Gunrunner (8 page)

‘I understand that Bligh and Thorpe, being directors, have a holding in the company,’ I said.

Hammond gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Oh, poor Mr Bligh wasn’t very happy that Kerry gained control of the company when Dick Lucas died. Dick was her first husband.’

‘So I understand, but why was Bligh upset?’

‘Kerry once told me that Bligh and Dick Lucas were instrumental in setting up the company. In fact, they were virtually equal partners, but when Lucas died and left the company to Kerry, Bligh was bloody furious, so she told me, and the thirty-five per cent holding he was given didn’t please him. He thought he should’ve been given control.’

‘And if he doesn’t get the company now, he’ll be even less pleased, I suppose.’

‘I imagine so.’

‘Did you and your wife get on?’ asked Dave suddenly.

‘What sort of question’s that?’ demanded Hammond. He glanced across the room at the replaced wedding photograph and did a double take, his expression indicating that he was puzzled by its reappearance. But human nature being what it is, he’d probably blame his cleaning lady.

‘A quite simple one, Mr Hammond. Did you and your wife have rows?’

‘The occasional tiff,’ admitted Hammond, returning his gaze to Dave once again. ‘We had disagreements from time to time, like most married couples, I suppose, but nothing serious.’

That might’ve been true, but he probably didn’t know about the ‘occasional flings’ that Bligh had suggested she’d had. Speaking from personal experience, I knew that the husband is usually the last person to find out about a wife’s infidelity. And, to be fair, probably the other way round too.

‘I understand that she had to help you out financially once or twice,’ I said.

‘Who told you that?’ snapped Hammond. He seemed irritated at the change in questioning.

‘Well, did she?’

‘When I first set up business, yes. Things were a bit shaky to start with, what with house prices rocketing at the time and the market stalling, but I’m flourishing now.’

That remained to be seen, even though Bligh didn’t seem to think so. But Bligh’s view might’ve been prompted by animosity. If Hammond
was
in financial difficulties, and Kerry had left everything to him, he had just provided us with a good motive for murdering her. But that rather depended on what was in her will and whether Hammond knew what was in it.

That said, I was still surprised that a man who claimed to have had only the occasional slight tiff with his wife should have gone to New York without knowing what had happened to her.
Unless he knew what had happened to her.

It was five o’clock by the time that Dave and I returned to Curtis Green. Nothing had happened during my absence, but I hadn’t expected it to. I briefed Charlie Flynn, my ex-Fraud Squad sergeant, to find out just how successful Nick Hammond’s estate agency was, or wasn’t. But I told him that there was no point in starting before Monday.

That done, I decided that there wasn’t much more that could be undertaken between now and Monday. One or two members of the team were working on various assignments that I’d given them, but I gave the others the weekend off, what little remained of it.

It was half past six when I arrived home at my flat in Surbiton, a place I saw but briefly when I was in the middle of a murder investigation. Those rare moments of my off-duty time that I enjoyed were usually spent at Gail’s house, and I kept a change of clothing there.

As usual, my flat was clean and tidy, and it was apparent that Mrs Gurney had been at work. Gladys Gurney is the uncomplaining middle-aged lady who ‘does for me’ two or three times a week, and she takes care of all the things that I don’t have the time to do myself. She tidies everything, polishes everything, gathers up my abandoned clothing and puts my laundry in the washing machine, and irons my shirts. Gladys is an absolute gem, and I’d be completely lost without her. On this occasion, she had left one of her charming little notes on the kitchen worktop along with a small parcel that had been carefully wrapped in tissue paper:

Carefully removing the tissue paper, I discovered one of Gail’s lacy bras and a thong. It’s a mystery to me how she manages to forget her underwear when she goes home.

For one brief, impish moment, I was tempted to post them from central London with a note saying, ‘Thanks for a wonderful weekend,’ and signing it ‘Fred’, just to see her reaction, but I changed my mind and decided to deliver them personally. I cause Gail enough grief without going out of my way to antagonize her. I rang her to say that I was on my way.

‘Is the coast clear?’ I asked, when Gail opened the door. I handed her a bunch of flowers, but kept hold of the chilled bottle of champagne I’d had the foresight to bring with me.

‘Of course it is,’ said Gail. ‘You know Mum and Dad went back on Boxing Day. Are you going to open that?’ she asked, pointing at the champagne, ‘or is it just to look at?’

We moved into the sitting room, and Gail produced a couple of champagne flutes. I poured the wine and we settled down.

‘Dad wanted to know if you’d proposed to me yet.’ Gail gave me one of her mischievous smiles.

‘
What?
’ I’d hoped that George wouldn’t raise the question with Gail.

‘You heard, lover. He wanted to know if you were going to make an honest woman of me.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I told him that you hadn’t said a word about marriage, and that I was beginning to feel like a wronged woman.’

I was completely taken aback at this turn in the conversation. ‘But we
have
discussed it.’ I was floundering now. ‘You always said that once was enough and that you were quite happy with our arrangement.’

‘Gotcha!’ Gail threw back her head and laughed at my embarrassment. ‘Well, I am, and that’s what I told him.’

‘Oh! That’s all right, then. And what did he say to that?’ I’d almost forgotten her propensity for teasing.

‘Nothing much.’ Gail held out her glass for a refill. ‘Apart from saying that he thought it was a bit unconventional.’

‘Really? I never took George for someone who was concerned about the proprieties.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Gail laughing again. ‘Mum reminded him that they’d lived together for a few months before they were married. She told him that I was a big girl now, and that he was not to interfere. Dinner?’

‘Please.’ I stood up and followed my girlfriend downstairs to the dining room.

As befitted Gail’s superb culinary skills, she produced an excellent meal. The roast beef was done to perfection, and the roast potatoes and steamed cauliflower, with a delicious sauce, were out of this world. The meal was accompanied by an expensive bottle of Malbec that Gail said was a gift from her father.

‘I do wish that murder wouldn’t keep me away from your cooking,’ I said, standing up to get the Armagnac. ‘I’m sick of grabbing a pie and a pint at the local pub.’

‘You should try going on the stage if you really want to know what it’s like to rough it,’ said Gail, as usual displaying no great sympathy for a policeman’s lot.

I poured the brandy and placed a glass in front of her.

‘Bring it with you,’ said Gail, rising from the table and leading the way upstairs. All the way upstairs.

SIX

I
arrived at the office at nine o’clock on Monday morning. As was his invariable practice, the commander arrived on the stroke of ten. It was a habit that reminded me of the annual Trooping the Colour ceremony for which Her Majesty the Queen always arrived on Horse Guards Parade as the clock struck eleven. And the commander always arrived at Curtis Green as Big Ben struck ten.

‘Mr Brock, a moment of your time.’ The commander didn’t even break step as he passed the open door of my office. Nor would he ever address me as Harry like real CID commanders did, presumably for fear that I might call him by his first name. I’m not sure he could cope with that.

But the commander is not a real detective, even though he fancies himself as one. After a lifetime in the Uniform Branch, he was visited upon us by some genius in Human Resources at Scotland Yard who probably imagined that it would widen our illustrious leader’s experience – and doubtless add a new dimension to the way we poor workers set about our mundane task of investigating murders. I’m not sure, however, that his knowledge of curbing unruly football crowds and instituting diabolical traffic schemes would help us very much. Mind you, he was very good, and very prolific, when it came to writing memoranda.

I followed the great man into his office.

‘Did you have a pleasant Christmas, sir?’ I enquired, not that I cared, but such social niceties tended to put him off his stroke, albeit temporarily.

‘Oh, er, yes, thank you, Mr Brock. Very quiet, of course. Very quiet.’ The commander settled himself behind his desk, and spent a moment or two surveying his overflowing in-tray with the sort of relish with which a hungry man contemplates a hearty meal. ‘Be so good as to bring me up to date on this suspicious death you’re investigating at the airport, Mr Brock.’

He would never call a suspicious death a murder in case it turned out to be manslaughter or even suicide. A bit of a pedant, is our commander.

I summarized what we knew so far. ‘But I’m not too happy about Nicholas Hammond, the dead woman’s husband, sir,’ I continued, intent upon feeding in a few red herrings, and explained how he’d gone to New York without knowing what had happened to her. ‘Seems a strange sort of thing to do,’ I added.

‘Yes, very strange, very strange indeed, Mr Brock. Are you considering arresting him?’

‘Not at this stage, sir. In the meantime, I’m having enquiries made about his business. It’s in Mayfair.’

‘In Mayfair, eh?’ The commander was always impressed by prestigious addresses.

‘But there are others in the frame,’ I said.

‘In the frame?’ The commander contrived to look both irritated and mystified at the same time. He knew perfectly well what I meant, but he always affected ignorance whenever any of us used the jargon he abhorred.

‘Yes, sir, Bernard Bligh for one. He’s one of the directors of Kerry Trucking who was apparently annoyed that control of the company didn’t pass to him on Richard Lucas’s death. Lucas was Kerry Hammond’s first husband.’

‘Her
first
husband? You mean she was married before? This all seems rather complicated, Mr Brock.’

It seemed fairly plain to me that if she was now on her second husband, she’d been married before. ‘And then there’s a former driver called Gary Dixon who was prosecuted by customs for smuggling.’ I said, managing to confuse the commander even further, which, of course, was my intention.

‘He sounds like your principal suspect, then,’ said the chief confidently. In his simplistic view, anyone previously convicted of a crime must have committed the one currently under investigation.

‘I don’t think it’s as straightforward as that, sir,’ I said. ‘But time will tell.’

‘Yes, but don’t waste
too
much time, Mr Brock. I expect to have a result soon.’ Using his customary technique of implying dismissal, the commander put on his half moon spectacles, intended to lend him gravitas, and drew the first file from the top of his in tray. But then he paused and looked at me. ‘I should be inclined to detain this Nicholas Hammond and interrogate him thoroughly. From what you say, he sounds like a suspect.’

‘Thank you, sir. That’s a very good suggestion if I may say so. I’ll bear it in mind.’ But I had long ago come to the conclusion that the commander’s advice was best ignored.

‘Be so good as to keep me informed of your progress, Mr Brock.’

‘Of course, sir.’

Detective Inspector Ebdon had been busy over the weekend, and was waiting for me in the incident room.

‘Gary Dixon, guv.’

‘Have you found him, Kate?’

‘Not yet. I called at Dixon’s Hardacre Street address, and had a chat with his wife Sonia. She hasn’t seen him since just before Christmas, and she’s no idea where he is now.’

‘Guilty knowledge, guv,’ said Dave, but he always said that. He set down a tray bearing several cups of coffee that he’d made on the unauthorized machine we kept tucked away in a cupboard out of sight of the Commissioner’s ‘electricity police’. Every so often, a jobsworth would arrive in search of illegal coffee-making equipment. But he never had any luck; Dave was far too cunning for him.

‘Maybe,’ said Kate. ‘But I had a heart-to-heart with Sonia. Apparently Gary is a bit of a womanizer, and she thinks he might’ve gone off somewhere with a bird. I asked her to tell him we wanted to see him, if and when he comes back, and if that results in him doing a runner, she’ll give us a bell. But somehow, I don’t think we’ll hear anything.’

It was no more than I’d expected. ‘Better put him on the PNC, Kate.’

‘Already done, sir.’ Colin Wilberforce, now back from his Christmas break, glanced up from his desk.

‘I don’t suppose that’ll help much.’ said Kate. She had no greater faith in the Police National Computer as a method of tracking down criminals than I had. In my experience, wanted villains were often nicked in the most unlikely circumstances. Frequently by a traffic policeman doing a routine stop and asking embarrassing questions such as: ‘What’s your name, and where d’you live?’ Followed up by the crippler: ‘Got any ID?’

We’d been lucky enough to find Susan Penrose’s telephone number plumbed into Kerry Hammond’s mobile. Dave had done a subscriber check with the cellphone service provider and found that she lived at Barling Towers, Royal Dock Road, in that expensive area of east London which had once been a thriving dockland.

The barefooted girl who answered the door was wearing a full-length yellow kaftan. She had brown, cropped hair and her only make-up was a minimal amount of lipstick and delicately applied mascara. For a moment or two, she gazed pensively at us.

‘Can I help you?’