The Taming of Tango Harris

by Graham Ison

  ‘Do you want them held, guv?’ asked Gilroy. ‘Royce and Guerrini?’

  ‘Good Heavens no, Jack. They’re no earthly use to us in here. We shall let the hares run … in the vain hope that the hounds may come trotting after. Put Henry Findlater’s team on it.’

  *

  ‘Well, Henry, what news have you?’

  ‘We followed the suspects, sir … ’ Henry Findlater peered through his owl-like spectacles at his pocket-book.

  Fox nodded amiably, accepting this as one of Findlater’s little foibles. ‘Good work, Henry.’

  ‘And on leaving West End Central police station they travelled in a Saab motor car, index—’

  ‘Henry, skip the details. Just tell me where they went.’

  ‘They went to Tango Harris’s place at Buckhurst Hill, sir.’

  ‘Dear me,’ said Fox, ‘how extraordinarily careless of them. I wonder why they didn’t telephone.’

  ‘Probably thought we’d got an intercept on it, sir,’ said Findlater.

  ‘What a splendid idea, Henry. Now why didn’t I think of that before?’

  ‘Probably too busy, sir,’ said Findlater innocently.

  Fox shot him a suspicious glance. ‘How long did this unsavoury pair remain at Tango Harris’s ostentatious pad?’

  Findlater glanced at his pocket-book once again. ‘Just over the hour, sir. Then they went to Wandsworth.’

  ‘Why Wandsworth, I wonder?’ mused Fox.

  ‘It’s where they live, sir.’

  Chapter Eight

  Fox tapped out Tango Harris’s telephone number and waited. An answering machine clicked and a recorded message started. Fox sighed audibly. ‘Tango, this is Fox. I know you’re there. Pick up the phone. Save me coming out.’

  A female voice answered. ‘Hallo?’

  ‘Melody?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Fetch Tango to the phone.’

  ‘I don’t know if he’s in.’

  ‘Don’t ponce about,’ said Fox. ‘Just get him.’

  After some delay, a man’s voice came on the line. ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘You’re a difficult man to get hold of, Tango—’

  ‘What d’you want?’

  ‘These fellows who you say can categorically row you out of the Gina West murder, Tango,’ said Fox. ‘The ones you were allegedly clubbing with on the night in question … as your mouthpiece so eloquently put it.’

  ‘There’s no “allegedly” about it.’

  ‘Pleased to hear it. Who were they?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I intend to talk to them, Tango.’

  ‘Be my guest. Terry Quincey and Des Nelson and their two birds … oh, and Melody, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Fox.

  ‘They’ll tell you what I told you. And I’m getting fed up with being harassed.’

  ‘Know the feeling,’ said Fox, and put the phone down.

  *

  ‘Take Percy Fletcher with you, Jack, and do a bit of digging on these two layabouts that Tango Harris said were with him the night Gina West got topped. Then pick ’em off one by one. Lay hands on one when the other’s not there. We’ll give him a talking to and then grab the second one before we let the first go. Got it?’

  ‘I’d better write that down,’ said Gilroy with no trace of a smile. ‘By the way, Mr Brace has sent us a copy of the handwriting expert’s report, sir.’

  ‘What are you talking about now, Jack?’ asked Fox. ‘The handwriting on the agreement form, sir. The solicitor in Richmond who drew up the agreement with John Phillips, who we think is Tango Harris, let Mr Brace have the original and he submitted it to the lab.’

  ‘Let me get this straight, Jack. Phillips is the bloke whose credit-card voucher was found in the hotel room. Yes?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And the address went out to a flat in Richmond and from there back to Tango Harris’s address at Buckhurst Hill. Right?’

  ‘Right, sir,’ said Gilroy patiently.

  ‘Good,’ said Fox. ‘So what have you to tell me?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. The tests were inconclusive. The handwriting on the lease agreement was nothing like Tango Harris’s, samples of which were seized when we nicked him—’

  ‘Didn’t nick him,’ said Fox moodily. ‘He volunteered to help us with our enquiries.’

  ‘Well, whatever. The graphologist at the lab says in his report that it could have been Tango Harris’s handwriting, but disguised. On the other hand, it might not be his at all.’

  ‘Thank you, Jack,’ said Fox. ‘That’s extremely helpful. Did he make any mention of Billie Crombie?’

  ‘Same, sir.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘That the writing could have been Billie Crombie’s, but he couldn’t swear to it.’

  ‘Terrific,’ said Fox.

  *

  Fox, unable as usual to avoid interfering, went straight to West End Central police station the moment that Gilroy told him that Terry Quincey had been invited to come in and make a statement to support Harris’s account of his movements the night Gina West was murdered. ‘Friday the twelfth of October … ’ Fox began.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Had a night out with my bird,’ said Quincey.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Tracey Ogden. Why?’

  ‘And who else?’

  ‘Des Nelson and his bird.’

  ‘What was her name?’ asked Fox patiently.

  ‘Cindy something.’

  ‘Just the four of you, was it?’ said Fox without hope that Quincey would agree.

  ‘No. Tango Harris was with us, an’ all. Oh, and his bird.’

  ‘That would be Melody, would it?’

  Quincey frowned. ‘Yeah, I think that was her name. Me and Des call her Omega.’

  ‘Omega? Why?’

  ‘Lots of jewels and a lovely movement,’ said Quincey with a grin.

  Fox leaned across the table. ‘Don’t think of getting smart with me, Terence, dear boy. I have been known to get nasty.’

  ‘It was only a joke,’ said Quincey, moving back an inch or two.

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ said Fox. ‘I enjoy a joke. Particularly when I can see the funny side of it. So what time did this culture trip of yours begin?’

  Quincey was alert to the danger of giving immediate answers. Policemen had, in the past, concluded that villains who had pat answers had probably made them up. Recollection of the truth, as any detective will tell you, takes a little longer. ‘We met up down Tango’s place. That’s in Buckhurst Hill … ’

  ‘I know. What time?’

  Quincey pondered the answer to that, too. ‘Must have been about half four, I s’pose.’

  ‘That’s a bit early.’

  ‘Yeah, well he invited us down to have a swim in his pool before we went up west. Very generous like that is Tango.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘We must have left there about half seven, I s’pose. Then we went for a meal up Morrie Isaacs’s place.’

  ‘The one that got burnt out four days later?’

  ‘Yes, I heard about that,’ said Quincey.

  ‘What d’you know about it, as a matter of passing interest?’ asked Fox.

  ‘Me? Nothing.’

  ‘Grapevine not working too well, Terence? Surely Tango must have said something about it.’

  ‘Yeah, well he reckoned it was down to Billie Crombie. Said it was the sort of thing he would do.’

  ‘I see. And did he say he was going to do anything about it?’ Fox lit a cigarette and feigned a lack of interest in the reply.

  But Quincey sensed the danger. ‘No. Why should he? Nothing to do with him, was it?’

  ‘So where did you go after you left Morrie’s place?’ Fox knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere, but he had to go through the motions.

 
; ‘Went round the clubs, then. Two or three places.’

  ‘Including Siggy’s?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. How d’you know that?’

  ‘What time did you finish up?’

  ‘Must have been about half-past one, I s’pose,’ said Quincey immediately, having forgotten his self-imposed rule of appearing to consider the question.

  ‘What did you all do then?’

  ‘Split up, didn’t we. I went off with my bird and Des went off with his.’

  ‘And Tango?’

  ‘Him an’ all.’

  ‘What d’you mean by that?’

  ‘Well, he pushed off in his motor with Omega. Er, I mean Melody.’

  ‘Well, that’s that, then,’ said Fox. ‘We’ll have all that taken down in writing and then you can go.’

  ‘Oh, right. Cheers,’ said Quincey.

  ‘Yes,’ said Fox.

  *

  Fox tossed the statement to one side. ‘Not worth the paper it’s written on,’ he said. ‘What about Des Nelson?’

  ‘I interviewed him while you were talking to Quincey, sir,’ said Gilroy.

  ‘And?’

  Gilroy laid another statement on Fox’s desk. ‘Word for word, guv. I reckoned they must have stayed up half the night rehearsing it. They could probably have carved out a marvellous career for themselves in the theatre.’

  Fox pursed his lips. ‘That’s pitching it a bit high, Jack,’ he said. ‘Amateur dramatics at best, I should have thought.’

  *

  On Fox’s instructions, Gilroy found the two women who Quincey and Nelson had said were with them — and Tango Harris — on the night of Gina West’s murder. Tracey Ogden and Cindy Lewis were interviewed by Rosie Webster, but despite her talent for interrogation, Rosie was unable to extract anything more than a loose confirmation of what Quincey and Nelson had said. The one thing that the interviews did elicit, however, was that both women possessed incredibly poor memories. That they were nervous throughout was, in Fox’s view, evidence that they were lying. But he knew that defence counsel would convince a jury that it was attributable to their fear of the draconian methods of police questioning.

  ‘What about Melody, guv?’ asked Gilroy.

  ‘We’ll leave her for the time being, Jack.’ Fox pushed

  the women’s statements to one side. ‘We’ve given Harris enough amusement for one week. And you know as well as I do that her story will match the others exactly. Her time will come, dear boy.’

  ‘By the way, sir, Mr Brace has sent over a copy of the pathologist’s report on Gina West.’

  ‘Anything I should know about?’

  ‘In brief, sir, she had been strangled.’

  ‘Which comes as no surprise.’

  ‘And she had sexual intercourse shortly before her death, sir.’

  ‘Well, that’s an astonishing revelation for a tom, Jack.’ Fox yawned and stood up. ‘I think I’ll let you buy me a beer,’ he said.

  *

  It was on the Wednesday following Billie Crombie’s funeral that Fox got the phone call.

  ‘Mr Fox?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s Sharon Scrope here. I’ve got to see you, urgent.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I ain’t telling you over the phone, but it’s important.’

  ‘D’you want to come here to the Yard?’

  ‘Not bleeding likely. Can’t we meet some place?’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘Waterloo East.’

  ‘What are you doing there?’

  ‘It’s where I got off the train yesterday, like … from Catford. Mr Fox, I’m scared.’

  ‘There’s a pub in York Road,’ said Fox, ‘just by the footbridge that leads to the Shell Centre. I’ll see you there in ten minutes.’ And he dipped the receiver rest. ‘I hope,’ he added as he tapped out the number of the drivers’ room.

  Fox’s driver, the mournful Swann, complained bitterly at having to leave a good poker hand and drove Fox and Rosie Webster to Waterloo, managing to arrive only two minutes later than Fox had promised.

  Sharon Scrope was sitting at a table in the corner of the pub, a gin and tonic in front of her. She was dressed in a tight-fitting short black skirt with a leather bomber jacket over a shocking pink T-shirt. Her face looked drawn and haggard and she wore very little make-up.

  ‘Looks as though she’s been dragged through a hedge backwards,’ said Fox in an aside to Rosie as he bought the drinks.

  ‘And some,’ said Rosie.

  They sat down opposite Sharon whose face immediately took on an expression of immense relief. ‘Ta!’ she said.

  ‘What for?’ Fox took a sip of his Scotch.

  ‘For coming.’

  ‘What is it you want, Sharon? What’s all this urgent business that you’re scared of?’

  Sharon glanced round the pub as though frightened of being seen. Satisfied that she was apparently unobserved, she took a black book from her handbag and slid it across the table. ‘It’s that,’ she said.

  Fox thumbed through it. ‘So? It’s a diary. A five-year diary.’

  ‘It’s more than that, Mr Fox. It’s everything Billie ever done.’

  ‘You mean it’s a record of his criminal activities?’

  ‘Yeah!’

  ‘Why? Why d’you suddenly want me to have this?’

  ‘You was at the funeral, wasn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you saw what happened. What that cow Arlene Fogg done.’

  Fox nodded. ‘I must say that your forearm smash was very professional.’

  For the first time, Sharon smiled. ‘Billie taught me that,’ she said. ‘In case I ever got into bother.’

  ‘So you’re giving me this—’ Fox tapped the diary with his forefinger — ‘because Arlene had a go at you at Billie’s planting. Is that it?’

  ‘There’s more to it than that, Mr Fox. Yesterday, Gary and Kenny come down my place in Catford. It was the flat what Billie give me, see. And they shoved me in their car and took me back to Billie’s place—’

  ‘That’s in Catford, too, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yeah. Ain’t far away. Anyhow, when we got there, that bitch Arlene was there.’

  ‘She would be,’ said Fox. ‘She lives there. What was it all about, anyway?’

  ‘Those two bastards dragged me up to Billie’s bedroom and they raped me … on Billie’s bed. Both of them. And Arlene was there all the time, laughing and shouting at them to do it again.’ Sharon looked directly at Fox as she spoke, giving him the precise details of what had happened to her, but there were no tears, no emotion, just a straightforward account. ‘Then when they’d finished, Arlene said as how that was a warning and that I’d better stay out of their way from now on or they’d have me cut … or worse.’

  ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘They threw me out and told me to walk home. And Arlene said I was to find some other place to live because the flat was Billie’s and everything that was Billie’s was hers now.’

  ‘Did you go to the police?’

  Sharon scoffed. ‘Course not. What’s the use of that?’

  ‘You could bring a charge of rape against the two Crombie brothers … and Arlene for that matter.’

  ‘Arlene? Don’t be daft. She never raped me. How could she? And she ain’t no dyke, neither.’ Sharon stared at Fox as though he’d taken leave of his senses.

  ‘She can be charged all right,’ said Rosie quietly. ‘This happened last night, you say?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Rosie leaned forward and spoke softly. ‘You should be medically examined, you know … even now.’

  Sharon shook her head defiantly. ‘Don’t want none of that poncing around,’ she said. ‘Not having no doctors poking around in my privates.’ She pointed at the diary. ‘That’s much better,’ she continued. ‘That’ll do for all three of them. That’ll screw ’em for much longer than they’d get for screwing me.’

&nbs
p; ‘So you don’t intend to bring charges for rape?’ Fox needed to be absolutely clear on that point.

  ‘No. I said.’

  ‘Did you go back to your place at Catford last night?’

  ‘Not bloody likely. You think I’m mad or something? Well, leastways, just long enough to grab me things. Then I come here. Stayed in a hotel last night. Weren’t much cop. That’s where me things are now.’ A sudden spasm of fear crossed Sharon’s face. ‘But I ain’t staying there no more,’ she said. ‘Those bastards’ll find me.’

  ‘We’ll come with you,’ said Fox. ‘We’ll collect your things and put you somewhere safe.’

  ‘But you don’t know them, Mr Fox, they’ll—’

  ‘And you’ll be under guard … until the trial.’ Fox stood up and rubbed his hands. ‘Things are looking up, Rosie,’ he said. ‘Things are definitely looking up.’

  *

  ‘Is that Detective Sergeant Jagger?’ asked the voice on the telephone.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is Jason Morley. You came to see me the other day in Richmond. D’you remember?’

  ‘Yes, I remember, Mr Morley.’

  ‘I’ve found the letter I mentioned.’

  ‘Good. Who’s it addressed to?’

  ‘Someone called Crombie.’

  Jagger whistled quietly. ‘Have you opened it?’

  ‘No. D’you want me to?’

  ‘No,’ said Jagger hurriedly. ‘Have you got any plastic bags? Clean ones. The sort you put food in when you put it in a freezer.’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Good. Put the letter in one of them and hang on to it. I’ll get someone to collect it within about three quarters of an hour.’

  Chapter Nine

  It was a small house in Belgravia, not far from Gerald Road police station, which the police kept specifically for housing witnesses who were under threat. Usually, such people were what the Press calls supergrasses but Fox had little hope that Sharon Scrope would turn out to be one. He had been disappointed too many times in his long career of seeking out the unrighteous and was pessimistic about the outcome of this particular offer of information. But for once he was wrong.