Gunrunner (14 page)

‘Yes, he did, and I know what that was all about. A business trip to Paris my arse! A few days’ jolly at the firm’s expense, and she and Marlow have been at it like alley cats ever since. And he wasn’t the only one.’

‘Oh?’

‘Dixon was another.’ Bligh sat down behind Kerry’s desk, and invited us to seat ourselves in the club armchairs. ‘She decided to go on what she called a fact-finding trip across France in Dixon’s truck.’

‘And did she find out any facts?’ asked Dave.

‘Only the facts of life,’ said Bligh, with a grim smile. ‘But I reckon she knew more than enough about those already.’

‘Was there anyone else that she knew rather well?’ I asked.

‘I suppose you mean that she slept with?’ Bligh laughed. ‘No, but I wouldn’t mind betting there were a few.’

That made three paramours that we knew about so far: the missing Rodriguez, alias Roberts, owner of the aptly-named Spanish Fly; Bryce Marlow; and the absent Gary Dixon, whose affair with Kerry had been confirmed by Nicholas Hammond. A picture of a voracious sexual adventuress had emerged, and if there were even more lovers, our investigation would become increasingly widespread. And a damned sight more complicated.

TEN

B
ack at the office, I gave Charlie Flynn, the ex-Fraud Squad sergeant, the task of examining Kerry Hammond’s bank statements.

‘Those are her statements for the past two years, Charlie. They were the ones we got from her husband, but she didn’t keep any in her safe at the office. See what you can make of them.’

‘Anything in particular, guv?’ asked Flynn.

‘Any large unexplained movements of funds,’ I said. ‘In fact, anything that might lead us to Kerry’s killer.’ The task I’d set him was one with wide parameters, but he knew his job.

First thing on Monday morning, Charlie Flynn produced a breakdown of Kerry Hammond’s financial affairs, at least, those that could be deduced from the past two years’ statements. But it was enough to set us on another path.

‘For a start, guv’nor, we’re dealing with two separate accounts here. One set are for the household bills which Kerry paid for their Barnes property: gas, electricity, council tax, that sort of thing, so we can forget those. The second account, which is kept at a different bank from the first one, is much more revealing.

‘I’m beginning to think that Kerry Hammond was a devious woman, Charlie.’

‘It looks that way, guv,’ said Flynn. ‘On the nineteenth of October she wrote a cheque for five thousand pounds payable to Lewes Crown Court.’

‘So she covered Gary Dixon’s fine for bootlegging,’ I surmised.

‘What’s more, she paid a thousand pounds a month into his personal bank account.’

‘Well, there’s a surprise,’ said Dave, ‘especially as Dixon’s wife said he didn’t have a bank account.’

‘But now it gets really interesting,’ continued Flynn. ‘There were transfers of substantial sums at intervals over the last two years; I won’t bother you with actual amounts, guv, but I’ve prepared a breakdown of the figures so that you can look at them later. They comprised payments made to a French wine merchant called Marcel Lebrun, who appears to be based somewhere in the Marseille area. The last payment was in August of last year, five months ago. Then there were monies coming in over the last two years and occurring at intervals of about six weeks after each of the payments out. In all, those receipts totalled close to three-quarters of a million pounds and were payable to a set-up called Kerry Wine Importers. But there is no indication where that money came from.’

‘Did the statements show any payments of income tax, Charlie?’ asked Dave, who had a passionate interest in people who didn’t pay tax. Probably because he had no option; his tax was deducted from his pay.

‘Not that I could see, Dave,’ said Flynn, ‘but tax on legitimate wine importation is paid either at the excise duty point – normally when the wine is delivered for consumption – but occasional importers must pay the duty to Revenue and Customs before the wine is shifted.’

‘What do we know about this wine importing firm, Charlie?’ I asked.

‘Nothing, guv. I interrogated the Companies House computer at Cardiff, and there’s no trace of it. We don’t even know if it’s an occasional importer.’

‘Or if it imports wine at all,’ said Dave. ‘Might be a front for something else. Perhaps Bernard Bligh can shed some light on it, guv,’ he suggested.

‘It’s possible he knows nothing about it,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘It looks as though Kerry was running a wine business on the side, and probably using the firm’s trucks to bring it in. And that could be why she kept all her statements at home. We know that Bligh had access to her safe.’

‘But it doesn’t make sense,’ said Flynn. ‘There are no payments for use of the transport, and that would be a tax-deductible expense. And there’s no reason why she shouldn’t have set up a company in her own name. It would have nothing to do with Bligh or Kerry Trucking.’

‘I wonder if it was a load like that which got Dixon weighed off at Lewes Crown Court,’ said Dave. ‘The whole arrangement could’ve been illegal.’

‘And Bligh might just have been a part of it, Dave,’ I said, although I had to admit that we were straying into unfamiliar areas. ‘I think we’ll speak to him again. I’m pretty sure he knows more than he’s told us. But this time I think we’ll need a warrant, just in case he doesn’t feel like cooperating.

‘Tomorrow morning, then?’ queried Dave.

‘Yes, and we’ll take Tom Challis along as well,’ I said. DS Challis’s Stolen Vehicle Squad experience meant that he knew a thing or two about lorries.

‘I think that Kerry Wines might have been set up for money laundering, guv,’ suggested Flynn.

‘I’d already come to that conclusion, Charlie,’ I said.

It was possible that we might need to examine personal and financial records at Kerry Trucking. This, of course, complicated matters; the law dictated that I was obliged to apply for the warrant before a circuit judge. Having spent most of Tuesday morning preparing my ‘information’ and taking it to the Crown Court in Newington Causeway, it was almost one o’clock by the time I eventually obtained my search warrant.

‘We’ll grab a bite to eat,’ I said, glancing at Dave and Tom Challis, ‘and then we’ll hit Kerry Trucking.’

We adjourned to a nearby Costas coffee shop. Dave bought three cups of latte and I gathered up a few snacks that would have to do for lunch. We found a table in the crowded seating area and settled down.

‘It’s going to take us a while to search a haulage yard, guv,’ said Tom Challis.

‘That depends, Tom. If Bligh is cooperative, we might find what we’re looking for straight away.’

‘What are we looking for, guv?’

‘We haven’t the vaguest idea, Charlie,’ said Dave.

Bernard Bligh looked extremely apprehensive when the three of us confronted him on the loading bay.

‘I have a warrant to search these premises, Mr Bligh,’ I said, ‘but it’ll be quicker if we have your cooperation.’

‘What the hell’s this all about?’ demanded Bligh aggressively.

‘It’s about a firm called Kerry Wine Importers,’ I said, thinking that that would do for a start.

‘Never heard of them. What do they do, then?’

‘Import wine, presumably,’ suggested Dave, with a hint of sarcasm.

‘Well, I don’t know anything about that. It must’ve been one of Kerry’s sidelines.’

‘Did she have many sidelines?’ I asked.

‘None that I know of.’ Bligh looked furtive, and I doubted that he was telling the truth. On the other hand, it was a common enough reaction to the arrival of police armed with a search warrant, even on the part of those who were completely blameless. ‘But there was no telling with Kerry.’

‘Does the name Marcel Lebrun mean anything to you?’ I asked.

‘No. Sounds like a Frenchman.’

‘I’ve no doubt he is,’ I said, ‘given that he appears to be a wine merchant based in the Marseille area.’

‘Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help you,’ said Bligh.

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘we’re going to have a look round. Tell me, Mr Bligh, do any of your trucks make a regular run to Marseille?’

‘That one over there,’ said Bligh, pointing to a Scania articulated box lorry parked on the opposite side of the yard. ‘Why? What’s so special about Marseille?’

‘Because, Mr Bligh, Marseille is where Marcel Lebrun carries on business as a vintner.’ I was uncertain whether Bligh was dense or just pretending to be. On balance, I thought he was pretending to be. ‘Do any of your drivers usually do that run?’

‘A new guy called Sharpe, Billy Sharpe. Well, he’s comparatively new.’

‘How new?’

‘Sharpe’s been with us for about three months now. Kerry took him on after I sacked Dixon.’

‘And before that, did Dixon usually do the Marseille run, Mr Bligh?’

‘Yes, he did. Look, what is all this?’ Bligh was beginning to get tetchy at our persistent probing.

Ignoring Bligh’s question, I turned to DS Challis. ‘Give that vehicle the once-over, Tom, and see if there’s anything in it that attracts your interest.’

‘If there is, I want to know about it,’ put in Bligh. ‘If Sharpe’s up to something, he’ll be out on his ear.’

Challis took a pair of navy blue overalls from his holdall and slipped them on.

‘What are you hoping to find?’ asked Bligh nervously. ‘All our trucks are legit. I told you that I’d sacked Dixon when he was done for bootlegging booze through Dover.’

‘So you did,’ I said, choosing not to tell him that Kerry Hammond was almost certain to have paid Dixon’s fine.

Descending from the loading bay, Tom Challis crossed to the Scania that Bligh had pointed out. He crawled under the box trailer and spent a few minutes examining it. Then he opened the rear doors and climbed inside the cargo area.

Standing beside the two of us, Bligh fidgeted with his ballpoint pen, clicking it repeatedly. He was clearly worrying about something.

A couple of minutes later, Challis reappeared on the tailboard. ‘Looks to be all right, guv,’ he shouted, ‘but perhaps you’d like to give it the once-over.’

I suspected that Challis had discovered something interesting that he didn’t want Bligh to know about. Dave and I crossed the yard and clambered aboard the trailer.

‘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.