by Graham Ison
There was no answer when they rang the bell, but they eventually contacted the caretaker, who described himself as the ‘con-serge’. He looked suspiciously at the search warrant and shook his head. ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I mean these is good-quality flats. We don’t have no hoi polloi in here. No rough. I reckon I’ll have to speak to my boss.’
‘Let me put it to you in simple language,’ said Brace. ‘This is a search warrant, issued by a magistrate. Now you can telephone the managing agents, the managing director … or your MP if you like. But while you’re doing that, we shall be putting in Miss West’s door with a sledgehammer. On the other hand, you could get the duplicate key which you undoubtedly have and open the door for us. There, that plain enough for you?’ Brace always got irritable with petty functionaries.
The caretaker mumbled and disappeared into his flat, returning moments later with a key. Then the three of them took the lift to the third floor in silence.
A twenty-minute search merely confirmed that Gina West was a prostitute, albeit high class. The wardrobe was stocked with expensive clothes … of two varieties. There was a collection of good-quality dresses, suits, shoes, and underwear, bearing the labels of some of the best-known fashion houses in both London and Paris. Then there was the other collection, also expensive, consisting of the colourful apparel — bras, briefs, suspender belts, and sheer black stockings — favoured by whores the world over, and which she probably called her business clothes.
‘Found any corres, Geoff?’ asked Brace.
‘Just,’ said Jagger, emerging from the bedroom. He sat down on the leather sofa, placed a bundle of papers on the coffee-table and started to sift through it.
‘Anything interesting?’
‘Her passport for a start.’ Jagger handed the document to Brace.
‘Well, that’s her all right.’ Brace glanced briefly at the photograph and dropped the passport on to the table. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yes, sir. Bank statements showing substantial weekly payments by cheque. No name, of course. Just the cheque number.’ Jagger looked up. ‘I’ll bet they were to her ponce.’
‘Could be. Means talking to the bank.’ Brace looked round the room. ‘I’ve got a hunch,’ he said suddenly. ‘Let’s do the kitchen.’
‘The kitchen, guv?’ Jagger wondered what his governor knew that he didn’t.
‘Yeah!’ Brace stood up. ‘Found some interesting things in kitchens in my day.’
But Brace was wrong. Half an hour later, having emptied just about every container and packet in the kitchen cupboards, he turned his attention to the rest of the flat.
It was Jagger who found it, in an envelope taped to the back of a picture in the spare bedroom.
‘What’ve you got?’
‘Insurance, guv.’
‘Insurance? What sort of insurance?’
‘The best, I think. Hang on.’ Jagger walked through to the sitting room and picked up the bank statements. ‘Great!’ he said, after a moment or two’s reading. ‘Got the bastard.’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a list headed “Payments made to Billie Crombie in the name of F. Richardson”, and each one of them matches an entry on the bank statement.’
‘So Crombie’s her ponce,’ said Brace thoughtfully. ‘It looks as though she made that record in case she got topped.’
‘Smart girl,’ said Jagger. ‘Gina West was obviously a copper-bottomed professional.’
‘I didn’t notice that, Geoff.’
‘What, guv?’
‘That she had a copper bottom.’
*
Gavin Brace had a blind spot when it came to accountancy. He could work out his pay-slip and that was about all, but DC Tanner had worked in a bank for two years before becoming a policeman, and he knew his way round figures. Which was why Brace had given him the job of analysing Gina West’s accounts.
‘Well? Anything interesting?’
‘Not really, sir,’ said Tanner. ‘All looks pretty kosher. There are the usual payments out: gas, electricity, TV, rent. That sort of thing. Oh, and couturiers. She spent a lot on clothes.’
‘I noticed,’ said Brace drily.
‘The only interesting thing is that the payments to Richardson—’ Tanner glanced up — ‘alias Billie Crombie, ceased about eight weeks ago.’
‘According to the bank statement, you mean.’
‘Sorry, sir, I don’t quite follow—’
‘She might have paid in cash or through another account that we haven’t traced.’
‘That’s possible, sir,’ said Tanner. ‘Or she might have started paying a different ponce.’
‘That’s a thought,’ said Brace. ‘On the other hand, she might have decided that she could go it alone. And that might just be why she got topped.’
‘You’re not going to like this, sir … I think,’ said DS Jagger, clutching a printout from the Police National Computer.
‘What?’
‘I ran Billie Crombie through the PNC, just to get an up-to-date on him.’
‘And?’
‘Apart from being an SOll target criminal—’
‘Which we knew.’
‘Yes, sir, which we knew, but apart from that, there’s a marker on the computer.’
Brace’s eyes narrowed. ‘What sort of marker?’
‘No enquiries without reference to Detective Chief Superintendent Fox of the Flying Squad, sir.’
‘And that,’ said Brace, standing up, ‘is all I need.’
*
The car stopped, engine still running. The three men inside looked quickly up and down the narrow street and donned stocking masks. Then the older one, sitting next to the driver, spoke. ‘Don’t hang about, then. Get on with it.’
The man in the back opened the door nearest the pavement and got out. Leaning back into the car, he grabbed the two four-pint plastic containers — they had originally held milk — and strode across the pavement. Stopping in the doorway of the restaurant, he placed them on the ground and calmly lit the rag fuses in the top of each.
Once the flames had caught, the man kicked the door open violently and hurled the two containers inside.
The petrol in the containers ignited with a sudden dull explosion, and within seconds the whole of the bar area of the restaurant was engulfed in flames. The barman, who had just skirted his counter with a trayful of drinks, caught the full effects of the blast and staggered away screaming, his whole body a mass of flames.
The man who had thrown the petrol bombs walked swiftly back to the car, which sped away, leaving a throng of curious pedestrians on the pavement.
The whole operation had taken less than a minute.
*
Tommy Fox was seated at his desk drinking a cup of coffee and reading The Times. ‘Gavin, dear boy, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?’
‘Billie Crombie, sir.’
‘What about Billie Crombie?’
‘There’s a marker on the PNC which says no enquiries without reference to you, et cetera—’
‘Yes, I know. I put it there. Have you got an interest in the odious Mr Crombie, Gavin?’ Fox swung in his chair and stretched out his legs.
‘Sort of, sir. He features quite strongly in the Gina West murder.’
‘How strongly?’
‘Looks as though he was her ponce.’
‘Oh, is that all?’ Fox looked disappointed. ‘Well, that comes as no surprise, Gavin.’
‘But it seems she stopped paying him about eight weeks ago.’
‘So?’
‘Motive for murder, would you say?’
‘D’you know, Gavin, I might just say that, yes.’ Fox grinned. ‘Or she’d got herself another ponce. Is there any evidence that Crombie really was her ponce, though?’ Brace told Fox about finding Gina West’s notes secreted behind the picture in her spare bedroom. ‘But there’s no corroboration, sir,’ he added. ‘Apart from the bank statements. We’ve checked with the bank an
d they confirm that the payments she listed were made to F. Richardson. So we tried Richardson’s bank.’
‘And?’
‘They say that they don’t have an address for him, whoever he is. Seems he told them he worked abroad. They don’t mind apparently, so long as there’s money in his account. And there is. More than a hundred grand.
He goes in to cash a cheque very occasionally, but no one can remember what he looks like. Usually payments from the account are against cheques that he’s issued to someone else. Straightforward traders for the most part. Marvellous, isn’t it?’
‘What else have you got?’
Brace explained about the credit-card voucher that had been found in Gina West’s briefcase at the hotel. ‘We’ve had a go at the hall porter to see if he put Gina West in touch with Phillips, but if he did he’s not having it. And we’re checking all her previous clients. At least those who put their payments through Mountjoy Services by credit card. It’s a mammoth task and it’ll be a waste of time, but it’s got to be done, I suppose.’
‘There’s something odd about that credit-card voucher,’ said Fox when Brace had finished. ‘I don’t see a killer leaving what amounts to a calling card. Either it’s a set-up, or Phillips isn’t your man. All you’ve really got is a piece of paper on which Gina West claims to have paid Crombie large sums of money. Sums of money that her bank account shows were paid to F. Richardson. And you’ve only got Gina West’s post-mortem word for it that Richardson is Crombie. You haven’t confirmed that yet, I suppose.’
‘No, sir. I was considering interviewing Crombie and putting it to him.’
‘Don’t bother, Gavin. At least, not yet. You’ll achieve nothing … except to alert him. In no time at all, there’ll be more solicitors than you can shake a stick at, all claiming that their client’s being harassed. No, let’s wait until we’ve something to screw the little bastard with.’
‘D’you mean that you’re taking the enquiry over, sir?’ Brace looked hopeful.
‘Good Heavens, no, Gavin. Whatever gave you that idea? Apart from anything else, I’m much too busy. Some thoughtless bastard has just torched one of Tango Harris’s restaurants.’ Fox tapped a message flimsy and gave Brace a malevolent smirk. ‘On your old patch, too.’
*
The barman was dead, burned to death by the violent conflagration caused by the two petrol bombs, which had in turn ignited the liquor and wrecked the whole of the bar area. By the time police had arrived, the clientele, most of whom had been dining at the rear of the building, had fled. To the chagrin of the owner, now surveying the smoking ruins from the street, none of them had paid.
‘I thought you said this was one of Tango Harris’s dives,’ said Brace. ‘That bloke over there is Morrie Isaacs. Been the owner for about five years.’
‘That’s right,’ said Fox. ‘But when I said it was one of Tango’s joints, I meant it was under his protection.’ He shot a sideways look at Brace. ‘If you get my meaning, Gavin.’
‘Then why the hell hasn’t someone done something, guv’nor. If I’d known, I’d’ve had a go at him when I was stationed here.’
‘It’s not that easy, Gavin. Put simply, no one will talk. Go and ask Morrie if you don’t believe me. Ask him how much he’s into Tango Harris for every week, and he’ll tell you he’s never heard of Harris.’ Fox lit a cigarette. ‘That’s the trouble with being tucked away on the area pool, Gavin. You fail to get the broad overview.’
Brace stuck his hands into his overcoat pockets. ‘I haven’t even got enough CID officers to do my own work, let alone anyone else’s,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you this, guv, someone needs to sort these bastards out.’
‘And I’m just the man to do it,’ said Fox. ‘Let’s have a word with Morrie.’
‘Mr Fox, Mr Brace … ’ Isaacs held out his hands, palms uppermost. ‘Who would do such a thing?’
‘Dry your eyes, Morrie,’ said Fox. ‘They’re only crocodile tears anyway. And if you don’t know who this little lot’s down to, then it’s time you gave up. You still paying Tango Harris his weekly stipend?’
‘Who?’
‘Thomas Walter Harris, also known as Tango. Often in here with his smelly little friends.’
‘Oh, that Mr Harris. He’s only a customer, Mr Fox. A valued customer, I may say.’
‘Do leave off, Morrie. By this time tomorrow you’ll have convinced yourself that the chip-fryer caught fire, I suppose.’ Fox fixed Isaacs with a cynical stare. ‘Well, just in case you get too complacent, let me remind you that a man is lying dead in there … murdered. And you may care to advise your friends that I intend to take you and them apart. Got it?’ And steering Brace out of Isaacs’s earshot, added, ‘Anything I can do to help with your murder, Gavin, just say the word, but don’t talk to Crombie or Harris without my say-so. Apart from anything else, I’d love to come along for the ride.’ He moved towards his car and paused. ‘Oh … and the best of luck.’
*
‘Well, Mr Dorman, and how are your enquiries going?’ Fox looked expectantly around the incident room at Romford.
In fact, Nick Dorman was not having a great deal of luck and the arrival of Tommy Fox did nothing to improve his despondent feeling that he was hammering his head against a wall. A wall of silence. ‘DCI Godwin and I have put our enquiries together, sir, but there are no witnesses to the hijacking and no witnesses to the murder of Frank Carter. And certainly no one saw the car being dumped where police found it.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. Must be something in the air in Romford that stops people from seeing things. Pollution, I suppose. How far have you got?’
‘The rope that Parish was tied up with has yielded nothing, sir,’ said Godwin. ‘And he can’t — or won’t — tell us anything. The car that Carter’s body was found in was stolen—’
‘You told me that. Nicked from Wandsworth. What about the lorry … abandoned at Eltham, I think you said?’
Both Dorman and Godwin were unnerved by Fox’s ability to grasp all that was going on at Romford and had to think very quickly to keep up with him. ‘We’ve examined the lorry, and the car, and come up with nothing,’ said Dorman. ‘The lab’s been over them both. There’s nothing.’
‘Tyres? Did they do the tyres?’
‘The tyres, sir?’ Godwin looked puzzled.
‘They must have run the load into a slaughter somewhere. It’s just possible that there might be something on the tyres that’ll steer you in the right direction.’
Godwin sighed. ‘I’ll get on to it, sir,’ he said, wondering why the hell the head of the Flying Squad kept pestering them.
‘Splendid,’ said Fox. ‘But if Tango Harris is behind it, you haven’t got a hope in hell.’ And with that encouraging comment, he left and made his way back to New Scotland Yard.
*
Penny Sinclair was a tall, willowy blonde. She would be twenty-nine next July and had been a prostitute for ten years. At the age of twenty-five, she had become Tango Harris’s live-in lover until, six months ago, she had been supplanted by a girl called Melody. With angry resignation, she had returned to her flat in the West End and resumed a life of high-class prostitution. But she still saw him and, foolishly hoping for reinstatement, would go running to Buckhurst Hill whenever Harris flicked his fingers. But she had to admit, if only to herself, that her willing response to Harris’s demands was fuelled as much by fear as a desire to regain the protection and doubtful prestige of being the boss’s woman.
Billie Crombie, himself the ponce of a not inconsiderable number of call-girls in London, knew about Penny Sinclair and her relationship with Tango Harris. And Crombie was still seething about the death of Gina West. He, like Fox, was certain that Harris was responsible. With his two sons, he had torched Morrie Isaacs’s restaurant — just as a little lesson — but knew that it was no great inconvenience. After all, the insurance company would pay out, so the arson attack had done Harris little real harm … except to his ego.
S
o he held a council of war with his two sons.
*
‘It’s a dog’s dinner, guv’nor,’ said Fox as he settled into one of Commander Myers’s chairs.
Myers gazed at Fox over his half-glasses and smiled. ‘These area detectives not coming up to snuff, Tommy?’
‘Oh, they’re all right, guv’nor. Gavin Brace particularly. Trouble is they’re all nibbling round the edge.’
‘Round the edge?’ Myers knew what Fox meant, but he enjoyed playing him along.
‘We’ve got gang warfare here. Tango Harris and Billie Crombie. Within the space of about forty-eight hours, a lorry was hijacked in Romford by Tango Harris, and one of Billie Crombie’s foot-soldiers has been topped. Added to that, one of Crombie’s toms was murdered in the West End — that’s got to be down to Tango Harris — and one of the restaurants under Harris’s protection was torched.’
‘How d’you know all this, Tommy?’
‘It’s in the crime books at Romford and West End Central, sir.’
‘No, I meant how d’you know that Harris did the Romford heist, topped Carter, and murdered a tom. Or that Crombie set fire to a restaurant run by one of Harris’s stooges?’
Fox stood up. ‘I don’t, sir,’ he said. ‘But I bloody well intend to prove it.’ He paused, hand on the doorknob. ‘I’m going to get in among this little lot. Hard!’
Myers sighed. ‘Do it your way, Tommy. You always do, anyway.’
Chapter Four
Penny Sinclair was accustomed to getting telephone calls asking her to go to elegant hotels, there to indulge the sexual whims of those men prepared to pay for her expensive services. Consequently, when she received a call at six o’clock that evening, she dressed carefully in erotic underwear and, shunning tights, put on the more provocative suspender belt and sheer black nylons. Slipping on high heels, she dismissed the need for a dress, and donned a shiny black belted raincoat. Then she picked up her handbag and emerged from her flat to hail a cab.