The Taming of Tango Harris

by Graham Ison

  The Taming of Tango Harris

  Graham Ison

  © Graham Ison 1993

  Graham Ison has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1993 by Macmillan London Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter One

  It was pouring with rain.

  It had slowed the traffic.

  Windscreen wipers worked overtime as drivers peered out, doing their best to see the vehicle in front. Moving slowly, bumper to bumper. A forest of red, white, and winking amber lights.

  On the pavements, pedestrians were bent beneath inadequate umbrellas, shoes soaked, trousers wet and devoid of creases, stockings wet and muddy.

  Rain ran along the gutters in fierce little rivers, coursing towards drains that were blocked with leaves.

  And it was windy … and bloody cold.

  Detective Superintendent Gavin Brace stood gazing out of the window, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, and asked himself what in hell he was doing there. The simple answer was that he was there to investigate a suspicious death. The more complex answer was that he was the only remaining detective superintendent in the area major investigation pool not investigating a murder … until now. But that seemed often to be the case on Eight Area. The fact that he had been obliged to cancel his leave — due to start the following day — did not enter into it. But then it never did in the Metropolitan Police. The Commander Operations had apologized, half-heartedly, and told Brace that he would just have to get on with it.

  Outside, two white vans pulled into the kerb, and a number of men got out. The scientific team. ‘‘Bout bloody time,’ said Brace, turning from the window. ‘Now all we want is a pathologist and a few detectives. Where the hell is everybody, Geoff?’

  Detective Sergeant Jagger walked across the room and picked up a clipboard. ‘This is the list, sir, but they’ve been told to report to the nick.’

  Brace scanned the list of support staff detectives supposedly available from the pool, but each had to be located and telephoned. ‘I suppose you’ve told someone that I need at least another three here?’ he said, handing the board back to Jagger.

  ‘Yes, sir. They should be arriving very shortly.’

  ‘Story of my life,’ said Brace, and glanced back to the bed, and to the body that lay on it, a black nylon stocking tight around the neck. There were scratch marks where the girl had tried to free herself from the ligature and her nose had bled heavily. Brace reckoned she was about twenty-eight … maybe thirty. Good-looking girl with blonde hair. Wet blonde hair. But not natural blonde hair. He knew that because she was naked. He looked around the room and fretted inwardly, anxious to get on with the enquiry. The maxim, the sooner you start the sooner you finish, was probably truer of crime investigation than of anything else. The only difference with crime was the later you started, the less chance you had of finishing at all. Satisfactorily, anyway. Of getting a result, as policemen are wont to say.

  The door opened and a uniformed PC poked his head in. ‘Fingerprints and photographic are here, sir.’

  ‘Send ‘em in.’

  The technicians of murder entered the room, carrying their cases and tripods and all the other paraphernalia of their trade.

  ‘Evenin’, guv.’ The older one looked at the body on the bed. ‘What a bloody waste,’ he said. ‘Tom, was she?’

  ‘Probably,’ said Brace. He wasn’t certain that the girl was a prostitute, but all the signs were there. Expensive dress and scanty colourful underwear, all abandoned in the bathroom. Water all over the floor; the signs perhaps of jollifications under the shower. Brace had seen all that from the bathroom door, and stopped anyone else from entering until the fingerprint officers had examined the floor. A footprint could be as valuable as a fingerprint.

  The duty assistant manager at the hotel — panicking — said that she wasn’t registered.

  ‘Oh?’ Brace frowned. ‘How come I don’t know who she is yet, but you do?’

  The assistant manager backtracked. ‘I mean that this room was not booked to a woman. Any woman.’

  ‘A visitor then?’ Brace raised an eyebrow. He knew what the assistant manager had meant.

  ‘This hotel has a reputation—’ The assistant manager immediately regretted saying that.

  But Brace latched on to it, just for the hell of it. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’m beginning to think you’re right.’

  ‘No, Inspector, I mean—’

  ‘It’s superintendent. Detective superintendent, and yes, I know exactly what you mean.’

  ‘Well, if it’s at all possible to be discreet—’

  Brace looked at the assistant manager with a sour expression. ‘You’ve got the naked body of a woman who’s probably a prostitute in one of your nice expensive rooms,’ he said, ‘and you ask me to be discreet. You’ve got to be joking, mister. Anyway, who was the room booked to?’ He paused. ‘And for Christ’s sake don’t say Mr Smith.’

  The assistant manager glanced down at a computer printout in his hand. ‘John Phillips,’ he said.

  ‘Well, at least that shows a bit of initiative,’ said Brace. He held out his hand. ‘Let’s have it.’ He scanned the brief details of John Phillips. Address in Richmond. Nationality British. And that was it. He handed it to DS Jagger. ‘Log that in the property register, Geoff.’

  ‘But—’ The assistant manager looked distressed.

  ‘Yes?’ Brace rounded on him.

  ‘Well, my records, Superintendent—’

  ‘It’s evidence … probably. If you want a photostat copy, my sergeant will give you one. When he’s got time.’

  ‘Evening, Gavin.’

  Brace swung round. In the doorway was a woman in a dark dress. Long grey pigtail. Fortyish.

  ‘Ah, good. How are you, Pamela?’

  ‘Fine.’ Pamela Hatcher, a Home Office pathologist, put her bag down on the floor and cast a professional eye at the body. ‘What are you doing back on your old patch?’ Brace had been the detective chief inspector at West End Central police station at Savile Row before his promotion.

  ‘I’m the last available superintendent in the pool tonight. Should have been going on leave tomorrow, too.’

  ‘Bad luck. What’ve you got? Any idea?’

  ‘Not a clue,’ said Brace. ‘Could be a tom. Everything points to strangulation with a ligature.’ He grinned. ‘But no doubt you’ll destroy that theory for me in a minute.’

  Pamela Hatcher smiled. ‘I’ll try not to,’ she said. ‘Just give me the go ahead when I can start.’

  ‘Right.’ Brace watched the fingerprint men at work. The photographers were taking a breather. They’d done all the basic shots and were now waiting to see if they were needed for anything else that might turn up when the detailed search of the room started.

  ‘Got something here, guv.’

  Brace crossed to the dressing table and took the magnifying gla
ss from the senior fingerprint man. He trained it on a mark on the white laminate inlay and peered closely.

  ‘We’ll get twelve points off that, guv, but whether it’ll mean anything is another thing.’

  Brace shrugged and handed the glass back. It was always the way. You got a good print, but there was nothing in the records. So it went into the scenes-of-crime prints and waited for the day that another crime at another scene matched it. Then you waited for someone to come into custody. Then you got a phone call — in the middle of the night, usually — and you went to some distant police station and you started asking questions. Like, ‘Where were you on the night of October the twelfth?’ or, ‘What were you doing in that place at that time?’ Then a solicitor turned up and advised his client — the prisoner — to say nothing. It was all very frustrating. ‘Lift it,’ said Brace.

  The fingerprint officer got out his roll of Sellotape. ‘We’ve got a footprint in the bathroom,’ he said, ‘but there’s nothing we can use. No discernible characteristics.’

  ‘There wouldn’t be,’ said Brace with a shrug. ‘It’s all yours,’ he added, turning to the pathologist.

  Pamela Hatcher nodded briefly and opened her case. ‘Who was the first officer on the scene?’ She looked round at the group of policemen.

  ‘I was, I suppose,’ said DS Jagger. ‘The first CID officer, anyway.’

  ‘That wasn’t the question,’ said Brace acidly.

  ‘Well, the area car was here first, guv.’

  ‘And where are they now?’

  ‘Back on patrol. Why? Was there—?’

  Brace ignored him and turned back to the pathologist. ‘What did you want to know?’ he asked.

  ‘If there were any windows open when police arrived,’ said Hatcher. ‘It’ll make a difference to my temperature readings.’

  Brace turned to Jagger. ‘Well, were there?’

  ‘No, sir. They were closed, as they are now.’

  ‘I hope you’re not making that up.’

  ‘No, sir, of course not.’ Jagger looked hurt as though his professional expertise had been impugned.

  ‘All right to move the body?’ Hatcher asked.

  ‘Do your worst,’ said Brace.

  Skilfully, despite her slight build, the pathologist turned the body on to its face and, producing a thermometer, started to take temperatures.

  ‘Anyone found a handbag?’ Brace addressed the scientific team and his sergeant.

  ‘Not yet, guv,’ said Jagger. ‘Still looking.’

  Brace looked across at the senior lab man. ‘You finished now?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Let’s take the place apart.’

  It was a standard hotel room. A bath towel had been used and abandoned on the bathroom floor, and the bed had been used — at least, the body was on it — but whatever had taken place before the murder had not entailed pulling back the covers. The plastic folder containing stationery, and another advising guests about the services of the hotel, yielded nothing of value. Countless guests had left fingermarks on them, but they were overlaid, one upon the other. There was nothing that experts could ‘read’.

  ‘Found a handbag, guv,’ said Jagger. ‘Under the bed.’

  Brace took the small suede bag and emptied its contents on to a table. It contained a solid powder compact, a lipstick, some loose change, and fifty pounds in ten-pound notes. But there was nothing to indicate the identity of the owner.

  By now three other detectives had arrived, the first from the major investigation pool. ‘Oh good,’ said Brace, ‘the cavalry’s arrived.’

  The detectives looked apprehensive. ‘I was tied up with—’ one of them began.

  Brace held up a hand. ‘I don’t want to know,’ he said, ‘but now you’re here, there’s work to be done. Get down among the staff. See if anyone remembers a woman fitting the description of the deceased coming into the hotel … or the man Phillips. The name’s bound to be duff, knowing my luck. Start with the linkman outside, and work your way up to the floor waiter.’ The detectives hesitated. ‘Well, don’t stand there,’ said Brace. ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘I’ve done all I can here, Gavin.’ As she spoke, Pamela Hatcher examined the rectal thermometer she had been using and then looked at the other instrument with which she had been measuring the temperature of the room. Then she did a few calculations in her notebook. ‘Been dead about three hours. That’s the nearest I can get for the moment. Might have to amend it after I’ve done the PM.’

  Brace nodded. ‘Thanks, Pam.’ The time of death wasn’t really material. He knew that Phillips had booked in just before six o’clock that evening and the chambermaid had knocked at around seven to turn down the bed. A Portuguese girl who spoke hardly any English, she was not at all surprised to see a naked woman on the bed. But then she had moved closer and seen the staring eyes and the protruding tongue … and the stocking round the neck. She hadn’t screamed; she had closed the door and fetched the duty assistant manager. This was, after all, a respectable hotel where screaming chambermaids could lose their jobs.

  ‘There’s a briefcase in the wardrobe, guv,’ said Jagger. He swung the door open wide and paused. ‘OK to move it?’ he asked the fingerprint officer.

  The FPO stepped across the room and glanced down at the black executive case. ‘I’ll give it the once over, just in case,’ he said and then laughed. ‘Just in case! I like that.’

  ‘Well?’ Brace looked over the FPO’s shoulder.

  ‘Yeah, there’s a few here, guv. Best thing’s to take it down to the lab and examine it there. I can open it for you if you want.’

  ‘You can bet they’ll only be her prints anyway,’ said Brace gloomily.

  ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I can,’ said the FPO.

  ‘OK,’ said Brace. ‘In the meantime, open it up, will you.’

  The FPO placed the case on the bed and carefully, with plastic-gloved hands, opened it. Inside was a small machine, the type that prints out credit-card vouchers. There was also a copy of such a voucher, dated that day. The only other items in the case were a pair of scanty red briefs, trimmed in black, and a spare pair of black nylons.

  ‘This,’ said Brace, picking up the voucher, ‘is too good to be true. If this is the killer, why in hell did he leave it here? He must have known.’ He laughed, a short grating laugh. ‘It’s signed by John Phillips for five hundred pounds in favour of … ’ He handed the slip of paper to Jagger. ‘Mountjoy Services. I must say this girl had a sense of humour,’ he added.

  *

  It was raining in Romford, too.

  At about one o’clock in the morning, just as the unknown prostitute’s body was being removed from the hotel in the West End of London, four men were sitting in a car. They were slumped down in their seats so that any inquisitive passing police car would assume that it was empty. But they were pretty safe anyway — or thought they were — because it was dark and the windows were steamed up. No one could see in, and the occupants couldn’t see out, except when the driver rubbed the windscreen with his gloved hand and risked switching on the ignition to clear the outside with a couple of sweeps of the wipers.

  And they were tooled up. On the floor lay two sawn-off shot-guns, a hand-gun, and two or three pick-helves.

  They were waiting for an articulated lorry that they knew would pass them very soon, on its way to Harwich. Their concentration on the road ahead made them a little careless of what might be behind, and the first they knew of danger was when the doors of their car were wrenched open and they were dragged out by a number of men wearing ski masks.

  All four were beaten unconscious and dumped out of sight behind trees which lined that part of the road. The job was neatly finished just as an articulated lorry passed them. One of the attackers slipped behind the wheel of the car they had just seized and drove off, followed by the remaining three in their own car … or at least, in the car which they had feloniously acquired some two or three days previous
ly. They followed the artic until it pulled into a lay-by. Stopping immediately behind it, the four villains spilled out.

  One of them pulled open the door of the cab. ‘Out!’ he said.

  The man who was holding the lorry driver at gunpoint jumped down. ‘You took yer bloody time,’ he said and then was thrown against the side of the lorry as one of the others put a single round through his temple.

  They put his body into the boot of the car they had taken ten minutes previously and one of them drove it to a cul-de-sac just off Colchester Road and left it there.

  *

  On the first floor of New Scotland Yard, Detective Chief Superintendent Tommy Fox, operational head of the Flying Squad, nodded an acknowledgement to the DC who had just told him that the last of the Squad’s teams was back safely, and then went home to bed.

  Chapter Two

  It was still raining five hours later, which did not do a great deal for the comfort and welfare of Wayne Parish. Wayne Parish was a long-distance lorry driver, except that right now he wasn’t driving. He was trussed up like a chicken and lying in a fold in the ground on a golf course alongside the A12 … or Eastern Avenue, as the habitués of Romford prefer to call it.

  The woman who found Parish — she was about twenty-five and dressed in a multi-coloured tracksuit — was pounding round the golf course as though her life depended upon it … which she had convinced herself it did. She stopped and stared. ‘What’s up with you?’ she asked.

  Parish’s answer was restricted by the large strip of sticking plaster across his mouth and he merely managed a loud groan.

  After a careful appraisal of his predicament, the woman pulled the sticking plaster off, causing Parish to utter several words not normally uttered in the presence of women. ‘Well, untie me, for Christ’s sake,’ he added.

  Gingerly, the woman started to release him. ‘Are you one of those sado-masochist people?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I’m bloody not,’ said Parish, vigorously rubbing his arms and legs in an attempt to restore the circulation. ‘Where’s the nick?’