The Taming of Tango Harris

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The Taming of Tango Harris Page 2

by Graham Ison


  ‘In Main Road.’

  ‘Where the hell’s that, then?’

  The woman pointed. ‘Other side of the golf course and turn right,’ she said. ‘Just past Oaklands Avenue.’

  ‘How far’s that then?’

  ‘About a mile and a half, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, sod that,’ said Parish.

  ‘What d’you want the nick for, anyway?’

  ‘Because I’ve been robbed, you silly cow.’ And Parish stumbled on to Eastern Avenue without so much as a word of thanks.

  He had almost reached the flyover at the Southend Arterial Road before he saw a police car. He stepped out into the road and waved.

  The police car stopped and the driver wound down his window. ‘You trying to get run over?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve been robbed,’ said Parish.

  ‘There’s been another one, guv’nor,’ said Detective Inspector Jack Gilroy.

  Fox looked blandly at his DI. ‘I suppose, Jack, that you are going to elaborate on that rather bald statement.’ Carefully, he teased the cuffs of his shirt out of the sleeves of his Gieves and Hawkes suit and flicked aimlessly at imaginary specks of dust on his lapels. Fox was well known at Scotland Yard for the fastidiousness of his dress, but the Queen’s Gallantry Medal, awarded for tackling an armed criminal, and which now lay buried at the back of one of the drawers of his desk, belied any suggestion that he might be a fop. Many criminals — and quite a few policemen — could testify to Fox being a very hard-nosed and unremitting detective.

  ‘Another lorry heist, guv.’ Gilroy sat down in a chair opposite Fox’s desk and smoothed out one of the message flimsies in his hand. ‘Bloke called Parish set off from his depot in East London with a lorry-load of Scotch en route for Harwich and the Hook of Holland ferry when he found that he was not alone.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Fox mildly.

  ‘A bloke surfaced from the sleeping quarters of the cab and shoved a shooter in his ear. Then he suggested to Parish that he should stop in a lay-by.’

  ‘And he did, presumably?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very wise. And what happened next in this exciting saga, Jack?’

  ‘He was met by a group of heavies who tied him up, left him on Romford golf course, and drove off into the night with his booze.’

  Fox shook his head slowly. ‘There is no doubt, Jack,’ he said, ‘that there are some wicked people in this world. Romford, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘If only they’d gone a few miles further, Jack,’ continued Fox wearily, ‘they’d have sailed over the border of the Metropolitan Police District and that—’ he waved a limp hand towards the message flimsy — ‘would have been resting on the desk of the head of Essex CID.’ He stood up. ‘How many’s that now?’

  ‘Seven, sir.’

  ‘Then it’s time to do some sorting, Jack. Any descriptions?’

  ‘Four blokes in ski masks. All of ‘em Mr Average.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fox, ‘there’s a surprise.’

  ‘But not the only surprise, guv. At about the same time that Master Parish was being rescued from his bonds by a jogging bird in a tracksuit, the CID at Romford were wondering what the body of a known villain was doing in the boot of a stolen car just off Colchester Road.’

  ‘Colchester Road?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Even nearer the Essex boundary.’

  ‘There’s no justice in this world, Jack,’ said Fox.

  ‘No, sir. Probably the same view that the said deceased hood took when they topped him.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Jack. Sounds like justice to me. No, I was thinking more of the unreasonable attitude of the toe-rags who left the body there. What’s wrong with Southend?’ Fox shook his head wearily. ‘Who was the victim, incidentally?’

  Gilroy glanced down. ‘Carter. Frank Carter. Aged thirty-seven. Eight previous, but only three that are worth anything … all for armed robbery. Last one earned him a five-stretch. Been out nine months.’

  ‘Method?’

  ‘Shot, sir. Preliminary examination seems to indicate that a nine-millimetre pistol was used.’

  ‘Who did he run with?’ asked Fox.

  ‘Billie Crombie, guv.’ Gilroy leaned back in his chair with an expression of wry amusement on his face.

  Fox stood up and turned to face the window. Carefully, he separated the slats and peered down into Victoria Street. Then he turned to face Gilroy again. ‘Did he now. Well, isn’t that interesting, Jack?’ He sniffed loudly. ‘I think it’s time to do some sorting,’ he said again. ‘We shall consult with the commander. Forthwith.’

  *

  Commander Alec Myers, Fox’s immediate boss, glanced up warily when Fox, accompanied by Gilroy, entered his office. ‘Morning, Tommy.’ He indicated chairs with a sweep of the hand.

  ‘Morning, guv.’ Fox carefully eased the cloth of his trousers over his knees as he sat down.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Tommy?’

  ‘Lorry hijackings … and related villainy.’

  ‘You talking about the Romford job, Tommy?’

  ‘Jobs, sir,’ corrected Fox. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go on then.’ Myers sat back and waited. He knew instinctively that Fox was going to ask for money or men … or both. But today, he had a surprise for Fox.

  ‘Off the top of my head,’ began Fox airily, ‘it would seem that certain persons are conspiring to take the piss out of the Old Bill in general and the Heavy Mob in particular … ’ Fox had spurned the use of the slang term ‘Sweeney’ ever since a television programme about the Flying Squad had used it for a title. He preferred the term Heavy Mob, a far more common nickname among the criminal fraternity.

  ‘So you want to take over this Romford job, is that it?’ Myers took a cigarette out of the open packet on his desk and then pushed the packet towards Fox.

  ‘More than that, guv’nor,’ said Fox. ‘If what I hear is true, last night a lorry-load of Scotch was nicked on Eastern Avenue on its way to Harwich and the Continent. The heist appears to have all the hallmarks of one Thomas Walter Harris, known to friends and enemies alike as Tango Harris on account of his nifty footwork at the New Cross Palais during his somewhat murky youth.’ He leaned forward to flick ash into the commander’s ashtray. ‘And Frank Carter, one of Billie Crombie’s brethren, was found — shot to death — in a side turning in Romford … the morning after the night before.’

  ‘So what have you in mind?’

  ‘I should like to concentrate on these two little teams, sir … the Tango Harris and Billie Crombie mobs. They’re at it, the pair of them … together with the nastiest collection of villainry that has been gathered together for many a long year.’

  ‘And you want the men to do it, I suppose?’

  Fox looked hurt. ‘Can’t improve on what I’ve got, sir … with one or two exceptions.’ He grinned and cast a sidelong glance at Gilroy.

  ‘Yeah, but how many, Tommy? You can’t use the whole of the Flying Squad. There are other things going on, you know.’

  Fox looked thoughtful. ‘About a dozen, guv?’

  ‘All right,’ said Myers.

  ‘All right?’ Fox was disconcerted by the readiness with which the commander had agreed to his request.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Tommy, the DAC Specialist Operations has just telephoned me, suggesting that you oversee an investigation into these hijackings … and anything else that happens to turn up. He said that you could have two dozen men if you needed them, but as you say you can get by with twelve … ’

  ‘Oh, that’s only for a start, sir,’ said Fox hurriedly, and then tried to recover his lost ground. ‘But I propose to leave the present investigating officers in situ and just coordinate.’

  ‘Of course, Tommy.’ Myers nodded affably. ‘But I want to be kept fully informed,’ he said as Fox reached the door. ‘And so does the DAC.’

  ‘Do I ever leave you in the dark, guv?’ asked Fox, pausing with his hand on the doorknob.
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  ‘Yeah … most of the time.’

  ‘Reckon you can manage with a dozen blokes, guv?’ asked Gilroy when they were back in Fox’s office.

  ‘A dozen’s more than I need, Jack.’

  ‘But—’ Gilroy stopped.

  Fox laid a finger alongside his nose. ‘I shall filch more when I need them. In the meantime, I like to let the commander think he’s got his own way. Makes him think he’s in charge.’

  ‘Well, isn’t he, sir?’

  Fox gave Gilroy a severe glance. ‘Of course he is, Jack. Of course he is.’

  *

  Fox gazed round the small conference room. Apart from Gilroy, there were, among others, DI Denzil Evans, DSs Percy Fletcher, Ron Crozier, and Ernie Crabtree, and DCs Bellenger and Rosie Webster, the tall, striking blonde who overawed villains and policemen alike.

  ‘We are going to sort out the Harris and Crombie gangs,’ announced Fox. ‘And if anyone mentions a word of what we’re doing to anyone outside this squad, I shall break off my criminal enquiries personally to put the said officer back into a tall hat.’ He glared at the assembled detectives. ‘And that’s the best they can hope for.’ He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke drift upwards. ‘We are starting off with the twelve of you, but if we need more, we shall acquire them. However, for the time being we shall see how we go. Now, Denzil, what do you have to tell us?’

  DI Evans struggled to his feet only to be waved down again by Fox. ‘This is going to be a protracted enquiry, Denzil. Save your strength.’

  ‘I’ve been on the blower to Romford, guv,’ began Evans. ‘A lorry driver—’

  ‘That would be Wayne Parish, I take it?’

  Evans signed inwardly. ‘Yes, sir, Wayne Parish. Well, he was dispossessed of his valuable cargo at about one o’clock this morning by a team of four heavies. About three hours later, a patrolling PC—’

  ‘They have such things in Romford?’ enquired Fox mildly.

  ‘Apparently, guv.’ Evans struggled on; it was always the same with Fox. ‘Anyway, this PC found a car in a cul-de-sac, did a quick check on the PNC and found it had been nicked three days ago in Wandsworth. And in the boot, he found the recently expired body of Frank Carter.’

  ‘What an extraordinary business.’ Fox acknowledged the dutiful laughter. ‘I think, Denzil, that I shall pay a visit to this Romford. Get a taste of the action first hand, so to speak. In the meantime, Perce,’ he continued, nodding towards DS Fletcher, ‘put yourself about, my son. Beat on the ground and see what comes up.’

  ‘What are you after in particular, sir?’ Fletcher looked slightly nonplussed.

  ‘Anything in particular will do, Perce,’ said Fox.

  *

  Tommy Fox swept into the incident room at Romford police station with an enthusiasm that frightened the life out of the assembled detectives. Nick Dorman, the detective superintendent assigned from the area major investigation pool, had never met Fox before … but he had heard of him. And that was enough.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

  ‘You’ve got a body you don’t know what to do with, they tell me.’ Fox strode across the incident room and examined the action book. Humming an unidentifiable tune — which further discomfited Dorman — he rapidly absorbed what had been done so far.

  ‘We’ve got a positive ID from fingerprints, sir.’

  ‘Yes … ’ Fox drew the word out slowly. ‘Well, you would have,’ he said. ‘With the sort of form that Frankie Carter’s got, you could hardly avoid identifying him, could you? Now, what about this lorry heist?’ He changed tack with a disconcerting suddenness. ‘How far have you got with that?’

  ‘The local DCI’s handling that, sir,’ said Dorman.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Fox looked surprised. ‘Separate from this topping, is it?’

  Dorman looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, there’s nothing to connect the two, sir,’ he said, not wholly convinced that he was right.

  ‘One of Billie Crombie’s foot-soldiers, wasn’t he, this Frankie Carter?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘How far has the DCI got with the lorry hijacking?’

  ‘I understand that the vehicle’s been found abandoned, sir, but as I say, that’s not my enquiry.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Eltham, I believe, sir.’

  ‘Any fingerprints?’ Fox’s questions came one after the other, like a rapid burst of machine-gun fire.

  ‘Are you talking about the murder or the hijacking, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fox.

  ‘Still waiting for the results from the car the body was found in, sir,’ said the unhappy Dorman. ‘But I can’t really say anything about the heist.’

  ‘The heist is down to Tango Harris.’ Fox leaned back in the detective superintendent’s chair, a triumphant grin on his face.

  ‘Can we be sure, sir?’

  ‘You might not be,’ said Fox, ‘but I’m bloody certain. The MO’s identical. Harris lets Crombie set it all up and then steps in and snatches the gear. And you’ve got the body of one of Crombie’s runners. And Tango Harris and Billie Crombie are sworn enemies. Beginning to get my drift, Mr Dorman?’

  ‘You think they’re connected, then.’ Dorman suddenly realized that life on the area investigation pool was nowhere near as bad as it might be if he were on the Flying Squad.

  ‘Well,’ said Fox, standing up. ‘It might be a good idea if you got alongside the local DCI and compared notes. Get hold of the papers on the other six lorry hijackings that have occurred in recent months and have a look at them. But I can tell you this. On each occasion, a nasty man with a gun suddenly appeared from the back of the cab when the driver was bowling along in the night, doubtless listening to Capital Radio or some such entertainment, and before he could say Chris Tarrant, he was tied up in a field somewhere. It’s only a suggestion, mind. But you might just find that Tango Harris took out one of Billie Crombie’s men, just to give him a bit of a warning that lorry blaggings weren’t his exclusive preserve. Got the idea?’

  ‘Yes indeed, sir.’

  ‘Good. Now, Frankie Carter, deceased. What can you tell me?’

  ‘One nine-millimetre round through the head, sir. Death was instantaneous.’

  ‘Would be, I should think,’ said Fox. ‘But that much I know. No witnesses, of course.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Can’t understand people not wanting to help the police,’ said Fox shaking his head. ‘Any joy with the rope?’

  ‘The rope, sir?’ Dorman was having a job keeping up with Fox.

  ‘The rope that Parish was wearing. He was the driver of the lorry, wasn’t he?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to speak to the DCI about that. He’s down the corridor … in the other incident room.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d give him a ring, get him up here. I think you need to put this all together.’

  The Romford DCI, John Godwin, appeared minutes later. ‘Enquiring about our hijacking, sir?’

  ‘Yes. What can you tell me? That I don’t already know.’

  ‘Bloke called Wayne Parish, guv’nor.’

  ‘I know,’ said Fox. ‘Had any joy with the rope that he was tied up with? And from which I understand he was disentangled by a butch jogger thundering round the golf course. Up at the lab, is it?’

  ‘Er, yes, sir. Well, on its way.’

  ‘Splendid.’ Fox beamed round at the other detectives in the incident room who were all doing their best to look busy. Despite Fox’s warning to the members of his select squad, the bush telegraph of the CID had been at work and the news that he was co-ordinating the enquiries had preceded his arrival at Romford. ‘Well, I can see you’re on top of it, Mr Dorman. Anything I can do to help, don’t hesitate to give me a bell … or you, Mr Godwin.’

  ‘No, right, sir. Thank you very much,’ said Dorman.

  Fox leaned confidentially towards the detective superintendent. ‘I have a consuming interest in Tango Harris and Billie Crombie,’ he said. ‘And I
am going to have the pair of them.’

  ‘Time somebody did,’ said Dorman, half to himself. And for one passing moment he actually felt sorry for Tango Harris and Billie Crombie.

  Chapter Three

  The chief security officer of the credit-card company was an ex-CID officer called Sharp. ‘I remember you,’ he said, as he shook hands. ‘You were a DC on Eight Area about three years ago.’

  ‘That’s right, guv’nor,’ said Detective Sergeant Jagger. ‘And I remember you, too.’

  Sharp waved a deprecating hand. ‘I’m not in the job any more,’ he said. ‘Call me Ron. What can I do for you?’

  Jagger laid the voucher which had been found in the hotel room on Sharp’s desk and gave him brief details of Brace’s investigation into the murder of the so-far unidentified woman.

  Sharp laughed as he stood up. ‘Gavin Brace has caught a good one there,’ he said. ‘Won’t keep you long.’ When he returned, minutes later, he was clutching a slim folder. ‘The principal and sole proprietor of Mountjoy Services is called Gina West,’ he said, ‘and she seems to be in a very good way of business.’ He raised a sceptical eyebrow at Jagger. ‘Average take is about eight thousand quid a month.’

  ‘Sounds like a busy up-market tom all right,’ said Jagger. ‘Got an address for her?’

  Sharp pushed the file across the desk. ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘Is that where she lives?’

  Sharp shrugged. ‘Haven’t a clue, mate. Frankly we don’t care. We pay her the money, not the other way round. Probably an accommodation address, but you might get lucky.’

  ‘Bloody rich, isn’t it? Toms using credit cards.’

  ‘Rich is the word,’ said Sharp. ‘But why not? Prostitution’s not illegal. Only soliciting for it … as you well know.’

  ‘Yeah!’ Jagger sighed and made a few notes from the file. ‘Been at it for about three years, according to this.’

  ‘That’s how long she’s had a supplier’s account with us. Could have been on the game a lot longer than that. Before she got into the plastic.’

  ‘That sounds kinky,’ said Jagger.

  *

  Although never quite sure whether he needed one in such circumstances, Brace had taken the precaution of obtaining a search warrant. Then he and Jagger made their way to the block of elegant service flats in St John’s Wood where Sharp’s records showed that Gina West lived.

 

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