by Graham Ison
‘Thanks all the same, Bill, but I’ve got the Fraud Squad on standby.’ What I didn’t say was that accountants – and I included Bill in that category – always wanted to make the books balance, whereas the Fraud Squad had an overwhelming desire for them not to balance. And then began to dig.
Once we’d eaten, Bill and I relaxed on loungers and consumed chilled Beaujolais while the girls played about in the pool.
‘How’s business, Bill?’ I asked.
‘Hand to mouth, old boy,’ said Hunter, but had the good grace to smile. ‘Struggling to make ends meet. Well, you know how it is. Had to forgo a new car this year.’
‘What appalling bad luck,’ I said sarcastically. If only I had the chance to ‘struggle’ to make ends meet to the same degree as Bill, I’d be a happy man, but on a chief inspector’s pay there wasn’t much chance. And my BMW was five years old.
Charlie hailed us from the pool. ‘Aren’t you two layabouts coming in?’ she asked, and as if to make the request irresistible she tossed her bra on to the tile surround. To be quickly followed by Gail doing likewise.
‘Not even that’ll tempt me, Charlie love,’ rejoined Bill, and stood up to pour stiff measures of Courvoisier XO into two brandy balloons.
‘Misery,’ cried Charlie, and turned away to have a quiet conversation with Gail at the far side of the pool.
‘That’s a bit more like the old Charlie,’ said Bill, handing me the cognac and sitting down again. ‘She used to be like that all the time.’
It was a remark that seemed to indicate an undercurrent of tension in the Hunter ménage, but I said nothing. I’d always imagined them to be the perfect couple.
‘It was fine when we each had our own place,’ confided Bill, ‘but once we’d got married and started to share a house, the awful spectre of domesticity crept in. You’d be surprised how things like that can change a relationship.’ But he seemed to realize that he’d said too much and clammed up. Neither he nor Charlie had ever discussed their marriage before and even now I suspected it was the alcohol talking. Nevertheless, it made me think.
Despite several further attempts by Charlie and Gail to entice us into the pool, Bill and I remained resolutely where we were and got slowly drunk.
Consequently, it was almost midnight by the time we’d managed to get a taxi and roll into bed. At Gail’s house.
Monday brought the first positive piece of information we’d received since the start of the enquiry.
‘We’ve just had a call from a Mr Cyril Jefferson who lives in New Malden, sir.’ Colin Wilberforce came into my office clutching a message form. ‘He telephoned to report that he’d seen a man shooting at a tree in Richmond Park. He saw the piece in Friday’s newspapers about the murders at Richmond and Paddington and wondered if there was a connection.’
‘Did he say when this shooting took place, Colin?’
‘On Friday the fourth of July, sir.’
‘Perhaps the shooter was an American celebrating Independence Day,’ said Dave in an aside.
‘Oh, well,’ I said with a sigh, ‘I suppose we’d better go and see him, but I’ve no doubt it’ll be another dead end. Have you got a phone number for this Jefferson?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Give him a ring, then, and ask if he’s willing to see us.
Ten minutes later, having been assured that Cyril Jefferson was at home, Dave and I ventured forth to New Malden.
Jefferson was in his sixties and was a beige man: beige trousers, beige shirt, beige socks and beige shoes. And I’d’ve put money on him wearing a beige anorak when he went out.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock and this is Detective Sergeant Poole, Mr Jefferson,’ I said. ‘You telephoned my office to say that you’d seen a man shooting at a tree in Richmond Park early last month.’
‘I’m glad someone’s taking an interest at last. Please come in.’ Jefferson showed us into a small but comfortable room. ‘I rang Kingston police station straight after the incident and told them what I’d seen. They asked if the man had gone, and when I said he had, they told me that they’d make a note of it.’
‘Wonderful,’ commented Dave quietly. ‘Police work at its finest.’
‘I understand that this was on Friday the fourth of July,’ I said.
‘That’s correct. It must’ve been about eleven o’clock in the morning.’ Jefferson leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands linked. ‘I was out walking the dog at the time.’
‘Seems a long way to go from New Malden to walk the dog,’ I said.
‘I often drive out there and park the car. Raffles likes a bit of fresh air and the chance to romp around, don’t you, boy?’ Jefferson leaned down to tickle the ears of a large red setter. ‘He’s my only companion since the wife died,’ he said, looking up again.
‘Do you remember exactly where in the park this shooting took place, Mr Jefferson?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t describe it for you.’
‘If we took you back to the park would you be able to show us?’
Jefferson thought about that for a moment. ‘Yes, I think I would,’ he said eventually. ‘D’you want to go now?’
‘If that would suit you,’ I said, surprised at the man’s willingness to assist.
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ said Jefferson, and despite the warm weather, donned a beige anorak. ‘All right if I bring the dog?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
Dave parked the car inside Richmond Park’s Kingston gate and Jefferson led us off the road for about half a mile. Then he paused and looked around.
‘That was the tree, Chief Inspector.’ Jefferson pointed at an old oak.
‘Can you be certain, sir?’ asked Dave.
‘Oh yes. I always follow the same route when I take the dog for a walk. He likes this particular part of the park, don’t you, boy?’ Jefferson stooped to stroke the dog’s head. The dog ran off a few yards and started to sniff the ground.
We moved nearer and examined the tree that Jefferson had indicated. On close examination, I could see that there were at least three bullets embedded in its bark.
‘From what I can see, sir,’ said Dave, ‘I’m pretty sure that these are point-two-two calibre. But there are no shell cases anywhere.’
‘Either he was using an automatic pistol or he collected the cases or someone else did,’ I said. I didn’t mention in Jefferson’s presence that point-two-two was the calibre of round that had killed Eberhardt, Schmidt and Adekunle. But knowing our luck it would probably turn out to be a coincidence.
‘I’ll see if I can get a local SOCO to come out, sir. There are some stationed at the Surbiton lab in Hollyfield Road,’ said Dave, taking out his mobile. He still refused to call scenes-of-crime officers by their latest title of forensic practitioners. Probably because he guessed that it would soon be changed again by the funny names and total confusion squad at the Yard. ‘Might be a good idea to get one of them to extract the rounds from the tree. If I did it with a penknife it might damage them. And we’d better have a photographer take a few shots of the tree.’
It was a good point. One has to cover all the bases before giving evidence at a trial. Defence counsel have a nasty habit of asking completely irrelevant questions, and it’s always satisfying to confound them by having an answer.
‘And get on to the local nick to send a car out here to take Mr Jefferson home.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ said Jefferson. ‘I can catch a bus.’
‘It’s no trouble, Mr Jefferson,’ I said. ‘I’m very grateful to you. I’m sure that this will prove to be useful evidence.’ Whether it did or not, it was always a good thing to encourage those rare members of the public who assisted the police. ‘Did this man see you watching him?’
‘No, I don’t think so. I was over there,’ Jefferson said, indicating a clump of bushes with the stem of his pipe. ‘But Raffles barked when he heard the shots and the man ran off. The shots weren’t very loud. I’d’ve thought th
ey would’ve been louder.’
‘Did you see what happened to this man after he saw you, Mr Jefferson?’ I asked.
‘Not really. I followed at a discreet distance.’ Jefferson gave a rueful laugh. ‘One doesn’t want to get too near to a man with a gun.’
‘Very wise. But presumably you didn’t see where he went.’
‘Not with any degree of certainty, but as I reached the road, I saw a Volkswagen Polo driving out of the park at quite high speed. At least, I’m pretty sure it was a VW. But I’m not sure if the man I saw shooting at the tree was the man driving it.’
‘I don’t suppose you managed to get the number, did you?’ Dave asked hopefully.
‘No, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t.’ Jefferson sounded very apologetic at what he perceived to be a failure on his part. ‘But I did notice that the window at the back was broken. There was just a piece of cardboard there and it looked as though he’d fixed it in place with sticky tape.’
‘Was it the back window or a side window, sir?’ asked Dave, busily making notes in his pocketbook.
‘The nearside,’ said Jefferson promptly. ‘Some years ago I had a VW Polo, and one of those windows went on mine. It was a devil of a job to get a replacement. Mind you my old car was knocking on a bit.’ He chuckled. ‘Bit like me.’
‘Was the car you saw about the same age as the one you owned, Mr Jefferson?’ I asked.
‘I couldn’t tell you. I only caught a fleeting glimpse of it. But as I said, I’m not completely certain it was a VW.’
Dave invited Mr Jefferson to sit in our car and took a statement from him about what he had seen. A few minutes later a car arrived from Kingston police station to take our informant back to New Malden.
‘Once again, thank you for your assistance, Mr Jefferson,’ I said, and shook hands.
Fortunately a forensic examiner had been available at the Surbiton laboratory when Dave’s request went out, and ten minutes later a guy called Pearson arrived. He spent some time photographing the tree and the surrounding area, and finally extracted the rounds from it.
Dave went through the necessary paperwork to maintain continuity of evidence and we were about to leave the park when officialdom arrived.
‘What’s going on here, then?’ demanded a park keeper. ‘This is Crown property you know, and you have to have a licence to take photographs of the trees in this park.’
‘I’ve got a licence,’ said Dave, and thrust his warrant card under the park keeper’s nose.
‘Oh, right you are, guv’nor,’ said the park keeper and promptly retreated from the scene.
We left the park and made our way back to Curtis Green.
‘D’you think there’s anything in the fact that it was a Volkswagen, guv,’ asked Dave, as we joined the A308 for London. ‘Given the German connection. Or that it wasn’t far from Richmond.’
‘You’re clutching at straws, Dave,’ I said.
‘There aren’t any to clutch at,’ said Dave.
Back at Curtis Green, I arranged for a force-wide message to go out asking for any sightings of a Volkswagen Polo with a broken nearside window. I asked for details to be reported, but that the driver was not to be stopped or questioned. Being a realist, I held out little hope of it being traced, particularly as Cyril Jefferson had not been altogether sure that it was a VW.
I also asked Colin Wilberforce to enter the details on the police national computer in case nationwide checks on vehicles might identify the vehicle in question. It was always possible that an automatic number plate recognition unit would check the vehicle against the PNC. Although ANPR units did constant checks on moving traffic they were mainly searching for uninsured vehicles and other road traffic violations. But, as I’ve said before, Uniform Branch patrols often found someone for whom the CID had been searching for months. I lived in hope.
‘I checked George Deacon’s story, sir,’ said Wilberforce. ‘He and Miss Hardy did arrive at Heathrow when they said they did, and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police confirmed their story of staying in Calgary.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ I said. ‘I got the impression that they were telling the truth.’ That was another one off the list.
The murderer decided to get as far away as he could from his last address in Isleworth. He selected Greenwich for no better reason than that it was nearer to the Channel ports than central London. He intended to leave from Dover in the very near future and make his way back to Germany. Failing that, he would go to Harwich and thence to the Hook of Holland. He’d not been to the Netherlands before, but had heard that its people had a laissez-faire view of life, and that would suit him ideally.
He arrived in Greenwich and stopped at a newsagent’s shop. Intent upon finding somewhere to live, and once again relying on a local newspaper for advertisements of accommodation, he found what he wanted. He made his way to a general stores in a street not far from Trafalgar Road.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ A man in a brown warehouse coat was standing behind the counter of the empty shop.
‘I understand that you’ve got rooms to let.’ The man pointed at the appropriate entry in the paper. ‘According to this ad.’
‘That’s right. I’ll be happy to show you. I’ve got no one else staying here at the moment so you’ve got a choice.’ The shopkeeper, who introduced himself as Mr Martin, took a bunch of keys from a hook next to the computerized cash register. He led the way through a door at the back of the shop and up a flight of stairs to the first floor.
That there were no other people occupying the accommodation suited the murderer ideally.
‘There are two rooms and a bathroom on this floor, and one on the top floor at the front,’ said Martin. ‘But there’s a separate bathroom next to that one, so you might prefer that, having that floor all to yourself, so to speak.’
The murderer didn’t have to think twice about making a choice. He’d rather be alone on the top floor and have the benefit of a bathroom that other tenants, if any arrived, would be unlikely to use. The fewer people who saw him the better.
‘I like top floors,’ the man said unconvincingly. ‘Can I have a look at that one?’
‘Certainly.’ Martin, followed by the murderer, mounted the second flight and unlocked a door.
The accommodation was minimal: a large rug on bare boards, a bed, a table with an upright chair, and an armchair that had seen better days. ‘I’m afraid there’s no TV,’ he said apologetically.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said the murderer. ‘There’s never very much to watch these days. I’ll take it.’ He reached an agreement with Martin and paid a week’s rent in advance.
‘I’ll give you a rent book later on,’ said Martin. ‘What’s your name?’
The murderer didn’t hesitate. ‘Derek Ford,’ he said.
‘Incidentally, I don’t live on the premises,’ said Martin, pausing at the door. ‘I’ll give you a key to the side door, but please make sure you lock it if you go out, and when you come back. There are a lot of criminals in this area these days.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said the murderer.
No sooner had I finished briefing Wilberforce about Jefferson’s discovery than another call came in. This time from Hounslow police station. A man named Donald Ives had called in that morning expressing concern about one of his tenants who had left with what he told the police was ‘unseemly haste’. Ives wondered whether it had anything to do with the three murders that had been reported in the press.
This report was, I suspected, one of many we were likely to receive and would probably be irrelevant, but it had to be followed up. That, I’m afraid, was one of the penalties of telling the press that you wanted help from the public in finding a murderer.
‘What’s the address, Colin?’
‘This is it, sir.’ Wilberforce handed me a slip of paper bearing Donald Ives’s particulars.
‘Here we go again, Dave,’ I said.
‘We decided to let the room,’ said Ives, admitting us
to his house, ‘once our daughter got married and fled the nest. We thought we’d make a few bob now that it was no longer being used.’
‘Tell me about the man who lived here, Mr Ives,’ I said.
‘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.
