her. Of course I do.’
‘When did you last have contact with Mrs Hammond, Mr Rodriguez?’ I used the word ‘contact’ deliberately; Rodriguez had made several phone calls to Kerry Hammond’s mobile over the preceding few days, far more than was warranted by someone whose relationship was ostensibly one of club owner and patroness.
‘I think she and her husband was here perhaps a week ago.’
‘That wasn’t the question,’ said Dave. ‘My chief inspector asked when you last had contact with Mrs Hammond.’
‘Ah, you mean on the telephone perhaps, señor ?’
‘Yes, I mean on the telephone perhaps,’ said Dave slowly, as though dealing with an idiot.
Rodriguez glanced nervously at Nicola, obviously wondering why she was there, but he didn’t have to wait much longer to find out.
Nicola smiled at Rodriguez, and then rattled off a couple of long sentences in Spanish. I have no idea whether it was perfect Spanish, but it was certainly fluent.
Rodriguez was taken aback; in fact, the term ‘gobsmacked’ sprang to mind. ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ he exclaimed in tones that obviously originated closer to Brixton than to Barcelona. ‘I don’t speak any Spanish, love. It’s all a bit of an act I put on for the benefit of the punters.’
‘Let’s start again, then,’ said Dave. ‘And we’ll begin with your name. Your real name.’
‘It’s Michael Roberts,’ said the club owner miserably.
‘I’ll put my question to you again, Mr Roberts,’ I said. ‘When did you last have contact with Mrs Hammond?’
‘We talked on the phone a few times over the days leading up to Christmas,’ said Roberts, all pretence at a Spanish accent now gone.
‘Why? I imagine it had nothing to do with her desire to book a table, or your need to drum up trade.’
‘We’d been seeing each other, on and off,’ said Roberts. ‘Private like.’
‘You mean you were shafting her,’ said Dave brutally.
Roberts nodded his head slowly. ‘Yeah,’ he said, glancing at Nicola again. ‘Sorry, miss.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Roberts,’ said Nicola. ‘I’m a police officer, and I’ve heard it all before, and seen it all before.’
‘But why all these questions?’ asked Roberts.
‘Because Mrs Hammond is dead,’ I said. ‘She was murdered.’
‘Oh Gawd blimey!’ exclaimed Roberts. ‘When did this come off?’
I ignored his question, and countered with one of my own. ‘Where were you on Christmas Eve, Mr Roberts?’
‘Is that when it happened?’
‘Just answer the question,’ said Nicola. ‘Or would you like it in Spanish?’ she added sarcastically.
‘I was here, up to midnight.’ Roberts glanced at Nicola again; he obviously didn’t know what to make of her.
‘And can anyone confirm that?’ I asked.
‘Yes, my bar manager, Fernando.’
‘And what’s his real name?’ asked Dave.
‘Fred Goddard,’ said Roberts, with a sigh.
‘And where can we find him?’
‘He’s got an office behind the bar. I’ll show you the way.’
Roberts led us out of his office, and through the main area of the club. He was about to open the door of a room behind the bar when Dave put a hand on Roberts’s arm. ‘We’ll take it from here.’
‘Thank you for your assistance,’ I said, and waited until Roberts was on his way back to his office.
Dave pushed open the door of the bar manager’s office. ‘Are you Fred Goddard, amigo , otherwise known as Fernando?’
‘Yes, but who the hell are you?’
‘Police,’ said Dave, ‘and my boss, Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard, has a question to ask you.’
‘What d’you want to know?’ Goddard stood up, and gazed apprehensively at the three of us.
The telephone rang, but Dave placed his hand on the instrument. ‘Leave it,’ he said.
I allowed Dave to carry on; he was skilled at extracting information.
‘ Señor Rodriguez, otherwise known as Mike Roberts, reckoned he was definitely not here at any time on Christmas Eve. Is
‘When did you last have contact with Mrs Hammond, Mr Rodriguez?’ I used the word ‘contact’ deliberately; Rodriguez had made several phone calls to Kerry Hammond’s mobile over the preceding few days, far more than was warranted by someone whose relationship was ostensibly one of club owner and patroness.
‘I think she and her husband was here perhaps a week ago.’
‘That wasn’t the question,’ said Dave. ‘My chief inspector asked when you last had contact with Mrs Hammond.’
‘Ah, you mean on the telephone perhaps, señor ?’
‘Yes, I mean on the telephone perhaps,’ said Dave slowly, as though dealing with an idiot.
Rodriguez glanced nervously at Nicola, obviously wondering why she was there, but he didn’t have to wait much longer to find out.
Nicola smiled at Rodriguez, and then rattled off a couple of long sentences in Spanish. I have no idea whether it was perfect Spanish, but it was certainly fluent.
Rodriguez was taken aback; in fact, the term ‘gobsmacked’ sprang to mind. ‘Oh, bloody hell!’ he exclaimed in tones that obviously originated closer to Brixton than to Barcelona. ‘I don’t speak any Spanish, love. It’s all a bit of an act I put on for the benefit of the punters.’
‘Let’s start again, then,’ said Dave. ‘And we’ll begin with your name. Your real name.’
‘It’s Michael Roberts,’ said the club owner miserably.
‘I’ll put my question to you again, Mr Roberts,’ I said. ‘When did you last have contact with Mrs Hammond?’
‘We talked on the phone a few times over the days leading up to Christmas,’ said Roberts, all pretence at a Spanish accent now gone.
‘Why? I imagine it had nothing to do with her desire to book a table, or your need to drum up trade.’
‘We’d been seeing each other, on and off,’ said Roberts. ‘Private like.’
‘You mean you were shafting her,’ said Dave brutally.
Roberts nodded his head slowly. ‘Yeah,’ he said, glancing at Nicola again. ‘Sorry, miss.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Roberts,’ said Nicola. ‘I’m a police officer, and I’ve heard it all before, and seen it all before.’
‘But why all these questions?’ asked Roberts.
‘Because Mrs Hammond is dead,’ I said. ‘She was murdered.’
‘Oh Gawd blimey!’ exclaimed Roberts. ‘When did this come off?’
I ignored his question, and countered with one of my own. ‘Where were you on Christmas Eve, Mr Roberts?’
‘Is that when it happened?’
‘Just answer the question,’ said Nicola. ‘Or would you like it in Spanish?’ she added sarcastically.
‘I was here, up to midnight.’ Roberts glanced at Nicola again; he obviously didn’t know what to make of her.
‘And can anyone confirm that?’ I asked.
‘Yes, my bar manager, Fernando.’
‘And what’s his real name?’ asked Dave.
‘Fred Goddard,’ said Roberts, with a sigh.
‘And where can we find him?’
‘He’s got an office behind the bar. I’ll show you the way.’
Roberts led us out of his office, and through the main area of the club. He was about to open the door of a room behind the bar when Dave put a hand on Roberts’s arm. ‘We’ll take it from here.’
‘Thank you for your assistance,’ I said, and waited until Roberts was on his way back to his office.
Dave pushed open the door of the bar manager’s office. ‘Are you Fred Goddard, amigo , otherwise known as Fernando?’
‘Yes, but who the hell are you?’
‘Police,’ said Dave, ‘and my boss, Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard, has a question to ask you.’
‘What d’you want to know?’ Goddard stood up, and gazed apprehensively at the three of us.
The telephone rang, but Dave placed his hand on the instrument. ‘Leave it,’ he said.
I allowed Dave to carry on; he was skilled at extracting information.
‘ Señor Rodriguez, otherwise known as Mike Roberts, reckoned he was definitely not here at any time on Christmas Eve. Is
Similar Books
