‘So Redding’s being brought in because he was withholding information about his relationship to Dale Thorngrove and an illegally-owned rifle, and I plan to speak to his wife as well.’
Kay leaned against the wall of the corridor outside the interview suites while she watched the landlord from the White Hart being led to the cells by Hughes, then switched her mobile phone to her other ear. ‘And we’re about to speak to Len Simpson.’
‘What’s your thinking on that one?’ Sharp spoke to someone in the background before returning his attention to her. ‘Sorry – what did you say?’
‘I said I reckon Len’s got to be involved somehow,’ she repeated. ‘First of all, he didn’t call triple nine straight away that night because he was too busy trying to cover up an illegal distillery operation and second, we’ve got evidence to suggest the discarded rifle parts found at the waste facility originated from the bin outside the White Hart.’
‘He hasn’t got previous convictions though, has he?’
‘Nothing on the record. Mind you, that doesn’t mean he’s innocent, guv. Especially after what Laura and Gavin found him trying to hide.’
Sharp gave a mirthless chuckle. ‘What are your next steps?’
‘Barnes and I are about to interview him to see what he’s got to say for himself.’ She glanced up as her colleague walked towards her with a fresh batch of folders in his grip and a determined look on his face. ‘Maybe being interviewed here rather than the pub will shake some answers out of him. He’s been a bit too confident for my liking up to now.’
‘Do you think he’s been supplying black market weapons?’
‘He’d know what he was doing – ex-army, and all that. It’d be better pay than whatever he’s making from that crappy establishment he calls a pub, that’s for sure, even if he is illegally selling alcohol and dodging duty tax.’
‘True. All right, thanks for the update. I’ll let you get on.’
Ending the call, Kay took the documentation from Barnes with a grateful smile and started to read.
‘What are the highlights in here?’
‘I had Laura dig into Simpson’s past a bit more while we were waiting for a duty solicitor. She got in touch with the last brewery who employed Simpson as a tenant. According to her, the bloke she spoke to said they couldn’t wait to get rid of him – he caused more trouble than he was worth, and apparently when he left the last place they had him in, it needed a complete redecoration. Took over a year to claw back the reputation of the place, too.’
Kay frowned, scanning the reports. ‘How the hell did he get his hands on the White Hart then?’
‘Bought it cheap a few years ago when the bottom fell out of the trade.’ He lifted out another document from the folder, turning it over for her. ‘This is a copy of the original licence application he submitted. There was nothing untoward on it, and he had the money, so it all went through just fine. From what I can gather, the pub company that used to own it was keen to get shot of the place so it wasn’t exactly as if they went into any detail regarding references.’
She closed the file and handed it back to him. ‘Thanks, Ian. Tell you what – you lead this one. Given Simpson’s previous conversation with us, I’d like to see how he handles being questioned by a bloke instead.’
Minutes later, the lights from the recording equipment blinking out of the corner of her eye, Kay looked up from her notebook to see Simpson staring at her, a familiar leer on his lips while Barnes read out the formal caution.
His chins shook while he confirmed his name and the address of the White Hart, and an overbearing stench of sweat and beer fumes wafted across the table to where she sat.
Barnes launched straight into the questions after establishing the duty solicitor’s details, evidently suffering from the same sensory overload and wanting to get the interview underway as soon as possible.
‘Care to tell us why parts from an illegal firearm were found in a collection of waste from your premises?’
‘No idea.’ Len shook his head. ‘I’ve never had a firearms licence, let alone had an illegal weapon. I might not look like much to you, but trust me – being in the army gives you a whole new appreciation of guns and the damage they can do.’
‘And yet a man was shot outside your pub, with a rifle matching the parts found in your kitchen waste.’
‘Detective, I find it hard to believe that you have evidence to support such a spurious claim,’ said the solicitor. ‘Unless the waste facility can categorically prove that load came from Mr Simpson’s bin, you’re wasting our time.’
Barnes kept his gaze locked on Simpson. ‘You’re ex-army. Dishonourably discharged. That means no pension, right? Must be tempting to skim a bit off the profits now and again, not to mention distilling your own illegal booze.’
Kay watched as Simpson’s face turned a darker shade of red.
‘We found the still, Len. And we know it came from the spare bedroom in the pub because we have a witness statement to that effect, and our officers found leftover bottles and piping during a search there after your arrest. Did Dale Thorngrove find out? Did you arrange his murder?’
‘I don’t know who shot him.’
‘But you knew his killer wouldn’t come inside the pub, didn’t you? Otherwise, why risk taking the time to hide the still before phoning triple nine?’
‘I didn’t want no one finding it,’ Len said. ‘That bloody Lydia is a gossip. It’s all her fault you found it anyway.’
‘Seems to me you have your priorities mixed up, Mr Simpson,’ said Kay. ‘Did Thorngrove get on the wrong side of you? Did you argue with him like you were seen arguing with Lydia this afternoon?’
‘How long ago did you start dealing in black market weapons?’ Barnes asked. ‘Where do you get them from? Or do you steal––’
‘Detective, I must insist––’
‘I don’t deal in fucking guns, and I ain’t a bloody thief,’ Simpson spat, ignoring the warning hand his solicitor placed on his arm. Instead, his belly pressed against the table as he leaned towards Barnes, a dangerous flash in his eyes. ‘I didn’t kill that bloke outside my pub, either.’
‘Do you know who did?’
‘No. I told you that.’
Barnes slipped on his reading glasses and flicked open one of the folders, pulling out a photograph. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
He spun it to face Simpson, the image showing a cropped picture of Mark Redding that had been copied from his social media profile.
Simpson leaned forward, but didn’t touch the photograph.
He frowned.
‘Is he one of the blokes who were in last Wednesday?’
‘You tell me, Len. You were there.’
‘No. I don’t know him.’
‘Funny that, because he says he was in the White Hart the week before. Monday lunchtime to be exact.’ Barnes removed his glasses and glared at the pub landlord. ‘Given the state of your place, I can’t imagine it was heaving with clientele that day. Recognise him now?’
A sly smile crept across Simpson’s face, and then he turned and grinned at his solicitor. ‘I don’t work Monday lunchtimes. That’s when I go to the cash ‘n’ carry to get whatever we need for the kitchen and stuff.’
‘Who was minding the place while you were there?’
‘The cook, Tom. Big bloke. You would’ve seen him when you were there on Saturday.’ He shrugged. ‘Like you said, it’s not busy on Mondays so it’s the one time I can get out and about.’
‘What’s his full name?’ said Kay, then wrote down Len’s answer and hurried to the door, handing the slip of paper to Hughes, who hovered outside.
He took it with a slight nod, and she returned to her seat satisfied that Tom would be receiving a phone call from him within the next few seconds.
After another five minutes of questioning, Barnes had exhausted their strategy, and sent Simpson away with a reminder that he was still a person of interest in the investigation.
As the landlord left the room with his solicitor in tow, the detective sergeant turned to Kay with an exasperated sigh.
‘It’s not him, is it?’ he said as Hughes stuck his head around the door.
‘And it’s not the cook, guv,’ said the uniformed officer. ‘That Tom bloke says he can’t remember Redding either after I texted him the photo. I know Simpson said the place is usually quiet on a Monday but Tom reckoned a party of walkers came in and he was rushed off his feet serving food as well as running the bar.’ He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder. ‘Redding’s solicitor just turned up too, guv.’
Kay closed her notebook, made sure the recording equipment was switched off, and pushed back her chair.
‘So who dumped the rifle parts in Simpson’s bin?’ she said. ‘I mean, okay – that bin would’ve been collected along with a couple of others that day, but those were nowhere near the shooting.’
‘I’m wondering why.’ Barnes collated the photographs and shoved them back in the folder as he stood. ‘I mean, Simpson isn’t a pleasant character but if he didn’t shoot Thorngrove, who did, and why did they try to set him up for getting rid of the murder weapon?’
‘God knows, Ian. Come on – let’s see what Mark Redding has to say.’