what we found at the scene.’
Hector read through the statement Harlow handed him and signed it. ‘I heard from Sergeant Evans that the two perpetrators were dead when you found them,’ he said.
‘That is correct, Mr Cross,’ Harlow confirmed.
‘Have you managed to identify them, Inspector?’
‘Yes. We had an immediate match on their fingerprints. Both of them have criminal records.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a thin sheaf of papers. He passed them one at a time across the desk to Hector. The first was a police mugshot. Hector recognized it at once.
‘Yes! He was the driver of the motorcycle.’
Harlow dropped his eyes to the papers in his hand and read aloud. ‘His name was Victor Emmanuel Dadu. Twenty-four years old. British citizen. Born in Birmingham. Both parents emigrated from Kenya in 1981. No fixed address. Three criminal convictions. Served six months in 2004 in Feltham Young Offenders Institution for car theft; three months in 2009 for aggravated robbery; three months in 2011 for public violence, mixed up in the 2011 summer riots. In all other respects a nice sweet boy.’ He turned over the next sheet of paper and passed it to Hector.
‘Yes.’ Hector glanced at the photograph. ‘That’s the shooter, the filthy little swine who murdered my wife.’
Harlow frowned at the outburst but went on reading from the papers in his hand. ‘He was Ayan Brightboy Daimar. Age twenty-three years. Born in Mogadishu, Somalia. Illegal immigrant. Served one year in 2009 for housebreaking and burglary. Appealed against deportation and was granted refugee status in 2010.’
Hector nodded noncommittally, pleased that his first appraisal had been confirmed. Somalia. Another pointer towards the Tippoo Tip clan. It’s starting to come together neatly, he thought, and looked across at Harlow.
‘Is there anything else I can do to assist you?’ he asked.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Cross. If I need to speak to you again I have your contact details. If we are able to apprehend the driver of the French van we will need you to give evidence at his trial. Once again, my deepest condolences on the death of your wife. Please rest assured that we will leave no stone unturned to find all those involved in this dreadful business.’
On the way back to Brandon Hall Hector stopped at the Flag and Bear at Smallbridge. He finished half a serving of greasy cottage pie and less than half a pint of warm draught beer before the bold stares and pointed remarks of two heavily made-up young ladies seated at the bar began to annoy him. He drove back to the Hall, took a couple of Melatonin and fell into the big double bed.
He woke in the dawn to the sense of something terribly wrong. He lay and listened for her breathing. The silence was complete. Without opening his eyes, he reached for her but the sheets on her side of the bed were cold. He opened his eyes and turned his head and saw that she was truly gone. Then the pain began again, like a deep-rooted cancer, unrelenting and scarcely endurable.
*
He had to have a focus for his anger and his hatred. He jumped out of the bed and went to the bathroom. As soon as he had showered he went down to his study. He switched on his desktop computer. Even though he knew it was much too soon, he hoped that Paddy had something for him already. However, as soon as he opened his email account he saw that his inbox was overloaded. He skimmed through the first few email messages and saw they were all messages of condolence. He realized what had happened.
The rabid dogs of the press had the story. How had they got on to it so quickly?
Against his better judgement, he opened the home page of the Sun, one of Rupert Murdoch’s notorious rags. Above a photograph of Hazel in furs and diamonds descending from her Rolls with Hector in the background the headline blared out at him: ‘Billionairess gunned down on country road – Kills two of her attackers before she dies.’
It
Hector read through the statement Harlow handed him and signed it. ‘I heard from Sergeant Evans that the two perpetrators were dead when you found them,’ he said.
‘That is correct, Mr Cross,’ Harlow confirmed.
‘Have you managed to identify them, Inspector?’
‘Yes. We had an immediate match on their fingerprints. Both of them have criminal records.’ He opened a drawer in his desk and brought out a thin sheaf of papers. He passed them one at a time across the desk to Hector. The first was a police mugshot. Hector recognized it at once.
‘Yes! He was the driver of the motorcycle.’
Harlow dropped his eyes to the papers in his hand and read aloud. ‘His name was Victor Emmanuel Dadu. Twenty-four years old. British citizen. Born in Birmingham. Both parents emigrated from Kenya in 1981. No fixed address. Three criminal convictions. Served six months in 2004 in Feltham Young Offenders Institution for car theft; three months in 2009 for aggravated robbery; three months in 2011 for public violence, mixed up in the 2011 summer riots. In all other respects a nice sweet boy.’ He turned over the next sheet of paper and passed it to Hector.
‘Yes.’ Hector glanced at the photograph. ‘That’s the shooter, the filthy little swine who murdered my wife.’
Harlow frowned at the outburst but went on reading from the papers in his hand. ‘He was Ayan Brightboy Daimar. Age twenty-three years. Born in Mogadishu, Somalia. Illegal immigrant. Served one year in 2009 for housebreaking and burglary. Appealed against deportation and was granted refugee status in 2010.’
Hector nodded noncommittally, pleased that his first appraisal had been confirmed. Somalia. Another pointer towards the Tippoo Tip clan. It’s starting to come together neatly, he thought, and looked across at Harlow.
‘Is there anything else I can do to assist you?’ he asked.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Cross. If I need to speak to you again I have your contact details. If we are able to apprehend the driver of the French van we will need you to give evidence at his trial. Once again, my deepest condolences on the death of your wife. Please rest assured that we will leave no stone unturned to find all those involved in this dreadful business.’
On the way back to Brandon Hall Hector stopped at the Flag and Bear at Smallbridge. He finished half a serving of greasy cottage pie and less than half a pint of warm draught beer before the bold stares and pointed remarks of two heavily made-up young ladies seated at the bar began to annoy him. He drove back to the Hall, took a couple of Melatonin and fell into the big double bed.
He woke in the dawn to the sense of something terribly wrong. He lay and listened for her breathing. The silence was complete. Without opening his eyes, he reached for her but the sheets on her side of the bed were cold. He opened his eyes and turned his head and saw that she was truly gone. Then the pain began again, like a deep-rooted cancer, unrelenting and scarcely endurable.
*
He had to have a focus for his anger and his hatred. He jumped out of the bed and went to the bathroom. As soon as he had showered he went down to his study. He switched on his desktop computer. Even though he knew it was much too soon, he hoped that Paddy had something for him already. However, as soon as he opened his email account he saw that his inbox was overloaded. He skimmed through the first few email messages and saw they were all messages of condolence. He realized what had happened.
The rabid dogs of the press had the story. How had they got on to it so quickly?
Against his better judgement, he opened the home page of the Sun, one of Rupert Murdoch’s notorious rags. Above a photograph of Hazel in furs and diamonds descending from her Rolls with Hector in the background the headline blared out at him: ‘Billionairess gunned down on country road – Kills two of her attackers before she dies.’
It
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