by Graham Ison
That was not only interesting, but had been vaguely hinted at by Kerry’s parents. And if it were true it opened up the possibility of having to seek an incalculable number of lovers.
‘Have you got any names, Mr Bligh?’ asked Dave.
‘Names? What names?’
‘The names of anyone with whom she might’ve been having an affair.’
‘Oh, I see. No, it was just a sort of feeling I got,’ said Bligh, but he gave the impression that he wasn’t being completely frank about Kerry’s private life.
‘I’ve only got the address we had for Dixon when he was working here,’ said Thorpe, coming back into Bligh’s office with an open file in his hand. ‘According to his HGV licence, he was living at twenty-five Hardacre Street, Ealing.’
‘Did you take up references for Dixon when he started work here, Mr Bligh?’ asked Dave.
‘I suppose we must’ve done.’ Bligh glanced at Thorpe. ‘Carl?’
‘I imagine so,’ said Thorpe, ‘but if I remember correctly it was Kerry who engaged him. She just told me to put him on the books, so I suppose she must’ve run some checks.’
‘Why d’you ask?’ queried Bligh.
‘Because he had previous convictions,’ I said, breaching numerous regulations that forbade me from imparting Dixon’s criminal history to a third party. ‘Apart from the one for which you sacked him.’
‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Bligh. ‘If I’d known that, he’d never have got through the gate. I wonder what was so special about Dixon that Kerry took him on.’
‘So do I,’ I said, but in view of what Bligh had just told me about Kerry having the occasional fling, I thought I could guess.
‘It looks as though he slipped through the cracks as far as references are concerned,’ said Bligh. ‘But I’m not surprised at what you say, Mr Brock.’
‘Any reason in particular?’
‘I never trusted Dixon, and I was always worried that we’d get a phone call from a customer saying that there was a shortfall in the load they’d received. Or, worse still, he’d been caught bringing in a load of illegal immigrants. I was concerned, too, that his load might be hijacked one day and that he would claim to be the innocent party, a scam that’s as old as the hills. But in a way, I was proved right to be suspicious when the customs people nicked him for bootlegging. What really annoyed me was that they told me he’d been at it for some time. I always prided myself on spotting a dodgy driver, but I obviously didn’t suss him.’
‘When exactly did you sack him?’ asked Dave.
‘Eleventh of September last,’ said Thorpe promptly, who still had Dixon’s file in his hand. ‘It was after the customs people turned up here making enquiries about him. They told us he’d been arrested at Dover and was being charged with the illegal importation of a large quantity of spirits. We were damned lucky that the vehicle wasn’t impounded, or even confiscated. But I think that only happens if the vehicle has been specially adapted for smuggling,’ he added as an afterthought.
That comment about a specially adapted vehicle made me think, and I determined that I would look into it.
‘I wasn’t having any drivers who got up to that sort of malarkey,’ said Bligh firmly. ‘So he was out on his ear the same day.’
‘What was Mrs Hammond’s reaction to you giving Dixon his cards?’ asked Dave.
‘As I recall, she just shrugged. I got the impression that she was a bit put out by it, but she didn’t say anything. She couldn’t really argue with me for giving a driver the elbow when he’d been nicked by customs.’
‘Did Nick Hammond ever come here?’ I was interested in the Hammonds’ relationship, and whether he’d shown any desire to become involved in Kerry’s haulage company.
‘Occasionally,’ said Bligh. ‘But only ever at the end of the day, and that was usually to collect Kerry when they were going out somewhere. I don’t think she liked him poking his nose into the business. She probably thought that his inefficiency was contagious.’
We left it at that. We’d added a little more to what we knew of the Hammonds, but not much.
‘I think this afternoon might be a good time to have another word with Nick Hammond, Dave,’ I said, as we drove back to Curtis Green.
‘Is he likely to be at home, guv? Most estate agents I know of are open on Saturdays. Sundays even.’
I rang Hammond’s home phone number from my mobile, confirmed that he was at Barnes and made an appointment to see him that afternoon.
When we returned to Curtis Green, I spent an hour or two scanning the pitifully few, and largely useless, statements that we’d acquired since the discovery of Kerry Hammond’s body. I then set Kate Ebdon to checking on the address that Thorpe had given us for Gary Dixon.
‘D’you want him nicked if I find him, guv?’ Kate asked.
‘Yes, he’s worth a pull if he’s there,’ I said. ‘If not, find out what you can about him. Have a word with his wife, assuming he’s got one.’
‘He has, guv. Well, I imagine so. I did a voters’ list check and it shows a Sonia Dixon living there.’
Dave and I grabbed a quick bite to eat, and made our way to Barnes.
Exuding what I was certain was a false air of bonhomie, Nick Hammond gave all the appearance of a man who had quickly recovered from his wife’s death. Wearing a sweater over a blue shirt, chocolate brown chinos and expensive loafers, he invited us into the sitting room.
‘I’m having a bit of a job finding Kerry’s bank statements,’ he said, as we sat down.
‘That’s a pity,’ said Dave. ‘It means that we’ll have to get a Crown Court judge’s warrant to serve on her bank.’ He took out his pocketbook and flicked it open, ready to record details. ‘Perhaps you’d give me the address of the branch where she banked.’ He looked up expectantly.
The ploy worked. ‘Oh, hang on, though,’ said Hammond, flicking his fingers at feigned recollection. ‘If you can give me a minute or two, I’ve just thought where she might’ve kept them.’ He jumped up and hastened from the room, and I heard him going upstairs, presumably to the safe I’d discovered in the bedroom.
I wondered why Hammond should’ve made such a blatant attempt to prevent us from seeing his late wife’s bank statements, and I was now even more interested to see them in the hope that they might reveal some secret that would aid our investigation.
Taking advantage of Hammond’s absence, Dave took the wedding photograph from his briefcase and placed it on the side table whence he had taken it three days previously.
‘These are the last two years’ statements,’ said Hammond, flourishing a sheaf of bank documents as he returned. ‘Kerry always got online statements, but then printed a copy of them to keep here. I think she kept a duplicate set at the office as well. Very good with paperwork, was Kerry.’
‘Seems a bit pointless, getting online statements and then making a hard copy,’ commented Dave, who knew about these things. He glanced quickly at the statements and then put them in his briefcase.
‘I suppose so,’ said Hammond, ‘but Kerry was very much a belt and braces girl.’
‘Does the name Gary Dixon mean anything to you, Mr Hammond?’ I asked. I’d posed the same question to him at the airport when we’d told him of Kerry’s death, but I was interested to hear what he had to say this time. I was disappointed.
‘You asked me that at the airport,’ said Hammond, ‘and no, the name means nothing to me. Why, is it important?’
‘I’ve no idea, Mr Hammond,’ I said, ‘but a murder enquiry is a bit like a jigsaw puzzle: you collect all sorts of odd pieces and try to fit them together.’
‘I see.’ Hammond appeared unimpressed by this novel approach to solving serious crime. ‘When am I likely to get Kerry’s car back, Chief Inspector?’
‘There are still a number of scientific tests to be carried out on the vehicle, Mr Hammond.’ Although I’d noticed a new Mini Cooper on the drive when we’d arrived, it seemed that Hammond was more concerned about getting
his hands on the Jaguar. Certainly more concerned than he seemed to be about his wife’s murder. But I was on the point of disillusioning him. ‘However, the Jaguar will be returned to its owners, Kerry Trucking Limited, once we’ve finished examining it.’
‘But it’s Kerry’s car, surely?’
‘It’s registered to the company,’ said Dave, ‘and it’s the company that’ll get it back.’
‘But Kerry owned the company.’
‘Not all of it,’ said Dave. ‘It’s something you’ll have to take up with her fellow directors.’
‘Which leads me to my next point, Mr Hammond,’ I said. ‘Do you have a copy of Mrs Hammond’s will?’
Hammond hesitated long enough for me to know that his answer, when it came, would be untrue. ‘Er, no, I’m afraid not,’ he said eventually. ‘In fact, I’m not sure she’d made one,’ he added, belying his previous statement that Kerry was a belt and braces girl. ‘Is it important?’
‘Not really,’ I said offhandedly, in an attempt to imply that it was of no real interest to me. But I was sure that a businesswoman with the assets that Kerry Hammond possessed would not have died intestate. Doubtless Bernard Bligh would know about it, and it was a possibility that Kerry Trucking’s company solicitors would have taken care of drawing up a will for Kerry.
But Hammond answered that question for me. ‘I do know that she used the company’s solicitors for private stuff, like the purchase of this house.’
‘Is the house jointly owned by you and your wife?’ asked Dave.
‘No, it’s in Kerry’s name,’ said Hammond tersely. I got the impression that such an arrangement did not please him greatly. ‘She lived here with her previous husband.’
‘Do you know where I can find these lawyers?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid not. I seem to recall Kerry saying that all the paperwork, including the deeds for this house, were kept by a solicitor, but I’ve no idea which one. I dare say that someone at her offices in Chiswick will be able to help you.’ And then Hammond reverted to our previous conversation. ‘I imagine that the bulk of her estate will come to me,’ he volunteered, ‘although we’d never discussed it. Certainly mine would have gone to Kerry. Quite frankly I didn’t expect a woman of her age to die when she did. Well, you don’t, do you?’
‘I understand that Bligh and Thorpe, being directors, have a holding in the company,’ I said.
Hammond gave a short, humourless laugh. ‘Oh, poor Mr Bligh wasn’t very happy that Kerry gained control of the company when Dick Lucas died. Dick was her first husband.’
‘So I understand, but why was Bligh upset?’
‘Kerry once told me that Bligh and Dick Lucas were instrumental in setting up the company. In fact, they were virtually equal partners, but when Lucas died and left the company to Kerry, Bligh was bloody furious, so she told me, and the thirty-five per cent holding he was given didn’t please him. He thought he should’ve been given control.’
‘And if he doesn’t get the company now, he’ll be even less pleased, I suppose.’
‘I imagine so.’
‘Did you and your wife get on?’ asked Dave suddenly.
‘What sort of question’s that?’ demanded Hammond. He glanced across the room at the replaced wedding photograph and did a double take, his expression indicating that he was puzzled by its reappearance. But human nature being what it is, he’d probably blame his cleaning lady.
‘A quite simple one, Mr Hammond. Did you and your wife have rows?’
‘The occasional tiff,’ admitted Hammond, returning his gaze to Dave once again. ‘We had disagreements from time to time, like most married couples, I suppose, but nothing serious.’
That might’ve been true, but he probably didn’t know about the ‘occasional flings’ that Bligh had suggested she’d had. Speaking from personal experience, I knew that the husband is usually the last person to find out about a wife’s infidelity. And, to be fair, probably the other way round too.
‘I understand that she had to help you out financially once or twice,’ I said.
‘Who told you that?’ snapped Hammond. He seemed irritated at the change in questioning.
‘Well, did she?’
‘When I first set up business, yes. Things were a bit shaky to start with, what with house prices rocketing at the time and the market stalling, but I’m flourishing now.’
That remained to be seen, even though Bligh didn’t seem to think so. But Bligh’s view might’ve been prompted by animosity. If Hammond was in financial difficulties, and Kerry had left everything to him, he had just provided us with a good motive for murdering her. But that rather depended on what was in her will and whether Hammond knew what was in it.
That said, I was still surprised that a man who claimed to have had only the occasional slight tiff with his wife should have gone to New York without knowing what had happened to her. Unless he knew what had happened to her.
It was five o’clock by the time that Dave and I returned to Curtis Green. Nothing had happened during my absence, but I hadn’t expected it to. I briefed Charlie Flynn, my ex-Fraud Squad sergeant, to find out just how successful Nick Hammond’s estate agency was, or wasn’t. But I told him that there was no point in starting before Monday.
That done, I decided that there wasn’t much more that could be undertaken between now and Monday. One or two members of the team were working on various assignments that I’d given them, but I gave the others the weekend off, what little remained of it.
It was half past six when I arrived home at my flat in Surbiton, a place I saw but briefly when I was in the middle of a murder investigation. Those rare moments of my off-duty time that I enjoyed were usually spent at Gail’s house, and I kept a change of clothing there.
As usual, my flat was clean and tidy, and it was apparent that Mrs Gurney had been at work. Gladys Gurney is the uncomplaining middle-aged lady who ‘does for me’ two or three times a week, and she takes care of all the things that I don’t have the time to do myself. She tidies everything, polishes everything, gathers up my abandoned clothing and puts my laundry in the washing machine, and irons my shirts. Gladys is an absolute gem, and I’d be completely lost without her. On this occasion, she had left one of her charming little notes on the kitchen worktop along with a small parcel that had been carefully wrapped in tissue paper:
Dear Mr Brock,
I found one or two of Miss Sutton’s bits and pieces lying about in the bedroom. I give them a wash for her and perhaps you’d let her have them back.
Yours faithfully
Gladys Gurney (Mrs)
Carefully removing the tissue paper, I discovered one of Gail’s lacy bras and a thong. It’s a mystery to me how she manages to forget her underwear when she goes home.
For one brief, impish moment, I was tempted to post them from central London with a note saying, ‘Thanks for a wonderful weekend,’ and signing it ‘Fred’, just to see her reaction, but I changed my mind and decided to deliver them personally. I cause Gail enough grief without going out of my way to antagonize her. I rang her to say that I was on my way.
‘Is the coast clear?’ I asked, when Gail opened the door. I handed her a bunch of flowers, but kept hold of the chilled bottle of champagne I’d had the foresight to bring with me.
‘Of course it is,’ said Gail. ‘You know Mum and Dad went back on Boxing Day. Are you going to open that?’ she asked, pointing at the champagne, ‘or is it just to look at?’
We moved into the sitting room, and Gail produced a couple of champagne flutes. I poured the wine and we settled down.
‘Dad wanted to know if you’d proposed to me yet.’ Gail gave me one of her mischievous smiles.
‘What?’ I’d hoped that George wouldn’t raise the question with Gail.
‘You heard, lover. He wanted to know if you were going to make an honest woman of me.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I told him that you hadn’t said a word about marriage,
and that I was beginning to feel like a wronged woman.’
I was completely taken aback at this turn in the conversation. ‘But we have discussed it.’ I was floundering now. ‘You always said that once was enough and that you were quite happy with our arrangement.’
‘Gotcha!’ Gail threw back her head and laughed at my embarrassment. ‘Well, I am, and that’s what I told him.’
‘Oh! That’s all right, then. And what did he say to that?’ I’d almost forgotten her propensity for teasing.
‘Nothing much.’ Gail held out her glass for a refill. ‘Apart from saying that he thought it was a bit unconventional.’
‘Really? I never took George for someone who was concerned about the proprieties.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Gail laughing again. ‘Mum reminded him that they’d lived together for a few months before they were married. She told him that I was a big girl now, and that he was not to interfere. Dinner?’
‘Please.’ I stood up and followed my girlfriend downstairs to the dining room.
As befitted Gail’s superb culinary skills, she produced an excellent meal. The roast beef was done to perfection, and the roast potatoes and steamed cauliflower, with a delicious sauce, were out of this world. The meal was accompanied by an expensive bottle of Malbec that Gail said was a gift from her father.
‘I do wish that murder wouldn’t keep me away from your cooking,’ I said, standing up to get the Armagnac. ‘I’m sick of grabbing a pie and a pint at the local pub.’
‘You should try going on the stage if you really want to know what it’s like to rough it,’ said Gail, as usual displaying no great sympathy for a policeman’s lot.
I poured the brandy and placed a glass in front of her.
‘Bring it with you,’ said Gail, rising from the table and leading the way upstairs. All the way upstairs.
SIX
I arrived at the office at nine o’clock on Monday morning. As was his invariable practice, the commander arrived on the stroke of ten. It was a habit that reminded me of the annual Trooping the Colour ceremony for which Her Majesty the Queen always arrived on Horse Guards Parade as the clock struck eleven. And the commander always arrived at Curtis Green as Big Ben struck ten.