Make Them Pay (21 page)

‘He’d only been here for a couple of weeks and the agreement was that he’d stay for at least a month, but he suddenly decided to up sticks and leave. I have to say that I was a bit put out by it and I told him he’d have to pay to the end of the month.’

‘And did he?’ queried Dave.

‘Oh yes, he didn’t jib at all. Just took out a roll of notes and paid me without a quibble. But I knew he’d seen the morning paper and it seemed that what he saw in it caused him to take off in a hurry. You know, the bit about the murders.’

‘What was this man’s name?’

‘Derek Ford,’ said Ives.

‘Did he leave a forwarding address?’ asked Dave.

‘No. He said that there wouldn’t be any mail for him.’

‘Perhaps we could have a look at his room,’ I said.

‘Of course.’ Ives led us upstairs to a comfortable room at the back of the house, and stood back while we looked around. There was nothing in the room to excite our interest, no personal belongings, no clothing. In fact, nothing. Nevertheless I decided to have a forensic examiner give it the once over.

‘D’you mind if I have a fingerprint officer examine the room, Mr Ives? It’s just possible that your late tenant might be the one we’re looking for.’ I didn’t think for a moment that we’d struck that lucky, but stranger things have happened. Not that finding fingerprints would help, unless there was a set on record to compare them with.

‘Of course,’ said Ives enthusiastically. No doubt he was delighted to be at the centre of a major murder investigation. That, of course, carried risks of undesired publicity. And for that matter, the possibility of risks to himself.

‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention this to anyone at the moment, Mr Ives, particularly the press. You wouldn’t want to alert this man to our interest, would you?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Ives, but I sensed that I’d just dashed his hope of making a few pounds from a crime reporter. And there was no doubt that Fat Danny, if he heard about it, would be hotfooting it to Isleworth as fast as his little legs would carry him.

We waited an hour for a fingerprint officer to arrive, and he spent another hour spreading powder over all the likely surfaces. He then spent ten minutes explaining to a disgruntled Mrs Ives the best way of removing it.

‘Perhaps you’d let Linda Mitchell have the results,’ said Dave.

‘Who?’ asked the fingerprint officer.

Dave sighed and gave him Linda’s details.

O
n Tuesday morning I received the ballistics examiner’s report. She was prepared to testify that the rounds that were removed from the Richmond Park tree were a match with those taken from the bodies of Eberhardt, Schmidt and Adekunle. It looked as though Cyril Jefferson had witnessed our killer engaging in some target practice prior to carrying out the murders. But whether the Volkswagen Polo with the broken rear nearside window that Jefferson had spotted leaving the park was the murderer’s car remained to be seen. But as he’d admitted, he might have got the make of the vehicle wrong. So far nothing had come in reporting a sighting of a vehicle matching his description.

The ballistics examiner had the foresight to mention the legislation that had followed the Dunblane massacre, and her report went on to express the tentative view that the two-two calibre pistol was most likely to have been illegally obtained. Or had even been smuggled in from abroad. Finally, she mentioned that the rounds did not match any found at other scenes of crime.

I walked through to the incident room.

‘Colin, send out a circulation to all forces asking for details of any reports regarding the theft of a two-two pistol. Within, say, the last two months.’ I held out little hope of a positive reply. If the weapon had been illegally held, or if the loser was a villain, it was unlikely that the theft would have been reported to the police.

‘Right, sir.’ Wilberforce turned to his computer and announced that the message had been sent before I’d left the room. All we had to do now was to wait.

At two o’clock that afternoon, Wilberforce came into my office with a computer printout.

‘A report from West Midlands Police, sir. It doesn’t mention any stolen weapon, but their Birmingham East Local Policing Unit received a report regarding the curious behaviour of a man who applied to enrol in their club. Apparently he was never seen again after his first visit.’

‘When was this, Colin?’

‘The report was lodged at the Stechford police station on Wednesday the twenty-fifth of June, sir.’

‘The date would be right if the same man was the man that Jefferson saw,’ I said. ‘And no other reports have come in from anywhere else?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I suppose I’d better look into it,’ I said, ‘and that means a trip to Birmingham.’ I was, however, convinced that I’d be wasting my time. But, as I’ve frequently mentioned, such matters have to be followed up.

I waited until the following day to make sure that we’d not received any reports about stolen weapons or other examples of odd behaviour, and Dave and I set out for Birmingham by road. As usual it was tricky getting out of central London, but once on the M1 we had a reasonably clear run.

We arrived at Stechford police station in Station Road just before midday.

‘I’m DCI Brock, Metropolitan, Sergeant,’ I said to the officer on counter duty. ‘I telephoned earlier to say that I’d be calling in.’

‘Come through, sir,’ said the sergeant, lifting the flap of the counter. ‘The inspector’s office is this way. He is expecting you.’

The inspector already had the report on his desk.

‘Harry Brock, DCI, Metropolitan,’ I said, shaking hands. ‘This is Dave Poole, my sergeant.’

‘What is your interest in this strange business, Mr Brock?’ asked the inspector.

I explained about the triple murder we were investigating and that the ballistics report had indicated the likelihood of a target pistol having been used.

‘I understand from your email that a man applied to join a shooting club up here,’ I continued, ‘but was not seen again.’

‘That’s so. The secretary of a local gun club reported that a man had applied for membership, but that he disappeared once he’d fired a few rounds,’ said the inspector. ‘He didn’t take up membership and he didn’t return.’

‘Do you have a name and address for this mysterious gun club applicant, Inspector?’

‘He gave his name as Derek Ford and the address where he was staying is a lodging house in Sheldon.’

Derek Ford was the name that Donald Ives’ lodger had given. This was beginning to look interesting.

‘Sheldon is near the airport, isn’t it, sir?’ asked Dave. It wasn’t immediately clear to me why he’d asked that question.

‘Yes, about three miles or so,’ said the inspector.

‘Was the secretary able to give you any more information about this man Ford?’ I asked.

‘Only that he was satisfied as to the man’s identity, sir. Gun clubs are supposed to be very strict about membership and they’re obliged by law to demand documentary proof. Ford apparently produced a rent book for the address in Sheldon. I have the details here. Personally I think they should’ve asked for more than a rent book, but as he didn’t take the matter any further I don’t suppose it matters.’

‘I think I’d’ve asked for more than just a rent book, too,’ I agreed.

The inspector shrugged, apparently at the failure of the club to demand proper identification. He gave me the address at which Ford had rented a room, together with a copy of the original report. ‘We made an enquiry at the address, but weren’t able to find out any more about him than I’ve already told you. We had no other address for him and there was little more we could do. After all, he applied to join the club but then changed his mind. It’s not really a matter for the police. But in view of your circulation about the murders in London and possible stolen firearms, I thought it might be of interest to you.’ He smiled. ‘We have quite a lot of much more important things to do here than follow up things like that, Mr Brock,’ he added.

‘I’m sure you do,’ I said, ‘and thank you for your help so far. I’ll visit Ford’s address in Sheldon, in case there is any more to be learned. Perhaps you’d give my sergeant directions.’

‘Would it be easier if I sent a local officer with you, or do you know this part of Birmingham?’

‘A local officer would be very helpful,’ I said. ‘I’m a stranger here.’

‘I’ll make sure he’s in plain clothes,’ said the inspector, and used his telephone to make the necessary arrangement.

Mrs Patel, Derek Ford’s erstwhile landlady, was a tall, slender woman attired in a sari. She gazed somewhat suspiciously at the three of us. ‘Are you wanting rooms?’

‘No, madam,’ I said. ‘We’re police officers.’ It was a statement that did little to lessen her suspicion.

‘What is the problem?’ demanded Mrs Patel, maintaining a firm grip on the edge of the front door. ‘We are all law-abiding persons in this house. No drugs, no bad people, no loose women.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Mrs Patel,’ I said, ‘but I was hoping that you could tell me something about a Mr Derek Ford who, I understand, stayed here for a while.’

‘Ah, Mr Ford, yes. A policeman was here about him a while ago.’ Mrs Patel opened the front door wide and invited the three of us into her sitting room. ‘He was only here the once, you know. A bit of a strange fellow.’

‘Really? But I thought he took lodgings here,’ I said, even though I knew that he hadn’t stayed.

‘That is quite correct.’ Mrs Patel took a book from a side table and flicked through the pages. ‘Yes, here we are. Mr Ford took a room here on the second of June, but he didn’t even stay for that one night. He paid for a week, but never came back here again.’ She glanced up. ‘I told the other policeman who came here all about it.’

‘Did this Mr Ford leave anything here, Mrs Patel?’ asked Dave. ‘Any luggage or other belongings?’

‘No. Once he had paid me, he said that he would go to New Street railway station and collect his bags from the left luggage office, but he never came back. Most odd behaviour. To tell you the truth I didn’t know whether to let the room again.’

‘Did this Mr Ford have a car, Mrs Patel?’ asked Dave.

‘Not that I saw,’ said the woman. ‘I certainly did not see any such vehicle outside when he called here. Anyway, he said he was going to the railway station to collect baggage, so perhaps he came by train.’

You should’ve been a detective, Mrs Patel
, I thought.

We obtained a description of the errant Derek Ford from Mrs Patel, but it wasn’t much help. An ordinary man in his mid-twenties was all she could tell us.

We next paid a visit to the gun club in search of the secretary who had told the police about Derek Ford and his rather odd disappearance.

Fortunately for us, both the secretary and the armourer were there when we called. That certainly saved us another journey from London.

‘What can you tell me about this man Derek Ford who applied to join your club, but didn’t pursue it?’ I asked, once introductions had been effected.

‘He seemed a responsible sort of fellow, Chief Inspector,’ said the armourer. ‘I asked him a few questions about his standard of shooting, and he told me he was ex-army and knew all about guns.’

‘Did he produce any evidence of that?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. Not evidence of having been a soldier. Anyway, I took him out to the range and he fired quite competently. He obviously knew how to handle a weapon, but he did admit to being unfamiliar with the pistol he was firing.’

‘What was the weapon, sir?’ asked Dave.

‘A Rohm Twinmaster Action CO2-charged target air pistol,’ said the armourer promptly. ‘It’s a German job and very reliable.’

‘As a matter of interest,’ said the secretary, ‘may I ask why officers from Scotland Yard are so interested in this man? We reported it to the local police, but they didn’t seem to attach too much importance to it.’

‘They were probably right not to do so,’ I said. ‘But it’s just possible that Ford might be able to help us with our enquiries into a matter we are investigating in London.’ I had no grounds for saying that, at least not yet, but in the course of an investigation as complex as a triple murder anything might help. Even so, I decided against mentioning the murders to either of the officials. The temptation to earn a few pounds by speaking to the press about a visit from Scotland Yard homicide officers would be too much for them to keep to themselves. That sort of publicity was more likely to hinder than help.

‘What documentary evidence of identity did you demand of Mr Ford?’ asked Dave, a question not designed to suggest that the officials had acted competently. And he knew the answer anyway.

‘He produced a rent book for an address in Sheldon,’ said the secretary. ‘It’s a local address, and he told us his landlady was a Mrs Patel.’

‘We know. We’ve interviewed her,’ said Dave. ‘But did you visit the address or telephone her for confirmation?’

‘Er, no,’ said the secretary. ‘The rent book seemed genuine enough, and I looked up Mrs Patel in the phone book. The address tallied with the one on the rent book.’

‘I see.’ Dave paused long enough to imply unspoken criticism of such a cavalier approach to security, especially where firearms were concerned. ‘Can you describe Ford?’

‘About twenty-five or so, I suppose,’ said the armourer. ‘Five-ten, perhaps even six foot. Neat haircut, clean shaven and dressed in a blazer and light-coloured slacks. Oh, and he was wearing a tie that looked as though it was a regimental one.’

‘Any idea which regiment?’ asked Dave.

‘No, I didn’t recognize it. I was in the Royal Air Force Regiment, but it looked like an army tie. On second thoughts I suppose it could have been an old school tie.’

‘As I understand it, the reason you reported this man to the police was that having applied to join, he changed his mind and never came back.’ I was beginning to think that Dave and I had wasted our time in travelling to Birmingham. Except for the coincidence of the name Derek Ford.

‘There was a bit more to it than that,’ said the armourer. ‘When I took him out to the range, I handed him the Rohm air pistol I mentioned, but he asked if we had any automatic pistols he could fire, like a Walther or a Beretta. I explained about the legislation that followed the Dunblane massacre, but he didn’t seem to know anything about it. He said he’d been abroad for a long time.’