The slow, pedantic ritual began. Thirty-five minutes later, when the photographers and forensic men had arrived, Muncaster appeared.
The Chief Superintendent had a long nose and very little hair. His manner was quiet but abrupt. ‘All right, Hawn, you found the body. That makes you a witness. Now, there’s a little pub up the road called The Falcon. It’s about closing time, but I know the manager. Then you can tell me what you’re doing in Sussex Gardens.’
The last customers had left half-an-hour ago and the barman had finished washing the glasses and locked up. Hawn had told his story from Venice to his 999 call, omitting nothing.
Detective Chief Superintendent Cyril Muncaster sat drawing wet rings on the table top. ‘Hawn, there’s one thing that good policemen and good journalists have in common. We deal in facts. Not theories, fantasies. Facts. Evidence. Proof.’
‘You’ve already got those two sneak-thieves yesterday at the L.S.E. And what about the hired cars?’
‘We’ve given Mr “Bunnie” Regan a rap over the knuckles for that. But he won’t go down for murder. He rented the cars to a foreigner — strong accent, thought he was German. We’re circulating a description, but it might fit half the male master-race.’ He sipped the dregs of his glass. ‘Now you say that you last saw French alive three days ago, and you hadn’t seen him before that for nearly two years? You say he gave you some useful info, about ABCO? And you paid him for it?’
Hawn said nothing.
‘But you’ve absolutely no idea what French wanted to talk to you about this evening? And don’t hold out on me, or my God I’ll make your life so bloody miserable you’ll want to emigrate.’
‘I only know he said it was something important — something he couldn’t talk about over the phone. What about those two guests he had earlier? They’re the obvious ones, aren’t they?’
‘Yes, we’ve got a good description of them from the lady downstairs. Smartly dressed — again, foreigners. She wasn’t sure about the accent. They were obviously known to French — he was probably expecting them. You noticed that he was smoking a cigarette when they killed him? No sign of a struggle. Messy, but it had the advantage of cutting the vocal chords so quickly that there wouldn’t have been time for him to scream. Then they went through the room. The forensic boys have got a lot of sets of prints, but I doubt we’ll have them on record. Foreigners, professionals — you know.’
He stared into his glass. ‘For the moment, Hawn, I’m treating your problems and this murder as two separate cases. Now, do you know if Norman French had any enemies?’
‘He wasn’t a particularly lovable character. He knew a lot of people, but I don’t think many of them were friends.’
‘I didn’t ask if he could win a popularity contest. Did he have any enemies?’
‘There was an incident about six months ago. French had come back from the States where he’d been working for ABCO, and had apparently been involved in some dirty work and got the sack. But he was living it up — more or less on his new American wife’s money. I went to a party at their place, and just as I was leaving I overheard a row going on between French and an American, who was drunk. At least, the row was on the American’s side. French was just trying to keep his end up. The American was accusing him of every kind of swindle, and shouting that he had ruined several people. I think he said something like, “Nobody skims cream off us and gets away with it”. He’s called Don Robak — the one I told you about whom I met in Venice. Senior European executive with ABCO.’
‘We’ll put a call out for him,’ Muncaster said: but his face portrayed nothing.
Hawn continued: ‘There’s one thing you haven’t asked me about. French’s connection with Toby Shanklin. Shanklin, remember, first suggested I went to French.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Muncaster said moodily. ‘I understood that Shanklin was just trying to be helpful? But I’ll be frank with you — Shanklin’s an important man, he has important friends. I’m not going to put my career at stake by dragging him into a murder case unless I’ve got damn good evidence.’
‘Shanklin’s somehow tied up in all this — I’m certain of it. All right, I don’t have the facts, or the proof. But I’ve got a hunch. Don’t policemen work on hunches too?’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Muncaster said, standing up. ‘I’ll walk you back to your car.’
There was an ambulance in the street outside the hotel. A crowd was being held back fifty feet away. A huge ‘mobile’ in white helmet and breeches placed a leather gauntlet into the middle of Hawn’s chest and said, ‘And where do you think you’re going?’
‘Piss off,’ Muncaster said.
Two men in white coats had come out of the hotel, their pink rubber gloves smeared red. Hawn finally got his Citroën out, after one of the Pandas had had to be moved, and drove back to the fiat. Anna was asleep, and he did not wake her.
CHAPTER 11
Hawn and Anna took three leisurely days to reach San Sebastian, where they spent a day on the beach, braced by the chill Atlantic and the fresh September breezes. Hawn needed time to rest, to think. Doktor Hans Dieter Mönch may have been an old man, but he had survived more than thirty years since the war, and another few days wasn’t likely to make much difference. Besides, French’s death had given the whole scheme of things a deeper dimension.
They spent another two days driving over
