Gunrunner by Graham Ison Read Free Book Online

in front of a double garage. The car’s registration mark indicated that it was this year’s model.
    ‘You won’t get much change out of forty grand for that beauty,’ said Dave, as he parked our bottom-of-the-range CID runabout next to it.
    A young woman, probably in her twenties, answered the door. She was tall and slender with short blonde, carefully-styled hair, and all her curves were in the right places. Her blue eyes gazed at us enquiringly.
    ‘May I help you, please?’
    ‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘I’d like to speak to Mr and Mrs King.’
    ‘May I ask who you are?’ The request was delivered in almost perfect English, but with a slight accent that sounded vaguely Scandinavian. I imagined her to be an au pair, or whatever they call home helps these days.
    ‘We’re police officers, miss,’ I said.
    ‘Please come in.’ The girl opened the door wide, and we stepped into a white-tiled hall. There was a large circular table in the centre, and a broad staircase that wound its way up one wall leading to a gallery that ran the full width of the far end. There were several doors off this gallery that I imagined led to bedrooms.
    ‘This guy must be worth a mint, guv,’ whispered Dave, gazing round at the sheer opulence of the Kings’ residence.
    The girl disappeared into a room on the right, but returned almost immediately. ‘Please come this way,’ she said, leading us into the room she’d just left. ‘The police officers, Mr King,’ she announced.
    ‘Thank you, Ingrid.’
    ‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock from Scotland Yard, sir,’ I said, by way of introduction, ‘and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’
    ‘I’m Charles King.’ The speaker was a tall man, probably in his early sixties. Casually dressed, he was wearing tan-coloured trousers and a polo-necked cashmere sweater. ‘This is my wife, Diana.’ He took a hand out his pocket to indicate a middle-aged grey-haired woman, very much of the twinset and pearls variety, who was reclining in an armchair. ‘Please sit down.’ He remained standing in front of the York-stone fireplace in which a log fire was burning. There was a Christmas tree in the corner, its fairy lights making a bright addition to the soft illumination of the two or three table lamps that were dotted around the room. ‘Is there some sort of trouble, Chief Inspector?’
    ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mr King,’ I said, as I started on the difficult task that policemen dislike the most. ‘It’s about your daughter Kerry.’
    ‘Oh good Lord! What’s she been up to now?’ A half smile played around King’s lips.
    There was no easy way. ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that she was found murdered in a car park at Heathrow Airport on Christmas Day.’
    ‘Murdered?’ The smile on King’s face was instantly replaced by a stunned look of disbelief.
    ‘I’m afraid so.’ I glanced at Mrs King. She was sitting perfectly still, a slight frown on her face, but displaying no immediate reaction to the tragic news that I’d just delivered. It appeared very much as though she was unable to take it in.
    ‘God, this is awful.’ Charles King crossed the room to a table and poured himself a large brandy with a trembling hand. He turned and glanced at me, the decanter still in his hand. ‘I’m sorry, would you like something?’
    ‘No thank you, sir,’ I said.
    ‘You say that Kerry was murdered.’ King crossed the room a little unsteadily and sat down in the armchair next to his wife’s. ‘What are the circumstances, Chief Inspector?’ he asked, resting his brandy glass on the arm.
    ‘She was found in her car, Mr King, and she’d been stabbed. Beyond that, there is very little I can tell you at this stage.’
    ‘Has Nick been told?’ King took a sip of brandy.
    ‘We’ve just come from the airport, sir,’ said Dave. ‘We met Mr Hammond off a New York flight and broke the news to him.’ He went on to explain how Nicholas Hammond had left for the