Gunrunner by Graham Ison Page A

right now, Bligh was beginning to look that way.
    ‘I helped Dick Lucas build up this business from scratch, you know, Mr Brock.’ Bligh poured more whisky into his glass and stared at it moodily. ‘In fact, we worked at it together, driving our first two trucks ourselves, and working our damned fingers to the bone. Every day and every hour that God gave. And this is all the thanks I get for it. It was bad enough when Dick died and left the company to Kerry, but at least she made a good fist of running it. But Nick Hammond’ll spend all the profits and run it into the ground. That guy is a tosser, pure and simple.’
    There was something at the back of my mind that told me that he and Thorpe could, should they so desire, take legal proceedings to have Nicholas Hammond removed as managing director. Especially if his stewardship proved to be detrimental to the running of the company. But I kept my silence; I know very little of civil law. No doubt the company solicitor would advise them, for a hefty fee.
    ‘Where were you on Christmas Eve?’ asked Dave.
    The suddenness of the question caught Bligh unawares. ‘Er, Christmas Eve. I was, um . . . yes, of course, I was at home with the wife.’
    ‘Wrapping the kids’ Christmas presents no doubt,’ suggested Dave.
    ‘We don’t have any children,’ responded Bligh sharply. ‘Anne and I have tried, but it was no good. We’re thinking of trying the IVF programme now, or even adoption.’
    ‘Were you at home all day?’ Dave was not greatly interested in Mrs Bligh’s childbearing problems.
    ‘Until the evening, yes. We had the usual Christmas party at The Bull, the pub round the corner from here. We hold it there every Christmas Eve, in a big private room upstairs. It’s a way of saying thank you to all the boys and girls who work for us, but I think it’ll probably be the last one.’
    ‘Why is that?’ asked Dave.
    ‘It’s the recession, of course,’ said Bligh, as though the answer was obvious. ‘The state of the economy means that we have to watch every penny.’
    ‘Presumably there were people at this party who saw you there,’ said Dave.
    ‘My wife was with me, along with Carl Thorpe and his missus,’ said Bligh, ‘and there were about eighty others,’ he added, somewhat sarcastically. ‘They’ll vouch for me if necessary, but I hope you’re not thinking that I had anything to do with Kerry’s murder.’
    ‘Where d’you live, Mr Bligh?’ Dave asked the question casually, as if he were collecting inconsequential information.
    ‘Hatton. Carmen Avenue. I’ve always thought that Carmen Avenue is a suitable sort of name for a road that a haulier lives in, don’t you think?’ Bligh gave a nervous laugh.
    Dave made a note in his pocketbook, but said nothing. He didn’t have to; we both knew that Hatton was practically within walking distance of Heathrow Airport.
    ‘I’ve no doubt that both the company solicitor and Mr Hammond will be in touch with you shortly to finalize details, Mr Bligh,’ I said. With that we left Bernard Bligh to mull over a future under the thumb of Nicholas Hammond. As we got into the car, Dave gave voice to what I was thinking.
    ‘I reckon we might have another murder on our hands before long, guv, once Hammond starts interfering.’
    ‘One’s enough,’ I said. ‘But while we’re in the area, we’ll pop into The Bull and check Bligh’s alibi.’
    The bottle-blonde barmaid was definitely in her forties, but probably claimed to be forever thirty-something, and had the appearance of a resting soap actress: curvaceous and brassy.
    ‘What can I get you, love?’
    ‘The licensee, if he’s around,’ I said. ‘But in the meantime, I’ll have a pint of best bitter, and my friend here will have an orange squash.’
    ‘On the wagon, then, is he?’ asked the barmaid.
    ‘No, he’s driving.’
    The barmaid, whose name tag proclaimed her to be Yvonne, laughed. ‘I shouldn’t worry, love. You never see a copper