Constable Evans 02: Evan Help Us (22 page)

“He may have threatened to go to the police with something he knew about Taffy’s Club,” Evan pointed out.

“I don’t see how he could do that without incriminating himself.”

“You know the colonel—he was one of the old school. If he found something wrong, he’d feel it was his job to report it, at whatever personal cost.”

The taxi pulled up outside the new concrete and glass building that housed the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police.

Evan peered up at the building as he got out of the cab. “Doesn’t it seem odd to you that nobody at Taffy’s seemed to know anything about the owner—where he was, who he was?”

“I expect they were just being cagey,” Watkins replied as they headed for the revolving glass doors.

The young female P.C. at the front desk explained that being Saturday, there weren’t too many people on duty. “What branch did you want?” she asked.

“Let’s start with vice,” Watkins said. “They’d know about Taffy’s if there is anything worth knowing.”

She glanced at her computer. “I’ve got Sergeant Dobson in. I’ll give him a call and let him know you’re here.”

A few minutes later they were sitting in a cramped back office, divided from its fellows by glass partitions. The view was of more brick walls with a small slice of River Thames between them. The desk was piled high with papers and a worried-looking plainclothes officer looked up from a computer as they came in. “Sorry about the mess,” he said. “I still can’t trust my notes to computers. I have to keep a printout of everything.”

“I feel the same way,” Watkins said. He held out his hand. “Sergeant Watkins and Constable Evans, North Wales police.”

“Jim Dobson. Take a pew if you can find anywhere to sit.” Sergeant Dobson snatched up a pile of papers and added them to the tottering mound on the desk. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“What can you tell us about a club called Taffy’s?” Watkins asked.

A smile crossed Jim Dobson’s face. “Taffy’s? I could tell you more than you probably want to hear. What do you want to know about it?”

“Anything you can tell us. Who owns it?” Evan said.

“It’s owned by a bloke called Taffy Jones. He’s got fingers in all sorts of nasty little pies—escort services, clip joints, prostitution, drugs. You name it, he’s into it.”

“Taffy Jones—is he a Welshman then?”

“Originally, I suppose. You wouldn’t think so from talking to him.”

“Any idea where we’d find him?”

“I’d like to know that myself. So would half of London, I’d imagine. It seems that Mr. Taffy Jones has done a bunk, leaving a lot of people not very happy, including a rather large protection racket, to whom he owes a great deal of money.”

“This Taffy Jones,” Evan asked. “What does he look like?”

“Good-looking sort of bloke, big, solidly built—a bit like you.” He nodded at Evan. “Late thirties, early forties. Snappy dresser.”

“I think we might know where he is,” Evan said.

“We might?” Watkins turned to him.

“In the police morgue in Bangor,” Evan said.

“Ted Morgan, you mean?” Sergeant Watkins demanded.

Evan nodded. “It all ties in, doesn’t it? Arriving like that out of the blue, bringing nothing with him but clothes. He was hiding out.”

Watkins turned to Jim Dobson. “Any idea whether Taffy Jones could have been an alias?”

“No idea at all. Taffy Jones is the only name we’ve known him by here. You say he’s dead?”

“If it’s the same man, someone put a bullet in his head. Maybe the protection racketeers caught up with him.”

“Is that a fact?” Jim Dobson took out a cigarette. “Smoke?” He offered the packet. “Mind if I do? Filthy habit but I don’t have time to quit.”

He lit the cigarette and drew deeply on it. “Put a bullet in his head, you say? Execution style?”

“Not really. A neat little bullet between the eyes from a small revolver.”

Dobson shook his head. “That doesn’t sound like their style at all. A burst of machine gun fire from a passing car or torching his house would be more like it. Or if they got hold of him, one bullet to the back of the head with his arms bound behind his back. Of course, I’m sure Mr. Jones had many enemies outside of any protection racket. He always liked to sail close to the wind, but he was a sharp one. I have to say that for him. We never managed to shut him down. God knows we tried enough, but he was always one step ahead of us.”

“Somebody has managed to shut him down now,” Evan said, “if he turns out to be the same person.”

“Have you got a photo?”

“Only with a hole in his head,” Watkins said and produced it. “But I think you could still identify him from that.”

Dobson studied it. “Looks pretty much like him,” he said. “So how did you manage to connect him with Taffy’s club?”

“Pure luck,” Evan said. “We were looking into another murder that took place last week. An old colonel on holiday had his head bashed in. It turned out he was a regular visitor to Taffy’s.” He looked up with an excited smile on his face. “And I think we might have found out who killed him!”

“We have? Who?” Watkins asked.

“Look, sarge. How does this sound? The colonel recognized someone in the village and was surprised to see them there. He was telling me about it at the pub and then he suddenly shut up and made up a ridiculous story. Ted Morgan, Taffy Jones, that is, was at the pub that night. If he was hiding out in Llanfair, he wouldn’t want to be recognized, would he? He thought he was safe up there. Everyone knew him as Ted Morgan, and how many outsiders come to a little village like Llanfair? It was just bad luck that the colonel was there. He couldn’t risk the colonel going back to London and blabbing that he’d seen him, so he crept out of the pub behind him, bashed him over the head, and came back to join the group.”

“But wouldn’t you have noticed him going out after the colonel?” Watkins asked.

“It’s possible he could have sneaked out with all the excitement that was going on that night. I never thought of that before. He might have gone to the bathroom, then dashed out through the back entrance, killed the old man, and come back in the same way. It was risky, but there’s a chance that nobody missed him for a short while.”

“You might have something there,” Watkins agreed.

“It has to be right, sarge. He was probably scared silly that the colonel would go back to London and announce to all and sundry that he’d seen Taffy Jones calling himself by another name in Llanfair. He couldn’t take that risk.”

“Okay, but the colonel didn’t get a chance to talk to anybody, did he?” Watkins said. “So who else knew that Ted Morgan was Taffy Jones?”

“Someone else in London must have known where he had gone,” Watkins suggested.

Dobson shook his head. “Nobody we’ve talked to, and I can tell you the underworld types are very anxious to find him. Of course, they’d like to get to him first. Did he have any close friends or relatives in the village who might have known the truth about him?”

Evan shook his head. “Only his sister, and he wasn’t on speaking terms with her. He hadn’t been near the place for twenty years. Everyone thought he was a successful London businessman.”

“He was, in a way,” Dobson commented dryly. “Just not in the way they thought.”

Evan smiled grimly. “The only address we had for him was a posh place in Mayfair that turned out to be a mail drop. That’s where his father had always written to.”

“Someone recognized him,” Dobson said. “Someone who had a score to settle with him.”

“We should go back and take a look at the club,” Watkins said. “They must keep a list of members. Maybe a name will show up or maybe he’s got some personal correspondence tucked away. Was he married?”

“Divorced,” Dobson said. “And don’t look for the ex wife as a likely suspect. He was paying her off very nicely, so we hear. He had to buy her silence, didn’t he?”

He got to his feet. “Do you want me to come down to the club with you? They know me there and they won’t give me the runaround.”

“This character called Barry said we’d need a search warrant,” Watkins said cautiously.

“Search warrant. Barry Oates knows where I’d shove a search warrant. He knows I’ve got enough on him to put him away for life if he so much as breathes at the wrong time.”

“Thanks,” Watkins said. “We’ll need all the help we can get if we’re going to get to the bottom of this thing.” They followed Jim Dobson through the deserted corridors of New Scotland Yard and down a back elevator to the garage.

*   *   *

“I told you we’d be back, didn’t I?” Sergeant Watkins gave Barry Oates a triumphant smile as they swept through the swing doors into Taffy’s again. “Brought a friend to see you too.”

“Hello, Barry. Is business booming without the boss around to keep an eye on you?” Dobson asked pleasantly. “Heard from him lately, have you? No postcard from Rio or Buenos Aires?”

“Get stuffed, Dobson,” Barry said. “What do you want, anyway?”

“Just a friendly visit, Barry. I wanted to show these two friends of mine the inner sanctum—the boss’s office. So open up.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. We’ve got nothing to hide. See for yourself.” He pushed past Jim Dobson, led them down a narrow hallway, and opened a door leading into the room beyond. It was tastefully decorated with a large oak desk, thick pile carpet, and subdued lighting. It could have been the office of any executive.

“Be my guest,” Barry said and sat in the leather armchair in one corner.

A search of the desk produced a revolving file of names, including the colonel’s. But no other name that they recognized.

“There are no account books here,” Watkins commented.

“Yeah, well, this is a classy joint. We ’ave an accountant do the books, don’t we?” Barry said. “I can give you his name. ’E’ll be in on Monday. But you won’t find nothing there you can stick on us.”

“I think we’re wasting our time,” Watkins muttered to Evans. “If there was anything here, it’s been whisked away.”

“I don’t even know what there could have been,” Evan said. “You don’t keep copies of blackmail notes or threatening letters, do you?”

“Who said anything about blackmail?” Barry demanded. “We’re not involved in nothin’ sordid like that. Just good clean fun here. Ask the sergeant.” He grinned at Dobson.

“We’ll get you one day, Barry. No rush,” Dobson said easily. “Now, if you could just help us find your boss, we’d all be a lot happier, wouldn’t we? Any idea if he might have been going to Wales, for example?”

Barry’s look of genuine surprise was apparent for a second before he regained his composure. “You mean he might have gone to visit the old folks back home? Well, isn’t that nice?”

His eyes went to a picture on the wall. It was of Snowdon from Llyn Llydaw. The trees were in full fall colors and the lake reflected the peak above. Evan went over to look at it. A photo album was lying on top of the credenza—an impressive-looking book with a tooled leather cover. Evan wondered if it contained more photos of Wales. Maybe Ted Morgan had secretly longed for his birthplace after all.

He opened the book and almost closed it again. It wasn’t Welsh mountains at all, but scantily clad girls in provocative poses. Watkins came over to join him.

“Samples to show the clients?” he asked Barry.

“Seen one you fancy?” Barry asked insolently. “I could set you up for later today. For a nice supper together, I mean. Or a game of darts?”

“I don’t think the wife would like it, somehow,” Watkins said. He went on turning pages. “Miss Cynthia Cardew. She’ll show you the sportin’ life,” he read, pointing at a photo of an aristocratic-looking young woman wearing a riding cap and not much else and holding a riding crop in her hand. “I must say the Colonel had good taste. I’d still like to talk to her.” He turned the page again. “Phew. It’s warm in here, isn’t it?” He tugged at his collar and nudged Evan good-naturedly. “You shouldn’t be looking at this stuff, young kid of your age.” He went to close the book. Evan stopped him.

“Here, hold on a minute, sarge. Turn back to that last page.”

“See one you like?” Sergeant Watkins chuckled.

The page fell open. The girl had one high heeled foot on a bearskin rug and a big ostrich feather fan covered part of her naked body as she peeked provocatively around it. Evan stared at the picture in disbelief. Even with the tumble of platinum blond curls and the Marilyn Monroe makeup he could recognize her. The caption underneath read, “Anita Dove. She’ll take you to new flights of fancy.”

“Look, sarge.” Evan pointed fiercely at the photo. “It’s Annie Pigeon!”

Chapter 20

“Give me a chance to talk to her first, sarge,” Evan suggested as the train pulled into Bangor station. It was past eight o’clock but still light, although the sun was hidden behind ominous clouds. The ocean was slate gray and flecked with whitecaps.

“Home sweet home,” Watkins said.

They had rushed straight from Taffy’s to take the next train home. A phone call to D.I. Hughes had revealed that he was away fishing for the weekend at an unknown destination and couldn’t be reached until Monday. Now they were both tired and on edge.

“I think we should bring her in for questioning,” Sergeant Watkins said, getting his bag down from the rack as the train came to a halt. “I don’t see any reason for letting you meet with her first. You’d probably be softhearted enough to help her talk her way out of this.”

“Not this time,” Evan said firmly. “I don’t like being made a fool of, sarge, and she made a bloody fool of me. She saw me as a good-natured, helpful chump who also happened to be a policeman, and she used me.” He thumped his fist against his open palm. “She really had me fooled. That act of polite indifference when we met Ted Morgan up on the hill—as if she didn’t know him from Adam. And all that panic about a prowler—it was just a setup so that she could claim her gun had been stolen. She showed up the moment she heard that we had ruled out suicide. She knew that we’d find her prints on it.”

Watkins opened the door and stepped down onto the platform. “But you said she seemed genuinely scared. Do you think she lured you round to her place and kept you there while a boyfriend lurking outside did the actual killing?”