Gunrunner (9 page)

‘Mrs Penrose?’

‘Yes, I’m Susan Penrose. Who are you?’

A man appeared behind the woman. ‘What is it, Sue?’

‘We’re police officers,’ I said, producing my warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’

‘Oh, God, not another break-in, surely,’ said the man. ‘You’d better come in.’

The sitting room was vast, and a picture window, taking up most of one side, afforded the occupants a panoramic view of the River Thames. Adjacent to the window was a door that gave access to a balcony running the full width of the room.

‘I take it you’re Mr Penrose,’ I said, as the four of us sat down.

‘Yes, that’s me, old boy, I’m Dudley Penrose. So, one of my places has been broken into, has it? What’s been taken this time?’

Penrose was a smooth individual, probably pushing forty, and judging by the casual clothes he was wearing would have died rather than be seen in something from a high street chain. He was the sort of know-it-all who holds forth in the local chic gastropub about everything and anything. He would always know the chief man in any organization, and he’d been wherever you’d been, but more often. And even more often to places to which you’d never been.

‘If you’re talking about your car showrooms, Mr Penrose,’ I said, ‘the answer’s no. We’re here to ask Mrs Penrose a few questions about Kerry Hammond.’

‘Oh, what’s the dear girl been up to now?’ asked Penrose, still not taking the hint that I was talking to his wife.

‘She’s been murdered,’ I said flatly.

‘Oh no!’ Susan Penrose was visibly shocked. ‘When?’

‘Her body was discovered in her car on Christmas Day at Heathrow Airport,’ I said.

‘Was it the indigo blue Jaguar XJ?’ asked Penrose, taking a sudden interest in what I was saying.

‘It was, as a matter of fact. Why d’you ask?’

‘Only professional interest,’ said Penrose. ‘I supplied it to her or, technically speaking, to her company, Kerry Trucking.’

‘This is no time to talk about your damned business, Dud,’ snapped Penrose’s wife, tears running unchecked down her face. ‘Didn’t you hear what the chief inspector said? Kerry’s been murdered. It’s my best friend we’re talking about here, damn you.’

‘Sorry,’ mumbled Penrose. ‘Can I get you guys a drink?’

‘No thanks,’ I said.

‘Well, it was good of you to let us know.’ Penrose stood up. ‘I’ll show you out.’

‘We didn’t come here to deliver a death message,’ said Dave sharply. ‘If that had been necessary, which it wasn’t, we’d’ve sent a uniformed constable.’ He’d obviously taken a serious dislike to Dudley Penrose, but he probably disliked car dealers as a species.

‘Just sit down and shut up, Dud.’ Having delivered that rebuke to her husband, Susan Penrose turned to me. ‘You obviously want to know anything about Kerry that might help you find out who killed her.’ She took a tissue from a handy box and dabbed gently at her eyes, being careful to avoid smudging her mascara.

‘We know about her first husband’s death in a car accident,’ I began, ‘and we know about her second marriage. We have actually interviewed Mr Hammond, and Kerry’s parents, Mr and Mrs King.’

‘In that case, I doubt if there’s any more I can tell you,’ said Susan.

‘Mr King said that after the death of Kerry’s first husband, and before she remarried, two years later I understand, she became something of a good-time girl. I suspect that that might’ve been a euphemism for something more serious.’

‘She certainly went off the rails a bit,’ said Susan. ‘She was drinking far too much and associating with a lot of odd people that she met in nightclubs. She wasn’t too choosy about who she slept with, either.’

‘Was there anyone in particular?’ asked Dave.

‘Not that I know of. She spent a lot of time at a club called the Spanish Fly. In fact, I’ve an idea that she had a fling with the guy who owns it, a rather oily Spaniard called Miguel something.’

‘Yes, we know about him,’ I said, without revealing that he was British and otherwise known as Michael Roberts.

‘Then she met Nick Hammond and a couple of months later she was married to him.’ Susan Penrose looked pensive for a moment or two. ‘God knows why,’ she said. ‘He didn’t seem her type at all, but after that she shrugged off her frenetic lifestyle and appeared to settle down to playing with her lorries.’

‘D’you know where she met Nick?’ I asked.

‘Believe it or not, at a tennis club dance. She was mad keen on tennis for a while. It was one of the fads that she went through. Her “get fit” phase, I called it. I met Nick once, but he was a humdrum sort of a guy, a bit of a wimp. I think he was an estate agent. At the time, I asked her if she knew what she was doing in marrying him, but she was quite adamant. Frankly, I didn’t think it would last, even though it lasted for about five years. Between you and me, though, I don’t think that Kerry was averse to having the occasional fling.’ Susan paused, a sad expression on her face. ‘Not that she will any more,’ she added, giving her red-rimmed eyes a final dab.

On Tuesday morning, DS Flynn came into my office.

‘You wanted to know about Nicholas Hammond’s business in Mayfair, guv.’

‘Yes, Charlie?’

‘I was lucky enough to find an obliging lady who keeps a shop opposite Hammond’s place.’

‘How obliging?’ I asked.

‘I wasn’t that lucky; she was a grandmother,’ said Flynn, with a laugh. ‘I spun her some fanny about drug dealers, and she let me keep obo from an upstairs room. She even made me tea and sandwiches, and lent me a pair of binoculars.’

‘And what did you learn about Hammond and his business from this comfortable little observation post, Charlie?’

‘I took up the obo at about eight o’clock, and a guy I presumed to be Hammond turned up on foot about twenty minutes later. It was a plush sort of place, carpeted throughout. There were four or five expensive desks with computers on each of them. Hammond has got a couple of assistants, a man and a woman. But he doesn’t seem to do much in the way of business; not that that means much nowadays.’

‘I suppose that in this modern age a lot of house sales are conducted on the Internet, or on the phone,’ I suggested.

‘Could be,’ said Flynn. ‘But at about midday a couple of well-dressed but shifty-looking Arab types turned up who didn’t give the impression that they were interested in buying any property. They had a quick glance up and down the street before going in, and the minute they walked through the door, Hammond ushered them into a back room. They were there for about twenty minutes, and then they pushed off.’

‘I wonder what that was about,’ I said.

‘I was in two minds whether or not to follow them, guv, but I thought it was better to stay where I was. Anyway, apart from our two Arab friends, only a handful of seemingly bona fide clients walked through the door until he shut up shop at six o’clock. By the way, I had a casual glance at the property he’d got in the window. All expensive stuff, but not one of them was marked “sold”. I reckon he’s running a front for something. Surveillance might tell us more.’

‘It could be a sham, Charlie, although God knows for what, but it’d take a lot of manpower to put on round-the-clock observation. Whatever Hammond’s up to, I don’t think it’d have much to do with Kerry’s murder. We’ll have to wait and see,’ I said. ‘But in the meantime, I think I’ll have him into the nick and give him a good talking to.’

But that idea was thwarted almost immediately by a telephone call.

‘It’s the commander here, Mr Brock. Be so good as to step into my office.’

The commander’s office was two doors down the corridor, but he had to ring me. Alan Cleaver, the detective chief superintendent, would have strolled into my office, cadged a cup of illegal coffee and sat down for a chat.

‘You wanted me, sir?’

‘Close the door, Mr Brock.’ The commander drew a sheet of paper towards him, and glanced at it; he makes a note of everything. ‘I’ve just received a telephone call from the DAC in charge of Counter-Terrorist Command. He wishes to see you immediately, and you’re to go alone.’

‘Very good, sir,’ I said, wondering what the hell that was all about. I couldn’t think of any complaint against me that might’ve come from that quarter, although you never can tell.

‘And when you’ve seen him, you’re to come straight back here and report to me.’

I decided to walk. I could do with the fresh air and it would give me time to think. And at this time of year, there were few foreign tourists to stop me and ask inane questions. Even though I wasn’t wearing a policeman’s costume, I looked English.

I walked along Parliament Street, cut across Parliament Square, into Victoria Street and finally to New Scotland Yard.

Over forty years ago, the Metropolitan Police had been ousted from its headquarters on Victoria Embankment by parliamentarians who wanted the building for themselves. Consequently, the Yard was now housed in a glass and concrete pile in Broadway that possessed all the architectural appeal of a third world tenement block.

I’d not previously met the deputy assistant commissioner for counter-terrorism, but he turned out to be an affable fellow, and obviously a real detective.

‘DCI Brock from HSCC, sir. I understand you wanted to see me.’

‘Good morning, Mr Brock,’ said the DAC, waving me into a chair. ‘It’s Harry, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘This is David Simpson, Harry,’ said the DAC, indicating a man seated in an armchair. ‘He’s from the Security Service. And before we proceed, nothing you hear in this room must go any further. Is that clearly understood?’

‘Yes, sir.’ I shook hands with the man from MI5, but guessed that his name wasn’t really Simpson. Such shadowy characters never give their real names when dealing with ordinary mortals like me.

‘I understand that you have an interest in Nicholas Hammond, Mr Brock,’ said Simpson.

‘He’s a suspect in a murder enquiry,’ I said bluntly, even though I wasn’t sure that he was. ‘I’m investigating the death of his wife who was discovered in her—’

‘Yes, I know all about the case,’ said Simpson, holding up a hand, and glancing at the DAC. ‘I have to tell you that Mr Hammond is one of our officers.’

‘Bloody hell!’ I said.

The DAC laughed. ‘I thought that’d surprise you, Harry.’

‘Do you consider Nicholas Hammond to be a viable suspect, Mr Brock?’ asked Simpson.

‘One of several,’ I said, unwilling to offer Simpson any quarter.

‘I see.’ Simpson lapsed into silence for a moment or two. ‘I’m going to ask a favour of you, Mr Brock. Is it at all possible that you could avoid interviewing him at his Mayfair premises, or taking him to a police station? You see, it would quite possibly compromise a rather special operation in which he’s currently involved.’

‘Well, don’t leave it there, David,’ said the DAC. ‘You’re putting Mr Brock in a very difficult position and it’s only fair you tell him what he’s up against.’

It obviously went against all the principles of the Security Service for Simpson to say any more than he had to, but he eventually capitulated.

‘Of late, Nick Hammond has been cultivating a number of informants, mainly expatriate Iranians, and he’s also been in touch with our liaison in the United States.’

‘By which, I presume you mean the CIA, Mr Simpson,’ I said.

‘Er, yes, exactly.’ Simpson seemed mildly irritated that I’d seen through his euphemism. ‘He’s engaged in very important work.’

I told Simpson about the two shifty Arabian characters that Charlie Flynn had seen entering Hammond’s Mayfair estate agency.

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Simpson, clearly appalled, ‘d’you mean you’ve been keeping observation on the place.’

‘It’s standard practice,’ commented the DAC, hiding a smile, ‘and in all fairness, Mr Brock knew nothing of Hammond’s background until now.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said the unhappy Simpson. ‘But I’d deem it a great favour if you discontinued the observation.’

‘I’ve done so already,’ I said. ‘But my officers got the impression that Hammond’s business is a bit of a front.’ It was a comment that seemed to discomfit Simpson even further.

‘D’you think Hammond’s up for this topping, Harry?’ asked the DAC, clearly enjoying the difficulty in which Simpson found himself.

‘I don’t honestly know at this stage, sir. He didn’t seem too cut up about the death of his wife,
and
he went off to New York on Christmas Eve without waiting to find out what had happened to her. In fact, to the best of our knowledge she was already lying dead in one of the airport car parks.’

‘He had to go to New York, Mr Brock,’ put in Simpson. ‘There was no way he could not have gone. I’m sure you understand.’

‘Over Christmas?’ I said. ‘Another meeting with the American spooks at Langley, Virginia, I suppose.’ I now assumed that Hammond’s excuse of ‘closing a deal’ had nothing to do with buying and selling houses.

‘Quite so,’ muttered Simpson, who seemed unhappy that I was aware of the location of the CIA, despite it being widely publicized. But I got the impression that he was the sort of guy who’d lock a newspaper in his safe if MI5 was mentioned in its pages. And I noticed that he’d readily agreed that Hammond had met with the CIA, even though Langley, in Virginia, was at least three hundred miles from New York. But I didn’t suppose that Simpson’s circumspection affected my enquiry.

‘I think we’ve just made your job harder than it was already, Harry,’ said the DAC, ‘but if you come up against any insurmountable problems, let me know, and I’ll see what can be done. And if you get to the point where you intend charging Hammond with his wife’s murder, I’d be grateful if you’d let me know before you nick him. Not that his current employment will make any difference. He wouldn’t be the first MI5 officer to grip the dock rail at the Old Bailey.’ It was a throwaway line that caused Simpson to frown.

‘Of course, sir,’ I said. ‘Incidentally, I’ve learned that on at least a couple of occasions his wife injected some capital into this estate agency that Hammond’s running.’

‘That’s easily explained, Mr Brock,’ said Simpson smoothly. ‘It was all part of the cover, in case anyone looked into the background of his business. It would make it seem more genuine, you see.’