Charlie (58 page)

As far as she was concerned her brothers didn’t exist any more. She was off to Spain for good. A quick phone call had ensured that the emergency plans for liquidating her business operations she’d made some time ago would be put into place. She was a rich woman, she had no need ever to work again. She would have a good life in Spain.

Yet beneath her anger Daphne was scared. Jin had once warned her that if she ever tried to hurt Sylvia or his precious daughter he would come gunning for her. It seemed to her after today’s events that his spirit was alive and well, in that damned Charlie.

Detective Inspector Hughes and PC Farrow were watching the tall, slender woman pack her car. Sitting in Hughes’s black Jaguar in a side street opposite the Wellington Road, they had a clear view of the well-lit glass entrance hall, the car park and the one exit.

As soon as they got the message from the Kent police that Andrew Blake and Charlie Weish had been found, they had driven straight here to the address Hughes had discovered earlier in the day. As Hughes saw it, there was little point in rushing down to check out The Manse once the birds had flown.

Oswald Hughes, or Ozzie as his friends and family called him, might very well have become a villain himself, but for his father and the war. He grew up in a Bermondsey tenement, one of nine children – their father was a porter at Smithfield meat market. All his early adolescent years were spent working in a warehouse by day, cruising the streets at night, fighting, petty pilfering and aiding and abetting older criminals. But his father was a great deal tougher than him, and honest too. When he saw the way young Ozzie was going he gave him an ultimatum: either join the army, or find himself an outcast from his family. Young thug that he was, Ozzie cared deeply for his family and admired his father, so he reluctantly enlisted.

He was somewhat surprised to find he liked army life – the comradeship with other men, sport, adventure and the orderliness of it. He rose to Sergeant in record time. Every good quality he had – intelligence, courage, toughness, plain-speaking and a strong sense of fair play – were expanded by his experiences during the war of leading the men under him.

When the war ended he had a quite different slant on life. He saw that Britain might be the victor, but his country was on its knees. Those same slimy sods who’d avoided conscription and gone into black-marketeering were now set to move into serious crime. He saw apathy among the older people, bewildered ex-servicemen, children running wild, vice of every description rising to meet the demands of a frustrated nation suddenly freed from the fear of death and destruction. He knew then that what England needed most was a strong police force, to bring back law and order. He thought that he could serve his country better by joining the police than staying on in a peacetime army.

Twenty-eight years on Ozzie felt the police were fighting a battle with one hand tied behind their backs. The public insisted they wanted a strong force, yet flew into a state of alarm when a copper clouted some young ruffian. Murder, robbery with violence, rape, thieving and drugs were all on the increase, the prisons were overcrowded and the courts couldn’t cope. For every pathetic petty criminal who got caught and locked away, there were probably six real villains who got away with their crimes.

But disillusioned as he often was, Ozzie still stuck tenaciously to his principles. His job was to catch criminals and put them away, whatever, and however long it took. He was shrewd, crafty and patient. He’d had a hunch two decades ago that Daphne Dexter needed watching and he’d never given up on it.

Last Friday afternoon when Charlie Weish had come into the police station with her tale of Andrew Blake’s disappearance and her conviction that Daphne Dexter was behind it was like striking gold. He had always been convinced this cunning and very beautiful woman was behind many unsolved crimes, but although he had compiled a thick dossier on her activities, business interests and acquaintances, he had been unable to find any concrete evidence to charge her with.

Ozzie hadn’t let on to Charlie during their interview that he knew both her parents, or indeed was perfectly aware that DeeDee and Daphne Dexter were the same person. Experience had taught him to keep his own counsel and let others tell him what they knew.

As a young copper back in the early Fifties, his beat had taken him up and down every street and alleyway of Soho. The Lotus Club was a place he popped into regularly, it was a good club, and Jin Weish was a decent sort. He remembered once walking in just as Sylvia and DeeDee did a strip together and they almost brought the house down. Sylvia was the saucy blonde one, all flirtatious blue eyes and sexy wiggles, whilst DeeDee was dark-haired, sensuous, supple and kind of dangerous.

Ozzie was pleased when he heard that Jin had married Sylvia. In his many visits to the club he’d got to know her very well, as he had many of the girls in Soho. For all her sauciness, there was something very vulnerable about her, like Bambi in a jungle. She needed a strong man beside her and it had always been patently clear that Jin worshipped the ground she walked on. Later Ozzie was even more pleased to see how seriously Jin took to fatherhood. He bought a house well away from the corrupting sleaze of Soho, and tucked his wife and child away in it.

The only mistake Jin made was to allow DeeDee to slip into Sylvia’s old shoes as manageress. Almost overnight, well before she got him into her bed, she changed things at the club. The old characters of Soho were no longer welcome to drink there, nor were policemen. She took on waitresses and strippers who were in fact hookers, and took her cut for every man they took home. Ozzie imagined that as his profits rose Jin was probably delighted to discover what an ambitious schemer the woman was.

That one club became two, then three, and somewhere along the line DeeDee, who now called herself Miss Dexter, got her claws right into Jin. Ozzie could understand it in one way – she was gorgeous, she smouldered with sensuality, giving all men the idea that one night with her would be worth risking everything for. But he’d always considered Jin Weish too worldly and astute to be susceptible to womanly wiles.

Ozzie never did get the full story of how Dexter managed to end up with Jin’s clubs when he moved to the West Country. Rumour had it that she blackmailed him into it, but he didn’t believe that totally as Jin had never been a villain, or a fool. In Ozzie’s opinion Jin just had the right priorities. He wanted a cleaner life for himself and his family, and to distance himself from a woman he knew was trouble.

At first it was just fond memories of Jin and Sylvia coupled with a hunch that Dexter had criminal tendencies that made Ozzie keep tabs on her. She bought property in Paddington, and although he heard she put the frighteners on her tenants to keep them in line, there was nothing tangible enough to warrant a proper investigation. Miraculously she sold all these places just before the Rachman scandal, and moved on to more genteel parts of London.

About the same time Daphne Dexter’s name was linked with Ralph Peterson, a very wealthy businessman. There were many mentions of them in the gossip columns, at Ascot, first nights at the opera, and at parties given by Mayfair socialites. They made a handsome couple and Ozzie thought that perhaps love had mellowed Daphne.

Two years later Peterson was knocked over and killed close to his Mayfair club late one night. An eye-witness claimed that he had moved to look out of his window on hearing the sound of an engine revving up. He was just in time to see the car hit a man, throwing his body up over the bonnet. The driver didn’t stop, but reversed back over the body, then drove off at speed towards Oxford Street. The witness said there were two men in the car, but he could only remember part of the registration number and that the car was black.

It was Peterson’s spinster sister who insisted Daphne Dexter was responsible. She said her brother had fallen out with the woman some two months earlier and at the time he’d expressed fear she might retaliate in some way. The partial registration number did match Barrington Dexter’s black Jaguar, but by the time the police acted, any marks, blood or threads of Peterson’s clothing which might have been on it had been washed away. The twins had an unshakeable alibi for that night too, so nothing could be proved. When it transpired that Peterson had left a large sum of money to Daphne in his will, officers more senior than Ozzie took the line that Peterson’s sister was hysterical with jealousy and bitterness. They discounted her claims on the basis that any man who felt threatened by a woman would immediately cut her out of his will. But in Ozzie’s view it was far more likely Daphne was motivated more by revenge at being jilted than purely money, but also guessed there was a strong chance Peterson wouldn’t have got around to changing it immediately.

Ozzie watched her even more closely from then on. He noted that Jin’s old clubs had turned to seedy clip joints, then they became peepshow dives and latterly discotheques. Ozzie was on the Drugs Squad by then, and he was one of the men in the raid on the Purple Pussy Cat in Wardour Street where a large quantity of acid and amphetamines were found. Dexter ought to have done a stretch for that – it was common knowledge that the drugs were sold openly there – but somehow evidence was tampered with, suggestions made that the drugs had been planted by the police. She escaped scot-free.

When Dexter moved away from Soho and opened her property office Eagle Incorporated in Mayfair, it appeared she had turned straight. But Ozzie wasn’t convinced. Was it coincidence that an old lady who was the only sitting tenant in a house in Holland Park Avenue was brutally beaten up by burglars one night shortly after Dexter’s company had bought the property? Nothing could be proved, but the old lady moved out soon after, the house was divided up into luxury apartments and each one sold for more than the entire house had cost. Again and again there were whispers that people who’d been foolhardy enough to get in Dexter’s way ended up in hospital with grievous injuries. Ozzie had interviewed three of these mysterious victims, none of whom could explain satisfactorily how they got their injuries. Two were married businessmen, neither of whom had any obvious link to Dexter, the third was an ex-call-girl who certainly did know her, but denied it. But all three of them shared the same kind of fear. Ozzie could only surmise their silence had been bought by threatening someone close to them.

Some of Ozzie’s senior officers had remarked that he had a bee in his bonnet about the woman and advised him to stop wasting his time on her. But when Jin disappeared two years ago, they too became interested, in fact the investigation was taken out of his hands entirely. Ozzie couldn’t prove a thing, but to his mind that so-called investigation stank. He didn’t believe for one moment that Jin was capable of running off and leaving Sylvia and his daughter with a mountain of debt. It wasn’t his style. The two men who attacked Sylvia Weish in her garden could well have been the Dexter brothers, yet he could find no record of them having been brought in for questioning, or their sister. He came to the conclusion someone had been paid off.

So when Charlie came to him with her story of her boyfriend’s disappearance, Ozzie’s first emotion was elation because for once it looked as if the woman had made a serious mistake. A prostitute, a drug addict or another villain could go missing and who cared? But a bright young student with a decent family was a different ball game, and even back-handers wouldn’t help this time.

Of course that elation vanished in the face of the girl’s distress, and the knowledge she was prepared to shield those who had given her information humbled him. He thought she was a great deal like her father, and his last thought as she’d left his office was the hope that before long he’d be able to prove to her that her father had always been an honourable man.

He admired Charlie even more now since talking to the Kent police. She’d managed to find Dexter’s hide-out, and she’d outwitted her by escaping. Now he was going to bring Miss Bloody Dexter to justice. He felt certain that once he had her in custody there would be dozens of other people like Rita Tutthill queuing up to add to the charges against her.

‘She seems very calm,’ Farrow remarked. He was a lean, blond, twenty-three-year-old with only eighteen months’ experience on the force, so he was somewhat surprised to find himself on a case like this with such a senior officer.

‘Arrogant more like,’ Hughes chuckled. He had selected Farrow tonight because the lad reminded him of himself when he was that age – cocky, tough and quick-thinking. ‘She thinks she’s fire-proof.’

He had to hand it to Daphne Dexter, she was cool, elegant as always in a dark suit, her hair pinned back in a sleek chignon as if she’d just come from a business meeting. He could of course pick her up right now, he had more than enough to charge her with, but Hughes liked cat-and-mouse games, and besides, in her flight she might lead him to her brothers.

‘She’s leaving, sir,’ Farrow said.

Ozzie waited as the Mercedes came up the car-park slope to Wellington Road and turned down towards Baker Street. He left it a minute or two before following; at this time of night with clear roads it would be easy enough to keep her in his sights. He didn’t need to be right on top of her and alert her to a tail.

‘Bugger me, she’s not going to Dover after all,’ Farrow said some time later as they saw the Mercedes tail-lights turn off towards the All at Aldgate. ‘Where’d you think she’s going, sir?’

Hughes thought for a minute. During his investigations he had discovered Dexter owned a property in Marbella in Spain – in fact it was the only property he could find which
was
in her real name – bought some years ago with the money she’d inherited from Peterson. Even her London apartment, and the house in Islington where her brothers lived, were owned by her company. So he had assumed Marbella would be where she would flee to. Yet he’d expected her to take the most direct route via Dover.

‘Harwich is my bet,’ he replied grimly. He wasn’t pleased, it would be a long drive with plenty of opportunity on the empty roads for her to notice she was being followed. ‘We’ll keep following for a bit, just to make sure. Then you’d better phone in from a call-box and get them to alert the Harwich police. I wouldn’t put it past her to be tuned in to police radio.’