Reckless Endangerment (14 page)

‘No, at Heathrow Airport. Well, in one of the hotels near there, to be precise.’

‘How d’you think that I can help?’ Leaning forward, Reed seemed genuinely interested that we thought he may be able to assist us.

‘The murder victim was a stewardess who regularly flew on the service from Heathrow to Miami in Florida,’ I said hesitantly.

Muriel Reed laughed. ‘And you want to know if Julian was having an affair with her, I suppose?’

The woman’s candour stunned me for a moment, as did her husband’s lack of protest at his wife’s comment. ‘I was certainly wondering if you’d met her, Mr Reed,’ I said eventually, unable to think of anything else to say. I was not yet prepared to mention that his phone number had been found on Sharon’s airport mobile, at least not while his wife was there.

‘Was she a tart, in her twenties and willing to open her legs at the drop of a hat?’ Muriel’s coarse language seemed strangely at odds with her rounded upper-class tones.

‘Well, I—’

‘Oh, come on, Chief Inspector, don’t beat about the bush,’ said Muriel, throwing back her head and laughing. ‘Julian might’ve had a fling with this woman, but he wouldn’t’ve murdered her. To be quite frank, he hasn’t got the guts for that sort of thing. Have you, darling?’ she added, shooting a mischievous glance in her husband’s direction.

‘Are you in the habit of having casual affairs, Mr Reed?’ Dave was much less inhibited with his questions than I was, and got straight to the crux of the matter.

‘All the time, Sergeant Poole.’ It was Muriel Reed who replied, at the same time raising her eyebrows in surprise at Dave’s educated and well-modulated English accent. Perhaps she was expecting a stereotypical Jamaican sing-song delivery. ‘I think the term is screwing around, and my husband’s very good at it.’

This woman was quite obviously quick to grasp people’s names and to remember them. And she didn’t mind telling us that her husband was a philanderer, even in his presence. She was so composed and overbearing that it seemed to me that Julian Reed was completely dominated by her.

As if to confirm it, he didn’t react to his wife’s statement and gazed into the middle distance with a blank expression on his face.

‘Do you ever go to Miami, Mr Reed,’ I asked, hoping to get a response from this largely unresponsive man.

‘I go fairly regularly, as a matter of fact, Chief Inspector.’

‘On holiday, or do you have business interests there?’

‘I’m an international property developer,’ said Reed. ‘So, yes, on business …’

Julian Reed seemed to be about to say something more, but before he could continue, Muriel Reed intervened yet again. ‘My late father took Julian into partnership when Julian and I were married eight years ago, Chief Inspector, and when my father died, he left Julian the business. And my father left me this house and a large sum of money.’ She raised her chin slightly. ‘Is there anything else you want to know about our private life, Chief Inspector?’ It was an enquiry laden with sarcasm. ‘I don’t really know what you want of my husband. He obviously doesn’t know this woman who was murdered.’

‘Were you here the day before yesterday, Mr Reed?’ I ignored the woman’s petty attempt to defend her husband and decided to take her advice to get straight to the point.

‘Yes, I was.’

‘All day?’

‘No, I was out during the afternoon.’

‘And the evening?’

‘I was here all evening.’

‘That’s quite right, but God knows where he was that afternoon. Most likely stuffing five-pound notes into a stripper’s garter at some sleazy Soho club; that’s the usual way he fills his otherwise empty days,’ said Muriel, continuing to speak as though her husband was not there. ‘Isn’t that so, darling? Didn’t you say something about having been to the Dizzy Club?’

‘Er, yes. As a matter of fact, I spent all afternoon there,’ said Reed hesitantly, before shooting a guilty glance in his wife’s direction. ‘But why d’you want to know, Chief Inspector?’ I got the impression that he had lied when confirming his whereabouts.

Not only did Muriel Reed ignore her husband’s sheepish admission, but she continued to talk as though he hadn’t spoken or wasn’t even in the room. ‘We tend to live separate lives, you see, Mr Brock, and before you ask, no, we’re not getting divorced.’ She laughed again. ‘Despite his waywardness, Julian’s fun to be with and I rather like having him around. Apart from which, he couldn’t afford to leave me.’ Reed’s wife stood up. ‘I’ll show you out.’

With that final enigmatic statement, it was obvious that Muriel Reed had decided the interview was over. But I hadn’t finished yet.

‘Did you ever meet a stewardess on the Heathrow to Miami flight by the name of Sharon Gregory, Mr Reed?’

So far Julian Reed had said very little of consequence, but at the mention of the victim’s name he suddenly gripped the arms of the chair in which he was sitting and the colour drained from his face. ‘Was she the girl who was murdered?’ he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

‘Yes, she was. As I said, at a hotel near Heathrow Airport. Have you ever stayed at the Dickin Hotel, Mr Reed?’

‘Oh my God! I don’t believe it. What happened?’

‘So you did know her, Mr Reed. How well?’

‘I don’t think you should say any more, Julian,’ said his wife authoritatively, ‘not without Brian being here.’

‘Who is Brian?’ asked Dave.

‘Our solicitor,’ said Muriel.

‘Where were you on the twenty-ninth of this month, Mr Reed?’ I asked. ‘That was the day before yesterday.’

‘My husband’s already told you that, Chief Inspector,’ snapped Muriel. ‘He was at the Dizzy Club in Soho in the afternoon and he was here with me all evening.’

‘I presume there’s someone at the Dizzy Club who can vouch for your presence there, Mr Reed?’

‘Of course there is,’ said Muriel, before Reed could reply. ‘Half a dozen of their resident trollops, I should imagine.’

‘I think my wife’s right, Mr Brock,’ said Reed. ‘I think I need to speak to my solicitor.’

‘I’ll see the gentlemen out, Julian,’ said his wife, crossing swiftly to the sitting room door before her husband could move.

Once outside the sitting room and with the door firmly closed, Muriel continued the conversation at the top of the stairs. ‘He might’ve been at the Dizzy Club in the afternoon,’ she said, ‘but it’s not true that we were at home during the evening. This is where we were the evening before last.’ She put a hand in her jacket pocket and handed me a printed card upon which was an address in Dorking. ‘In fact, we were there most of the night.’

‘What happens there?’ asked Dave. He took the card from me and wrote the details in his pocketbook. ‘It appears to be a private address. Are they friends of yours, the people who live there?’

‘Not exactly,’ Muriel responded guiltily. ‘It’s a sort of private club. My husband didn’t tell you because he’s embarrassed that we go there. But he enjoys what goes on and so do I.’

‘And what does go on there, Mrs Reed?’

Muriel paused only momentarily. ‘Oh, it’s a sort of intimate social club, Sergeant Poole,’ she said. ‘An opportunity to meet other people of our persuasion. It’s very select,’ she added, implying that mere policemen wouldn’t be welcome. ‘You can check if you like.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,’ said Dave, closing his pocketbook and putting it away.

‘But I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention to my husband that I told you. He doesn’t like it to be known that he goes there.’

‘Your secret’s safe with us, Mrs Reed,’ said Dave. But I could always tell when he was lying.

‘Why did you tell them that we weren’t getting divorced, Muriel?’ asked Reed, when his wife returned to the sitting room. ‘You know damned well that I can’t wait to be separated from you.’

‘Just because you think you’re going to leave me, Julian, our domestic affairs are really nothing to do with the damned police. But apart from anything else, it’s obvious they think you murdered this Sharon Gregory. And once they start poking about, there’s no telling what they might come up with. And the more you say, the more they’ll twist it. It wouldn’t be the first time an innocent man has been sent to prison. You must speak to Brian before they ask you any more questions. I’ll ring him straight away.’ Muriel paused in the doorway. ‘I suppose you didn’t murder her, did you?’

‘Of course not, and you know why,’ said Reed. ‘But why did you tell them that our money was all yours? You know full well it’s mine. And your father didn’t take me into any sort of partnership; he was a bloody estate agent who went bankrupt. And that takes some doing for an estate agent.’

‘For the same reason: it muddies the waters. The police are naturally nosy, it’s what they do. And just because you were screwing this Sharon Gregory person doesn’t mean you have to tell them about it. And I repeat: they’ll think you murdered her. They’ll put two and two together and before you know it you’ll be in the dock at the Old Bailey. And don’t run away with the idea that you were the only one who was shafting the little slut; there’s bound to have been dozens of others.’ And with that parting sally, Muriel Reed swept from the room. ‘I’m going for a swim,’ she said, over her shoulder.

‘What d’you think, Dave?’ I asked, as we made our way back to the car.

‘He’s a wimp, guv, and firmly under his wife’s thumb. I think he knows more than he’s telling, but he didn’t dare say another word while she was there. As Muriel Reed said, I doubt he’s got the guts to murder anyone. Except possibly his own wife. And I reckon that’s a non-starter. From what she said, I suspect he’s living on her money. And it wasn’t a coincidence that she was able to produce that card with the Dorking address on it so quickly.’

‘I’ll get Charlie Flynn to have a look at his company’s records,’ I said. ‘Might turn up something useful. And tomorrow we’ll visit the address Mrs Reed gave us to check on his alibi. But for now we’ll have a word with the Dizzy Club.’

I rang the office on my mobile and told Colin Wilberforce what we’d learned from our visit to the Reeds, and asked him to get Flynn to make the necessary enquiries.

We drove straight from Chelsea to Regent Street, a distance of about three miles. For security reasons we parked the car at West End Central police station and took a taxi the rest of the way. Villains have even been known to steal police cars these days.

The Dizzy Club was one of many similar establishments that abound in the sleazy streets of Soho. The entrance to this one was next to a shop specializing in pornographic DVDs.

‘Good evening, gents.’ A shaven-headed, blue-chinned bouncer in an ill-fitting dinner jacket guarded the entrance. ‘Membership fee is twenty-five pounds each.’

‘We’re members,’ said Dave, and produced his warrant card.

‘Oh!’ The bouncer moved towards a telephone on the wall near the door.

‘If you’re calling the manager, tell him we want to see him right now, right here,’ said Dave.

It was all of thirty seconds after the bouncer finished making the call that a short, squat, bald-headed individual rushed into the entrance hall. He was sweating and had greasy skin, with little rolls of fat perched on the back of his collar.

‘Welcome, gentlemen.’ The manager, speaking with a vaguely mid-European accent, wrung his hands in a manner of supplication. ‘Do come in and see the show. We wouldn’t charge you, of course.’

‘I can’t promise to reciprocate that courtesy,’ commented Dave quietly, a barb that was clearly not misunderstood by the manager.

‘Everything’s quite proper here, Superintendent,’ said the manager, doing a bit more nervous hand-wringing. ‘We often have a visit from your Vice Squad. Just to check up, like.’

‘I’ll bet you do,’ said Dave. ‘And I’m a detective sergeant, not a superintendent.’

The manager opened his hands and shrugged. ‘Only a matter of time, Officer,’ he said.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard,’ I said, cutting across this verbal sparring match, ‘and I’m investigating a murder.’ It was an announcement that did nothing to restore the manager’s peace of mind.

‘Not here, surely? I can tell you that no murders have happened here.’

‘And now I want to see your list of members,’ I continued, ignoring his pointless protest.

‘Of course, of course. This way, gentlemen, please.’

Following this oleaginous individual down a flight of stairs, we found ourselves in a gloomy, cavernous basement. In the centre of a brightly illuminated circular stage, a naked girl was doing her artistic best to make love to a chromium pole. It was a lacklustre performance.

Surrounding this tiny stage, tables were tightly packed together and crowded with a mainly male clientele. I did, however, spot one or two women among this gullible audience, but God knows what they saw to entertain them. I suspected that most of the club’s customers were from out of town, and had fetched up in the Dizzy Club doubtless believing that they were experiencing something terribly risqué.

The reality was that they would finish up being ripped off.

The manager closed the door of his microscopic office and handed me a book from the top of a rusting filing cabinet.

‘This Julian Reed,’ I said, having found the entry. ‘Was he here on the twenty-ninth of July?’

The manager took back the book and glanced at the entry. ‘He might’ve been,’ he said, shrugging. ‘We don’t keep a record of when our members come here. They just show their membership card to the doorman.’

‘Is he well known to your girls?’ asked Dave.

‘Possibly.’ The manager smiled nervously. ‘But only if he’s generous.’

‘Is there any one girl that he seems to like more than the others?’

‘I don’t know. You’d have to ask them.’

‘Then we will. How many girls work here?’ Dave was beginning to get annoyed.

‘Only five.’

‘Are they all here at the moment?’

‘Of course. But one of them is on stage right now.’

‘Very well,’ said Dave, ‘then we’ll speak to the other four for a start.’

With a sigh of resignation, the manager led us next door to the women’s dressing room. Some optimist had put a star on the door. Without knocking, he barged straight in.