Gunrunner (23 page)

‘Was that the woman called Natasha Ellis you introduced us to the last time we were here?’

‘Yes, it was,’ said Hammond promptly. ‘She was going to stay the night on that occasion, but I suppose she took fright when you turned up. She probably thought it unseemly for anyone to suspect that she was sleeping with a recently widowed man. She’s very discreet. Well, she has to be; she’s married as well.’

Hammond didn’t seem to care about revealing details of his sexual adventures or those of Kerry, but I was not altogether surprised by his openness. Over the years, I’d found that people will happily discuss their sex life with a complete stranger while jealously guarding it from friends and family.

‘We’ve uncovered evidence that your late wife was involved in gunrunning, Mr Hammond,’ said Kate, speaking for the first time.

‘
What?
’ Hammond’s jaw dropped. ‘You must be joking, surely?’ Kate’s statement, and the direct way in which she had made it, had clearly shocked him, and he passed a hand across his brow. The gesture was almost theatrical. ‘How the hell could she have been doing that under my very nose?’ As the spectre of terrorism entered his mind, I imagined that he was concerned that his wife had been engaged in something that was justifiably within the purview of his organization. Therefore, as a Security Service officer, he should have known about it. And secondly, he was probably contemplating the embarrassment it would cause him once that fact became known to his superiors. ‘I suppose there’s no doubt.’

‘None whatsoever,’ continued Kate, with more confidence than I felt. ‘Furthermore, she involved Charlie Pollard in her enterprise.’

‘Mind you, I’m beginning to think that Miss Pollard was unaware of this whole business,’ I commented. That was true. The more I looked into the matter of the smuggled firearms, the more I was inclined to the view that Charlie Pollard had known nothing about the real reason for Kerry persuading her to hire the self-storage facility in Bethnal Green.

That Kerry Hammond had persuaded Charlie to rent the lock-up was an example of her deviousness. No doubt Kerry’s thinking was that if the wheel came off – and it had – it would deflect suspicion from her. And perhaps, in her innocence, Charlie had just complied with Kerry’s request without enquiring too deeply into what was, by any standards, a somewhat specious reason for wanting a store room miles away in Bethnal Green.

‘D’you think that someone involved in this gunrunning was responsible for Kerry’s murder, Chief Inspector?’ The question was put wearily, and Hammond suddenly sounded very depressed at this latest revelation about his dead wife.

‘It’s possible,’ I said cautiously. I was not about to tell him that several people were in custody in connection with the matter. I had yet to rule out the possibility that Hammond himself had had some hand in his wife’s murder, despite his apparent indifference to her infidelity. Neither was I convinced that Natasha Ellis was the attractive woman from his department that he’d mentioned; MI5 officers tend to be secretive even when there’s no need. Furthermore, it would not be first time that an outraged husband, upon discovering that his wife was a lesbian, had read into it some inadequacy on his part, and had murdered her; either from disgust or jealousy.

‘I think it’s more than possible,’ said Hammond. ‘In fact, I’d go so far as to suggest it’s highly likely. From what little I know of gunrunning, there are some very unsavoury people involved in it.’

‘Have you met Bernard Bligh?’ I asked. ‘I know you’ve spoken to him on the phone, but have ever met him in person?’

‘Yes, at one of the firm’s Christmas parties.’

That, at least, confirmed what Bligh had told me, and I was beginning to suspect that he genuinely knew nothing about the firearms racket in which Kerry had been involved. But that still didn’t solve the question of the wine importation; there was something odd about that business, but right now it took second place in our investigation. Nevertheless, it prompted a thought.

‘Did you know that Kerry was running a wine importation business, Mr Hammond?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Hammond raised his eyebrows at this further revelation.

‘I don’t suppose Bligh’s too happy about Kerry leaving you the company in her will, either,’ I said.

‘He needn’t worry,’ said Hammond. ‘I’m going to hand it over to him as soon as we can arrange for the solicitor to prepare the paperwork. What the hell would I do with a haulage firm? Apart from which, the Service doesn’t allow me to have private interests. It’s a case of choosing between the two and, quite frankly, I don’t fancy giving up my job to learn a new trade at my stage of life.’

And with that view, I was inclined to agree. Hammond certainly wasn’t cut out for the hurly-burly of the commercial world. Kate and I stood up. ‘Thank you for your candour, Mr Hammond,’ I said. ‘Sadly, it doesn’t get us very much further forward in our search for your wife’s killer.’ I paused at the front door. ‘There is one other thing. We have your late wife’s address book.’

‘Oh? Where did you get that from?’

‘It was in her luggage when we found her body at the airport,’ I said. I had no intention of telling Hammond that I’d taken it from a desk drawer in his house on Christmas Day; that, after all, had been an illegal seizure. ‘Do you know if she had another address book?’

‘Yes, she did, as a matter of fact. I found it when I was going through our safe the other day. We keep things like passports and birth certificates in it. D’you think it’ll be of interest?’

‘I’d certainly like to examine it, Mr Hammond,’ I said. ‘It’s just possible that it might contain the name of your wife’s murderer.’

‘Good grief,’ exclaimed Hammond, ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’ He left the room, returning minutes later with a leather-bound Filofax. ‘There you are, Chief Inspector,’ he said, handing it to me.

On Monday morning, I set Dave Poole and Colin Wilberforce the task of discovering everything they could about Charlie Pollard and Erica Foster. I’d been particularly interested in Hammond’s statement that Foster, who was now living with Pollard, had once been in a relationship with Kerry Hammond.

‘Kate, go out to the Dixons’ address at Hardacre Street, pick up Sonia Dixon and bring her to Westminster magistrates’ court. I want her to take a look at Michael Roberts.’

‘What about her children, guv?’

‘Take one of the women DCs. She can look after them until Sonia gets back.’

‘That’ll please Sheila,’ said Kate, having decided to give DC Armitage the babysitting job.

‘Good practice for the future,’ I said, and received a frown that implied I’d been guilty of sexism.

That done, I rushed off to court with Roberts and Hogan, and secured an eight-day lay-down, as we detectives describe a remand in custody to the Crown Court.

As Roberts and Hogan were returned to the cells to await transport to Brixton, Kate Ebdon arrived with Sonia Dixon.

We escorted her to the cells beneath the court and I asked the gaoler to open the wicket of Roberts’s cell.

‘See if you recognize that man, Sonia,’ I said.

Sonia Dixon needed only a brief glance. ‘That’s the man who called at the house looking for Gary,’ she said, without hesitation.

‘I thought as much,’ I said. ‘Take Mrs Dixon back to Ealing, Kate.’

‘Is that it?’ asked Sonia.

‘Yes, and thanks for your assistance.’

Len Driscoll had sent a couple of detective officers to the Broders Road warehouse with a view to discovering the secrets of Kerry Hammond’s wine importing business. The two officers were Detective Sergeant Lizanne Carpenter and Detective Constable John Appleby. Lizanne, a recent arrival in HSCC from Hackney, was proving to be a very competent addition to the unit.

It was not the most popular of duties entailing, as it did, waiting around for something to happen. Something that, in their experience, might never occur.

Hunched in parkas, Carpenter and Appleby had spent most of the morning exchanging gossip about the Job, and drinking coffee out of vacuum flasks. But at about midday, just when they were starting to wonder what to do about lunch, the door of the warehouse opened.

The two men who entered were in their fifties, dressed casually in sweaters and jeans, and heavy topcoats.

‘Good morning,’ said Lizanne Carpenter, emerging from the small office at the end of the warehouse.

‘Oh, hello, love,’ said one of the men. ‘We’ve come for three cases of Chablis and three of claret. We phoned the order in a couple of days ago.’

‘Did you indeed?’ said Lizanne, having now been joined by John Appleby. ‘We’re police officers. Who are you?’

‘Er, I’m Tony Manning and this is Ted Piper. But what are you doing here?’ They each looked a little surprised and somewhat apprehensive to find the police there.

‘Investigating a suspected case of fraud involving this wine importer,’ said Lizanne. ‘What’s your involvement?’

‘We’ve got nothing to do with any fraud,’ said Manning. ‘We’ve always got our wine from here.’

‘Who was your contact?’

‘A Mrs Hammond.’

‘And did you ever meet Mrs Hammond?’

‘No, it was always done on the phone, and usually there was a bloke here to hand over what we’d ordered.’

‘Any idea of his name?’ asked Lizanne.

‘No, sorry.’

‘What’s your line of business, Mr Manning?’ asked Appleby, joining in the conversation.

Manning glanced at Piper before answering. ‘We’re civil servants, but we run the bar at a bowls club down near Bromley. In our spare time.’

‘What did you expect to pay for today’s order, Mr Manning?’

‘I can’t tell you the exact amount, but it works out to about three quid a bottle.’

‘Is it all right to pick up our consignment, then?’ asked Piper, speaking for the first time.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Lizanne. ‘The stock has been seized as possible evidence, and as Mrs Hammond is now dead, I don’t suppose the business will continue.’

‘Dead? But what do we do for our wine now?’

‘You could try a supermarket,’ suggested Appleby. ‘However, until customs decide whether any offences have been committed the stock of this warehouse stays where it is.’

Manning turned to Piper. ‘Well, that’s that, I suppose, Ted. Sorry to have bothered you, miss,’ he said to Lizanne.

By the time I got back to Curtis Green, I found that Dave Poole and Colin Wilberforce had been busy garnering a few routine facts. A search at the General Register Office revealed that Charlie Pollard had been born thirty-five years ago in Southampton, the daughter of Charles Pollard, at the time a second officer in the merchant navy, and his wife Clarissa. Erica Foster, born in Bromley, was twenty-six, her parents being Frederick Foster, a musician, and Mary. All of which was useless in terms of furthering our enquiries.

‘I did a check with the Department of Education, sir,’ said Colin Wilberforce, ‘but they don’t have any record of a Charlie Pollard. That means that she’s not teaching in a state school or in the private sector, providing it’s a private school that has to register.’ As usual, he was making a thorough job of tying up the loose ends. ‘As for Erica Foster, she’s not a member of any of the recognized professional bodies for accountants, but that doesn’t mean very much; anyone can call themselves an accountant.’

‘Pollard and Foster are shown on the electoral roll as the only occupants of the Argus Road address, guv,’ said Dave.

‘Fascinating,’ I said, ‘but if Charlie Pollard’s not a teacher, where does her money come from?’

‘Not from the Department for Work and Pensions,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve checked. She doesn’t receive any sort of benefit. Neither does Erica Foster.’

‘Dig deeper,’ I said, mildly irritated that Charlie Pollard appeared to have been deceiving us. ‘I suppose she could be living on whatever Erica Foster brings in. Any information on where Erica works, Colin?’

‘Not yet, sir,’ said Wilberforce. ‘But we do know that Charlie Pollard owns a new car. At least, it’s only a year old.’ He turned his computer screen so that I could see the DVLA entry.

‘A Ford Mondeo, eh? They don’t come cheap,’ I said. ‘She must garage it somewhere else; it wasn’t outside the house on either of the occasions we were there. Although she did mention owning a car; she thought that’s what we’d called about. Put the details on the PNC, Colin. You never know what they might turn up.’

Further discussion on the matter in hand was interrupted by a telephone call from
Capitaine
Henri Deshayes.

‘I’m at the Gare du Nord, ’Arry, on my way to see you. I have some information about your smuggling investigation.’ There was a pause. ‘And I ’ave Gabrielle with me also.’

‘How did you swing that, Henry?’ I asked.

‘Swing it? Swing what? What is this swinging, ’Arry?’

‘How did you arrange it with your boss?’ Although Henri spoke fluent English, I realized that he was not necessarily conversant with the more obscure vernacular.

‘
D’accord!
’ exclaimed Henri. ‘The information is not for passing over the telephone, ’Arry.
Comprenez
?’ I could visualize him tapping the side of his nose with a forefinger.

‘I understand. What time are you arriving at St Pancras?’

‘About ’alf past twelve your time.’

‘Where are you staying?’ I asked. Henri knew that neither Gail nor I had sufficient room to accommodate visitors.

‘We ’ave booked an ’otel in London. It is all arranged. I was due a few days leave, so I thought it would be a good idea to combine business with pleasure.’

‘I’ll have someone there to meet you, Henry, and take you and Gabrielle to your hotel.’

‘There is no need, ’Arry. We can get a taxi, but perhaps you and Gail will have dinner with us this evening.’ And Henri gave us the address of his hotel.

My thoughts of a pleasant dinner with Henri Deshayes and his lovely wife were interrupted by Kate Ebdon.

‘I’ve been through the address book that we got from Nick Hammond, guv, but there were only a couple of names that might be of interest. There were mobile phone numbers alongside the names, and I did a subscriber check.’

‘Anyone we know, Kate?’

‘You could say that. Frankie Saunders and Danny Elliott, and both have got form for robbery.’