Gunrunner (3 page)

‘There is little we can do today,’ I said, gathering my small team around me in the incident room. ‘However, a number of questions need to be answered. Firstly, why was Mrs Hammond at Heathrow Airport? She didn’t have an airline ticket with her. Secondly, did she arrive at the airport with someone else? If that was the case, we need to know who it was, and whether he, or she, took a flight somewhere.’ I glanced at Detective Sergeant Flynn. As an officer who had previously served on the Fraud Squad, he knew his way around paper. ‘Charlie, make a few enquiries at the airport, and see what you can find out.’

‘Right, guv.’

‘I’ve listed the property taken from the car, sir,’ said DC Appleby.

‘Anything interesting, John?’

‘Nothing unusual, sir. The suitcase contained a selection of women’s expensive clothing, and what looked like a couple of gifts, probably for her husband by the look of them. There was a pair of gold cufflinks and a leather briefcase. I reckon that together they’re worth about two and a half grand.’

‘Rich lady,’ I said.

‘I reckon so, sir. She had a bottle of Estée Lauder perfume in her handbag that Linda said retails for about two hundred quid. And her jewellery box contained some very pricey stuff: a gold and diamond necklace, earrings and a ruby bracelet. She was wearing a diamond engagement ring that was probably worth ten grand, and a platinum wedding ring.’

‘Rich husband as well. Thanks for that, John,’ I said. ‘In the meantime, Sergeant Poole and I will go out to Barnes and break the news to Mrs Hammond’s family, if she’s got any.’

‘And if they haven’t gone away for Christmas,’ commented Dave.

‘A possibility, of course, but if there’s anyone there they might be able to answer some of the questions I’ve posed already. Bring the house keys that Linda found in Mrs Hammond’s handbag, Dave.’

Elite Drive proved to be a secure estate in Barnes. The uniformed custody guard examined our warrant cards carefully before opening the electrically-operated ornamental gates and allowing us to drive through.

Number seventeen, a large, square, double-fronted, detached modern house, stood some way back from the road. A path across a lawn, beautifully tended even for the depths of midwinter, led up to the front door. There was garaging for two cars to one side of the house, and the property itself, needless to say, was in good repair. I took a private bet with myself that there would be a swimming pool in the basement or in a specially built chalet behind. At a guess I reckoned the market value to be somewhere around a couple of million, give or take a few hundred thousand.

I pressed the bell push and heard chimes sounding somewhere inside the house. But there was no reply.

‘Open up, Dave.’

‘Are you sure, guv? We don’t have a warrant.’ Dave was always at pains to prevent me from doing anything rash or unlawful, probably because a complaint would, inevitably, involve him too.

‘It’s justified because I have reason to believe that the person who murdered Mrs Hammond might be on the premises, Dave,’ I said blithely, citing one reason that might justify our entry. I, too, was thinking ahead to any complaint that might turn up. I’d been on the wrong end of a complaint on more than one occasion in the past, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Any suggestion that the police whitewash complaints is a fiction, believe me. ‘Sure as hell, I’m not going to look for a magistrate to sign a warrant on Christmas Day.’

Somewhat reluctantly, I thought, Dave found the appropriate key, and we were in. Sadly, there was no fleeing felon on the premises, but I didn’t really expect there to be.

The spacious sitting room was comfortably and expensively furnished and richly carpeted, and contained the usual possessions of the well off: a plasma-screen television, a music centre, an iPod player, expensive ornaments, and one or two original paintings. There was also a silver-framed photograph of a wedding couple taken outside Caxton Hall register office. I recognized the woman as Kerry Hammond, and therefore assumed the man to be her husband. But, in an era of constantly changing spouses, one could never be certain if it was her current husband. Marriage these days tends to be like a Paul Jones dance: when the music stops you change partners.

‘I’ve found an address book, guv,’ said Dave.

‘Might be helpful,’ I said. ‘Bring it with you, along with that wedding photo.’

‘And I’ve checked the answering machine,’ added Dave. ‘There are no messages on it.’

‘We’ll have a quick look round upstairs, and then have a chat with the people next door, Dave,’ I said.

The king-sized bed in the large main bedroom was made up, and there were no clothes scattered about on the thick pile carpet. A quick examination of the sweep of built-in wardrobes revealed apparel for both sexes: expensive bespoke suits and casual wear, and haute couture dresses. In a compartment at the bottom there were at least twenty-five pairs of women’s shoes.

On the wall opposite the windows was yet another original painting. On closer examination, I noticed that the frame stood away from the wall, perhaps by a sixteenth of an inch. I pressed the right-hand side, releasing a magnetic catch, and the picture opened on a hinge. Inside, there was a small safe set into the wall. However, despite what crime writers would have you believe, there was no way of getting into it without knowing the combination. It is a fallacy to imagine that it’s possible to hear the click of the tumblers as the ridged knob is turned. A stethoscope doesn’t help either; I’ve tried.

But there were no signs anywhere of a hurried departure; everything pointed to the house having been meticulously tidied before the occupants went on holiday. It looked as though Mrs Hammond employed a cleaner. I doubted that a woman with an engagement ring worth ten grand would do her own household chores.

The man who answered the door of the nearest house was about forty. He looked to be a stuffy sort of fellow with his toothbrush moustache and rimless glasses. There was an incongruous paper hat on his head and he held a glass of wine in his hand.

‘Sorry to bother you on Christmas Day, sir,’ I said. ‘We’re police officers. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’

‘Good heavens, this sounds serious.’ The man swept off his paper hat. ‘You’d better come in. We were just finishing our Christmas dinner.’

‘I apologize for the intrusion, sir, but it is important. And you are?’

‘Oh, sorry, I’m Peter Maitland.’

We followed Maitland into his huge dining room. Eleven people were seated around a long table, all wearing silly paper hats. The diners looked up enquiringly at our entry, their expressions indicating irritation that we’d just interrupted that stage of the meal where the host was about to commit arson on the Christmas pudding.

‘These gentlemen are from the police at Scotland Yard,’ announced Maitland to his guests, a statement that produced an immediate buzz of conversation.

‘If it’s a strippergram shouldn’t they be in uniform?’ queried one silly young woman, an alcoholic slur taking the edge off her consonants.

‘Perhaps we could have a word with you and your wife in private, sir,’ I suggested.

‘Of course,’ said Maitland. ‘This is my wife, Janet,’ he added, as a plain woman in a full-length red gown stood up at the far end of the table, and made her way towards us.

‘I hope this won’t take long,’ said Janet Maitland curtly, clearly annoyed at having her dinner interrupted, and led the way into the sitting room on the front of the house.

‘Do sit down, gentlemen,’ said Maitland. ‘Can I offer you a drink?’

‘No, thank you.’ Once we were all seated, I got straight to the point of our visit. ‘We’re making enquiries into the death of Mrs Kerry Hammond, your neighbour.’ It was an announcement guaranteed to rivet the Maitlands’ attention, and it did.

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Maitland, his jaw dropping.

‘Oh, surely not,’ said Mrs Maitland, her face paling significantly. Realizing that this was not an occasion for paper hats, she promptly removed the one she was wearing.

‘What happened?’ asked Maitland. ‘Was it a car accident?’

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that she was found murdered in her car at Heathrow Airport earlier today.’

Mrs Maitland leaned back in her chair. ‘Oh, how awful,’ she muttered. ‘But she was supposed to be going to New York to spend Christmas there with her husband. She was very excited about it.’

‘D’you know if they left here together, Mr Maitland?’ asked Dave.

‘No, I don’t know, I’m afraid. I was playing golf yesterday afternoon.’

‘No, they didn’t,’ said Janet Maitland. ‘Kerry said that she was going to meet Nick at the airport.’

‘I take it that Nicholas Hammond is Kerry’s husband,’ I asked, wishing to confirm the entry in the dead woman’s passport.

‘Yes, that’s correct. Just before she left, Kerry dropped in to leave her spare set of house keys with me. It’s something she always does whenever she and her husband are away, just in case anything happens. We’re quite good friends, Kerry and me.’

‘What time would that have been?’ I asked.

‘It was between five and six, I suppose. Yes, I remember now because Kerry glanced at her watch and said that it was twenty past five and she’d have to run. She said she didn’t want to be late checking in. Apparently the airport can get very busy on Christmas Eve, and so can the roads leading to it.’

‘Have you any idea why Kerry and her husband should’ve travelled to the airport separately?’

‘She told me that Nick had a last minute meeting in London. He runs his own estate agency business in Mayfair, and apparently he was near to closing a deal on some expensive property.’

‘On Christmas Eve?’ I wondered about that. It seemed strange for an estate agent to be clinching a deal on the day before Christmas, especially as he was apparently due to fly to New York with his wife.

‘Well, that’s what Kerry said,’ confirmed Janet Maitland.

‘And does Mrs Hammond pursue a career?’ asked Dave.

‘Indeed she does. She’s involved with a haulage business in Chiswick, and from what I’ve heard, it’s a pretty big concern. I believe they do quite a lot of carrying to and from Europe and beyond,’ said Maitland. ‘Kerry Trucking, I think it’s called.’

That tallied with the registration details of the car in which Kerry Hammond had been found.

‘D’you mean she owns the company?’

‘She does now. Her husband started it. Her first husband, that is. His name was . . .’ Maitland paused, and turned to his wife. ‘What was his name, darling?’

‘Richard Lucas,’ said Janet. ‘He was killed in a car accident about seven years ago,’ she continued. ‘It was a terrible tragedy, him being so young. He was on his way home from Sheffield in December and got involved in one of those awful pile-ups in the fog on the M1. The company became Kerry’s when he died, and she’s continued to run it ever since. Very successfully, I believe.’

‘They certainly weren’t short of money, if that’s anything to go by,’ said Maitland, and received a nod of agreement from his wife.

‘Were there any children?’ asked Dave, who was an inveterate collector of inconsequential bits of information.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Janet. ‘In fact, I’m certain.’

‘But then she remarried,’ I said, taking the wedding photograph from Dave and showing it to Mrs Maitland. ‘Is this her second husband or her first?’

Janet Maitland put on a pair of spectacles, but needed only to glance briefly at the photograph. ‘No, that’s Nick, her second husband. I think they were married about five years ago. It was a couple of years after Dick died, I seem to recall. But she’s only a young woman, early thirties, I suppose, so you can’t really blame her for finding someone else.’

‘Did they get on, Kerry and her husband?’ asked Dave, just beating me to the question. ‘Were there any rows, fights or disagreements, for instance?’

Janet Maitland looked shocked at that. ‘No, they were a perfect couple,’ she said, in a rather tart manner, as though it were impertinent for Dave to have posed such a query.

‘It’s a question we have to ask,’ I said. ‘You’d be surprised how often a woman is murdered by her husband. Or a husband by his wife,’ I added as an afterthought.

‘Really?’ Mrs Maitland did not seem at all mollified by that particular statistic of the crime of murder. ‘Well, I very much doubt that in this case you’ll find that Nick has murdered Kerry. He’s not the type.’

Don’t you just love armchair detectives?

‘Did Kerry enjoy a busy social life?’ I asked. It was a question designed to prompt any revelations about extramarital affairs; not that I expected Janet Maitland to tell me even if there had been. She seemed very defensive of her friend Kerry Hammond’s reputation.

‘She was always on the go.’ As I’d anticipated, Mrs Maitland declined to read between the lines of my question. ‘And she and Nick enjoyed themselves socially. Well, they had the money, so why not?’ she added. ‘At one time, she was involved in charity work, too. Of course, I don’t mean that she worked in a charity shop in the high street; it was more a case of charity balls in big West End hotels, and dinners at five hundred pounds a plate, that sort of thing.’

‘D’you know which charity it was?’ asked Dave.

‘No, I don’t, other than to say it had something to do with starving children in Africa.’

‘The Hammonds had a pretty full life, then,’ I said. ‘I imagine they had a lot of friends.’

‘Oh yes,’ put in Peter Maitland. ‘Dinner parties and drinks parties, but nothing rowdy, of course. No loud music. They’ve got a swimming pool in the basement, too. Well, all of us round here have, but we don’t use ours much. But the Hammonds used to hold parties in theirs. We went to one or two. They were very generous hosts.’

‘Thank you for your help,’ I said, ‘and my apologies for interrupting your festivities. If and when Mr Hammond returns,’ I continued, addressing myself to both the Maitlands, ‘perhaps you’d ask him to contact me as a matter of urgency.’ I handed Peter Maitland one of my cards, but sincerely hoped that the arrangements to intercept Nicholas Hammond at Heathrow on his return, assuming he’d actually gone, would obviate the necessity of Maitland breaking the news to him.