‘And that was definitely the last you saw of him, was it?’
‘Yes, he never came back. I did suggest that if he wanted to practise with an automatic, he’d have to go to another country. I suggested Germany. There are a lot of gun clubs there using all manner of weapons.’
‘Did this Ford character have a car, sir?’ asked Dave.
‘Not that I know of,’ said the secretary, ‘but I don’t have a view of the road from my office.’
‘Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen,’ I said. The armourer’s suggestion that the disappearing Derek Ford might try Germany for practice made me wonder if he had done so and if any weapons had been reported stolen there. But that was something I’d have to take up with Horst Fischer.
In order to round off our Birmingham enquiry, Dave and I called at New Street railway station.
The clerk in the left luggage office greeted us by grumbling about pressure of work, the bloody-mindedness of the public and Network Rail, the organization that managed this particular part of the railway. I don’t know what he thought the police could do about it.
That out of the way, the clerk condescended to thumb through a couple of books and told us that there was no record of any one called Derek Ford depositing any baggage in June or at any time afterwards. But I got the impression that the left-luggage clerk was not the most conscientious of record keepers.
We returned the West Midlands policeman to his station and made for London. We were on the M6 before Dave mentioned this latest twist in our investigation.
‘It strikes me that this Derek Ford took the room with Mrs Patel so that he’d have an address in the Birmingham area if the gun club checked. I don’t think he ever intended to stay there.’
‘It certainly looks like it, Dave. Although it seems as though they didn’t bother to follow it up, or ask any pertinent questions.’
‘And that is why I asked the local police the question about the airport, guv. I reckon that Ford established himself as a resident at somewhere near the gun club to provide the secretary with bona fide proof of identity, but actually intended to travel to the club from wherever he lived. In the event he didn’t bother to join and that was possibly because he couldn’t get his hands on an automatic.’
‘But he did suggest to Mrs Patel that he’d be going to New Street station to pick up his baggage.’
‘I know, guv, but he didn’t, did he? So far, all we can be certain of is that he’s a liar.’
‘All we have to do now is find out his permanent address, if he has one,’ I added gloomily. The task of trying to find a man named Derek Ford somewhere in the United Kingdom was a mammoth one.
‘If Derek Ford is his real name,’ said Dave.
‘And if he hasn’t taken up the club armourer’s suggestion of going to Germany,’ I said.
‘But at least we know that there was a Derek Ford staying in Isleworth until quite recently,’ said Dave. ‘So he could be a Londoner, if it’s the same guy.’
Waiting until Mr Martin, the shopkeeper, had locked up and left for home, the man calling himself Derek Ford made his way downstairs. He tried the communicating door to the general stores on the ground floor and was delighted to find that it was unlocked.
Spending a few minutes searching the crowded shelves, he eventually found what he was looking for: a claw hammer and a jemmy.
Returning to the second flight of stairs he took off his jacket and began the laborious task of removing every other tread. In the event it wasn’t too difficult; the wood was old and even rotten in some places.
It was positively criminal, renting out a dangerous place like this
, he thought cynically. Finally, he eased one of the remaining treads, but left it in place so that it would creak if anyone stepped on it.
When he’d finished, he took the tools he’d borrowed back to the shop, left them on the counter, and returned to his room, carefully avoiding the missing treads while holding on to the rickety banister rail.
Once back in his room, he checked his automatic pistol and loaded it, just as he’d been taught to do at Sandhurst. Not that he thought he’d need to use it. He was planning to cross the Channel in the next few days and eventually make for Brazil, as Ronnie Biggs of the infamous Great Train Robbery had done in 1970. But he was labouring under the mistaken belief that he couldn’t be extradited from there.
We arrived at Curtis Green at about five, having stopped off at Toddington Services on the M1 motorway for a belated bite to eat.
Assuming for the moment that Derek Ford was a strong suspect for our three murders, I sat in my office for an hour pondering the problem of finding him. There were quite a few channels of enquiry open to me, among them the General Register of Births, Deaths and Marriages; the Passport Office; and the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency. Not that the latter would have recorded details of a broken window on a Volkswagen Golf. Unfortunately. And that was assuming that the VW Cyril Jefferson had seen was being driven by the killer.
But each of those sources was likely to throw up a fair number of men named Derek Ford, even those in their mid-twenties, and it would take days if not months to interview each of them because they could be anywhere in the country. And even then we might not find him if the name he’d given was not his real name. It was a possibility that Dave had suggested on our way back from Birmingham. In fact the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that he had used a false name. No murderer in his right mind would apply for membership of a gun club and use his real name when approaching its officials. That said, I’ve always believed that murderers are not of sound mind anyway.
In theory, the club should’ve demanded some substantial documentary proof of identity, but I knew that such requirements were more often honoured in the breach. The fact that he’d produced the rent book with which Mrs Patel had provided him was not in my view sufficient to meet legal requirements.
In the meantime, of course, and still assuming Ford was the killer, there was a very good chance that he would by now have fled abroad. And if he had any sense it would be to somewhere that did not have an extradition treaty with the UK. Like Congo, Mali, Syria or Iran. But he’d have to be mad to go to any of those places.
For the time being, however, I told Colin Wilberforce to make a PNC entry giving details of what additional information we knew of the mysterious Derek Ford.
‘And when you’ve done that, Colin,’ I said, ‘perhaps you’d see if you can trace any flights in and out of Birmingham Airport that he might’ve taken from, say, the first of June.’
‘Right, sir. Incidentally, there aren’t any direct flights between London and Birmingham, but I’ll see what I can do.’ Wilberforce turned to his computer. ‘Of course,’ he said, swinging back to face me again, ‘if he lives in the London area, it would have been quicker for him to go by train. Or he could drive. He could have done it in about two and a half hours. You’d waste that much time checking in and going through security at an airport.’
‘Yes, I know, Colin,’ I said. ‘Dave and I just did that drive. But Ford could live anywhere in the UK.’
‘Or the world,’ put in Dave. ‘Unless, as I suggested, he’s the same Derek Ford who did a runner from Isleworth.’
I’d only been in my office for ten minutes when Colin Wilberforce came in.
‘There are over twenty airlines using Birmingham International Airport, sir, but fortunately the airport keeps a central computer record of all passengers passing through the airport. It’s something to do with anti-terrorism.’
‘Thank God for that,’ I said.
‘However, sir,’ said Wilberforce, ‘they have no trace of a Derek Ford going in or out of the airport at any time after the first of June.’
‘Thanks, Colin. No more than I expected. But it does seem to point to his having arrived there by train or driven there from London. Perhaps in a Volkswagen Polo,’ I added hopefully, but that was too much to expect. No one had seen Ford in a car in the Birmingham area, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t arrived there in one.
I sent for Dave and Kate Ebdon and brought Kate up to date on the result of our Birmingham enquiries.
‘Have a word with the Ministry of Defence, Kate, and see if they can give you any information about this Derek Ford. He told the armourer at the gun club in Birmingham that he was ex-military, but if he gave them and Mrs Patel a false name we aren’t going to get anywhere. It’s worth a shot, though.’
‘To coin a phrase,’ muttered Dave.
I telephoned Horst Fischer in Essen and told him about our enquiries in Birmingham.
‘If this man Ford did go to Germany with the intention of acquiring a gun, Horst, I was wondering if you had any reports of a stolen weapon in, say, the last couple of months.’
‘Let me have a look, Harry,’ said Fischer, and once again I heard the telltale tapping of a computer keyboard. ‘We’ve had reports of seven firearms stolen nationwide since the beginning of June. Six were from private property, but one was from a gun club on the outskirts of Essen. But losers don’t always report a loss, especially if they’re criminals.’
‘We have a similar problem, Horst.’
‘I’ll make some enquiries and call you back, Harry. You say the man gave the name of Derek Ford?’
‘That’s the name he gave the club in Birmingham, Horst, but I doubt that it was his real name.’
H
orst Fischer rang me back the following morning.
‘A bit of luck, I think, Harry. I’ve spoken to officials at the gun club here who reported the loss of a firearm, and they had a new English member. And he gave the name of Douglas Forbes.’
‘Can they be sure, Horst?’
‘There can be no doubt about it. He produced a British passport as evidence of his identity. He attended only a few times, but after the last time he was there, the armourer found that a point-two-two calibre High Standard Supermatic Trophy pistol was missing. They reported it to us, and details of Forbes were circulated to Interpol, but we’ve heard nothing since. I suppose they’ll send out a green-corner circular in due course.’
‘I hope so, Horst,’ I said, not having much faith in the ability of Interpol to move with any degree of alacrity. A green-corner circular is sent to member nations asking for certain criminals to be watched. But no such Interpol information had appeared on the PNC. If it had, Wilberforce would’ve spotted it immediately.
‘By the way, Harry, we’ve released Wilhelm Weber, the man who lent his camper van to Eberhardt,’ said Fischer. ‘I’m satisfied he didn’t know anything about Eberhardt’s activities.’
It was after that conversation with Fischer, that Kate Ebdon came into my office.
‘No luck with Derek Ford at the Ministry of Defence, guv, but—’
‘Doesn’t matter, Kate. Try this one.’ I gave her the details of Douglas Forbes that Fischer had passed on.
Half an hour later she returned. ‘I think we’ve got a result, guv,’ she said, waving a sheet of paper. ‘The army turned up Douglas Forbes in their records with the same date of birth; he’s now aged twenty-five. Apparently he was accepted for the Royal Military Academy six years ago, but after two months at Sandhurst turned out not to be up to their exacting standards. They didn’t specify what his shortcomings were, but as a result he was returned to his unit and discharged from the army.’
‘We’re getting somewhere at last, Kate.’
‘And some, guv. I interrogated the General Register Office’s computer at Southport and came up with some interesting connections.’
‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense.’
‘Douglas Forbes is the only son of Philip and Nancy Forbes.’ Kate looked up with a wide smile and an expression of triumph on her face. ‘And Nancy Forbes, née Fairfax, is the daughter of Catherine, Lady Fairfax and the late General Sir Michael Fairfax.’
‘Got him!’ I exclaimed, although I was doubtful that it had been that easy. ‘Well done, Kate.’
‘Unfortunately I haven’t been able to find an address for Douglas Forbes, or for his parents.’
‘At least we know where Lady Fairfax lives, Kate. That’ll be a good starting point, but I don’t know how we’re going to break it to her that we suspect her grandson of being a murderer.’
‘If he is,’ said Kate.
‘He’s got to be, Kate. His grandmother was swindled out of forty grand. If that’s not a motive, I don’t know what is.’
‘Unless someone assumed his identity, guv.’
‘But why should they do that?’
‘Perhaps Lucien Carter masqueraded as Forbes,’ said Kate, throwing cold water on her own discovery. ‘Assume for a moment that Carter had been swindled by Eberhardt, Schmidt and Adekunle. He might’ve decided to take them out. And he’d’ve known who Forbes was. Carter’s little firm had seen Forbes’s grandmother off for forty grand.’
‘Unfortunately, that’s not now easily resolved,’ I said. ‘And I doubt that Carter would’ve known of Douglas Forbes’s existence. Anyway, Carter’s dead. Someone topped him in Rikers, but I suppose the FBI agents in New York found out what he’d been up to before he was stabbed to death. Although Joe Daly said that according to Carter’s passport, he hasn’t been out of the States for some years. No, it’s got to be Forbes in person.’
‘D’you think Lady Fairfax will give up her grandson?’ asked Kate.
‘There’s one way of finding out.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘You and I will pay her a visit this afternoon.’
During the drive out to Pinner, I’d been turning over in my mind how best to broach the thorny subject of Douglas Forbes. By the time we arrived at Lady Fairfax’s house, I’d formulated a rough plan.
Catherine Fairfax might’ve been in her late seventies, but she was still very alert and recognized me immediately.
‘Chief Inspector, do come in. Have you got some good news for me?’
‘I’m afraid not, Lady Fairfax,’ I said, as we followed her into her sitting room.
Catherine Fairfax glanced at Kate, and I effected an introduction.
‘This is Kate Ebdon, Lady Fairfax, one of my detective inspectors.’
‘How d’you do, my dear.’ Lady Fairfax shook hands.
‘Ripper, m’lady, thanks.’ Kate always interpreted that quintessential English greeting as if it were a genuine enquiry into the state of her health.