Gunrunner Page 12

  ‘What’ve you found, Tom?’

  ‘It’s the oldest trick in the book, guv.’ Challis led us to the front of the cargo area. ‘I’ll put money on this partition being false,’ he said, rapping on the bulkhead with his knuckles.

  ‘It doesn’t sound hollow, Tom.’

  ‘It’s probably lined with some sort of soundproofing,’ said Challis. ‘Whoever installed this knew what he was doing.’

  It was obviously a very professional job and I imagined that the work had been done by a skilled craftsman. The panel, covering the entire width and height of the trailer, was securely bolted in place. To the casual observer, it would appear to be an integral part of the unit.

  ‘Can you be sure, Tom?’ I asked.

  ‘Not without taking a few measurements, guv, and then dismantling it, but I’d put money on it.’ Challis took a compact laser meter from his overalls pocket, and measured the inside of the truck. He jumped down and swung the offside door round so that it was at right angles to the body of the truck, away from Bligh’s view. ‘Hold that door, Dave.’ He walked to the front of the cargo area and measured the outside. ‘As I thought, guv, the exterior is sixty centimetres longer than the interior.’

  ‘What’s that in English, Tom?’ asked Dave.

  ‘About two feet,’ said Challis.

  ‘It’s obviously used for smuggling,’ said Dave, ‘but smuggling what?’

  ‘I doubt if it’s alcohol,’ I said, ‘not if Kerry was running a legitimate wine importing business.’

  ‘If she was, why did Dixon get captured bringing in a load of booze?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Perhaps, he was doing a bit of moonlighting on the side,’ said Challis. ‘Don’t forget that the customs guys followed it up, and prosecuted a few publicans for receiving smuggled alcohol.’

  ‘Would you be able to take that panel down, Tom?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t have the right tools with me, guv,’ said Challis. ‘In fact, I don’t have any.’

  ‘Traffic,’ said Dave.

  ‘What about traffic?’ Once again, I had a problem with Dave’s verbal shorthand.

  ‘We could send for the Traffic Division chaps and get them to open it up for us, sir.’ Dave spoke carefully and precisely.

  ‘Good idea. Do it. But it’s now called a Traffic Operational Command Unit, Dave.’ I always enjoyed those rare occasions when I was able to correct him.

  Dave spent a few minutes on his mobile, and ten minutes later, a traffic unit arrived in the yard.

  ‘PC Sam Buxton, guv. Luckily we were in the area when we got your call. I understand you’ve got a problem,’ he said, as he sauntered across to join the three of us. ‘And this is Jim White, my other half.’

  I explained to the two traffic PCs what I wanted them to do, and why it was necessary for us to see what, if anything, was behind the panel in the Scania. ‘D’you reckon you can manage it?’ I asked Buxton.

  ‘Piece of cake, guv. Fortunately, we’ve got the right tools with us, seeing as how we’re accident investigators.’ Buxton paused, and put a hand to his mouth in a charade of contrition. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have said that,’ he added. ‘The powers that be now insist that accidents are called collisions. Although how one vehicle turning over because it took a bend too fast can be called a collision beats me.’

  The boy superintendents of the funny names and total confusion squad had clearly been at work again.

  ‘Well, get to it,’ I said, laughing. ‘And wear gloves in case there are any fingerprints that we can identify.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ said Buxton, raising his eyebrows.

  Buxton and White quickly went to work on the panel that had aroused Tom Challis’s suspicions. As the last bolt was removed they gently lowered the false bulkhead to the ground. As Challis had suggested, the back was lined with a thick material than looked like polystyrene, doubtless to prevent it sounding hollow when tapped. In the space that had been shielded by the panel there were two metal boxes, each measuring about a foot high, a foot deep, and four feet long. They were bolted to the floor of the truck.

  Tom Challis donned a pair of protective gloves and opened the boxes one by one. Each was empty. ‘You don’t have to be a firearms expert to identify the odour of gun oil, guv,’ he said.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Dave. ‘Kerry was a gunrunner.’

  ‘And those boxes are large enough to have contained rifles as well as handguns,’ volunteered Challis.

  ‘All we’ve got to do now is find whoever she was supplying,’ I said hopelessly, as the enormity of the task struck me. ‘And any one of them could’ve topped her.’

  ‘If she was the supplier,’ said Dave. ‘She might not have known anything about it. It’s good fun, this coppering lark, isn’t it?’

  I turned to the two traffic officers. ‘Can you put that all back, lads, so it looks as though it hasn’t been removed?’

  ‘No probs, guv.’ Buxton and White began the work of replacing the panel.

  ‘Can you read a tachograph, Sam?’ I asked, as he put the last bolt in place.

  Buxton looked mildly offended. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, using the honorific in much the same way as Dave did when I’d posed a fatuous question.

  ‘Perhaps you’d check the back tachograph records for this vehicle when we get back to the office, Sam. But if there’s anything untoward don’t show it in front of the guy up there.’

  ‘Won’t take a minute, guv,’ said Buxton.

  ‘Thanks for your help with the panel, lads,’ I said. ‘Let DS Poole know where he can find you so that he can take statements from you at a later date.’

  ‘All in a day’s work, guv,’ said Buxton, and gave Dave the phone number and details of his and White’s hours of duty.

  We returned to the loading bay where Bligh had been standing and watching while we’d carried out our examination of the Scania.

  ‘Find anything?’ he asked, attempting an air of nonchalance.

  ‘No, nothing,’ I said.

  ‘Not surprised,’ said Bligh. ‘As I said before, we run a legit operation here.’ He glanced at Buxton, identified as a traffic officer by his white-topped cap. ‘What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Routine check for roadworthiness,’ I said, ‘and he’d like to see the tachograph records and driver’s log for the last two months.’

  ‘What the hell for?’ Bligh was becoming rattled.

  ‘Routine,’ I said, using an excuse beloved of television detectives, but rarely used by real ones.

  We followed Bligh into his office. It took ten minutes for him to unearth the appropriate tachograph records, and hand them to Buxton.

  ‘When is that vehicle next scheduled to go to Marseille, Mr Bligh?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know offhand.’

  ‘You must have details here.’

  ‘Yes, I should have. D’you want me to look for them?’

  ‘Yes, please. At the same time, perhaps you’d find out the last time it went to Marseille.’

  ‘I’ll have to check on that, too,’ said Bligh, picking up a mountain of manifests, and thumbing through them. ‘The last time it went to Marseille was Wednesday the second of December,’ he said eventually, handing me the relevant document.

  ‘And when is it next due to do that run?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’ Bligh glanced at a calendar on the wall. ‘That’s the eighth.’

  I sensed a certain reluctance in his responses. ‘What for?’ I asked.

  ‘To pick up a load, of course, something that Kerry booked before she died. I don’t know what it is, though.’

  ‘You must have details of it here somewhere, Mr Bligh.’

  After a quick search through his paperwork, Bligh handed me another document. ‘See for yourself.’

  ‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘To collect a consignment from Marseille. But you don’t you know what it is?’

  ‘First I knew of it, and I don’t know what the load is,’ said Bligh again, but he was unconvincing.


  ‘When is this vehicle due back here?’

  ‘This coming Friday, the tenth.’

  ‘I see the driver on the December trip was this Billy Sharpe you mentioned as Dixon’s replacement,’ I said. ‘Is he here today?’

  ‘Yes, he’s about the yard somewhere.’

  ‘Good. I want a word with him.’

  Bligh opened a window and shouted to a passing loader to find Sharpe.

  Five minutes later, a man of about thirty entered the office. He was of medium height, had a thin moustache and wore an earring in his left ear.

  ‘You wanted me, guv’nor?’ said the man.

  ‘This is Billy Sharpe, Mr Brock,’ said Bligh, and faced his driver. ‘The police want a word with you, Billy.’

  ‘I ain’t done nothing wrong, guv’nor,’ said Sharpe, as he turned towards me.

  It was the typical reaction of a petty criminal, and I had little doubt that Sharpe would have a bit of form. I wondered if references for him had been taken up. Dave wasn’t impressed either, but for a different reason; I noticed that he’d frowned at Sharpe’s use of a double negative.

  ‘What did you pick up, the last time you went to Marseille, Billy?’ I asked.

  ‘A consignment from a geezer called Lebrun, guv’nor.’

  ‘Where exactly in Marseille?’

  ‘A little place called St-Circe. It’s just outside Marseille.’

  ‘What did the load consist of?’

  ‘No idea, guv’nor.’

  ‘Who loaded it? Was it you?’

  ‘No, the drivers never do the loading. The blokes at Lebrun’s depot did it,’ said Sharpe. ‘The boss there told me to buzz off and get a meal, and that it’d all be done and dusted by the time I got back. All I do is a quick glance at the load to make sure it doesn’t shift, because I’m the bloke who drives the bloody thing.’

  ‘That’s all right, then,’ I said. ‘Have a safe trip tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Cheers, guv.’

  ‘I told you there was nothing wrong, Inspector,’ said Bligh, once Sharpe had left the office. ‘That lad’s as straight as a die.’

  ‘My guv’nor takes grave exception to being called “inspector”,’ observed Dave mildly. ‘He’s a chief inspector, and that earns him about eight grand a year more than an inspector.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Bligh, and lapsed into silence.

  Buxton gave Bligh the tachograph record of the Scania and the driver’s log. ‘All in order, guv’nor,’ he said.

  ‘Of course it is,’ snapped Bligh. ‘Is that all?’ he queried sarcastically. ‘Or is there something else you want to poke your noses into?’

  ‘No, that’s all,’ I said, and we left Bligh to get on with running his business.

  ‘What about the tachograph, Sam?’ I asked, as we walked back across the yard.

  ‘On the December run, guv, the tacho showed a break of about an hour, thirty minutes before he finished the run. It wasn’t a statutory break, and his log doesn’t show the reason for the stop. In fact, the log doesn’t show a stop at all.’

  ‘I suppose there’s no way of knowing where that stop was made.’

  Buxton shook his head. ‘Fraid not, guv.’

  ‘Well, once again, thanks for your help.’

  ‘What do we do now, guv?’ asked Dave, as the traffic car drove out of the yard. ‘Shift this lot to Lambeth so that Linda Mitchell can give it the once-over?’

  ‘No, Dave, we run with it, and we monitor it.’

  ‘D’you mean we follow it across France?’ There was enthusiasm in Dave’s voice at the prospect of a trip across the Channel.

  ‘No, Dave, we don’t. I’ll arrange for the French police to follow it. They’ll be as interested as we are if they can nick an arms dealer on their patch. And the customs lads at Dover will be keen to turn it over when it gets back.’

  I was far from satisfied that Bligh was innocent in this Marseille operation, but I was pinning my hopes on the outcome of a combined operation that would have to include the French police and the United Kingdom Border Agency.

  ELEVEN

  It was almost seven o’clock by the time we returned to Curtis Green, and it would be necessary for me to move at lightning speed if I was to arrange a combined operation with the UK Border Agency and the French police.

  The rule book suggests working through either Interpol or that European Union organization called Europol. But I knew from experience that involving the former would take forever and a day, and the latter I dismissed as more of a sop to the concept of European cooperation than a reality.

  I intended, therefore, to rely on what we call the ‘old boy net’ in the person of my good friend Henri Deshayes, an inspecteur in the Police Judiciaire in Paris.

  Over the years, Henri and I had been involved in several cross-Channel enquiries, and Gail and I had dined with Henri and his delightful wife Gabrielle on several occasions in both London and Paris. But it was during our visits to Paris that Henri and I were at our most fraught. As a former dancer with the famous Folies-Bergères, Gabrielle had much in common with Gail, which was fine when they were discussing the theatre, but when they started talking about fashion, an obsession with them both, Henri and I knew that worse was to come. There is nothing more soul destroying for men than following two stylish women around the haute couture establishments of Paris, particularly when they have empty credit cards.

  However, it wouldn’t come to that on this occasion; there just wasn’t the time for a trip to the French capital. Nor, for that matter, was there a valid reason.

  ‘Gavin,’ I said to Detective Sergeant Creasey, the night-duty incident room manager, ‘see if you can reach Inspecteur Deshayes at the quai des Orfèvres in Paris, and tell them it’s urgent.’

  It took Creasey about twenty minutes before he was eventually connected to an English-speaking detective, only to be told that ‘M’sieur Deshayes left the office for ’ome, about fifteen minutes ago and, by the way, we don’t ’ave inspecteurs any more. M’sieur Deshayes is now called a capitaine. It ’as all been changed.’

  It appeared that the Paris police also had a funny names and total confusion squad. I flicked open my diary, found Henri’s home telephone number and promptly rang it.

  ‘’Ello?’ A female voice answered the phone.

  ‘Gabrielle?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘Gabrielle, it’s Harry Brock.’

  ‘’Ello, ’Arry, ’ow are you?’ said Gabrielle in her delightfully sexy French accent. ‘And ’ow is Gail?’

  ‘We’re both very well, thank you. And you?’

  ‘Yes, we are also well.’

  ‘Is your man there?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but my ’usband is,’ said Gabrielle impishly. ‘You want a word?’

  That little chat having taken its usual course, there was a short delay and Henri came on the line.

  ‘Bonjour, ’Arry.’

  ‘Bonjour yourself, Henry.’ I always called him Henry to compensate for him omitting the H from my name. It was unfair really; I knew that the French always had trouble with aspirates.

  There followed the usual enquiries about our respective health and that of Gail, followed by the customary badinage that forms a part of any conversation between policemen, even of differing nationalities. I then explained briefly about the murder of Kerry Hammond and the connection with Lebrun, the wine merchant in St-Circe near Marseille, who had possibly played some part in Kerry’s death. Finally, I told him about the vehicle in which we’d found the secret compartment, and our suspicion that it was used for gunrunning.

  ‘So, Henry, can you put me in touch with one of your people in the Marseille area?’ I said in conclusion.

  ‘I’ll speak to them myself, ’Arry. That way you won’t ’ave difficulties with the language, non?’

  ‘Thanks, Henry, that’s great.’

  ‘OK, now give me the exact details.’

  I gave Henri the number of the truck, the name of the drive
r and told him that it was due to leave the United Kingdom tomorrow.

  However, since telling Dave that we would run with it, and that we’d ask the Border Agency at Dover to search the vehicle on its return, I’d had second thoughts.

  ‘I’d rather that the vehicle was not intercepted, Henry, because I’d like to know where its load is going when it gets back here,’ I said. ‘I suspect that there’s an arms dealer somewhere in the UK, probably London, and I’d like to lay hands on him. At the moment, it looks very much as though Lebrun supplies the weapons, but that’s mere speculation.’

  ‘D’accord!’ said Henri. ‘I will ensure that the douaniers do not search it at Calais, but our people will want to raid this place after your man has left with the goods.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘but it would be helpful if any arrests were kept from the press until we’d located our man.’

  ‘That can be arranged, ’Arry. Leave it with me. I’ll have our people pick up the vehicle at Calais and see where it goes. What time will it arrive there?’

  ‘About midday, Henry.’

  ‘D’accord!’ said Henri again, ‘but you will let me know what happens at your end, n’est pas?’

  ‘Of course, Henry, and perhaps you’ll let me know what your people find at Lebrun’s place. But I understand that this St-Circe is about seven hundred miles from Calais.’ I’d looked it up on a map, and I thought that the distance might present the French police with some difficulties.

  ‘Pas de probléme, ’Arry. We ’ave plenty of policemen and lots of shiny new police cars.’

  I next spoke to John Fielding, a senior customs investigator. John and I had had several outings together over the years, and I’d kept a note of his home telephone number.

  I explained about the murder of Kerry Hammond, and went on to tell John about our discovery, at Kerry Trucking’s haulage yard, of the vehicle with the secret compartment and our suspicion that it was being used for gunrunning.

  ‘I suppose there’s always a risk that your guys at Dover might search the vehicle on the off chance when it arrives, John, but I’d rather—’

  ‘Harry,’ said John, cutting me off, ‘there are over three thousand goods vehicles arriving at Dover from abroad every day. It’s as much as our officers can do to search vehicles about which they have some intelligence, so the chances of a random search picking up your guy are non-existent. But, like you, we’d want to know where this stuff is going. Give me details of the vehicle and I’ll make absolutely sure our chaps give it a clear run.’