Gunrunner (6 page)

‘Which one?’ asked Dave.

‘Cambridge. She got her degree in economics and then went on to do a postgraduate course in business management. She took over the company when Dick died. It’s a haulage company in West London somewhere . . .’ Diana King paused. ‘Where is it, Charles?’

‘Chiswick,’ said King.

‘What sort of woman was your daughter?’ I asked, hoping to learn a little more of her background and lifestyle. In fact, anything that might help us to find her killer.

Charles King seemed to weigh the question carefully before answering. ‘Pretty much what you’d expect a girl in her early thirties to be, I suppose,’ he said eventually. ‘Her first marriage was a very happy one, and it was an absolute tragedy when Dick died. I don’t think she ever really recovered from it. She seemed to change after that happened, got harder somehow. Whether it was that or the fact that she’d taken over the company and become a hard-headed businesswoman, I couldn’t really tell.’

‘I suppose the business took up most of her time,’ I suggested.

‘Oh no, not at all. She immersed herself in good works for a while; charities and that sort of thing. But there was a period when she became a good-time girl, always at parties and generally living the high life. To be honest, we were quite worried about her. But a couple of years after Dick’s death, she married Nicholas and seemed to settle down again. But she was never quite the same as she was before Dick died.’

‘When we arrived, you asked what Kerry had been up to now, Mr King. What prompted that question?’

King leaned across and took a cigarette from a box on a nearby occasional table. ‘I’m sorry, do either of you smoke?’

‘No thanks,’ I said, although both of us did.

‘I thought you’d come to tell us she’d been arrested in a drugs raid, or something of the sort,’ King began. ‘As I said just now, just after Dick was killed she became a bit wild, drinking to excess and generally behaving as though she couldn’t’ve cared less what happened to her. For a time we feared she might’ve been on drugs, and she was certainly close to becoming an alcoholic. But then she met Nick. Despite what my wife said just now, I think that Nick was a sobering influence on her in more ways than one. But it always concerned us that she might’ve reverted to the bizarre behaviour of what we called her “in-between years”.’

‘Did she have any particular friends, Mr King?’ asked Dave.

‘There was one girl she was especially close to,’ said Diana King. ‘Susan Gough and Kerry were great friends. They’d met at university, but I do know that Susan got married shortly after coming down.’

‘Do you know her married name?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ King glanced at his wife. ‘Diana?’

‘Yes, it’s Penrose.’

‘D’you have any idea where the Penroses live?’ Dave took out his pocketbook.

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Mrs King, ‘but I do know that Susan’s husband owns a couple of car showrooms, if that’s any help.’

‘There is one other question I have to ask, Mr King.’ I said.

‘I think you were going to ask if she was seeing any other men, Chief Inspector. I don’t know, but, to be candid, I wouldn’t be surprised.’

‘I certainly wouldn’t have blamed her,’ said Diana King, displaying a frankness that was rare in the mother of a married woman.

‘We’ll keep you informed, Mr King,’ I said, as Dave and I stood up.

‘Thank you, that would be most kind,’ said King. ‘I’ll show you out.’

We’d almost reached the sitting room door when Diana King finally broke down and began to sob uncontrollably. King shot me a sideways glance and shrugged. He seemed embarrassed by his wife’s distress.

Back at the factory, as we CID officers call our office, Linda Mitchell’s preliminary report had arrived. I read through it quickly, and then gathered the team round me in the incident room.

‘It seems,’ I began, putting the report aside, ‘that a number of fingerprints were found in Kerry Hammond’s Jag. Apart from Kerry’s own, the only identifiable set goes out to a Gary Dixon who’s got a bit of form. He’s probably the same Gary Dixon who telephoned her a few times.’

‘Has he got any previous for violence, guv?’ asked Dave.

‘Not for violence, no. The most recent conviction was for his run-in with customs at Dover when he got done for smuggling a lorry-load of hooch that he’d brought in from France. That, of course, bears out what Bernard Bligh told us. It seems that customs carried out a full-scale investigation and found that Dixon had been supplying a number of pubs with duty-free spirits over a fairly long period. So he’d obviously been at it for some time before he got caught. Customs had a field day and prosecuted about six or seven publicans and, of course, Dixon himself. But prior to that bit of nonsense, he had a few convictions for dishonesty, namely theft from previous employers, and one for aggravated burglary. He got nine months for that a couple of years ago.’

‘Did he get sent down for the smuggling, guv?’ Dave obviously thought that Dixon should be in prison.

‘No, he was fined five thousand pounds, and it was paid.’

‘Where on earth did a lorry driver get five grand from?’ asked Dave, a look of disbelief on his face.

‘That’s something we’ll need to find out,’ I said. ‘Maybe Kerry paid it.’

‘But how the hell did he get a job as a driver with Kerry Trucking when he’d got that sort of form, guv?’ asked Tom Challis, the ex-Stolen Car Squad sergeant, who took an interest in anything on wheels.

‘They probably didn’t take up references,’ I said, ‘but we’ll ask Bernard Bligh when next we see him.’

‘When d’you propose to do that?’ asked Dave.

‘Tomorrow, I think, Dave, but this evening we’ll pay a visit to the Spanish Fly, and see what
Señor
Rodriguez has to say for himself.’ I glanced around until I spotted DC Chance. ‘You’re a Spanish speaker, aren’t you, Nicola?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good, then you’d better come with us in case his English is a bit shaky.’

The Spanish Fly nightclub occupied large premises in Mayfair. Over the door there was a depiction of a blister beetle.

‘I wonder why he called it the Spanish Fly, Dave.’

‘Probably because of the misconception that Spanish fly is supposed to be an aphrodisiac, guv,’ suggested Dave. ‘Might be good for business.’

We approached the door and Dave pressed the bell.

It was opened by a shaven-headed individual, who appeared to be too large to fit into his badly cut dinner jacket.

‘Are you members?’ he enquired politely, glancing suspiciously at the three of us, and fingering his earring.

‘I don’t think we’d want to be,’ said Dave, producing his warrant card.

‘Ah! Is there a problem I can help you with, sir?’ The doorman looked at me. He clearly didn’t fancy engaging in a prolonged conversation with Dave.

‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘We’ve come to see Mr Rodriguez.’

‘Just step inside, lady and gents, and I’ll see if he’s available.’ The shaven-headed one turned to a house telephone and made a call. Within minutes of his replacing the receiver a young girl appeared. Attired in a furry bikini, she had long legs encased in the inevitable fishnet tights, and wore abnormally high-heeled shoes. ‘This is Carmel,’ said the bouncer, ‘and she’ll take you to Mr Rodriguez’ office.’

We followed Carmel through the gloomy area of the nightclub. It was crowded to capacity with small candlelit tables, each of which was occupied, and upon which champagne seemed to outweigh any other form of beverage. Some were being served by girls wearing similar outfits to that worn by Carmel. On a dance floor not much bigger than a pocket handkerchief, a number of couples were shuffling around to the accompaniment of a three-piece combo dressed in Spanish costumes. At the far end was a bar, its clients, male and female, perched on high stools.

Carmel eventually showed us into an office where we were greeted by a man of indefinable age. He wore a silky sort of dinner jacket, and had jet-black hair plastered closely to his skull. Sideburns adorned his face and terminated in a point almost at his mouth. There was no doubt that he was Spanish, at least in appearance.

‘Mr Rodriguez?’ I asked.

‘That is I,
señor
. I understand that you are from the police. I can assure you,
señor
, that I run a respectable club here. We have many distinguished patrons, including some lords and ladies. There is even a member of royalty who comes here occasionally, but I have to pretend I do not know who that person is. Also, I have many inspections from your Vice Squad, and they are completely satisfied.’ Unsurprisingly, the entire monologue was spoken with a pronounced Spanish accent.

‘Bully for you,’ said Dave. ‘How well d’you know Kerry Hammond?’

‘Please take a seat,
señors
and
señorita
,’ said Rodriguez with a flourish of his hand. ‘May I offer you a drink?’ His other hand hovered over a bottle of whisky on his desk.

I got the impression that Rodriguez was playing for time. ‘No thank you,’ I said, ‘but perhaps you’d answer my sergeant’s question.’

‘Ah,
Señora
Hammond. A beautiful lady,’ exclaimed Rodriguez. ‘She comes here many times, and with her husband, also, occasionally. Yes, I know her. Of course I do.’

‘When did you last have contact with Mrs Hammond, Mr Rodriguez?’ I used the word ‘contact’ deliberately; Rodriguez had made several phone calls to Kerry Hammond’s mobile over the preceding few days, far more than was warranted by someone whose relationship was ostensibly one of club owner and patroness.

‘I think she and her husband was here perhaps a week ago.’

‘That wasn’t the question,’ said Dave. ‘My chief inspector asked when you last had
contact
with Mrs Hammond.’

‘Ah, you mean on the telephone perhaps,
señor
?’

‘Yes, I mean on the telephone perhaps,’ said Dave slowly, as though dealing with an idiot.

Rodriguez glanced nervously at Nicola, obviously wondering why she was there, but he didn’t have to wait much longer to find out.

Nicola smiled at Rodriguez, and then rattled off a couple of long sentences in Spanish. I have no idea whether it was perfect Spanish, but it was certainly fluent.

Rodriguez was taken aback; in fact, the term ‘gobsmacked’ sprang to mind. ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ he exclaimed in tones that obviously originated closer to Brixton than to Barcelona. ‘I don’t speak any Spanish, love. It’s all a bit of an act I put on for the benefit of the punters.’

‘Let’s start again, then,’ said Dave. ‘And we’ll begin with your name. Your real name.’

‘It’s Michael Roberts,’ said the club owner miserably.

‘I’ll put my question to you again, Mr Roberts,’ I said. ‘When did you last have contact with Mrs Hammond?’

‘We talked on the phone a few times over the days leading up to Christmas,’ said Roberts, all pretence at a Spanish accent now gone.

‘Why? I imagine it had nothing to do with her desire to book a table, or your need to drum up trade.’

‘We’d been seeing each other, on and off,’ said Roberts. ‘Private like.’

‘You mean you were shafting her,’ said Dave brutally.

Roberts nodded his head slowly. ‘Yeah,’ he said, glancing at Nicola again. ‘Sorry, miss.’

‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Roberts,’ said Nicola. ‘I’m a police officer, and I’ve heard it all before, and seen it all before.’

‘But why all these questions?’ asked Roberts.

‘Because Mrs Hammond is dead,’ I said. ‘She was murdered.’

‘Oh Gawd blimey!’ exclaimed Roberts. ‘When did this come off?’

I ignored his question, and countered with one of my own. ‘Where were you on Christmas Eve, Mr Roberts?’

‘Is that when it happened?’

‘Just answer the question,’ said Nicola. ‘Or would you like it in Spanish?’ she added sarcastically.

‘I was here, up to midnight.’ Roberts glanced at Nicola again; he obviously didn’t know what to make of her.

‘And can anyone confirm that?’ I asked.

‘Yes, my bar manager, Fernando.’

‘And what’s
his
real name?’ asked Dave.

‘Fred Goddard,’ said Roberts, with a sigh.

‘And where can we find him?’

‘He’s got an office behind the bar. I’ll show you the way.’

Roberts led us out of his office, and through the main area of the club. He was about to open the door of a room behind the bar when Dave put a hand on Roberts’s arm. ‘We’ll take it from here.’

‘Thank you for your assistance,’ I said, and waited until Roberts was on his way back to his office.

Dave pushed open the door of the bar manager’s office. ‘Are you Fred Goddard,
amigo
, otherwise known as Fernando?’

‘Yes, but who the hell are you?’

‘Police,’ said Dave, ‘and my boss, Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard, has a question to ask you.’

‘What d’you want to know?’ Goddard stood up, and gazed apprehensively at the three of us.

The telephone rang, but Dave placed his hand on the instrument. ‘Leave it,’ he said.

I allowed Dave to carry on; he was skilled at extracting information.

‘
Señor
Rodriguez, otherwise known as Mike Roberts, reckoned he was definitely
not
here at any time on Christmas Eve. Is that right?’ Although we could have found it ourselves, Dave had cleverly permitted Roberts to escort us to the bar manager’s office, thus preventing him from telephoning Fred, alias Fernando, and fixing himself an alibi. The phone call that Dave had just prevented Goddard from answering was probably from Roberts. Then, he’d cunningly reversed what Roberts had said about having been in the club all Christmas Eve. ‘And you’d better make it the truth, Fred, because this is a murder investigation, and anyone lying to the police would be in serious shtook. Like copping a few years in the nick.’

‘Yeah, it’s right what he said, guv’nor. He definitely wasn’t here,’ agreed Goddard readily.

‘Good,’ said Dave. ‘That’s all. For the time being.’ Dave always liked to leave a threat hanging in the air, particularly when dealing with those he thought suspicious. And there were precious few people he didn’t regard as suspicious.

We left Goddard to get on with his bar managing, and wondered what would happen when Roberts asked him about his interview with us. I guessed it would not be a happy exchange.