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time.’ What I didn’t say was that if he did object, I’d get a warrant.
    ‘What on earth for?’
    ‘It’s a routine part of a murder enquiry, Mr Hammond,’ I said. ‘At the moment we are looking for a motive, and it might have something to do with money. I imagine that your wife was a rich woman.’
    ‘Yes, she was,’ said Hammond pensively, ‘and she had a separate account; separate from mine, I mean, but I’ll get the details out for you. Where would you like me to send them?’
    ‘Don’t worry about that,’ said Dave. ‘We’ll collect them next time we see you, which will probably be in the next day or two. Are you likely to be at home? You live in Barnes, I believe.’
    ‘Yes, I’ll either be there or at my office,’ said Hammond. He produced a business card, and scribbled his home phone number on the back.
    ‘One other thing, Mr Hammond,’ I said, as I pocketed the card, ‘do you happen to know if Kerry’s parents are still alive and, if so, where they live? They’ll have to be informed, you see.’
    ‘Yes, of course.’ Hammond gave us an address in Henley-on-Thames. ‘They’re a Mr and Mrs King, Charles and Diana. Charles is something to do with insurance. He’s done quite well out of it, I should think, if their lifestyle’s anything to go by.’
    ‘How are you getting back to Barnes?’ I asked. ‘D’you have a car here?’
    ‘No, I came by train. It saves all the hassle of parking, and ploughing my way through the traffic. It’s just as well; I don’t feel much like driving now. Is that it, for now?’
    ‘Yes, it is, thank you.’
    Hammond picked up his overnight bag and left the office, his shoulders sagging and his head down.
    ‘What d’you think, guv?’ asked Dave, once the door had closed behind Kerry’s husband.
    ‘I don’t know, Dave. He could be a bloody good actor, but he seemed genuinely taken aback by the news.’
    ‘I wonder if their marriage was all that the Maitlands reckoned it was,’ said Dave. ‘What’s more, I wonder who gets control of Kerry Trucking now that Mrs Hammond is dead. That might give us a motive.’
    ‘Good point, Dave,’ I said. ‘It’s something we shall have to find out in due course. Bligh suggested that they had the occasional tiff, but there’s nothing unusual about that,’ I added, speaking from bitter experience.
    ‘I still think he’s sus, just pushing off to the States like that, even though his wife didn’t turn up. I reckon he topped his missus and went to the Big Apple to have a dirty Christmas with some bird. If it’d been Madeleine, I’d’ve been worried sick and I certainly wouldn’t have got on a plane to New York without knowing what had happened to her.’
    I could understand Dave’s viewpoint. His wife Madeleine was a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet. She was five foot two and gorgeous.
    ‘Nice theory, Dave, but it’ll take some proving.’
    ‘NYPD might help, guv,’ said Dave, unwilling to relinquish the tenuous proposition he’d made earlier about asking the New York police for assistance.
    ‘And what sort of answer d’you think you’d get, Dave? How about, “Sure thing, bud. Here in New York’s Finest we’ve got so many detectives doing nothing that we tail every visiting foreigner to see if he’s screwing someone else’s wife.”’
    ‘Only a thought, guv,’ said Dave moodily. ‘What do we do next?’
    ‘We’re only about a half hour’s drive from Henley, Dave. We’ll go and speak to Kerry’s parents. Once we’ve done that, we’ll find Gary Dixon, and we’ll have a word with Miguel Rodriguez, owner of the Spanish Fly.’

FOUR
    ‘ T he house occupied by the Kings, Kerry’s parents, certainly bore out what Nicholas Hammond had said about their lifestyle. It was a large, red-brick detached house set back from the road in what was clearly a select part of Henley. As we stopped at the end of the Kings’ lengthy drive, our headlights shone on a blue Bentley Infiniti parked