Reckless Endangerment (17 page)

‘There is the question of the funerals …’ I began tentatively, loath to raise the matter. ‘At the moment both bodies are in the public mortuary at Townmead Road, Fulham.’

‘That’s all we need,’ said an exasperated Jill Gregory. ‘My husband works for the local authority and my job as a nurse only pays a pittance, so we’re not exactly rolling in money.’ For a moment or two she paused, thinking. ‘How much would a double funeral cost, I wonder?’ she said eventually. A sudden thought occurred to her. ‘But I think that Cliff had life insurance.’

‘He did originally, for twenty thousand pounds, but it was cashed in when he and Sharon were married. As a deposit for the house, I understand.’

‘Well, I don’t know how Peter and I are going to foot the bill for two funerals.’

‘We’ve also discovered that a month ago Sharon took out insurance on her husband’s life in the sum of one hundred thousand pounds.’

‘The cunning little bitch. It’s obvious she did murder him, then. What happens to that money now?’

‘Policemen are not experts on civil law, Mrs Gregory,’ said Dave, ‘but I imagine it will come to your husband or your father-in-law. It depends on whether Clifford Gregory made a will. But being an accountant I dare say he tied up all the loose ends. It’s something your husband will have to take up with the insurance company.’

‘If your husband will get in touch with me, Mrs Gregory,’ I said, ‘I’ll give him all the details.’ I handed her one of my cards. ‘But I’d suggest that you and your husband speak to a solicitor. Despite what I just said, it’s still possible that Clifford Gregory died intestate.’ I paused. ‘By the way, would you or your husband want to view the bodies?’

‘No thank you,’ said Jill Gregory emphatically. ‘I see quite enough dead bodies at work, and Peter wouldn’t have the time or the inclination.’

And that was that. We’d gleaned a little more about Sharon Gregory, but nothing that would advance our enquiries into her death. And what we had learned merely served to confirm what we knew already.

It was nearly fifty miles from Bromley to Dorking. Even by driving much of the way round the M25 – known as the biggest car park in England – we didn’t arrive until half-past seven that evening.

The address at which Muriel Reed claimed that she and Julian had spent the evening, and indeed the night, of Sharon Gregory’s murder was a large double-fronted detached house set back quite a way from the road. There were two or three cars parked on the drive. Even though it was bright sunshine, I was slightly puzzled to see that the Venetian blinds at every one of the windows were closed.

I rang the bell and moments later the door was opened by a grey-haired woman who must’ve been sixty if she was a day. She looked at each of us in turn and appeared slightly disconcerted that one of us was black and that both of us were male.

‘I’m afraid we can’t entertain singles. It upsets the balance, you see.’

‘We’re police officers from Scotland Yard, madam,’ I said, and gave the woman our names.

‘Oh my God!’ The woman grasped the edge of the door for support, her face blushing scarlet with embarrassment. ‘We’re not doing anything wrong, Officer.’

‘I think it might be a good idea if we were to come inside, madam,’ suggested Dave.

‘Yes, yes, of course. Come in. I’ll fetch my husband. I think it would be better if you spoke to him. Oh dear! I don’t know what he’ll say. I suppose we’ll have to cancel.’

We entered the hall just in time to see a naked man rush out of a room, slam the door and run up the stairs.

‘Was that your husband?’ asked Dave.

‘No, of course not. I’ve no idea who that was.’ Mrs Simpson started to cross the hall. ‘I’ll fetch Jimmy now.’

But she had not gone more than a couple of paces when another man emerged from a different room. He too was in his sixties, but was fully dressed in red trousers, a short-sleeved yellow shirt and sandals.

‘What’s going on, Laura?’ said the man, glaring at Dave and me.

‘These gentlemen are from the police, Jimmy.’

‘Oh Christ!’ said the man. ‘It’s all above board, what we’re doing here. It’s just a bit of fun. All consenting adults and that sort of thing.’

‘Perhaps we’d better start with who you are, sir,’ said Dave with a smile. He had obviously worked out what was happening in this overtly respectable Surrey house and had difficulty in suppressing his amusement.

‘I’m James Simpson and this is my wife Laura.’

‘And what exactly is this bit of fun that you host here?’

‘Well, it’s a sort of club for couples,’ said Simpson hesitantly. ‘We provide an opportunity for like-minded people to meet others with similar interests and to get to know them.’ But he didn’t sound at all convincing.

‘With no clothes on presumably?’ queried Dave mischievously. ‘Or is dress optional?’

‘I really don’t know what you mean,’ protested Simpson, blinking at Dave through finger-marked spectacles and tweaking at his toothbrush moustache.

‘Unless my eyes deceived me,’ continued Dave, ‘I saw a naked man legging it upstairs just now.’

‘You’ll have to tell them, Jimmy,’ said Laura Simpson, resigned to what she believed would be a prosecution and a heavy fine. If not worse.

‘It’s not illegal,’ said Simpson, trying desperately to avoid what he too believed to be his imminent arrest. And doubtless wondering what the neighbours would think if they saw him and his wife being escorted from their house in handcuffs. ‘It’s all very discreet.’

I decided to put Simpson on the spot. ‘You’re running a club for swingers, aren’t you? And not licensed by the local authority, I imagine.’

‘Yes,’ admitted Simpson quietly, his shoulders sagging in defeat.

‘Well, we’re not here about that,’ I said.

‘You’re not?’ Simpson greeted that statement with obvious relief. ‘What then?’

‘Not unless the neighbours complain, but that would be a matter for the Surrey Police and the council,’ I said. ‘I’m investigating a double murder.’

‘
Murder
!’ exclaimed Laura Simpson, gasping and putting a hand to her mouth, convinced that their already precarious situation was getting even worse. ‘Not here, surely?’

‘No, Mrs Simpson, not here, but I need to know if a Mrs Muriel Reed was here last Monday evening. That was the twenty-ninth of July.’ I deliberately didn’t mention Julian Reed; I still had reservations about the story that his wife had told.

‘I’m afraid our clients’ names are confidential, Chief Inspector,’ said Simpson, regaining some of his pomposity now that he believed himself to be in the clear.

‘Are you a medical practitioner, a lawyer, or a clerk in holy orders?’ Dave inclined his head, giving the impression that he was genuinely interested in Simpson’s reply.

‘No, of course not. I’m a retired bank officer. Why d’you ask?’

‘In that case, you can’t claim that such information is privileged. Of course, we could get the local police to obtain a warrant and seize your records, if you have any. And there’s no telling what else they may find. Or for that matter what interest Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs may take in your activities. You do pay tax on your enterprise, I imagine?’

‘Yes, Muriel was here on the twenty-ninth,’ said Simpson, admitting defeat in the face of Dave’s implied threat to involve the tax authorities. ‘I seem to remember that she arrived at about half past seven and stayed all night.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘That would be right, Laura, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s right.’

‘Your wife said you don’t take singles,’ I remarked. ‘So Mrs Reed must’ve arrived with someone.’

‘She was here with her husband, Julian, as far as I can recall,’ said Simpson. ‘To be honest, a lot of couples arrive at about the same time on the nights we hold a party, but I’m fairly sure he was here.’

‘Yes, he was. Definitely,’ said Laura Simpson.

‘Thank you, Mr Simpson,’ said Dave, barely able to conceal his mirth. ‘I don’t think we need to trouble you further.’ He glanced at me. ‘Do we, sir?’

‘I don’t think so, Sergeant,’ I said, matching Dave’s formality.

We had driven to the end of the Simpsons’ road before Dave’s reserve finally gave way to almost hysterical laughter. He stopped the car. ‘Well, if that doesn’t take the biscuit, guv, I don’t know what does,’ he said, hammering the steering wheel with his right hand. ‘That Muriel Reed is one devious bitch. She spent half an hour telling us that her husband was the one who was over the side when all the time she’s at it, too.’

‘Why the hell couldn’t she have said what they’d come here for when we interviewed them? It would have saved us a trip all the way to Dorking.’

‘Perhaps he’s shy, guv, and that’s why Muriel didn’t give us the address until we were at the top of the stairs. Anyway, you wouldn’t have believed her without checking it out.’

‘Well, that lets Julian Reed off the hook, Dave. And tomorrow we’d better have a look at the remaining two names on Sharon’s mobile. But I somehow doubt we’ll have any more luck than we’ve had so far.’

First thing on Saturday morning, DS Flynn came into my office clutching a fistful of computer printouts.

‘This property development company of Julian Reed’s, guv,’ he began.

‘I think I might’ve wasted your time, Charlie. Reed’s probably in the clear, but do go on.’

‘Julian Reed owns fifty-one per cent of the shares and his wife Muriel holds forty-nine per cent, not the other way round. But it looks as though the company’s going down the tubes. It hasn’t shown a profit for three years.’

‘I’m not surprised, Charlie. Muriel Reed said that her husband couldn’t afford to leave her. I reckon he’s living on her money and she’s bolstering up his company. Though God knows why.’

‘That’s not the case,’ said Flynn. ‘Muriel doesn’t have a brass farthing of her own. And Julian Reed is due to inherit a very large estate from his father, the Right Honourable Earl Dretford, when the old boy snuffs it. In the meantime, the earl gives Julian a substantial allowance. And that’s probably why he lives the life of a dilettante.’

‘How on earth did you find out all that, Charlie?’

Flynn grinned. ‘Ways and means, guv. Ways and means. I’ve still got friends on the Fraud Squad who know their way round the financial assault course.’

‘Anyway,’ I said, deciding not to enquire too deeply into Flynn’s ‘ways and means’ of acquiring sensitive information, ‘we’ve cleared Reed from the enquiry now. He was at a swingers’ club in Dorking the night that Sharon Gregory was murdered, and his wife was with him.’

‘Some people have all the luck.’ Flynn flourished his bunch of printouts. ‘I’ll give this little lot to Colin Wilberforce to file away, guv, just in case.’

I decided that Saturday would be a good day to interview the other two names Dave found on Sharon’s mobile. Most people don’t work at the weekend, unless they happen to be policemen, that is. But then I decided I’d had enough of traipsing around London and its environs. I sent for Kate Ebdon.

‘I’ve got a job for you, Kate,’ I said, handing her details of those of Sharon’s contacts who had yet to be interviewed. ‘Speak to these two men, find out how well they knew Sharon and where they were on the night of her murder. And take Dave Poole with you.’

In the meantime, I intended to interview Gordon Harrison again. When Dave and I saw him previously, Sharon Gregory hadn’t been murdered. I was now interested to know where he was when she was killed. It had been early evening when we’d interviewed him, on the day that Sharon Gregory had checked into the Dickin Hotel, and he would have had plenty of time to get to Heathrow from Fulham, a distance of about sixteen miles. I sent for Detective Sergeant Lizanne Carpenter.

‘We’re going to Fulham, Liz,’ I said, ‘to see a guy called Gordon Harrison. He claims to make his money by planning expensive holidays for rich businessmen who want some quality time with their girlfriends.’ And I told her what had taken place on my last visit.

A
girl with coffee-coloured skin, wearing nothing but a scarlet thong, opened the door to Harrison’s house. She could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen and had long, black hair and a figure of which most women would have been jealous.

‘Oh my God!’ said the girl, putting her hand to her mouth and moving quickly behind the door. ‘I thought you were Gordie.’

‘So it would appear.’ Lizanne surveyed the girl’s figure with an envy that, in her case, was quite unnecessary.

‘Oh hell!’ exclaimed a familiar voice.

I turned to find that Harrison was standing behind me. ‘So there you are,’ I said.

‘Shall we go in?’ Harrison glanced nervously at the door of his neighbour’s house and steered us quickly towards to the sitting room.

Lizanne paused in the hall to slip off her shoes. ‘I don’t want to damage your parquet flooring with my heels,’ she said. Even without shoes she was an impressive height, and her well-cut blue jacket and skirt made her a woman who clearly took care over her appearance.

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter about the floor. I’m thinking of having it carpeted anyway.’ Looking at the girl, he said, ‘And for God’s sake, Shona, go and put some clothes on, quickly.’

The girl called Shona dashed upstairs, only to reappear in the sitting room a minute or two later. ‘Can I get anyone a drink?’ Her idea of putting on some clothes had been to don a short, diaphanous negligee over her thong.

‘Go away, Shona.’ Harrison spoke sharply. He was obviously displeased that we’d caught him out. ‘I need to talk to these police officers.’

‘Is it about your car again?’ asked Shona innocently.

‘It’s nothing to do with my car,’ said Harrison.

‘But I thought you said—’

‘Go!’ said Harrison. He took hold of the girl’s shoulders, spun her round and gave her bottom a sharp slap.

The girl pouted and sashayed provocatively from the room, making a point of slamming the door.

‘Sorry about that. I’d just popped out for a packet of cigarettes.’ Harrison did not seem at all surprised to see me again. ‘You were lucky to find me still here. I’m about to throw a few things into a grip before I take off for Los Angeles. I’m catching the fourteen-thirty flight from Heathrow.’