Reckless Endangerment (23 page)

Without querying why I wanted it, Reed took the document from his pocket and handed it over.

I went upstairs to the chief superintendent’s office and briefly explained the circumstances that had led to my suspecting Julian Reed of murder.

‘It’s essential that I obtain Mr Reed’s DNA, sir,’ I said, ‘and I’d be obliged if you’d authorize the taking of an intimate sample. He has given his consent.’

‘No problem, Mr Brock.’

I handed the chief superintendent the appropriate form and waited while he filled in the details and signed it.

I returned to the interview room and told Dave to go ahead. He produced the necessary kit and took a sample of Reed’s saliva from inside his mouth. Then he escorted him to the custody suite where his fingerprints were taken.

‘What now, guv?’ asked Dave, as we returned to our car.

‘Get that sample of Reed’s DNA off to the lab immediately and the fingerprints to Linda.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘We’ll go back to the office and get Charlie Flynn to do urgent background checks on Reed. And then, this afternoon, we’ll pay a visit to Muriel Reed to see if she confirms this story about a divorce.’

‘I suppose that’ll help … sir,’ said Dave. ‘But his fingerprints were taken by the traffic guys.’

‘Just do it, Dave.’

A surprise in the shape of DI Ken Sullivan of SOCA awaited me when Dave and I got back to ESB. And he brought news that I hadn’t expected.

‘An interesting development, boss,’ Sullivan began, as he seated himself in my office. ‘It’s about Gordon Harrison, one of your suspects in the case of the Sharon Gregory murder.’

‘I think we have our murderer, Ken, so Harrison can be ruled out of it now,’ I said.

‘In more ways than one,’ said Sullivan. ‘He’s been murdered.’

‘Where and when?’ I had a nasty feeling about this.

‘Wandsworth, boss.’

‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ I said, with a feeling of relief.

Sullivan raised his eyebrows. ‘Any particular reason you should be pleased by that?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that means the investigation’s down to Homicide and Serious Crime Command
South
.’

‘Yes, it is.’ Sullivan laughed. ‘They already have a man in custody.’

‘Good, but what’s the SP?’

‘The what?’ queried Sullivan.

‘What happened?’ I asked, realizing that the term ‘SP’ was probably unknown to officers in northern forces.

‘Oh, I see. I’ll remember that,’ said Sullivan, with a grin. ‘I’m slowly getting used to the language of the Met.’

Wait until you meet Kate Ebdon,
I thought.

‘We’ve had an observation on Harrison for the last couple of days and he met with a man in a bar in Putney,’ continued Sullivan. ‘There was obviously some sort of falling out, and the next thing our obo team knew was that Harrison had been shot dead. The shooter ran for it, but he was promptly arrested by our chaps. They handed him over to your HSCC guys; an open-and-shut case. He’s a Nigerian called Emedubi Anubi, a known drug dealer. We also arrested Shona Grant, who we’re satisfied was one of Harrison’s couriers. And the day before that, customs officers at Manchester Airport were lucky enough to pick up Harrison’s partner, Krisztina Comaneci, arriving with a statue filled with heroin. Case closed. So, all in all, a good result.’

‘Thanks for that,’ I said, standing up to shake hands with Sullivan. But the murder of Gordon Harrison was of no real interest to me.

‘It turns out that Anubi is wanted for murder in Nigeria. So, rather than mounting a costly trial followed by appeals, the powers-that-be will probably deport him.’

‘You must be joking,’ I said. ‘We seem to find it impossible to deport people from this country. Anyway, Nigeria still has the death penalty, and no doubt our brave politicians will have a touch of the vapours at the mere suggestion that we send him back to be hanged. That’s what they do with murderers.’

‘I
f you want to speak to my husband, he’s not here. In fact I’ve no idea where he is.’ Muriel Reed, her arrogance no less apparent than before, was attired in a mauve maxi kaftan below which her bare feet peeped out.

‘He’s just been released from Charing Cross police station, Mrs Reed. He was arrested yesterday afternoon for driving under the influence of alcohol.’

‘Oh, what a stupid man.’ Muriel opened the door wide. ‘You’d better come in.’

We followed her upstairs to the sitting room and accepted her offer of a seat.

‘Where did this happen, Chief Inspector?’ Muriel raised her eyebrows and paused. ‘But surely you’re not dealing with that, are you?’ She opened her hands in a theatrical gesture; she knew perfectly well that the CID didn’t normally deal with drunken drivers. Unless there was more to it than that.

‘He was arrested in Saint James’s Street by traffic unit officers,’ said Dave. ‘At about two o’clock yesterday afternoon.’

‘Surely you haven’t come here just to tell me that, have you?’ Muriel adopted an amused expression. ‘And if this happened yesterday, why hasn’t he come home? He’s not at another strip club, is he?’

‘He’s been arrested for the murder of Sharon Gregory on the twenty-ninth of July,’ I said.

‘Murder?’ exclaimed Muriel, and after a moment’s hesitation, added, ‘But it’s absurd to think that Julian’s capable of murdering anyone. Anyway, he was with me on that date. All day.’

‘But the last time we were here, he told us that he’d gone to the Dizzy Club in Soho, but only in the afternoon.’ We’d confirmed that he hadn’t been there on that day, and I knew what he’d told us earlier, but I wanted to see what his wife said about that.

‘You’re quite right. I was confused,’ said Muriel. It was almost an apology. ‘In the evening we went to a swingers’ club in Dorking for the sole purpose of having sex with other people.’ There was no embarrassment about her admission as she pointed an accusing finger at Dave. ‘And I gave you the address.’

‘How did you get there, Mrs Reed?’ asked Dave.

‘By car, of course.’

‘The Mercedes?’

‘Of course the Mercedes. We don’t have another car.’

‘We’ve checked with the Simpsons, the couple who run that club, and they seemed to be under the impression that you’d arrived in a Lexus, and that you’d parked on their drive.’

‘They must’ve made a mistake. There were quite a few cars there that night and there was no room on the drive. We had to park on the road, some way away.’ Despite providing what must have seemed to her a reasonable explanation, Muriel Reed was suddenly neither as composed nor as disdainful as she had been when we’d first arrived. ‘Ah!’ she said, having come up with another excuse, ‘I realize how the Simpsons’ confusion must’ve arisen. We were there with some friends of ours. They own a Lexus.’ She looked at me, almost imploring me to believe her.

‘What are the names of these friends?’ I asked.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to tell you.’

‘You’re not helping your husband, Mrs Reed,’ I said.

‘I don’t see how telling you the names of our friends is going to help Julian in any way, Chief Inspector. I refuse to tell you who they were. They might not wish it to be known that they’re swingers. They certainly wouldn’t appreciate being questioned by the police about what is an innocent if unconventional pastime. What
would
their neighbours think?’

I heard the front door slam and seconds later Julian Reed burst into the room. He looked at me and then addressed his wife.

‘I suppose they’ve told you that they think I murdered Sharon, Muriel.’

‘Yes, they have,’ said Muriel. ‘And who exactly is this Sharon?’

‘You know bloody well who she is,’ said Reed, shaking his head at his wife’s duplicity. ‘Sharon Gregory’s the stewardess I met on a flight to Miami. But I told you that, and I told you I was going to divorce you and marry her.’ This was an entirely new Julian Reed, one that I’d never before seen standing up to his wife.

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Julian. But did you murder her?’

‘Of course not.’ Reed stared at his wife in disbelief before switching his glance to me. ‘She knew all about Sharon,’ he said. ‘I told Muriel everything. She knew where I’d been.’

Despite what Muriel Reed had said previously – that she rather liked having Julian around – I detected a distinct lack of warmth in the relationship. And I’d noticed that neither Julian nor Muriel ever used terms of endearment when speaking to each other.

‘Your wife has just told us that you and she were at a swingers’ party in Dorking the night that Sharon was murdered, Mr Reed,’ I said.

There was but a moment’s hesitation before Reed clutched at the lifeline that had been extended to him by his wife. ‘Yes, we were.’

‘We both enjoy having sex with other people, Chief Inspector,’ said Muriel, clearly relieved that her husband had confirmed her story. ‘It livens up our own sex lives. Julian is always on the lookout for an attractive and willing girl and I simply love getting laid by a younger virile man.’ She lifted her chin as if defying me to criticize her behaviour. ‘I suppose I’m what you might call a cougar.’

Once again I was surprised at the woman’s willingness to discuss her sex life quite openly with a complete stranger. But I also got the impression that Muriel Reed now found herself in a corner and was trying desperately to find a way out of it.

‘I thought you preferred playing tennis, Muriel,’ said Reed sarcastically, continuing to stand up to his wife. He looked at me. ‘She’s got a wicked forearm smash, Chief Inspector.’ He paused before adding what, for him, was an unusually subtle remark. ‘Especially when she’s playing with new balls.’

‘I think that’s all for the time being,’ I said. ‘We’ll let ourselves out.’ I decided that Julian Reed would have to be questioned further, but not in the presence of his wife.

Dave and I hadn’t reached the front door before we heard a monumental screaming match breaking out between Julian and Muriel Reed.

On the way back to the office, I mulled over the claim by Muriel Reed that she and her husband had been to the Dorking swingers’ party with friends. But despite her candid admission as to what she was doing there, I was intrigued that she refused to tell us who the friends were. She must’ve known that it would be simplicity itself to discover their identity. More to the point, she probably feared that they would not support her story.

When we arrived at ESB, I asked Dave to come into the office.

‘Give the Simpsons a call, Dave, and persuade them to shed some light on the identity of the people who Muriel Reed claims that she and Julian met there on the twenty-ninth of July.’

‘Are the Simpsons likely to know the names of these people, guv? I got the impression that anyone could turn up there and use any name they liked.’

‘Yes, I realize all that, but they might’ve heard one of the Reeds use their names.’

Dave did not seem at all enamoured of the idea, and probably wondered whether discovering the Reeds’ friends identity would help our investigation.

‘But we’ve got Julian Reed bang to rights, sir.’

‘Maybe,’ I said pensively, ‘but it’s the only way to break his alibi. I can already hear defence counsel asking if we’d identified these other people, and if not why not. They might’ve been more than just swinging partners; they could be implicated.’

With a certain element of bad grace, Dave retired to the incident room to make the call.

Fifteen minutes later he was back.

‘You were right, guv,’ he said, somewhat grudgingly. ‘The Reeds weren’t there at all.’

‘How did you get that out of them, Dave?’

‘I spoke to James Simpson. He wasn’t very forthcoming to start with until I threw in a few threats about conspiracy, perjury and perverting the course of justice. I also explained the penalties that went with them, and hinted that if peers of the realm and MPs could get done for it, he stood no chance.’

‘And I presume that had the desired effect, Dave?’

‘Oh yes.’ Dave laughed. ‘He couldn’t admit fast enough that on reflection he didn’t think that Julian and Muriel Reed were there that night. He said it was a much younger couple who came in the Lexus, and that the man paid by credit card. His name is Adrian Curtis, and Simpson described the woman as being in her early twenties with a good figure and short blonde hair. I got Adrian Curtis’s address from the credit card company and he lives in Effingham, eight miles from Dorking.’

‘Did you ask when the Reeds had previously been to Dorking?’ I asked.

‘According to Simpson, about a week previously. In fact he said they were regulars, but he’d said that before.’

‘Did Simpson explain why he was so confused?’

‘After a fashion, guv. He made some lame excuse about people not always giving their real names for fear of embarrassment if it ever got out that they’d been swinging. But it was plain that he was bobbing and weaving, right from the start. I think he’s still terrified he might finish up in court.’

‘He’s right, Dave. I think I will have a word with the Surrey Police after all,’ I said. ‘I doubt that the CPS would be interested in doing the Simpsons for conspiracy, but at least the local law can put them out of business.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Get the car, Dave, we’re going to Effingham.’

‘But what for, guv?’

‘To interview Adrian Curtis, of course.’

It was eight o’clock by the time Dave and I arrived at the cottage where Adrian Curtis lived on the outskirts of Effingham in Surrey. A red Lexus was parked outside. Without doubt, and in view of what we now knew, it was the one that the Simpsons had said was parked at their Dorking house on the night of Sharon Gregory’s murder.

‘Adrian Curtis?’ I asked, when a young man, attired in jeans and a rugby shirt, answered the door.

‘Yes?’ Curtis gazed at us apprehensively, but maybe that was because I was accompanied by a tall, well-built black man of menacing appearance.

‘We’re police officers, Mr Curtis, and we’d like a word with you. May we come in?’ In no mood for prevarication, I took a step towards him.

‘What’s this about?’ Curtis continued to display nerves as he showed us into his sitting room. ‘This is my girlfriend, Donna Webb,’ he said, indicating a young blonde seated in an armchair. A plain-looking girl, dressed in shorts and a crop top, was watching a wildlife programme on television, but grabbed the remote and switched it off as we entered.