes hadn’t moved since the last report that Fox had received.
During the time that Fox was waiting, the curtains of Harry Dawes’s front-room window had been twitched aside and the nervous face of the old fence had peered out. Fox had waved, but had not seen Dawes pick up the telephone.
Minutes later, a white police car — its blue lights flashing — swept into the street from the Putney Bridge Road end and stopped so that its front
bumper was almost touching the front bumper of Fox’s car. Fox gazed out mildly at this latest example of fast police response.
Leaving his uniform cap in the car, the wireless operator alighted and, hands in pockets, strolled in leisurely fashion to the window nearest Fox.
Fox wound down the window. ‘Hallo,’ he said.
‘What’s your bloody game?’ asked the policeman.
‘Well, I used to play squash in my younger days,’ said Fox, ‘but my doctor advised me to give it up. Contrary to popular opinion, it seems that it can actually induce a heart attack rather than preventing one. But if you want to talk about games, my driver Swann here is a dab hand at poker.’ He glanced across at Swann. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Swann?’
‘Yes, guv,’ mumbled Swann.
‘What are you doing hanging about here, apart from trying to make smart remarks? We’ve had a call about suspects loitering from —’
‘From Harry Dawes, well-known, but alas unconvicted, handler of stolen property,’ said Fox. ‘That, however, is about to change,’ he added and produced his warrant card. ‘Now, constable, I suggest that you put your cap on and go away. You’re making the place look untidy.’
The uniformed PC gulped, and would have saluted but for the absence of his headgear. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said, ‘I didn’t know that you were —’
‘Goodbye,’ said Fox, ‘and don’t ever be tempted to apply for the Department, will you,’ he added as the PC turned away. ‘You haven’t got what it takes.’
Waiting until the police car had left, Fox and Gilroy walked up the path of Dawes’s house and rang the bell.
The frightened face of Harry Dawes peered round the half-opened door. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Fox,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Fox. ‘I’m responding to your call for police. Something to do with suspects loitering?’ He placed a finger on Dawes’s chest and propelled him slowly backwards. ‘Shall we adjourn to your day room, Harry?’
‘I didn’t know it was you, Mr Fox. I just looked out and saw —’
‘Don’t tell me, Harry. You saw what you firmly believed to be someone of villainous intent hanging about, doubtless with the desire to do you some harm?’
‘That’s right, Mr Fox.’ Dawes afforded himself a bleak smile.
‘Well, you got that right, Harry,’ said Fox.
‘Would you like a cup of —’ began Dawes but then the phone rang. ‘It’s for you, Mr Fox,’ he said when he had answered it.
After a short conversation, Fox replaced the receiver and looked sorrowfully at Dawes. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, Harry, old son,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Dawes looked up at Fox from the recesses of his Rexine-covered armchair.
‘I’m sorry to have to tell you,’ began Fox, not looking at all sorry, ‘that some of my officers have just turned over your slaughter down at Croydon and found all manner of bent gear. Almost the first name that your general manager uttered when he was nicked was yours, Harry. In fact, his exact words were, “This is all down to that bastard Harry Dawes”.’
‘I’ll kill him,’ said Dawes, clenching and unclenching his fists and then picking violently at the trim on the arms of his chair.
‘You’ll ruin the upholstery, Harry, if you do that,’ said Fox. ‘Am I to take it,’ he went on, ‘that your manager has not altogether pleased you by his desire to join your name with his on the indictment? He was called Pratt, by the way. Seemed eminently suitable, I thought. It even brought a smile to Detective Inspector Evans’s face, and he doesn’t laugh easily, I can tell you.’
‘I don’t know what this is all about, Mr Fox, honest. This bloke’s trying to fit me up for some reason. It’s bloody obvious, isn’t it?’ Dawes looked hopefully at Fox’s smiling face but found no comfort there.
Fox nodded slowly. ‘You may well be right, Harry,’ he said. ‘All the same, I’m arresting you for handling stolen property.’ He stood up and then paused as if struck by a sudden, but long forgotten thought. ‘And there’s still the little question of the body we found in your lock-up at Lambeth to sort out.’
*
‘Mr Skinner? This is Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad.’ Fox purred down the telephone at his unctuous best.
‘Oh, right. How can I help you, Chief Superintendent?’
‘One of your employees has got into a bit of trouble, Mr Skinner. He claims to work at the Hayden Trust depot at Epsom, and I’m told that you’re one of the trustees.’ Fox knew that it was most unlikely that Skinner had got to hear of that morning’s events. Police had been guarding the warehouses at both Epsom and Hounslow since the raids. And Ron Crozier had stayed there to answer any phones that may have rung.
‘Yes, that’s right. I am a trustee. Who is this fellow?’
‘I don’t think it would be a very good idea to discuss it on the phone, Mr Skinner —’
‘No, perhaps not. Why don’t you —’
‘And I think it would be even less wise for me to call at your office,’ said Fox, forestalling Skinner’s next suggestion. ‘You know how people talk and it’s almost impossible to keep a secret in a big office building like yours. Supposing you meet me at Charing Cross Police Station and we can have a quiet word?’
‘Ah, yes, I suppose so. Charing Cross Police Station, did you say?’
‘Yes indeed.’
‘Where is that exactly, Chief Superintendent?’ asked Skinner.
‘Charing Cross,’ said Fox.
To his delight, Fox had discovered that the detective superintendent at Charing Cross Police Station only drank what Fox called proper coffee. And Fox was sitting in the superintendent’s office drinking some of it when the station officer rang from the front counter.
‘There’s a Mr Skinner here to see you, sir.’
‘Splendid,’ said Fox. ‘Pop him in the interview room and tell him I’ll be with him shortly.’ He replaced the receiver and took his time to finish both his coffee and his cigarette.
Peter Skinner was in his early forties and overweight. He had the look of a man who had a top-of-the-range company car and played golf and squash because he thought it was good for his image.
‘I’m Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad. We spoke on the phone.’ Fox seized Skinner’s hand in a vice-like grip and was pleased to see that he winced.
‘What’s this problem you were telling me about?’ asked Skinner.
‘We arrested a man called Tinsley this morning,’ said Fox, offering Skinner a cigarette.
Skinner shook his head. ‘I don’t, thank you. What was he arrested for?’
‘Possession of stolen property.’
‘Good grief! Just goes to show, doesn’t it?’
‘Just goes to show what, Mr Skinner?’
‘Took that fellow on from the army. You’d think that a man who’d been a quartermaster could be trusted, wouldn’t you?’
‘Yes indeed,’ said Fox, whose instincts told him that it would be most unwise to trust a quartermaster.
‘What are the circumstances?’ asked Skinner.
‘The circumstances, Mr Skinner, are that police raided your depot at Epsom this morning and seized a substantial quantity of stolen property. Your Mr Tinsley, so I’m given to understand, manages the set-up there.’
‘That’s so.’ Skinner gently teased his moustache and looked thoughtful as his brain moved into top gear.
‘Mr Tinsley, however, seemed unaware that the property had, in fact, been stolen.’ Fox gently rolled cigarette ash into the ashtray.
‘Well, I don’t understand that.’ Skinner looked suitably baffled. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, Chief Superintendent, what caused you to look there in the first place?’
‘Oh, that’s easy,’ said Fox. ‘We’d been keeping the depot under observation and found that supplies were being regularly conveyed to it from a repository of stolen property in Hounslow which calls itself Carmody Trading Ltd. Vincent Carmody, who claims to be its m
anaging director, is an old friend of police —’
‘You mean he’s an informant, or whatever you call them?’
‘No, it means that we’ve nicked him many times before, Mr Skinner, for offences related to dishonesty,’ said Fox. ‘To say nothing of several convictions for crimes of violence.’ He sat back in his chair and smiled.
‘Good grief!’ said Skinner again. ‘And you mean to say that this man Tinsley has been running this racket under our very noses?’
‘Not quite, Mr Skinner. He claims that it was masterminded by you.’
TWENTY TWO
FOX HAD PERUSED THAT MORNING’S edition of The Times while drinking a cup of coffee and was about to leave for Charing Cross Police Station when the phone rang. ‘Fox,’ he said.
‘It’s the Back Hall PC here, sir. There’s a Mr Hayden to see you, with his lawyer.’
‘How kind of him to call,’ said Fox. ‘I’ll be down. By the way, is my car on the front?’
‘One moment, sir.’ The PC stood up and peered out of the window at Fox’s Ford Granada, behind which was parked a chocolate-brown Rolls-Royce with a liveried chauffeur at the wheel. ‘Yes, it is, sir,’ he said.
When Fox arrived in Back Hall, as the main entrance to New Scotland Yard is perversely known, Hayden was reading the Roll of Honour. Next to him stood a man in a dark suit. ‘Mr Hayden, good morning,’ said Fox.
‘Ah, Mr Fox.’ Hayden shook hands. ‘This is my solicitor,’ he said, but did not furnish his lawyer’s name.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Hayden?’ Fox gave a nod of brief acknowledgement to the solicitor.
Hayden looked around the crowded entrance hall. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private?’ he asked.
‘Of course.’ Fox led the two men into one of the suite of interview rooms near the Yard’s Press Bureau and closed the door. ‘I’m afraid the accommodation’s a little meagre in here,’ he said. He indicated a couple of chairs but Hayden and his lawyer remained standing.