Free All Quiet on Arrival by Graham Ison Page B

truth.
    â€˜He was here with me,’ said Morgan’s mother. ‘He’s hardly left the house since he got back from his last trip.’
    â€˜That’s right,’ agreed Morgan. ‘I don’t go out much when I’m on shore leave. My father slung his hook years ago, so my mother’s by herself most of the time. It’s bad enough leaving her on her own when I’m away, so when I’m at home I spend as much time with her as I can.’
    Dave and I stood up. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Morgan, and you too, Mrs Morgan,’ I said. ‘We’ll not need to trouble you again.’
    â€˜It’s Mrs Marsh,’ said Morgan’s mother. ‘I remarried, but I’m a widow now.’
    â€˜If you’re looking for someone who did your murder, I’d start with Hendry,’ said Morgan, as he saw us to the front door. ‘He’s a bad ’un if ever I saw one.’
    I reckoned he was probably right. So, all we had to do now was find Hendry.
    But that too was resolved for us. As we were walking back towards the police station, my mobile rang.
    â€˜Harry, it’s Jock Ferguson. You’ll be happy to know we’ve got your boy for you.’
    â€˜Splendid, Jock. Where is he?’
    â€˜On his way back from Southampton General hospital as we speak. He was captured by a traffic unit. Apparently they spotted him on the M3, and he took off. Speeds of up to a hundred miles an hour.’
    â€˜Bloody hell! What was he driving, Jock, a Ferrari?’
    â€˜Would you believe an R-reg Ford Escort? Anyway, our traffic lads called in other units in an attempt to box him in, but he swung on to the A31 at Shawford Down, and started making his way back to Southampton. But they put a stinger down at Otterbourne. He tried to go on, but eventually he lost it and crashed into a tree.’
    â€˜Was he injured in the crash? You mentioned that he was in hospital.’
    â€˜Surprisingly no, Harry, but he had a nasty gash on his right forearm, so they took him in to Southampton General to get him stitched up.’
    â€˜That was probably caused when he did a header through his kitchen window,’ I suggested.
    â€˜Maybe, Harry. Anyway, he’ll be back here at Central nick very shortly.’
    â€˜Thanks for your help, Jock. I’ll see you there.’
    It was six o’clock by the time that Thomas Hendry arrived at Southampton Central police station. Having had very little sleep, Dave and I had been on the go from first thing this morning. It had been a long day, but interviewing Hendry couldn’t wait.
    â€˜Hendry will be charged with dangerous driving, and failing to stop for police,’ said Jock Ferguson. ‘But if you charge him with murder, I doubt the Crown Prosecution Service will worry too much about taking him to court for driving offences.’
    Hendry carved a pitiful figure when he was brought into the interview room. He was wearing a bloodstained tee shirt and jeans, and his right arm was bandaged and in a sling. God knows how he managed to drive with an injured arm, but desperation will often summon a hitherto unknown resourcefulness among those attempting to escape the police.
    â€˜I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole,’ I said. ‘This interview will be recorded.’
    Hendry stared at me, but said nothing.
    â€˜Why did you run away the moment you heard us at your front door in Birley Road?’ I asked.
    â€˜I thought you were going to arrest me,’ said Hendry, leaning forward and resting his injured arm on the table between us.
    â€˜Why should you think that?’
    â€˜It’s what you do, innit? The police, I mean. You find someone and fit ’em up with a job what they ain’t done.’
    I knew Hendry had one conviction behind him, but I wondered how many others he’d avoided. He seemed to have a contemptuous view of the