Winkler turned down the rainforest music a notch. ‘Leave all that to DCI Strong’s team – we’re investigating Nancy Marr, remember? Though I bet Lennon won’t be able to resist sticking his beak in. He’s all over the shop. I reckon he’s losing it.’
Gareth appeared to be suffering an internal struggle, but he pulled himself together. That’s my boy, Winkler thought. I’m your ally. Not that tattooed tosser.
‘So are we actually going to talk to Hammond?’ Gareth asked.
‘No. Not yet. I just want to watch him, see what he gets up to when he’s not putting on his public face. If he doesn’t seem to be up to anything, or this looks like a massive waste of time, we’ll move on.’
‘But you’re starting to think it could be him?’
Winkler held his hand out flat and tilted it from side to side. ‘I don’t know. But trust me – if he is guilty, I’ll find out. I’ve got the best clear-up stats in the MIT, did you know that?’
‘It’s not the first time you’ve told me, boss.’
Winkler was deliberately down-playing his suspicions about Mervyn Hammond, not wanting Gareth to think it was so important that he had to go running to Lennon about it. But since they’d found the signed photo of the PR man among Nancy’s belongings, Winkler had done some digging into Hammond’s background and what he’d found was interesting. Very interesting indeed.
A few years ago, Winkler had investigated – and solved, natch – the murder of a young female journalist who wrote for the now-defunct News of the World. That case had brought Winkler into contact with one of the newspaper’s Features editors, a guy called Doug Sandwell who reminded Winkler of an emphysemic crocodile, leathery and wheezy. They should stick a picture of Sandwell on cigarette packets – the smoking rate would halve overnight.
Sandwell had retired a couple of years ago, but Winkler knew the old journo had dealt with a lot of showbiz stories at the paper, as well as a number of juicy sex scandals and exposés of corrupt politicians. Winkler also strongly suspected, from conversations he’d overheard during the murder investigation, that Sandwell had colluded in phone hacking, though it appeared that – unlike many of his fellows – he’d got away with it.
Last night, after getting home from the gym, Winkler had given Sandwell a call. After listening to the other man cough for a couple of minutes, he’d asked Sandwell what he was up to these days.
‘Writing my autobiography, aren’t I?’ His voice crackled. ‘Great fun.’
‘I bet you can tell some stories, eh?’
‘Oh, you bet. Trouble is, most of this stuff couldn’t be published till after everyone involved is dead.’
‘Really? Like what?’
‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ The older man snorted.
Twat, thought Winkler.
‘So, what, is this a social call?’ Sandwell asked. ‘Ringing to ask me out on a date? You know I’m not that type . . . I never go out with cops.’ More hissing laughter.
‘I was actually wondering if you ever had any dealings with Mervyn Hammond.’
‘Hammond? Fuck yeah. We used to deal with that snake all the time. Got some of our best stories from him.’ He named a couple of fabricated scandals that Winkler vaguely remembered. ‘What are you asking about him for?’
‘Well . . . A mate of mine might be involved in a scandal himself. Hammond’s representing this bird who claims to have slept with my mate, and I was hoping to find some leverage to dissuade Mervyn from selling the story.’
‘A cop, is he? Someone high up?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Hmm. Well, since you ask . . .’ Glee crept into Sandwell’s voice. ‘This was about ten years ago and involves a bloke called Colin Denver. He worked as a nightclub promoter, knew loads of famous people, and that was his MO. He used to tell these young girls that he could introduce them to celebs, help their careers – all that bullshit. So he’d take them to parties and then, well, you can imagine the rest.’
Winkler waited impatiently for the other man to get to the really juicy bit.
‘So one of the girls came to us, wanting to expose these creeps, and it was potentially a huge story. She said she’d been to the police but couldn’t get your lot to believe her.’
Winkler cringed, thinking about the bashing the police had received over the Jimmy Savile case.
Sandwell coughed. ‘Two or three household names involved. A Radio 1 DJ, a TV presenter, these middle-aged scumbags who had probably been getting away with this stuff for decades. And they were all clients of Mervyn Hammond. As soon as he got wind of it, he came to us, claiming the story was bullshit, that this girl was a gold-digger and his clients would sue if we printed a word of it. Plus he’d stop giving us any more good stories. So we backed off – didn’t have enough evidence. But, according to the girl, Hammond wasn’t only doing it for his clients’ sake. He was one of the creeps. He molested her at one of these parties.’
‘I knew it,’ Winkler said. And he started to get that tingle, thinking ahead to his moment of glory when he exposed Hammond and cracked this case. With the Yewtree operation, and so many celebs now rotting in prison for committing the same offences Sandwell was talking about, the climate was very different now. This young woman might be willing to talk. ‘Do you remember her name?’
‘Yeah.’ The former journalist sniffed. ‘But it won’t do you any good.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because she topped herself, about six months after all this happened.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah. Shit. It’s haunted me ever since. I know you think we journos are a bunch of heartless wolves, but I met this girl. She was fourteen, a sweet little girl who’d got sucked in by men who really are wolves. I would fucking love it if you got Hammond. Just, er, don’t say you heard it from me, OK?’
Winkler wanted Hammond too. Hammond might be a wolf, Winkler thought, but I’m a hunter. And he entertained a brief fantasy in which he chased the PR man through the woods with a shotgun.
‘What about this Colin Denver guy?’ Winkler asked. ‘What happened to him?’
‘Last I heard he’d buggered off to Thailand, along with all the other nonces.’
Now, sitting next to Gareth in the car, Winkler imagined what would happen after he caught Hammond and proved he was responsible for the OnTarget murders. With Lennon in disgrace after the cock-up with Wendy, and with Winkler showing yet again that he was the best detective in south-west London – probably all of London, possibly the world – DCI Laughland would have no choice but to make him the lead detective on all future big cases. Lennon would probably be moved to traffic and he, Adrian Winkler, would be king. He’d be commissioner by the time he was fifty.
‘He’s coming out,’ Gareth hissed.
Winkler snapped out of his daydream and saw that Gareth was correct: Mervyn Hammond had emerged through the front door of the building, another thuggish-looking bloke beside him. Hammond waited while the thug went off round the back of the building. Winkler’s car had tinted windows, so he knew the PR man wouldn’t be able to see inside.
Hammond had a bag of nuts in his hand, the contents of which he daintily popped into his mouth, one by one, until a gorgeous Jag Coupé pulled up and he got in. The car headed towards the end of the quiet street, purring as it passed Winkler’s car.
They followed, Winkler driving.
The side street led onto busy Goswell Road. Hammond’s chauffeur – assuming that was who the thuggish bloke was – indicated right, cutting across the left lane and joining the queue of traffic on the other side.
‘Shit, we’re going to lose him already.’
There was no sign of another break in the traffic. Hammond’s Jag was being held at a red light, but the moment it changed he’d be off and would vanish at the crossroads ahead.