Gunrunner (19 page)

‘No, of course not,’ protested Roberts.

We’d got nothing of consequence out of Roberts, which is exactly what I’d expected to get. I sent for a PC and told him to put Roberts back in his nice warm cell.

‘Happy New Year, Mike,’ said Kate, as we stood up to leave.

I went looking for Dave Poole, and eventually found him in the CID office.

‘Anything on our other man, Dave?’ I asked.

‘I did a LiveScan followed by a LiveID on each of them, including Roberts, guv.’

‘What on earth are you talking about, Dave?’ I asked, completely mystified by Dave’s excursion into the wonderful world of police technology.

‘D’you remember the gizmo that Linda Mitchell used to check Kerry Hammond’s prints at Heathrow?’

‘Yes. What about it?’

‘Well, you just put the suspect’s fingers on something that looks like a mobile phone and bingo! You get a result within three minutes,
sir
.’

‘Very impressive, Dave.’ It didn’t escape my notice that he was calling me ‘sir’ again. ‘So, what did you learn from this wonderful gizmo?’

‘His name’s Patrick Hogan. Not only has he got form, but there’s a warrant out for him. The Flying Squad want him for an armed robbery in Hillingdon last year. Apparently he’s been lying low.’

‘Not that low,’ commented Kate. ‘But I know that toerag. I thought I recognized him when we nicked him. I got him sent down for a five-stretch about seven years ago. I’m looking forward to having another chat with him.’

Patrick Hogan had all the distinctive features of a typical villain: late thirties, shaven head, muscular, tattoos and the obligatory earring. And Kate’s years on the Flying Squad had taught her exactly how to deal with his type.

‘Still at it, then, Pat?’ Kate took a seat opposite Hogan, and smiled at him.

Recognition dawned on Hogan’s face. ‘Hello, Miss Ebdon. We can’t keep meeting like this, you know. People’ll start to talk.’

‘It was your choice to be here, Pat,’ said Kate, ‘and what’s more the Flying Squad’s got a brief out for you. Post office blagging up Hillingdon way.’

‘That was all a mistake, miss. I dunno anything about it and I weren’t never there.’

‘Case of mistaken identity, was it, Pat? Well, it’s something you’ll have to take up with the Sweeney. You should be all right, though; you know how compassionate the Squad can be. They’re very considerate when it comes to rectifying genuine mistakes.’

‘Yeah, thanks a bundle.’ Hogan did not look happy at the prospect of another encounter with the Heavy Mob, as the Flying Squad was known to the criminal fraternity.

‘Anyway, to get down to today’s agenda, Pat, and all the shooters we found at Cantard Street. Your mate Roberts said he knows nothing about them. He’s put it all down to you.’

‘
He’s done what?
’ Hogan could not disguise his outrage at such a blatant betrayal.

‘Oh yes, he reckons he knows nothing about the hardware. He claims he was only there to pick up some wine. It’s a sort of variation on “I was only here for the beer”.’

‘What bloody wine? There weren’t no wine there. That Roberts is a double-dealing miserable ratbag. What’s he going on about? It’s well down to him, miss, and no mistake. You can stand on me.’

‘It’s not looking good, Pat,’ said Kate, shaking her head sympathetically. ‘Perhaps you ought to consider your position, as politicians say when they’re in deep shtook.’

Hogan did indeed appear to consider his position. ‘What’s in it for me if I give you the SP, Miss Ebdon?’ he asked eventually. ‘I mean, can you make this Hillingdon blagging go away?’

Kate laughed. ‘You know I can’t make deals, Pat,’ she said, ‘but I could have a word with the Crown Prosecution Service if you come up with the goods about the firearms.’

‘All right, so I was tied up in it, but Roberts is the man who does the business. He’s the Mister Big, as you might say. He’s well at it.’

‘What, all on his own?’

‘Nah, course not.’

‘How about giving me a few names, then?’

‘I hope you’re going to make this worth my while, Miss Ebdon.’ At first, Hogan seemed reluctant to furnish the identity of any of Roberts’s fellow conspirators, but then he relented. ‘There was a couple of blokes there last night. In the warehouse, I mean, but I haven’t a clue who they was. As for the shooters, as far as I know Mike pushes ’em out to a geezer by the name of Pollard. Charlie Pollard.’

‘Where’s this Pollard’s drum?’ asked Kate.

‘Down Bethnal Green way, I think. But I dunno for sure.’

‘What’s he look like, this Charlie Pollard?’

‘Dunno, miss. I never clapped me peepers on him. Roberts says it’s safer to keep things separate, like. In fact, I only ever heard Charlie’s name mentioned the once, and I don’t think I was meant to hear it, neither.’

At least that was something, but Kate decided to leave it for the moment. Going on to a different tack, she asked, ‘What d’you know about a bird called Kerry Hammond, Pat?’

‘Yeah, I reckon she was tied up in it, an’ all. Leastways, Roberts let slip her name once, but I never met her neither. I think she was his fancy bit on the side.’

‘So, you don’t know for sure that she’s involved.’

‘Well, when I ’fronted Roberts about her, he done a bit of verbal tap dancing. Said something about her being a bird he bought wine from. But a nod’s as good as a wink.’ Hogan tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘Know what I mean?’

‘Did Roberts ever involve you with his wine business, Pat?’

‘No, miss. I only ever heard him mention it that once, but even then, I reckon he was spinning me a fanny.’

‘You knew, of course, that he owned a nightclub called the Spanish Fly in Mayfair where he was known as Miguel Rodriguez.’

‘I never knew about that till I heard one of your coppers mention it when we was nicked. Strikes me Roberts has got his fingers in quite a few pies.’

Kate glanced at me. ‘Anything else, guv?’ she asked.

‘Not at the moment, Kate,’ I said, and turned to Hogan. ‘You’ll be charged with illegal possession of firearms, Pat. But, as DI Ebdon said, we’ll have a word with the CPS about the Hillingdon job. No promises, though.’

‘Cheers, Mr Brock,’ said Hogan, apparently resigned to spending a few more years as a guest in one of Her Majesty’s penal establishments.

The custody sergeant was all for granting bail to Roberts and Hogan. But I quickly persuaded him that there was a grave danger that, if released, either one of them, or both, might interfere with witnesses. Or that someone might interfere with them fatally in case they started singing like canaries. We needed to know who else was involved. Consequently, our two prisoners were kept in custody until appearing before the magistrate on Monday morning. I instructed Kate Ebdon to take them to court and object to bail.

‘I checked Roberts’s form after I took his fingerprints, guv,’ said Dave, appearing as Kate and I left the interview room. ‘He’s got a previous.’

‘What for?’

‘Pyramid selling, and I don’t mean flogging ancient Egyptian monuments.’

‘I do know what pyramid selling is, Dave.’ It was a fraud as old as the hills that involved its creator persuading gullible, greedy people to invest in a wondrous scheme that promised fantastic rewards. The trouble was that, unbeknown to the punters, the ‘dividends’ were paid out of the investments of subsequent idiots. Such a scheme, by its very nature, was destined to collapse, but usually after the scheme’s architect had disappeared with the loot.

‘He got seven years,’ said Dave. ‘Came out two years ago and set up the Spanish Fly nightclub, probably with some of the proceeds that he’d stashed away. He was made bankrupt at the time of the trial, but the bulk of the money was never recovered.’

‘How the hell did he get a licence to run a club?’

Dave said nothing, but just rubbed forefinger and thumb together. It would not be the first time that someone had been bribed to overlook certain ‘indiscretions’ on the part of an applicant for a licence.

We got back to Curtis Green at one o’clock, and DI Len Driscoll was waiting.

‘How did you get on at Broders Road, Len?’ I asked.

‘It was just like an Aladdin’s Cave for piss artists, guv,’ said Driscoll. ‘There were cases of wine all over the place. The lads are still counting it all. I don’t know whether it’s legit, but I’ve asked customs to have a look. If it’s bent, I’m damned if I know how they got so much into the country without being nicked.’

‘I’ve a feeling that it actually is legit, Len,’ I said. ‘Any firearms?’

‘No, nothing,’ said Driscoll. ‘How about you?’

‘Ten H and Ks, twenty assorted handguns and matching ammo,’ I said. ‘Not a bad morning’s work.’

We now had another name in the frame. According to Patrick Hogan, the mysterious Charlie Pollard was the receiver of the firearms that Michael Roberts and company had conspired to smuggle into the country. All we had to do now was find Pollard. Hogan had suggested that he lived somewhere in the Bethnal Green area, but that didn’t help much. Apart from being a large area, Bethnal Green is densely populated by the unrighteous, and we were unlikely to receive any assistance from the inhabitants thereof. I was under no illusion but that many of them had criminal records and there is, of course, a strict code of honour among thieves. Until the chips are down, that is. With any luck this might be one of those occasions.

I gave the task of finding Charlie Pollard to Colin Wilberforce in the hope that he might discover the answer on his wonderful computer. But, after fifteen minutes of intense keyboard work, he was unable to produce any match that could possibly be the Charlie Pollard we were seeking.

I next asked Kate Ebdon to see what she could do. I’m a firm believer in old-fashioned methods, like informants, and I knew that Kate, an ex-Flying Squad officer, had snouts who were many and various. I had a few informants myself, but I hadn’t contacted them for some time, or they me; it was years since I’d left the Flying Squad, and I suspected that most of them were either dead, doing time or had disappeared to some safe Brazilian haven.

However, despite having given Kate that job, I decided that there was something more immediately pressing for her to do.

‘I think the time has come to arrest Billy Sharpe, Kate. You’ve got a list of all the home addresses of Kerry Trucking’s employees, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, I have, guv. Bear with me for a moment; they’re in my office.’

‘On your way back, Kate, ask Len Driscoll to come in.’

When Kate returned, followed by Driscoll, she was holding the list Sheila Armitage had obtained from Carl Thorpe, the company secretary at the hauliers.

‘Sharpe lives at Tunglass Road, Fulham, guv. Number sixteen.’

I decided that this was a job for DI Driscoll. ‘Len, take Dave Poole with you – he knows what Sharpe looks like – and get out to this Tunglass Road address. Then, I want you to wait for a call from Kate. Kate, you take Charlie Flynn and go to Kerry Trucking. Find out if Sharpe is there. If he is, nick him. On the other hand, he might be doing a run somewhere. Should that be the case, find out when he’ll be back. If he’s away we’ll have to catch him when he returns. However, if he’s off duty, let Len know straight away so that he can pick him up at his home address. I don’t want Bligh tipping off Sharpe that we’re about to feel his collar. I’ve still got reservations about Mister Bligh.’

‘No worries, guv,’ said Kate.

‘Once you get the go-ahead from Kate, Len, go into Sharpe’s place and have him away. But both of you keep me posted.’

‘Right, guv.’ Len turned to Kate. ‘Let me know when you’ve arrived at the haulage yard at Chiswick, Kate, so I know the SP.’

It was an hour before Kate rang in from Chiswick to say that Billy Sharpe had the weekend off prior to a trip to Germany on Monday. She managed to convey the impression that she was disappointed not to be laying hands on Sharpe. Kate enjoys arresting villains.

‘I didn’t tell Bligh that he’d probably have to find another driver, guv,’ she added with a chuckle. ‘He seemed very interested in why we wanted to talk to him again, but I told him there was nothing to worry about. I gave him some nebulous fanny about tying up loose ends. I’ve given Len Driscoll the heads up and he should be going in about now. In the meantime, I’ll have a quick word with this Patricia Knight that Roberts said he spent Christmas Eve with.’

Ten minutes later, Driscoll reported that Sharpe wasn’t at home.

‘His missus said he’s gone to a football match at Craven Cottage, guv. Apparently, he’s an avid Fulham supporter. There’s no chance of finding him inside the ground, but with any luck we might feel his collar as he leaves.’

‘Yes, but I’d suggest letting him get some way away before you nick him, Len. I don’t want you starting a riot all by yourself if his mates turn nasty.’

‘Of course not, sir,’ said Driscoll curtly, and I realized that I’d offered him unnecessary advice; Len Driscoll knew what he was doing. ‘The kick-off was at three, half an hour ago, so there’s at least another hour of play, plus fifteen minutes for half-time, possibly more if they run to extra time. Fulham’s playing Tottenham Hotspur and it’s an FA Cup match, so I don’t suppose our man will leave at half-time.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, Len.’ Not being a football fanatic, I hadn’t the vaguest idea why those two particular teams should be so irresistible to the spectators that they’d stay for the whole match.

FOURTEEN

D
espite Kate Ebdon’s comment that she was the soul of discretion, she had meant it to be sarcastic. But she could be diplomatic when the necessity arose.

There was a coffee bar just round the corner from Coxtree Close in Chelsea. Kate settled herself with a large latte, took out her mobile phone and rang the number that Roberts had given her.

Fortunately, a woman answered the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Is that Patricia Knight?’ asked Kate.

‘Yes, it is. Who’s that?’

‘I’m a police officer, Mrs Knight. Detective Inspector Ebdon of New Scotland Yard.’

‘What on earth d’you want?’ There was an element of apprehension in the woman’s cultured reply.