The Taming of Tango Harris

by Graham Ison

  ‘What in hell are you talking about?’ The American immediately bristled. ‘I resent that. Resent the implication that I would … Anyway, that’s a slur on the young lady in question. If it’s any of your concern, she’s a business associate of mine and we were conducting important discussions over dinner. It’s more private in here than in the restaurant and—’

  ‘Sir!’ Buckley held up a hand, interrupting the American’s unconvincing flow of excuses. ‘You’re a visitor to London, I believe, sir.’

  ‘I’m an American.’

  ‘Well, it’s no offence against our laws here, sir, to entertain a young lady in your hotel room … even if you pay for it—’

  ‘Now look here, officer—’

  ‘Let me finish, sir,’ said Buckley, quite enjoying his role as a dim policeman. ‘We are hoping to enlist your help.’

  That appeared to mollify the American and he mellowed slightly. ‘Oh, I see. How can I help, then?’

  ‘We know these things go on, sir.’ Buckley briefly closed one eye. ‘But it’s the people behind them that cause us the grief and aggravation, as you might say.’ He paused. ‘I think you’d probably call them the Mafia in America, sir.’

  ‘Fer Chrissakes!’ said the American, thoroughly alarmed by this throw-away line. Then he glanced at Rosie. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am.’

  ‘If you could just see your way clear to letting us have a statement, telling us how you contacted this young woman — Fay, I think she’s called — and what you paid her—’

  ‘That’s enough.’ The American strode towards the door. ‘I’m sticking to my story that she’s a business associate. I don’t know anything about her being a hooker, or anything about the goddam Mafia. I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Good night, officers.’ The American closed the door and walked across to the telephone. ‘Get me the hall porter,’ he yelled into the mouthpiece.

  The hall porter had just replaced the receiver of his telephone following a rather unpleasant and one-sided conversation with the American as Buckley and Rosie walked through the lobby.

  ‘And that’s going to happen to all the toms who work for Tango Harris,’ said Buckley quietly to the hall porter as they passed his desk.

  ‘Lovely fellow, the American in two-oh-four,’ said Rosie, and winked.

  *

  Buckley and Rosie Webster did it six or seven more times, working from the list that Sharon Scrope had provided. And that, combined with Percy Fletcher’s message, did it. Suddenly, Tango Harris’s string of fillies found they weren’t under starter’s orders any more.

  *

  ‘Tinsel Walters, guv.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Fox. ‘What about him?’

  ‘Handled some of the loot from a silver bullion job about eight years ago, hence the name Tinsel. Collected a five-stretch down the Bailey.’

  ‘I remember that job,’ said Fox. ‘Warehouse at Gatwick, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s the one, guv. Since then, he’s been trying to convince everyone that he’s going straight.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Fox looked faintly amused. ‘Had any success with that fairy tale, has he?’

  ‘Well, he hasn’t been nicked again, guv, if that’s what you mean. But he’s putting himself about in Dagenham and Gants Hill. The usual.’

  ‘The usual what?’

  ‘Two or three massage-parlours-cum-knocking-shops, a betting shop or two, and a bit of leaning on certain local traders who’d rather not get into bother with his little team of heavies.’

  ‘Protection, you mean?’

  ‘In a word, guv, yes.’

  ‘How was it that he tolerated Billie Crombie in his midst then?’

  ‘He didn’t really, guv, but he wasn’t prepared to do anything about it. But when Billie got his come-uppance, he swore that Tango Harris wasn’t going to muscle in. Tango was strictly a West End operator, so Tinsel reckoned. The word is that Dagenham’s his.’

  ‘Is that a fact?’ said Fox. ‘Well, I’ve got news for him. Any whispers about when this show-down is likely to occur, Perce?’

  ‘Word is that it’s one of next Saturday’s attractions, guv,’ said Fletcher.

  *

  Despite Fox’s conviction that there couldn’t possibly be any swish night-clubs in Dagenham, the one that Spider Walsh had mentioned was none the less above par for the area. The waiters wore bow ties and there was a live band. It looked to be a well-regulated establishment.

  The operations commander for the area was a hard-nosed Uniform Branch officer who had spent much of his service at police stations in the East End of London and he greeted Fox’s news of a possible punch-up with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve laid on two TSGs, Mr Fox,’ he said, ‘just to be on the safe side. And I’ve dug out the local superintendent to take charge. That’ll give you nearly fifty officers all up. What about riot gear?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.’

  ‘I was only joking,’ said the commander with a grin.

  ‘But I think we ought to have a unit from SO 19 on stand-by.’

  ‘What?’ The commander looked shocked. ‘Firearms Branch?’

  ‘These blokes aren’t pussy-footing about, guv’nor,’ said Fox. ‘They kill people, and if they find themselves surrounded by your TSGs, they won’t hesitate to shoot their way out.’ Fox actually thought that to be a bit unlikely, but he didn’t much care for the Uniform Branch complacency that applied the same strategy to a raid of this sort as it did to a demonstration of environmentalists in Trafalgar Square. It was better to have more than less. That way the message would get through to both Tinsel Walters and Tango Harris that the police meant business. ‘So long as we don’t frighten them off.’

  ‘No problem there, Mr Fox. We’ll hide them up. All of them. We can give them a shout when we need them.’

  ‘“We”, sir?’

  The commander grinned. ‘I’m not going to miss this,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to get in the way, of course, but—’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ said Fox. ‘I’m going in with a WDS and we’ll just hang around until the fun begins.’

  ‘Smashing!’ said the commander. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Be my guest, sir,’ said Fox.

  ‘I’m glad you said that. CID are paying for the drinks, are they?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Fox. ‘See you on Saturday … provided you come in plain clothes,’ he added, determined to get the last word.

  *

  Fox grabbed at the telephone and tapped out a number. ‘This is Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad,’ he said.

  ‘Morning, Mr Fox,’ said the head of Press Bureau at New Scotland Yard, pushing his glasses back on to the bridge of his nose.

  ‘I wish to deny Press reports that the Gina West murder enquiry is being run down,’ said Fox.

  ‘But there are no Press reports to that effect, Mr Fox.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Fox, ‘but I want to deny it just the same. Get them to say something like: “Police have denied that the Gina West murder enquiry is being run down. In fact, an early arrest is anticipated.” Got that?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Fox,’ said the head of Press Bureau, thoroughly mystified.

  ‘Good,’ said Fox and put the phone down.

  *

  ‘What d’you bloody mean, they’re not working?’ Tango Harris stood aggressively by his swimming pool, legs apart and hands thrust deep into the pockets of his terry robe. He glanced across at Melody as she emerged from the pool. ‘Go and put some clothes on, you silly cow,’ he said.

  ‘Like I said, Mr Harris, Tommy Fox has put the frighteners on them.’ Alfie Penrose looked apologetic.

  ‘How?’

  ‘His Heavy Mob have been following the girls around, waiting till they leave, and then talking to the mugs. And he’s put the fear of Christ up the contacts, an’ all. Most of them don’t want to know any more.’

  ‘They will if they know what’s good for them,’ growled Harris.<
br />
  ‘Apparently he’s been telling them you’ve got Mafia connections, Mr Harris.’

  A brief smile flitted across Harris’s face. ‘I’m beginning to wish I had, Alfie. Things are getting a bit uncomfortable.’

  ‘And there’s another thing, Mr Harris,’ said Penrose hesitantly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tinsel Walters is getting all arsey about the Dagenham set-up.’

  ‘Let him,’ said Harris. ‘He’ll have to be teached.’

  ‘Word is, Mr Harris, that he’s going to do the place over … just to teach the present owner who’s boss.’

  ‘Is that a fact? Well, what have you done about it?’

  ‘Nothing, Mr Harris. That’s why I’m here. Well, one of the reasons. See what you thought, like.’

  ‘Well, you just get a little team together, Alfie, and get down there. They’re paying for protection, and they’re entitled—’

  ‘But they ain’t, Mr Harris.’

  ‘What d’you mean, they ain’t?’

  ‘Tinsel Walters is trying to collect. The gaffer down there told Lenny to piss off last time he went, and one or two of Tinsel’s hoods showed him the door … in a manner of speaking. Frankly, I think he’s playing both ends against the middle.’

  ‘Really?’ Harris spat the word out, low and menacing. ‘Well, he’ll have to be teached as well. Any motorways being built near Dagenham, Alfie?’

  Penrose grinned. ‘Probably find one, Mr Harris.’

  ‘You do that, Alfie. We could even put a plaque on it. The Tinsel Walters Memorial Motorway Bridge.’

  Penrose laughed nervously. ‘I like the sound of that. Can I use your dog-and-bone?’

  ‘No,’ said Harris. ‘That bastard Fox has got the phone tapped as well.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fox had not underestimated the power of either Tango Harris or Tinsel Walters, and if they wheeled out their heavies, the arena of the dance floor — at present filled with gyrating couples — could turn into a battlefield. Consequently, he had selected a table in the corner near the service exit so that he and Rosie were in a position to effect an escape if the necessity arose. The area Operations Commander had reluctantly agreed to station himself on the other side of the room. Reluctantly, because at first he thought that it was a Fox ploy to avoid buying him drinks.

  ‘Who’s the blonde girl with the commander?’ asked Fox. ‘She surely can’t be his wife.’

  ‘No, sir. She’s a uniformed inspector from Dagenham nick. We were at training school together. She’s very good at self-defence.’

  Fox chuckled. ‘Does the commander know that, I wonder?’ he said. He glanced casually round the room. ‘So far, I’ve spotted Alfie Penrose and Lenny Lovell. No doubt there’s a few more of Tango’s foot-soldiers about.’

  ‘Isn’t that Randy Steel, over there near the band?’ asked Rosie. ‘The black fellow with the frizzy-haired brunette. Used to run with Joey Watkins.’

  Fox peered across the room. ‘I do believe it is,’ he said. ‘Didn’t know he was out. Wonder who he’s running with now?’

  ‘He’s a Wanstead villain,’ said Rosie. ‘Perhaps he’s just a spectator.’

  Fox scoffed. ‘There’s no chance of that,’ he said.

  The battle, when it came, was short and fierce. At about nine o’clock, Rosie suddenly pressed at her left ear. Fox had instructed her to wear the personal radio on the grounds that the earpiece, covered by her hair, was less likely to be spotted by the inquisitive than if Fox had worn it … and have everyone shout at him because they thought he was deaf.

  ‘Roy Buckley reports that there’s a dodgy-looking Transit drawn up outside, sir,’ said Rosie. ‘Mr Gilroy’s calling up the cavalry.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Fox. ‘I was beginning to get bored.’

  There was a sudden yell and a crash as a waiter was toppled so violently that he and his trayful of drinks slid across the dance floor. Leaving a trail of broken glasses, he collided forcibly with the tight knot of shuffling dancers and, with an involuntary rugby tackle, brought down a plump young lady. Her partner, unaware of the cause of the accident and believing the waiter to be some sort of foot-fetishist, kicked him in the ribs.

  A loud explosion sent dancers and diners shouting and screaming for cover, some diving beneath tables, others running for the exits, as a man in a dark sweater and jeans, and wearing a ski mask, let fly into the ceiling with two rounds from a sawn-off shot-gun, creating a minor blizzard of falling plaster. In his panic, one man ran into the ladies’ toilets and got his face slapped.

  The white-jacketed barman threw himself under the counter as another hoodlum, dressed like the first, took careful aim at the bar. Both barrels of his sawn-off shotgun swept away optics, bottles, and glasses, and shattered the mirrors behind into a hailstorm of tiny fragments.

  ‘I’ll bet he’s a wizard at clay-pigeon shooting,’ said Fox mildly. ‘Still, they do a lot of it in Essex.’ He lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair.

  From the fringe of the tiny dance floor came the swelling sounds of fractured furniture and splintering glass as four more men, all in ski masks, embarked on a deliberate foray of destruction, kicking over tables and chairs, smashing bottles and glasses, and firing shot-guns indiscriminately into the air, now white with falling plaster. The pungent smell of nitro powder from the shotguns mingled with the overpowering odour of alcohol coming mainly from the bar area. That, together with the swirling plaster dust, caused several outbreaks of coughing and spluttering from among those patrons not still shouting and screaming or attempting to escape.

  The large mirrored ball in the centre of the ceiling was among the last victims of the attack. Struck by the full force of two twelve-bore cartridges, it detached itself from the ceiling and, disintegrating into a million pieces, spread across the dance floor to join the carpet of broken glass that lay there. Not to be outdone, its severed electrical supply erupted into tiny sparking blue flames.

  The band, clearly not descendants of those brave souls who played when the Titanic went down, having come to an earlier abrupt and discordant stop, dropped their instruments and lay flat on the floor, encouraged, no doubt, by a sweep of shot that removed the front skin of the base drum, rendered the high-hat totally beyond repair, and created a flurry of shredded sheet music.

  ‘I have to say that I don’t disagree with that,’ said Fox. ‘Quite the worst band I’ve heard in ages.’ He yawned. ‘The feet are taking their time,’ he added and waved at the commander.

  Lenny Lovell made to tackle one of the invaders and was promptly felled with the butt of a shot-gun that smashed his jaw. Randy Steel and Alfie Penrose wisely decided that the opposition was overwhelming and ran for different exits on opposite sides of the room. Penrose was foolhardy enough to make for the door nearest to Fox’s table. Fox withdrew his short detective stave from an inside pocket and leaning to one side, struck a devastating blow at Penrose’s kneecap as Harris’s henchman passed the table. With a scream, Penrose crashed to the floor, clutching his leg. If any other members of Tango Harris’s task force were present, they obviously decided that unashamed cowardice should be substituted for valour and abandoned any ideas of participating in the unseemly brawl.

  Having driven the clientele literally to the walls, the six members of Tinsel Walters’s gang now found themselves isolated at the bandstand end of the large room. It was a tactical error that gave them no opportunity to take hostages.

  ‘Armed police! Drop your weapons.’ The sergeant’s voice was like a whiplash and the villainous octet suddenly realized that they were faced by a row of very offensive-looking men in navy-blue flame-proof overalls and blue berets which were slowly gathering a sheen of white plaster dust. Each member of the police firearms unit, crouched in a threatening ‘triangle’ stance, was pointing a menacing Smith and Wesson revolver at Walters’s gang in a double-handed grip. There was a clatter as sawn-off shot-guns hit the floor, and hands made desperate attempts to touch what
was left of the ceiling.

  The seventh member of the gang, unarmed, had been cut off from the rest of his platoon and was outside the ring of armed police. He decided to make a run for it. The blonde inspector, who had been seated at the commander’s table, leaped at him. With a speed that created a frightening blur of her movements, she seized him and tossed him through the air so expertly that he landed violently on his back, winding him and jarring his spine so severely that he would probably be plagued by a slipped disc for the rest of his life.

  ‘Nice one,’ said Fox. ‘Your blonde mate has just captured Tinsel Walters.’

  *

  After it was all over, some fourteen prisoners had been detained at Dagenham police station. A harassed custody sergeant, pencil behind his ear and surrounded by piles of paper, tried to make administrative sense of the evening’s events.

  Fox surveyed the sorrowful collection and turned to Gilroy. ‘Well, Jack, not a bad night’s trawl. And that’s another branch we’ve lopped off Tango Harris’s tree.’

  ‘How so, guv? We only nicked two of his lot. Alfie Penrose and Lenny Lovell.’

  ‘Alfie Penrose is his right-hand man, Jack. Anyway, it was three we nicked. Don’t forget Randy Steel.’

  ‘Is he one of Tango’s soldiers, then?’

  ‘Let me put it this way, Jack. I am prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt. That is to say, I doubt that he was an innocent bystander. Therefore he’s one of Tango’s men. Unless he can convince me that he’s not.’

  *

  ‘Things are progressing nicely, gentlemen.’ Fox smiled benevolently at the police officers who faced him in the conference room. In the front row were the three detective superintendents investigating the five murders that had occurred so far, three of which Fox was firmly convinced had been committed by Tango Harris. Or, at the very least, on his behalf.

  ‘Where are we with the Gina West job, Gavin?’

  Gavin Brace flipped open a file that was resting on his knees. ‘Struggling, sir,’ he said with a wry smile.

  ‘Good gracious,’ said Fox, and then nodded slowly as though he had fully expected Brace’s reply. ‘If it’s down to Billie Crombie, I suppose that’s it.’