Reckless Endangerment (13 page)

‘Like a surgeon, Doc?’ queried Dave, with feigned innocence. ‘They’ve got strong hands, haven’t they?’

‘Very funny, Sergeant Poole.’ Mortlock put on his jacket. ‘There’s something else that may interest you, Harry. Sharon Gregory was two months pregnant. In view of the fact that her husband had had a vasectomy, it might give you something to think about.’

‘From what we’ve learned about her, Henry, I’m not at all surprised. Is it possible to get a DNA sample from the fetus?’

‘Already done,’ said Mortlock. ‘It’s on its way to the forensic science lab. But that’ll only help you if the father’s DNA is on record.’

‘It will be, by the time I’ve finished,’ I said. It was more a pious hope than a certainty, although the father of Sharon Gregory’s unborn child was not necessarily the murderer. And from what I’d learned so far, the father could be any one of a dozen men that she had known.

‘Incidentally,’ continued Mortlock, ‘she’d recently had unprotected sex. It’s possible that the DNA of the sperm will match any that’s found in the fetus.’

‘This job’s turning into a nightmare,’ I said.

‘It gets better,’ said Mortlock. ‘There were two different traces of vaginal fluid on Sharon Gregory’s body. One was hers, but the other has yet to be identified.’

‘Great!’ I exclaimed. ‘So now we’ve got another woman in the equation. Thanks a bundle, Henry.’

‘Don’t shoot the messenger,’ commented Mortlock drily.

When Dave and I returned to ESB, I was still thinking about the identity of Sharon’s murderer, and the added complication of another woman having been at the murder scene. Sidney Miller kept coming into mind. He was on the scene of Clifford Gregory’s murder very quickly – much too quickly, perhaps – and I wondered whether he had been involved in it. Sharon’s belated admission that she was naked when she’d wandered around the house with Miller, and his ready confirmation that she was, led me to believe that there might’ve been a greater degree of intimacy between the two than either of them had been prepared to admit. More to the point, Miller had instantly and vehemently denied any such relationship: ‘You don’t do it on your own doorstep,’ he had claimed. I’d thought at the time that the denial was just a little too instant and a little too emphatic to be true. But CID officers are, by the very nature of their calling, cynical and disbelieving.

Set against that was the evidence that had come to light that Sharon Gregory was promiscuous. Miller had said she was a flirt, and Gordon Harrison admitted to having had sexual intercourse with her whenever they were both in Miami. But now, it seemed, she was also bisexual.

Gordon Harrison’s name had, of course, been only one of those on the mobile that Sharon had kept at the airport, well away from where her husband might’ve found it. There were three others who we had yet to see.

And that reminded me …

‘How are you getting on with tracking down the two Florida telephone numbers, Dave?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been on to the Miami-Dade Police, guv, and they were able to give me details of the subscribers. Both were cellphones, as the Americans call them. One went out to a Lance Kramer, a theatrical designer, and the other to a Miles Donahue, described as an entrepreneur.’ Dave laughed. ‘And that’s a job description that covers a multitude of sins. Both these guys are resident in the Miami Beach area within a ten-mile radius of the Shannon Hotel.’

‘I think we need to ask the Miami-Dade Police to interview them and find out how well they knew Sharon. And where they were on the night of her murder.’

‘It’s the Miami Beach Police we need to talk to, sir,’ said Dave. ‘Apparently, that’s the force that covers that area.’

‘On second thoughts, Dave, I don’t think so. This enquiry is beginning to get complicated. We’ll have a word with Ben Donaldson.’ Donaldson was the resident FBI agent at the United States Embassy in London and masqueraded as their legal attaché. ‘He’ll know the best people to get in touch with in Florida, and while he’s at it, we’ll ask for enquiries to be made at the Shannon Hotel. We know Sharon was visited there by Gordon Harrison, but I’m interested in any other visitors she might’ve had while she was staying there on a stopover. And see if you can get a decent photograph of her that we can take with us to the embassy.’

‘We’ve got the post-mortem photograph that was taken at the scene, guv. Will that do?’

‘It’ll have to, Dave. I don’t want to delay this investigation any more than is necessary.’

‘Surely you don’t think that one of these guys might’ve come over to Heathrow for one night just to strangle Sharon Gregory, do you, guv?’ There was doubt combined with cynicism in Dave’s voice.

‘Funnier things have happened,’ I said. ‘Get a car and we’ll make our way to the embassy.’

‘By the way, guv, Ted Richie rang back. He’s made a few enquiries and he’s come up with a name.’

‘What name?’

‘D’you remember asking him if Sharon had a special friend among the crew. Richie reckons that a girl called Cindy Patterson and Sharon were as thick as thieves. She might be able to shed some light on what Sharon got up to in Miami.’

‘We’ll make a point of seeing her at some time,’ I said. ‘Remind me.’

‘Got a minute, sir?’ asked DC Sheila Armitage, appearing in my office.

‘What is it, Sheila?’

‘I went out to Uxbridge, sir, and followed up on the purchases that were made on Clifford Gregory’s credit card.’

‘And?’

‘Sharon Gregory was identified by the shop assistant who sold her the kinky underwear. At least, she said it was a woman in airline uniform and the time and the description fitted. Apparently they had a discussion about the erotic underwear Sharon purchased. I also spoke to the waiter who served her in the Italian restaurant. He remembered her very clearly.’

‘Was he sure?’

‘Definitely, sir. He said she flirted with him outrageously. So much so, that when he put her credit card in his machine he didn’t notice that it was in a man’s name. What’s more, Sharon propositioned him, and he scribbled his phone number on a napkin and gave it to her.’ Armitage turned over a page in her pocketbook. ‘It’s the number found on the napkin that was in her handbag at the hotel. And before you ask,’ she added with a smile, ‘the waiter was on duty until midnight that evening, and the following evening. And that checks out. He said he hadn’t heard from her again.’

‘Anything about the mobile phone we found at the scene, Sheila?’

‘Ah, the mobile. Yes, sir. A mobile phone was certainly purchased by Sharon Gregory at an outlet in the Chimes Centre. But according to the cash receipt you found in her handbag, it wasn’t the phone found in her room at the Dickin Hotel. I checked the serial number with Linda Mitchell.’

‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘I wonder what happened to it? More to the point, where did the one we found come from?’

‘I doubt we’ll be able to find out, sir,’ said Sheila. ‘Mobile phones are difficult to track down.’

I’d not met Ben Donaldson before, but he’d taken over the legal attaché’s post when Joe Daly had returned to New York on retirement after twenty-four years with the Bureau.

Ben was a big man who originated from Montgomery, Alabama. Although he later told me that he’d spent many years in Washington and New York, with spells in Ottawa and Paris, his accent and Southern bonhomie hadn’t left him. He almost leaped across the office as we entered.

‘How ya doin’, Harry?’ he said, as though he’d known me all my life.

‘Pleased to meet you at last, Ben,’ I said. ‘This is Dave Poole, my sergeant.’

Donaldson seized each of our hands in turn and pumped them vigorously. ‘Guess you know Darlene,’ he said, as his secretary came into the room bearing a tray of coffee. ‘Joe left her behind when he went back to the States.’

‘Yes, we’ve met,’ I said, smiling. That Darlene was still here rather surprised me; I thought that she and Joe had had a ‘thing’ going. She was a beautifully packaged American redhead who looked as though she belonged in a Hollywood movie rather than in a London office. And she had the happy knack of producing coffee the minute we arrived at Grosvenor Square. And for anyone else who arrived, I imagined.

‘Take a seat, fellers.’ Donaldson swept his hand magnanimously towards the bank of armchairs in one corner of his impressive office. ‘What can I do for y’all?’

I explained about the murder of Sharon Gregory and the events that led up to it, including our certainty that she’d murdered her husband. Both Ben and I were law enforcement officers and, even though this was our first meeting, I trusted him implicitly to keep my theories to himself.

‘Dave has discovered that the phone numbers of two men, Lance Kramer and Miles Donahue, were on our murder victim’s mobile—’

‘What’s a mobile?’ asked Donaldson, feigning innocence.

‘It’s what you call a cellphone in America, Ben.’

‘Oh, I thought you were talking about one of those gadgets you hang over a baby’s crib.’ Donaldson laughed. ‘I’ve only been here about three weeks, but I guess I’ll come to grips with your language if I stay long enough.’ He paused. ‘Only kidding, Harry.’

‘Both these men live in the Miami Beach area of Florida.’ I turned to Dave. ‘Tell Ben your problem,’ I said.

‘We don’t know whether to contact Miami-Dade Police Department, or the Miami Beach Police, which seems the more obvious,’ said Dave. ‘Or even the Florida State Police.’

Donaldson took a mouthful of coffee and set down his cup before replying. ‘The set-up of the American police is a minefield, Dave,’ he said. ‘Half the guys in it don’t even understand who to talk with about interstate enquiries, let alone how to deal with international ones. But you’ve come to the right place. When in doubt, contact the FBI. As it happens, we have a Bureau office on Second Avenue at North Miami Beach, and I’ll contact the special agent in charge ASAP.’

‘Excellent,’ said Dave.

‘Yeah, excellent.’ Donaldson savoured the word and grinned. ‘I like that,’ he said, and shouted for Darlene. ‘Dave here will give you the details, Darlene. Perhaps you’d send a request to the Florida office and ask them to make enquiries.’

Darlene sat down in the armchair next to Dave and spent the next few minutes noting down the sparse details of the relevant dates, and what we knew about Kramer and Donahue.

‘I’ll call you as soon as they come back with the information, Harry.’

‘Thanks, Ben,’ I said. ‘We must have a drink sometime.’

‘Sure, I’d like that.’ Donaldson paused. ‘D’you happen to know an English pub that doesn’t serve warm beer?’

‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Dave.

‘Excellent!’ Donaldson laughed, stood up and shook hands again. ‘Like I said, Harry, I’ll call you.’

I
t was past five o’clock when we left the embassy, and I decided it was time to start talking to the other subscribers to the British telephone numbers that Dave had found on Sharon’s airport mobile.

‘Where d’you want to go first, guv?’

‘We’ll try this Julian Reed in Chelsea for a kick off. It’s not far from here.’

The house in Chelsea where Reed lived would undoubtedly have attracted a price tag of several millions in today’s property market.

The woman who answered the door was about thirty, maybe thirty-five. She had long titian hair and was expensively dressed. But given the value of the house in which she lived, her designer white-linen trouser suit came as no surprise. Neither did the expensive jewellery she was wearing.

‘Can I help you?’ She cast an enquiring, superior gaze over us.

‘We’re police officers, madam,’ I said. ‘I was hoping to have a word with Mr Julian Reed. I am given to understand he lives here.’ This was going to be a difficult interview if this was Reed’s wife.

‘I’m Muriel Reed, his wife,’ said the woman, confirming what I’d feared to be the case. ‘I think Julian’s in the study. If you’d like to come in, I’ll get him for you. Just as soon as I can find him.’

In my experience, a woman usually expressed surprise when the police came to her door asking to speak to her husband, and demanded to know why. But this woman didn’t seem in the slightest bit curious about our arrival.
Perhaps she knew what we wanted.

We followed the woman upstairs and were shown into a large airy room that was predominately white in décor: white walls, white carpet, and matching white sofas and armchairs that had the appearance of having been selected for their style rather than their comfort. A few original abstract paintings adorned the walls. The white marble fireplace contained a gas-operated fake log fire, and the mantelshelf was crowded with white candlesticks of varying sizes. In the centre of this Arctic-style room was a wrought-iron glass-topped table upon which was the usual pile of coffee-table books. Against this snowy background the white-suited Muriel Reed all but disappeared.

As Dave commented later, the room looked like a large igloo inhabited by a rich Eskimo.

‘Do please take a seat, gentlemen,’ said Muriel Reed. ‘May I offer you a drink? Tea or coffee? Something stronger, perhaps?’

‘No thank you, Mrs Reed,’ I said.

‘I’ll go and see if I can find my husband, then.’ The woman still didn’t enquire why we wished to see him, and walked gracefully from the room.

When she returned, she was accompanied by a man, probably between thirty-five and forty, who was scruffily dressed in khaki shorts that were too long to be fashionable, a casual shirt and sandals. He wore heavily-framed spectacles and an innocent expression on his face that, together with his untrimmed auburn hair, lent him the overall appearance of an ageing Boy Scout. He did appear to be quite well-built, though.

‘I’m Julian Reed, gentlemen. My wife tells me you wanted to speak to me.’ He gazed at us quizzically with his head on one side.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock and this is Detective Sergeant Poole, Mr Reed. We’re investigating a murder that occurred on Monday, the twenty-ninth of July.’

‘Really?’ Julian Reed blinked at us through his finger-marked spectacles, his reaction one of bland acceptance that such things were commonplace these days.

‘Good gracious!’ Muriel Reed’s response was much the same, but her tone indicated interest rather than shock. ‘Was this locally?’ she asked.