Reckless Endangerment (8 page)

I made a note of the details of Sharon’s Mini Cooper, and Dave and I went inside and made for the sitting room. It was still in its state of chaos and Sharon had obviously made no attempt to clear up the mess. We had a final look round, but found nothing more to interest us.

‘It looks as though she’s changed her duties, Dave. She wasn’t supposed to have been flying again until Wednesday,’ I said. ‘At least, that’s what she told us, wasn’t it?’

‘To coin an apt phrase, guv,’ said Dave, ‘it looks as though the bird has flown.’

‘Put details of her Mini Cooper on the Police National Computer, Dave. If it’s found we might have some idea where she’s gone. Ask for a check to be made on car parks, particularly at airports and railway stations. Then arrange for an all-ports warning. There’s just a chance that she might’ve taken off for foreign parts,’ I said. ‘As a passenger.’

‘I’ve already put her car’s details on the PNC, sir. I made a note of the index mark when I saw it in the garage.’

‘You could’ve told me that when I was talking to that PC, Dave.’

‘What, and ruin his moment of glory, guv?’ said Dave, and then offered me one of his pearls of wisdom. ‘Miss Ebdon said she was a lying bitch. We should’ve nicked her when we had the chance.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘From reading her statement, it strikes me that her story doesn’t hang together. But more importantly there are Doc Mortlock’s findings that Cliff Gregory had been fed Rohypnol. Added to all of that, there’s Charlie Flynn’s information about her buying a sash weight and a clothes line in Ruislip. To say nothing of the new insurance policy for a hundred grand.’

‘You have to remember that she was in shock when Miss Ebdon and I spoke to her, Dave,’ I said, ‘even though she seemed composed enough. And we didn’t know that she’d bought the sash weight and the clothes line until recently. And we certainly don’t know that she bought the Rohypnol.’

‘What’s next, then?’ asked Dave, having made his point.

‘There’s nothing else we can do here,’ I said. ‘We’ll see what Richie at the airport has to say about her.’

W
e found Ted Richie’s office tucked away in Terminal Two at Heathrow Airport. There were maps and duty rosters adorning the walls, and his desk was cluttered with paperwork and a model of a passenger aircraft, several more of which were beside a kettle and a cafetière on a side table.

‘DCI Harry Brock, from the Metropolitan Murder Investigation Team, Mr Richie, and this is DS Dave Poole.’

‘Yeah, we spoke on the phone, Dave. The name’s Ted, by the way. Come in, gents, and tell me how I can help you.’ Richie was a large man with a bald pate, a North Country accent, a substantial moustache and a red face that seemed to indicate a fondness for alcohol. But he had been a CID officer and it’s a hard life; at least that’s always the excuse. ‘I’m ex-Job myself. Did thirty years up North flogging my guts out getting a string of petty villains banged up, took my money and ran. Best decision I ever made. Take a pew, gents.’

I explained briefly about the murder of Sharon Gregory’s husband.

‘Yeah, I heard about that,’ said Richie. ‘Airline grapevine. People here seem to fall over themselves to tell me the latest scuttlebutt. Never happened in the Job. Mind you, I did have one or two good snouts.’

‘Dave and I have just been to Sharon Gregory’s house at West Drayton, Ted,’ I continued, ‘but I’m told that she left there less than an hour ago. According to the PC on duty at the house, Sharon was in uniform and she told him that she was going to work. But when we interviewed her on the night of the murder she told us that she wasn’t rostered to fly until this coming Wednesday.’

Richie turned to one of the crew duty rotas on his wall and studied it for a moment or two. ‘That’s what it says here, Harry. According to the latest roster I’ve got, Sharon Gregory’s not flying until Wednesday, LHR to MIA.’ He paused and then explained. ‘Heathrow to Miami International.’

‘That’s exactly what she told us,’ I said. ‘But is there anyone here who could tell us if that’s been changed?’

‘I could try the duty room. I don’t know the girl personally, I’m afraid,’ said Richie. ‘We’ve got a lot of cabin crew working out of here, but to tell you the truth I don’t have much to do with them. My job’s more one of dealing with security on the ground: baggage that’s been nicked, light-fingered baggage handlers, that sort of thing. Anything that’s up in the air, to coin a phrase, is dealt with by the aircraft captain. That’s the law; just like the captain of a ship. But occasionally I get involved, for theft on an aircraft in flight or thieving by the crew.’

‘Must keep you busy, Ted,’ said Dave, but I thought I detected a hint of sarcasm.

‘You can say that again,’ said Richie, ‘and they always want me to use my contacts to short-circuit the system if someone’s snuffed it in flight. You’d be surprised how many people die in transit; must be something to do with the cabin pressure. The powers-that-be want me to get in touch with the coroner’s officer and smooth the wheels.’ He sat down behind his desk. ‘I had a word around and if it’s of any interest, airport chit-chat suggests Sharon Gregory’s got a bit of a reputation for sleeping around, usually in Miami. It pays to keep your ear to the ground in this job. But like I said, I don’t know her personally.’

‘We’ve heard that much, Ted. The people we’ve spoken to so far have suggested that she might not be averse to having a fling.’

‘Anyway, to answer your question about her duties,’ said Richie, ‘first of all, I’ll have a look through my memos to check that they haven’t been changed. That’s if they bothered to tell me. These girls sometimes do a mutual swap and the duty room doesn’t always let me know.’

Having spent a few moments ploughing through the untidy pile of papers on his desk, he looked up. ‘They haven’t advised me of any change, Harry, not that that means a damned thing. As far as I know, what she told you still stands. The last I heard was that she should be flying out at fourteen thirty-three Zulu time this coming Wednesday bound for Miami. D’you want me to make a few enquiries?’

‘Yes, please, Ted. And perhaps you could get someone to check if her car is in the staff car park.’ Dave gave him the details of Sharon Gregory’s Mini Cooper.

Ted Richie made a couple of calls, one to a member of his staff and another to the duty room. Twenty minutes later he got the first reply. ‘The duty room guy said she hasn’t shown up there, Harry, which is where she has to report for duty, and her schedule remains the same: fourteen thirty-three Zulu departure on Wednesday. What’s more, no one in the duty room has seen her at any time today.’

The second reply came five minutes later.

‘My guy says that her car’s not where she usually parks it, Harry,’ said Richie, switching off his mobile and tossing it on to the desk.

‘Thanks, Ted. It looks like she’s done a runner.’

‘Anything else I can help you with, Harry?’

‘No thanks. I’ll get our port watch people to make some enquiries. Oh, there is one thing: where does Sharon Gregory usually stay in Miami?’

Richie delved into his pile of paperwork once again. ‘The crew always spends stopovers at the Shannon Hotel on Miami Beach,’ he said eventually.

‘I don’t know whether it’ll help us,’ said Dave, ‘but I suppose there’s an outside chance that she’s gone there, even off duty. D’you have a phone number for the Shannon?’

‘Sure.’ Richie scribbled the details on a memo bearing the airline’s crest and handed it to Dave. ‘If the crew room’s empty, and it should be, I could let you have a discreet look in her locker, Harry, if you think that would help?’ he suggested. ‘But for God’s sake don’t tell anyone that I let you have a gander without a warrant or I’ll have the union on my back like a ton of bricks. The next thing that’d happen would be a strike, and I could do without that sort of aggro.’

‘Thanks, Ted. A look in her locker might be useful.’

Richie picked up his personal radio, led us down a flight of stairs, along several passageways and through a door marked ‘Private’ until we reached the crew room. Fortunately it was deserted. Taking out a bunch of keys, the security chief opened a locker labelled ‘Sharon Gregory’. ‘Pays to have a skeleton key,’ he said, with a laugh. ‘Although if the shop steward found out he’d go ape.’ It seemed that he was in constant fear of the trade union.

There was little in the locker to excite our interest: some clothing, including a spare uniform, a couple of packets of tights and a pair of high-heeled shoes.

‘They wear high heels to greet the passengers,’ said Richie, offering a piece of useless information, ‘but they change into flats once they’re airborne.’

‘This might be useful, sir,’ said Dave, picking up a mobile phone. ‘I wonder why she didn’t take it with her?’ He picked up the phone and began to fiddle with it.

‘What are you up to now, Dave?’ I was always interested when Dave moved into his technical mode.

‘Copying her contact list, sir,’ said Dave, as he removed the SIM cards from his own phone and Sharon’s. Placing her card into his phone, he copied her contact list, and then returned Sharon’s card to her phone. ‘And she’ll never know we did it,’ he said, as he replaced his own SIM card and put Sharon’s phone back in her locker.

‘D’you think she might’ve had something to do with topping her husband, Harry?’ asked Richie, as we strolled back to his office. The suspicions of a career CID officer still remained.

‘I very much doubt it, Ted,’ I said, unwilling to disclose my concerns about the circumstances surrounding the murder of Clifford Gregory, even to an ex-copper. Loyalties tend to change with a change of career. ‘But I’ll keep you posted if anything interesting comes up. Oh, there’s one other thing. D’you know if Sharon Gregory had a particular friend, one who is in the same crew maybe and might know what she gets up to when she’s in Miami?’

‘Leave it with me, Harry, I’ll ask around. I’ll give you a bell if I find out anything.’ Richie glanced at his watch. ‘You got time for a snifter?’

‘Yes, why not? But Dave’s driving, so he’ll have an orange juice.’

Richie laughed. ‘Rank hath its privileges,’ he said, as Dave and I followed him into one of the many bars to be found in the Heathrow Airport complex.

Once back at ESB, I asked Dave to telephone the Shannon Hotel at Miami Beach and find out if Sharon was there.

Ten minutes later, he returned. ‘She’s not there, guv, and they aren’t expecting the crew she’s usually with until Wednesday.’

‘That comes as no surprise,’ I said, leaving Dave to list the contacts he had found on Sharon Gregory’s mobile. I phoned Linda Mitchell in an attempt to clarify one or two points.

‘How many mobile telephones did you come across at the Gregorys’ house, Linda?’

‘Two, Mr Brock,’ said Linda promptly. ‘One was in the study and the other was on the worktop in the kitchen. I’m about to examine them, but it’s most likely that the one from the kitchen was Sharon’s, and the one in the study belonged to her husband. I’ll let you know.’

‘A couple of other things. I’d be grateful if you’d have all the pillows that were in the master bedroom examined. Doctor Mortlock tells me that Clifford Gregory was suffocated, and he suspects it might’ve been one of the pillows that was used. So, a check for saliva or mucus would be useful, but you know better than me the sort of thing we’re looking for. Also, the piece of material found in the hall that Sharon Gregory said the intruder used to gag her. See if there was any trace of her saliva on it.’

‘Leave it with me,’ said Linda. ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I get a result.’

‘How are you getting on, Dave?’ I asked, returning to the incident room. ‘Incidentally, Linda Mitchell told me that she found another mobile in the house that belonged to Sharon.’

‘I’m not surprised, guv,’ said Dave. ‘The one we found at Heathrow has got all the usual girlie stuff on it, like hairdresser, manicurist, tanning studio, et cetera. But there are also six men’s names and their telephone numbers. Four of them are in the UK, and the other two have numbers in the States.’

‘And I’d put money on those men’s names not being on the mobile that Linda found in the kitchen at West Drayton.’

Dave laughed. ‘It’s beginning to look as though our Sharon was the sort of girl who played the field, guv, and didn’t want the late Clifford Gregory to come across the phone we found at the airport. Anyway, Colin Wilberforce is doing a subscriber check to find the addresses.’

‘I just hope they’re not too far away,’ I said. I’d travelled long distances in the past to chase up promising leads, only to find that I’d wasted my time when I got there. ‘Apart from going to Miami, I somehow doubt that Sharon would want to travel too far to get laid.’

‘No, but the guys she was seeing might be prepared to,’ said Dave cynically.

Linda Mitchell arrived in the incident room at two o’clock. She sat down and opened a file, resting it on her lap.

‘I’ve got the initial results of the examination of the property, Mr Brock. And I’ll start with the result I think will probably interest you the most: there was no trace of saliva on the gag that Sharon Gregory said had been stuffed in her mouth.’

‘What do you conclude from that, Linda?’ I asked. ‘Scientifically speaking.’

‘I would think that if she had been gagged and she’d eventually been able to dislodge it from her mouth, there should’ve been a trace. And in that case we’d almost certainly have been able to get a DNA sample from it. But there was nothing.’

‘So, the chances are that her claim to have been gagged wasn’t true.’

‘That would be my view,’ said Linda cautiously, and glanced at her notes again. ‘We also found a tea towel in the kitchen with a piece torn from it. The gag that was found in the hall is a mechanical fit for the tea towel.’

‘It looks as though the intruder tore the gag from that,’ I conjectured.

‘Or Sharon Gregory did,’ said Dave.

‘Moving on to the pillows,’ continued Linda, ‘there were traces of saliva and mucus on the pillow that we found on the floor beside the bed, and, of course, blood; the DNA on both pillows matches that of Clifford Gregory. It’s scientifically certain, therefore, that it was that pillow that was used to suffocate the victim, as Doctor Mortlock suggested. The bloodstains on the pillow that was beneath the victim’s head were also those of Clifford Gregory, but that was to be expected. His bloodstains were also on the sash weight I found in the garage, despite the fact that attempts had been made to wash them off.’