‘Right. And you on benefits as well, Mister Henson,’ said PC Vine pointedly.
‘It was a gift.’
‘Sure it was.’ Bennett opened the door and passed on to the next room, slightly larger and with two single beds in it. It was neatly arranged, no clothes strewn on the floor. No Matt Henson, either. The bathroom and smaller bedroom also proved to be empty, the smell in the second bedroom pretty much making it clear to Bennett that it was used by Henson senior. He backed out of the room and gestured to Danny Vine. ‘Check under the beds.’
The kitchen ahead was empty and windowless and Bennett turned the handle on the door of the last remaining room on the left. It was locked.
‘You can’t go in there. You’ve got no right.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Bennett, smiling affably. ‘I brought a skeleton key.’
He raised his foot and kicked the door at the level of the lock. There was a loud crack and the door flew open. ‘Fits all locks,’ he said and headed into the darkened room.
‘You’re going to pay for that.’
‘Don’t bet on it.’
Adam Henson looked back at Danny Vine as he came out of Henson’s bedroom. ‘Just keep your hands off his stuff,’ he said to the young constable, clearly conflicted about which way to go. Finally he followed Bennett into the darkened room. ‘It’s not illegal,’ he muttered as the detective inspector flicked on the light switch.
Black drapes hung over the front window. The walls were painted black and there was a red carpet underfoot. On the wall opposite DI Bennett was a flag: a red rectangle with a white circle in the middle of it and in the centre of the circle a black swastika. On the adjoining wall were pictures of Hitler and other high-ranking members of the Nazi party. Bennett shook his head at the cliched stupidity of it all and then stopped and laughed out loud, despite himself. Among the black-and-white photos of Hitler and his generals was also a signed and framed picture of a well-known and glamorous personality.
Bennett looked at the photo more closely, slightly puzzled.
‘That’s Mariella Frostrup,’ said Henson proudly. ‘I reckon we’re related.’
Bennett looked at the squat, bloated man, thinking that they were probably related in the same way that a toad is related to a human being. Actually, the more he thought about it, Henson had more in common with a toad than he did with a human being.
‘And how do you reckon that?’ he asked.
‘Henson is a Scandinavian name, isn’t it?’ Henson said.
Bennett shook his head, bemused. ‘Yeah – must be true, then.’
There were a number of display cases in the room and the detective inspector crossed the red carpet to look at them. Some with paperwork, others with more photos, one had a hat with a card reading
‘Your day will come, Sambo,’ said Henson, not even attempting to hide the curl to his lip as he said it.
‘Sambo?’ replied the constable, flashing a wide grin. ‘How delightfully retro.’
‘You can put a monkey in a suit and train it to dance for a banana. Doesn’t make him a human. Just a monkey in a suit—’
‘Shut your fucking mouth, Henson!’ said Bennett, cutting him short. ‘Where’s the knife that’s missing from this cabinet?’
Henson shrugged, his jowls wobbling but with a definite sheen of sweat on them now.
‘I bought the case as a piece. There never was a knife in it.’
‘And where’s your son? Where’s Matt?’
The portly man shrugged again. ‘He’s free to come and go as he pleases.’
‘Not any more.’
‘Right, well, do you two want to fuck off now?’ Henson looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got an appointment with a pint of lager, if that’s all the same to you.’
Bennett shook his head. ‘Well, it’s not all the same to me. You’re coming down the nick. We can discuss things a bit more down there.’
‘On what charge?’
Bennett tapped the back of a knuckle on the glass of the display case.
‘You have some illegal weapons here.’
‘That’s genuine memorabilia.’
‘The sword, maybe,’ Bennett said. ‘But, and I quote, Section 141 of the Criminal Justice Act 1988 dealing with offensive weapons lists among other items, “a band of metal or other hard material worn on one or more fingers, and designed to cause injury”.’ He tapped the display case again. ‘To wit, a knuckleduster.’ He smiled humourlessly. ‘You, my fat friend, are nicked!’
Henson looked at Bennett and across at PC Vine. Then he pushed Bennett, knocking him back against the display cabinet, and charged towards the open doorway. The young constable, however, had the presence of mind to leave a foot strategically placed and the sixteen stone of Adam Henson crashed like a felled log in the corridor
