Gunrunner Read online

  ‘What time did you come on duty this morning?’

  ‘Seven o’clock.’

  ‘And at what time did you do your first patrol of this zone of the car park?’

  Shaw looked decidedly shifty. ‘Well, it must’ve been about, um . . .’

  ‘Mr Shaw,’ I said, ‘I don’t give a toss when you were supposed to have started patrolling, and I don’t care what company regulations you might’ve broken by not being where you should’ve been when you should’ve been. I’m not going to run off and tell your boss, so just answer the question.’

  ‘A couple of minutes before ten, guv’nor. You see, the lads in the control room, being as how it’s Christmas, had put on a bit of—’

  ‘Enough,’ said Dave. ‘Just answer the chief inspector’s questions, otherwise he could get very nasty. And I should know,’ he added. He was lying, of course. I hoped.

  ‘Just before ten, sir,’ said Shaw again.

  ‘And tell me exactly what you found, Mr Shaw,’ I said.

  ‘I spotted this car, and saw that there was someone in it. That’s against the regulations, you see. People are not allowed to—’ Shaw noticed my frown, and returned to the facts. ‘I tapped on the window, but the passenger didn’t move. So, I opened the door and this woman fell out, all covered in blood. It gave me a nasty turn, guv’nor, I can tell you.’

  ‘Must’ve been very upsetting for you,’ murmured Dave.

  ‘What did you do then?’ I asked.

  ‘I got in touch with the control room, and they sent for the police.’

  ‘Are you able to tell me when this car came into this section of the car park?’ I asked.

  ‘Already done, guv,’ said Dave. ‘The car entered at exactly three minutes to seven yesterday evening.’

  ‘That means that the body had probably been here since then,’ I said.

  ‘Looks like it, guv.’

  ‘But surely there must’ve been other patrols through the night.’ I found it difficult to believe that the body had lain undiscovered for that long.

  ‘It was Christmas Eve, guv,’ said Dave, assuming that to be a sufficient explanation for neglect of duty on the part of the car park authority. ‘But Miss Ebdon is checking that now. She went straight to their office; she’ll be up shortly.’

  Kate Ebdon is one of my detective inspectors. A flame-haired Australian, she came to us on promotion from the Flying Squad where, it is rumoured, she gave pleasure to a number of its officers. Male ones, of course. She usually dresses in tight-fitting jeans and a man’s white shirt, something that upsets our beloved commander. When Kate first arrived in HSCC, he suggested that I speak to her about her mode of dress, not wishing to do so himself. I pointed out that such an approach might be interpreted as sexism or even racism, Kate being Australian. As the commander is keen on diversity, that was the last I heard about it.

  One of Kate’s great assets is that she is a tenacious interrogator. I was already beginning to feel sorry for those officials who had failed to notice, until this morning, the presence of a dead body in an expensive car that, ostensibly, was under their protection.

  ‘Do we know the identity of the dead woman, Dave?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, guv. She had credit cards, a driver’s licence and a passport on her. She’s Kerry Hammond and according to her driver’s licence she lives at Elite Drive, Barnes. The next of kin is shown in her passport as Nicholas Hammond, same address, presumably her husband. Oh, and she had a mobile phone with her.’

  ‘Any cash?

  ‘Yeah, about two hundred pounds sterling and five hundred US dollars.’

  ‘It doesn’t look as though robbery was the motive, then,’ I said, stating the obvious. ‘Does the car belong to her?’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Dave. ‘It’s registered to a company called Kerry Trucking Limited with offices at Scarman Street, Chiswick.’

  ‘I wonder if that’s a coincidence, it being Kerry Trucking and that the victim’s first name is Kerry.’

  ‘No doubt we shall find out in due course, sir.’ From Dave’s tone, I gathered that he didn’t think it mattered; he always called me ‘sir’ when he thought I’d made a fatuous remark. And he always called me ‘sir’ in the presence of members of the public.

  ‘Better put a stop on this Nicholas Hammond with the Border Agency, Dave, in case he’s abroad and returns in the next day or two.’

  ‘Already done, guv,’ said Dave. ‘Although there’s nothing to suggest that he’s gone anywhere.’

  ‘I’ve checked the deceased’s fingerprints, Mr Brock,’ said Linda, emerging from the tent. ‘No record.’

  ‘That was quick,’ I said.

  ‘One of the miracles of modern science, Mr Brock.’ Linda held up a small machine that looked to me like a mobile phone. ‘But it’ll take longer to examine the vehicle to see if anyone else has left their dabs.’ And with that, she disappeared behind the screens once more.

  Dave and I turned as Kate Ebdon approached the tapes, but the uniformed inspector with the clipboard stopped her.

  ‘This zone’s closed, miss,’ said the inspector. ‘Do you have a car here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kate, ‘that one.’ She pointed to the traffic car that was still parked outside the tapes. ‘DI Ebdon, HSCC.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, love,’ said the inspector, not realizing that he was making a grievous mistake.

  ‘I’m not accustomed to being called “love” by some uniformed idiot who’s just standing around making a bloody nuisance of himself, mate,’ she snapped back, and ducked under the tape. Aussies one – Brits nil.

  ‘Good afternoon, Kate,’ I said.

  ‘Merry Christmas, guv.’ Kate flicked open her pocketbook. ‘They’re a load of bloody drongos down in that control room,’ she said.

  ‘Go on.’ By now I was beginning to get the hang of the Australian language, and gathered that the members of staff to whom she referred were idiots.

  ‘The short answer is that no one did a patrol after about three o’clock yesterday afternoon. They were doubtless getting a few tinnies under their belts on account of it being Christmas. I told them I’d be taking it up with higher authority, just for the hell of it. That should’ve poured cold water on their festivities. I left Sheila Armitage to take statements, for what use they’ll be.’

  ‘Thanks, Kate, and perhaps you’d get someone to take a statement from Shaw over there, he of the pasty countenance.’

  ‘Incidentally, guv, there’s a bloke from our Press Bureau just turned up. He’s in a lather about how much to release to the press.’

  This was always a problem. I didn’t want anything going out until we’d at least made some preliminary enquiries. We frequently needed the help of the media, but it had to be carefully controlled to avoid telling the murderer something that might help him to evade capture.

  ‘Tell him I don’t want anything released at this stage, Kate. And while you’re about it, have a word with the car park staff and emphasize that they’re to say nothing to the press.’

  ‘Don’t worry, guv, I’ll persuade them that it wouldn’t be in their best interest to speak to anyone.’

  Once again, I felt a certain sympathy for the occupants of the control room; Kate in a persuasive mood can be terrifyingly intimidating.

  ‘We’ve completed our preliminary search of the car, Mr Brock,’ said Linda Mitchell, as she emerged once again from the tent. ‘I’ve arranged for a low-loader to take it to Lambeth, and then we can start on a scientific examination, including any stray fingerprints and anything else we can find.’

  ‘What about the contents of the vehicle, Linda?’ I asked.

  ‘There was a handbag, a cabin carry-on bag, a faux fur coat, matching hat, and a pair of gloves. And a suitcase in the boot. She was wearing an expensive necklace, earrings, and wedding and engagement rings. I’ve bagged those. In the glove box I found a packet of sweets and an unpaid parking ticket.’

  ‘All right to move the body, guv?’ asked Detectiv
e Sergeant ‘Shiner’ Wright. Wright was the laboratory liaison officer whose task was to accompany the body in order to preserve continuity of evidence.

  ‘Yes, go ahead, Shiner.’ I looked around for a spare officer. ‘John,’ I said, setting eyes on DC Appleby, ‘go with Linda to the lab, and list everything she unpacks.’ I spotted a number of closed-circuit television cameras around the parking area. ‘Seize the tapes from those, Dave, and then we can get back to Curtis Green, via Henry Mortlock’s carvery, of course.’

  Curtis Green is where we have our offices. Once a part of New Scotland Yard, it’s in a turning off Whitehall, and very few people – including the police – know where it is. Right now, I was wishing I’d never set eyes on the place. All I could think of was Gail and her parents tucking into a sumptuous Christmas dinner.

  TWO

  We went straight from the airport to Horseferry Road, only to find that Henry Mortlock had already completed his post-mortem examination of Kerry Hammond.

  ‘Nothing much to add to what I told you at the scene, Harry,’ said Mortlock, as he peeled off his latex gloves and tossed them into the medical waste bin. ‘Death resulted from five stab wounds, one of which penetrated the heart. The entry wounds were made by a broad-bladed weapon, at least four centimetres in width, I should think, and she’d been dead for between ten and sixteen hours. Best I can do.’

  ‘Thanks, Henry. Enjoy the rest of your Christmas.’

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ muttered Mortlock. ‘The damned house is overflowing with relatives.’

  It was almost seven o’clock by the time we arrived at Curtis Green. The only redeeming feature of being there on Christmas Day was that there was no chance of our beloved commander showing up and faffing about with bits of paper. The commander loves paper. But today, I tried to visualize him wearing a paper hat and enjoying Christmas dinner with his harridan of a wife, a photograph of whom adorns his desk. Presumably it’s been placed there as an awful warning to anyone contemplating matrimony.

  ‘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 gl
ass 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.