by Graham Ison
‘With Gabrielle?’
Henri laughed and glanced across at our two women; both were now deeply engrossed in a conversation about dancing. As I’d mentioned earlier, Gabrielle had once been a dancer at the Folies-Bergères and Gail had done her fair share of what she called ‘hoofing’.
‘I think I will leave the girls to go out together and raid the fashion shops, ’Arry. Just think yourself lucky that you are at work.’
Gail and I returned to her house in Kingston at just after eleven o’clock.
‘I suppose you and Gabrielle are going shopping tomorrow, darling,’ I said, as we relaxed in her middle-floor sitting room.
‘Yes, I’ve promised to take her to Knightsbridge and Chelsea. There’s a new boutique in King’s Road I want to show her.’ Gail gave me one of her fetching smiles. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to come?’ she asked impishly.
‘There’s nothing I’d like more,’ I lied, ‘but I’m in the middle of a complicated murder enquiry.’
‘Oh, what a shame.’ Gail pretended disappointment, although she knew I’d do anything to avoid one of her trips around the fashion emporia of London. ‘How is it complicated?’
Gail had never asked me about my work before, at least not to the extent of being interested in the details.
‘Well . . .’ I said hesitantly, preferring to leave my work at the office, ‘the female victim was found stabbed to death in a car park at Heathrow.’
‘Ooh! Nasty. Was she good-looking?’
‘Very, and very rich. She was involved with a haulage company.’
‘You can’t possibly mean she drove a lorry,’ said Gail, wrinkling her nose in feigned horror.
‘Of course not, you silly girl, she owned it. The difficulty, as far as I’m concerned, is that she appears to have had a quite a few men friends.’
‘That should be easy, then. I expect one of her studs killed her.’ Gail dismissed the problem of my dead socialite with a wave of one of her elegant hands.
‘If only it was that simple,’ I said. ‘A glass of champagne to round the evening off?’ I suggested, changing the subject.
‘Why not?’
I was about to make my way downstairs to the kitchen when Gail stopped me.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get the champagne and some glasses,’ I said, wondering why she’d asked a question that appeared to have an obvious answer.
‘I’ve had a fridge put in the bedroom,’ said Gail.
‘In the bedroom?’ I stopped in the doorway. ‘When did you do that?’
‘This morning. A nice young man carried it all the way upstairs and installed it for me.’
‘And what did you have to give him to persuade him to cart a damned great fridge up to your bedroom on the top floor?’ I asked assuming an expression of mock severity.
‘It’s not a damned great fridge. In fact, it’s only a teeny-weeny one. But he was a very nice young man. Very fanciable, if you know what I mean; muscles and a six-pack.’ Gail shot me one of her sexiest smiles and then ran her tongue round her lips.
‘So, what did you have to give him to persuade him?’
‘A five-pound note. What on earth did you think I gave him?’ Gail stood up. ‘But I haven’t taken any glasses upstairs yet. Be a darling and pop down to the kitchen and bring a couple up.’
By the time I reached the bedroom, armed with champagne flutes, Gail was languishing on top of the bed, her clothing scattered untidily across the floor. Consequently, we never did find out whether her new fridge had efficiently chilled the champagne. Not for an hour or two, anyway.
On my arrival at Curtis Green first thing on Tuesday morning, I was greeted by a mildly excited Colin Wilberforce. Colin was never more than mildly excited.
‘It would appear that Charlie Pollard is a corporal in the army, sir.’
‘How the hell did you find that out, Colin?’
‘She was spotted by an ANPR unit near Regent’s Park about an hour ago—’
‘A what?’ My staff were trying to blind me with science again.
‘Automatic number plate recognition, sir,’ said Dave, joining in the conversation. ‘You must’ve seen one of those vans parked on the side of the road. They scan numbers into the PNC and it turns up anything of interest. It’s usually driving offences though, things like no insurance or disqualified drivers.’
‘However, sir,’ Wilberforce continued, ‘the ANPR unit picked up that Pollard’s vehicle was of interest to HSCC and passed it to the traffic guys. They gave her a pull, and she produced an army ID as evidence of identity. Apparently, she’s a corporal in the Royal Logistic Corps.’
‘Brilliant!’ I said. Once again, a routine check by traffic officers had produced information that assiduous searching by detectives had failed to discover.
‘I wonder if Corporal Pollard has access to firearms,’ suggested Dave. ‘Maybe that’s why she didn’t tell us she was in the army.’
‘If she does, I think it would just be coincidence,’ I said. ‘I don’t think she knew anything about Kerry’s smuggling operation. What d’you think, Colin?’ I asked Wilberforce.
‘It could be that she doesn’t want her relationship with Erica Foster made known to the army, sir,’ said Wilberforce. ‘Perhaps she thought that we’d tell them if we made enquiries at her nit.’
‘I don’t see why that should worry her, Colin. The embargo on homosexuality in the army was lifted some years ago.’
‘Maybe so, sir. But she might’ve thought it would prejudice the authorities against promoting her.’
‘Possible, I suppose. Just because the rule book says it makes no difference doesn’t necessarily mean that it doesn’t make a difference in practice. Was Pollard in uniform, do we know?’
‘No, sir. She was apparently in plain clothes. I think that these days most army personnel don’t change into their uniform until they arrive at work.’
‘There wasn’t any military uniform or equipment at Argus Road, was there, Dave?’
‘No, sir,’ said Dave, his use of ‘sir’ confirming that I’d asked a question to which he’d earlier given me an answer. He’d already said that there was nothing of evidential interest in the house, and if there’d been any military accoutrements there, he’d’ve spotted them.
‘Is Miss Ebdon here, Colin?’
‘Yes, sir, she’s in her office.’
I went next door and told Kate what Wilberforce had learned. ‘Perhaps you’d find out from the Ministry of Defence where Charlie Pollard’s stationed, and then I’ll have a discreet word with her commanding officer. I’m worried about her having access to firearms.’
Kate wasted no time in trying to cut her way through the bureaucracy of the MOD; she’d jousted with them before. She went straight to the Assistant Provost Marshal of London District, a lieutenant-colonel of the Royal Military Police, and confronted him in his Whitehall office. Even so, it was not until midday on Wednesday that the APM came up with the details of where Charlie Pollard was stationed in central London.
After persuading a rather dim armed sentry that Dave and I really were bona fide police officers, we were eventually shown into the office of a major who told us he was Charlie Pollard’s commanding officer.
‘Good morning, gentlemen.’ The major, positively oozing charm, crossed his office, hand outstretched. ‘How may I help you?’ he asked, as he shook hands. ‘Do take a seat.’
‘I understand that you have a corporal named Charlie Pollard on your strength, Major,’ I said, once Dave and I had introduced ourselves.
‘Yes, indeed. Pollard’s a very capable young NCO, and she’s a London District swimming champion. Does a good butterfly stroke, so I’m told. Is she in some sort of trouble? Some of our young soldiers do occasionally have a little too much to drink. It’s all these nightclubs that youngsters seem to frequent, you know.’ It seemed to have escaped the major that Pollard wasn’t exactly a youngster; she was thirty-five.
‘We’
re not here about drunken soldiers, Major,’ said Dave. ‘We’re investigating a serious case of international gunrunning and the evidence points to Corporal Pollard’s involvement.’
‘Oh my God!’ The major’s bland composure evaporated in a second, the expression on his face indicating the onset of blind panic. ‘Are you suggesting that Corporal Pollard’s actively engaged in this gunrunning, Chief Inspector?’ he asked, turning to me.
‘Not necessarily, but our enquiries are far from being finalized.’ In fact, I didn’t think that Pollard had any involvement in the smuggling operation other than having been persuaded to hire the lock-up for the unlikely purpose of storing Kerry’s furniture.
‘Are they military weapons?’ asked the major.
The police discipline code includes the offence of ‘lack of supervision’, a spectre that hangs over anyone holding a rank above that of constable. I presumed that there was something similar in the army. The major appeared to be mentally searching for any possible culpability on his part. I decided to put him out of his misery.
‘As far as I can tell, Major, the firearms that we’ve so far seized have been imported rather than acquired from a source in the United Kingdom.’
‘I can’t tell you what a relief that is, Chief Inspector.’ The major relaxed, and some of his previous equanimity returned. ‘Nevertheless, I think I’ll order a check of the armoury.’
‘Does Corporal Pollard have access to the armoury, then?’ asked Dave.
‘No, she’s a staff-car driver. Her usual duty is to drive a brigadier attached to the Ministry of Defence. She has no direct access to the armoury without the permission of the quartermaster, and he’d want to know why she was there and what she wanted.’
‘Your staff-car drivers aren’t routinely armed, then, Major.’
‘Certainly not.’
‘I’d be grateful if you didn’t speak to Corporal Pollard about this matter, Major,’ I said. ‘It could have an adverse effect on our investigation.’
‘Quite so,’ murmured the major, ‘but I take it that it won’t prejudice your enquiry if I check the armoury.’ He seemed desperate to do some stocktaking.
‘Not at all.’
‘Could I ask you to keep me informed of any developments, Chief Inspector? The question of a court martial might arise.’
‘Of course,’ I said, determined that he’d be told as little as possible and as late as possible.
EIGHTEEN
When Dave and I returned to Curtis Green, I found Kate almost bubbling over.
‘Have you won the lottery, Kate?’ I asked.
‘No such luck,’ said Kate, giving me a smile of self-satisfaction. ‘However, I’ve got a bit of information that might just round off this job of ours.’
‘Go on, Kate, cheer me up.’
‘As you know, guv, we are still in the process of checking ownership of all the cars that were parked at Heathrow on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. But once we’d discovered details of Charlie Pollard’s car, I was able to short circuit the search.’
‘Don’t keep me in suspense, Kate.’
‘At one minute to seven on Christmas Eve,’ Kate continued, with an air of triumph, ‘Pollard’s car checked into the same car park where we found Kerry Hammond’s body. It left again at twenty-five past seven. She was stupid enough to pay the parking charge with her own credit card. I obtained a printout from the car park authorities, and a confirmatory copy from the credit card company,’ she added, placing copies on my desk.
‘Well done, Kate, I said. ‘It looks as though we’ve got her now.’
‘D’you want me to go to the barracks and pick her up, guv?’
I thought about that, but only briefly. ‘No, Kate, we’ll wait until she gets home and nick her there. That way, we can feel Erica Foster’s collar at the same time. I think it’s likely that she’s also involved in Kerry’s murder.’
‘Anything you want me to do, guv?’ asked Dave.
‘Yes, Dave. Go back to Pollard’s unit and ask the bold major if you can search her locker, and her desk if she has one. If he argues the toss, tell him we’ll get a search warrant, but I’m sure he’ll cooperate.’
On reflection, I decided not to take a personal hand in the arrests of Charlie Pollard and Erica Foster. Instead, I sent Kate Ebdon, DS Tom Challis and DCs Sheila Armitage and Nicola Chance.
At seven o’clock, I received a telephone call from Kate to say that both women were in custody at Charing Cross police station.
‘Charlie Pollard’s in Interview Room One, guv,’ said Kate, when I arrived. ‘Both she and Erica Foster have been fingerprinted, photographed and had DNA samples taken. Checks are under way as I speak.’
‘Did they give any trouble, Kate?’
‘Trouble?’ scoffed Kate. ‘It would’ve been very unwise of them to risk it.’
‘What did you tell them they were being arrested for?’
‘I told them that it was in connection with the firearms smuggling, guv. I didn’t mention Kerry’s murder.’
‘Right, Kate,’ I said, ‘let’s do it.’
Charlie Pollard, attired in jeans and a cowl-necked green sweater, gave me a sullen look as I entered the room.
‘I told you before,’ she began, ‘that I know nothing about firearms smuggling.’
‘Why did you tell me you were a teacher, Charlie?’ I asked, as Kate and I sat down opposite the woman.
‘I am a teacher.’
‘Really? Where d’you teach? Which school?’
‘Well, I’m not actually teaching at the moment.’ Pollard rapidly backtracked. ‘But it’s what I’m hoping to do.’
‘That’ll be when you leave the army, I suppose,’ observed Kate.
‘How did you know I’m in the army?’ Charlie Pollard’s surprise showed how little she knew of police procedure, and she obviously hadn’t realized that traffic officers sometimes speak to detectives. It was clear that we’d caught her on the back foot.
‘Where were you on Christmas Eve, Charlie?’ I asked, ignoring her question.
‘On Christmas Eve? What sort of question’s that?’ demanded Charlie, recovering from the shock of discovering that we knew she was in the army.
‘Just answer the chief inspector,’ snapped Kate.
Charlie glanced apprehensively at Kate. She knew from their first meeting that to cross this abrasive Australian DI was a bad idea. She was not the first female prisoner to arrive at that conclusion.
‘At a party.’
‘Where?’ asked Kate.
‘With some friends.’
Kate slid a writing pad across the table and placed a pen on top of it. ‘Write down their names, and where the party was held.’
Charlie pushed the pad back again. ‘I’m not going to implicate my friends,’ she said.
‘You were at Heathrow Airport, Charlie, weren’t you?’ said Kate.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ But the red flush that crept slowly up Charlie’s face was indication enough that we’d caught her out.
‘You parked your car there at one minute to seven on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, and left again at twenty-five past seven, just twenty-six minutes later. And it so happened that you parked in the same section of the car park where we found Kerry Hammond’s body.’
‘I deny it,’ said a flustered Charlie.
‘And you were stupid enough to pay the parking charge with your own credit card.’ Kate laid copies of the two printouts on the table, turning them so that Charlie could read them. ‘What have you got to say about that, Charlie? Change your mind about flying somewhere, did you?’
But before Charlie Pollard could answer, there was a knock at the interview room door, and Dave poked his head in.
‘Might be as well if you stepped outside, guv,’ he said. He was looking pleased with himself.
‘What is it, Dave?’ I asked, once we were in the corridor.
‘I found this in Pollard’s locker at her unit, guv,’ s
aid Dave, displaying an SA80 army bayonet in an evidence bag, ‘and the major confirmed that she’d not been issued with it, so she’d obviously nicked it. It’s been cleaned, but not very well. There appear to be minute traces of blood around the hilt. I’m sure the lab will be able to confirm it is blood, and, with any luck, match it to Kerry’s DNA.’
‘The icing on the cake, Dave,’ I said.
‘They’ll probably find Charlie Pollard’s fingerprints on it as well. And talking of fingerprints, Linda Mitchell has checked Pollard’s against those found in Kerry’s car and came up with a match.’
‘She would, Dave. We know that Charlie had a relationship with Kerry so she would probably claim that she was legitimately in Kerry’s car at some time.’
We returned to the interview room and Kate told the tape recorder that I’d re-entered along with Dave. ‘Chief Inspector Brock is showing Charlie Pollard an army bayonet marked Exhibit DP Seven,’ she said, as I placed the plastic-shrouded weapon on the table.
‘Earlier today Detective Sergeant Poole found this in your locker at your army unit, Miss Pollard,’ I said.
Charlie stared at it transfixed. There was a long period of silence that we were shrewd enough not to break.
‘Kerry Hammond was a bitch,’ said Charlie eventually. It was not the first time she’d used that unflattering term to describe her erstwhile lover.
‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence . . .’ began Kate, and she went on to finish the caution.
‘Although Detective Inspector Ebdon has told you that need not say anything further,’ I said to Charlie, ‘you may, if you wish, make a statement about this matter. In which case, you may either write it yourself, or the inspector will write it down and ask you to sign it when you’ve finished.’
‘Oh, I’ll tell you about it,’ said Charlie vehemently, ‘and you can write down every word of it. It was a crime passionnel.’