Gunrunner (13 page)

‘Did Mrs Hammond speak French?’ asked Dave.

‘She spoke it fluently,’ said Marlow, ‘which was just as well because I don’t understand a word of it.’

‘And then you returned to the hotel . . . after your cosy little dinner, did you?’

‘Yes, and I thought that was the end of the evening. But at about half past eleven, Kerry came through the communicating door into my room without knocking. I hadn’t locked it from my side, you see. In fact, I didn’t know you could. I’d never stayed anywhere like that before, but I found out later that there was a lock on each side of the door.’

I wondered if Bryce Marlow really was an innocent abroad, or whether he was pretending to be. ‘Were you asleep when she came in?’ I asked.

‘No, I was reading. But I was absolutely amazed because she wasn’t wearing anything. I couldn’t believe that my boss would do such a thing.’

‘Did she speak?’

‘No, she didn’t say a word; she just got into bed with me.’

‘How long were the pair of you in Paris, Mr Marlow?’

‘Four days.’

‘What did you do during that time?’ I glanced at Dave and thought I detected a smirk on his face.

‘We spent each day sightseeing around the city. She took me to see the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, and one evening we had dinner on the Seine on one of the
bâteaux mouches
; I think that’s what they call them. And we did a fair amount of shopping. Kerry bought a lot of clothes for herself, and a couple of expensive shirts and two ties for me.’

‘Did she pay all the bills for the hotel and the meals?’

‘Yes, she paid for everything. Well, actually she said the company was paying, but that was the same thing really, wasn’t it?’

‘And presumably you and Mrs Hammond slept together from then on.’

‘Yes, we did. And then each morning, she’d go back into her room and untidy her bed so that it looked as though she’d slept in it.’

‘I wonder why she bothered. The French are quite accustomed to that sort of thing. In fact, it’s almost a national sport,’ said Dave, in an aside. ‘And I suppose you each had a double bed.’

‘Yes. Kerry said she’d particularly asked for each of us to have a double bed because they’re more comfortable. She said that some French beds are shorter than English ones, but I didn’t notice any difference.’

I was far from convinced by Marlow’s account of what was supposed to have happened. He was twenty-four years of age, for God’s sake, and I very much doubted that he was the inexperienced youth he was purporting to be. I thought it just as likely that the events he’d described had occurred the other way round: that Marlow had gone into Kerry Hammond’s room on the off-chance of her being willing, and found to his delight that she was. I certainly didn’t believe his story of not knowing that hotel communicating doors could be locked from both sides. On the other hand, her insistence on double beds seemed to indicate Kerry had done a bit of what we in the police call forward planning.

‘Did this relationship continue after you returned to England?’ I asked.

‘Yes. It became quite a regular thing after that. I usually went to her house in Barnes when her husband was away. He was away quite often.’

‘And this affair lasted until Mrs Hammond was murdered, did it?’

Marlow nodded sadly. ‘Yes, it did.’

‘D’you think that Mr Hammond knew that you had become his wife’s lover?’

‘God, I hope not.’

I think that Hammond probably did know, but none of that mattered a damn unless Marlow had murdered Kerry. ‘Where were you on Christmas Eve, Mr Marlow? This Christmas Eve just gone.’

‘I was at the company’s party in Chiswick.’

‘From when until when?’

Marlow gave the impression of considering the question carefully. ‘I suppose I got there about a quarter past eight. I didn’t stay long because I don’t like leaving my mother alone, especially at Christmas, not since my father died a couple of years ago. But Mum was quite adamant that I should go.’

‘What time did you get back home?’ I asked.

‘It must’ve been about ten. It’s only a five minute walk from here, and I had my mobile with me in case Mum wanted me.’

‘Where were you before going to the party?’

‘Here, of course. I’d finished work at midday on Christmas Eve, and I came straight home and had tea with Mum.’

‘And she can vouch for that, can she?’

‘Certainly. D’you want me to call her?’

‘That won’t be necessary.’ I was sure that Mrs Marlow would confirm her son’s story, whether it was true or not. That was always the problem with alibis provided by relatives.

‘What’s going to happen to you now, Bryce?’ asked Dave. ‘As you were Mrs Hammond’s secretary, there won’t be a job for you any more, will there?’

‘I’m hoping they’ll find me something,’ said Marlow. ‘I’m thinking of trying for a heavy goods vehicle driver’s licence. I rather fancy driving one of those Volvo artics across Europe.’

‘Do you have a driving licence, then?’ Dave asked.

‘Oh yes, but only for a car.’

‘And do you own a car?’

‘Yes, it’s that old VW outside.’

We thanked Mrs Marlow for the tea and left.

Dave took a note of the VW’s registration mark before we drove out of Cumber Road. ‘Do we keep Marlow on the list, guv?’ he asked.

‘He could’ve done it, Dave, despite claiming he was at home at the relevant time. We know he was at the party, but we only have his word for when he got there and when he left. Yvonne the barmaid won’t be much help, either. Bryce admits to owning a car, and he would have had plenty of time to get to Heathrow and then go on to the party. Or return to it.’

It was now nearing eight o’clock, and I decided that it was time for another talk with Michael Roberts, alias Miguel Rodriguez, dodgy proprietor of the Spanish Fly nightclub. I wanted to know where he was on the night of the murder, because sure as hell he hadn’t been where he’d said he was.

The bouncer recognized us immediately, but bouncers have an innate ability to remember policemen who call at the nightclub where they work.

‘He’s not here, guv’nor,’ said the bouncer, in reply to our query for Rodriguez.

‘Where is he, then?’ demanded Dave.

‘Haven’t a clue,’ said the bouncer, with a shrug of his steroid-developed shoulders.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Elliot.’ The bouncer seemed loath to admit it.

‘First name or last name?’ asked Dave.

‘First,’ said Elliot.

‘And your last name?’

‘Williams.’

‘When did you last see Mr Rodriguez, Elliot?’

‘A few days ago.’

‘How many days are a few days?’

‘Well, it’s, like, a few days.’

‘I should’ve been a dentist,’ muttered Dave.

‘What?’ Williams looked completely baffled by Dave’s throwaway remark.

‘Because getting information out of you is like pulling teeth, old son.’ Dave took a pace closer, invading the bouncer’s personal space. ‘Where is he, Elliott?’

Williams moved so that his back was against the wall. ‘I don’t know, guv’nor, really I don’t.’

‘Who’s running this place in Mr Rodriguez’ absence, then?’ I asked.

‘That’d be Fernando, the bar manager, sir. He’s, like, the maître d’, if you know what I mean.’

‘Good, now we’re getting somewhere,’ said Dave. ‘Is
he
here, then?’

‘Oh yeah,’ said Elliot. There was a pause. ‘Well, I think so. I’ll get Carmel to show you the way.’

‘Don’t bother,’ said Dave. ‘We know where he hides himself.’

We entered the main area of the club and were immediately approached by the man himself.

‘Good evening,
señors
. A table for two?’

‘No thanks, Fred,’ said Dave. ‘Just a word in your shell-like.’

‘Oh blimey, it’s you,’ said Goddard, alias Fernando, as he recognized us. He looked decidedly put out by our arrival.

‘Yes, it’s us,’ I said. ‘Where’s Mike Roberts, otherwise known to the punters as Miguel Rodriguez?’

‘I haven’t the foggiest. I haven’t seen him since last Friday.’

That was interesting. Last Friday was the day we called at the Spanish Fly and discovered, courtesy of Goddard himself, that Roberts had been absent from the club on the night Kerry Hammond was murdered. Despite Roberts claiming that he
had
been there.

‘Didn’t he say where he was going?’

‘No, not as such. He had a go at me for telling you he’d been adrift on Christmas Eve. He said that I’d got it wrong, and that I’d landed him in bother with the Old Bill.’

‘How did he know what you’d said?’

‘Well, he came down here after you’d gone, and asked me what I’d said. So I told him that he’d told you he wasn’t here, and that I’d agreed with you. Then he just took off. He said something about having some business to attend to.’

‘Have you got a phone number for him?’ asked Dave. ‘A mobile, for instance?’

‘No, but he never lets on what he’s up to. I dunno why I bother. Half the time I’m running this place by myself.’

‘It must be a hard life,’ commented Dave.

‘When he shows up, tell him I want to see him. And tell him I don’t want to come round here with a warrant.’ I tucked one of my cards into Goddard’s top pocket. ‘Because there’s no telling what I might find, is there, Fernando?’

We left a very despondent maître d’ mulling over the consequences of a police raid on the Spanish Fly.

‘I reckon
Señor
Fernando is thinking about a change of occupation, guv,’ said Dave, as we regained the comparatively fresh environment of the Mayfair streets.

‘I wonder why Roberts did a runner,’ I said.

‘It’s got to be down to him,’ said Dave.

‘Not necessarily, Dave. I reckon that
Señor
Rodriguez has his fingers in some other pies. Put him on the PNC when we get back to the factory.’

All in all, it had been an unproductive day. First we had Bryce Marlow spinning us a yarn about being taken advantage of by his boss, a tale I didn’t altogether believe, and then we found that Mike Roberts had done a runner. Just as Gary Dixon had done.

On Saturday morning, we returned yet again to Kerry Trucking’s Chiswick haulage yard. An odour of diesel fuel hung in the cold, crisp air.

‘Oh, so you’re here again.’ Bernard Bligh was standing on the loading platform with his hands in the pockets of a heavy parka jacket, and greeted us with a barely concealed expression of annoyance. ‘What is it this time?’ His eyes were everywhere, watching and checking. At a previous interview, he’d told us that he’d once been a heavy-goods driver himself, and I didn’t doubt that he knew all the tricks and all the scams that a driver could pull. Like fiddling the tachograph; like filling up the fuel tank of his own car and using the company credit card to pay for it; like picking up and delivering private loads and pocketing the cash, and a dozen others. I was convinced that not very much would get past Bernard Bligh, and he was keeping a careful watch to make sure it didn’t.

‘Mrs Hammond’s bank statements,’ I said. ‘Her husband told me that she kept copies here.’ I didn’t mention that we’d already obtained a set from Nicholas Hammond, and I was working on the possibility that she kept a different set in her office.

‘Aren’t you supposed to have a warrant for that sort of thing?’ said Bligh, at last turning to face me.

‘We can get one, if you insist,’ said Dave, and glanced searchingly around the yard, now busy with vehicles being loaded and unloaded. On the far side a crane was lowering a huge bulk container on to an articulated flatbed lorry, accompanied by shouted instructions to the crane driver. ‘Mind you, the warrant would have to be for a search of the entire premises, and that would mean closing down the business for a few hours.’

‘You’d better come into Kerry’s office,’ said Bligh churlishly, admitting defeat. ‘If they’re anywhere, they’ll be in her safe.’

Kerry Hammond’s enormous office, the only one in the building to have Venetian blinds and curtains, was considerably better appointed than Bligh’s own. Carpeted from wall to wall, it featured a huge desk placed strategically across one corner. On the desk were a state of the art computer and a telephone so complicated that I wouldn’t have known how to answer it, let alone make a call. Behind the desk was a high-backed, leather executive chair. A conference table with six chairs, and two club armchairs completed the picture of the successful businesswoman’s seat of power.

‘This is some office,’ I observed, looking around in admiration. It was far superior even to that enjoyed by our beloved commander.

‘Cost a bloody packet,’ muttered Bligh, as he began twirling the dial on a large security cabinet. ‘But that was Kerry; no expense spared when it came to her own comfort.’

‘Kerry gave you the combination to her safe, did she?’ Dave asked.

‘No, but she was foolish enough to use her date of birth for it,’ said Bligh, as he opened the door. ‘I like to keep my finger on the pulse, if you know what I mean.’

‘I imagine that Nick Hammond will be moving in here soon, then.’ Dave’s suggestion was deliberately meant to provoke Bligh, and it worked.

‘Don’t bloody talk to me about that waster,’ said Bligh, almost spitting the words. He continued to rummage about in the security cabinet, but eventually turned to me empty handed. ‘I can’t find any bank statements in here, Mr Brock. I don’t know why Hammond should’ve thought she kept them here. Perhaps she kept them on her computer at home.’

That was possibly true, but we’d already obtained a hard copy of the last two years’ statements from Hammond. There was clearly something a bit underhand going on.

‘What’ll happen to Bryce Marlow now?’ I asked. ‘He was Mrs Hammond’s secretary, I believe.’

‘Her toy boy more like,’ said Bligh dismissively. ‘He’ll be out on his ear as soon as I can get around to it. Between you and me, I can’t stand that poncey little twit.’

‘He told us he was hoping to become one of your drivers,’ I said. ‘Once he’d got his HGV licence.’

‘In his dreams,’ scoffed Bligh. ‘I wouldn’t even let him ride one of the firm’s box tricycles,’ he added derisively. ‘If we had any.’

‘I understand that he accompanied Mrs Hammond to Paris on one occasion, Mr Bligh.’