Reckless Endangerment (16 page)

‘I know what you said to Kevin, but do you think it
was
the same killer?’

‘We’ve no idea,’ said Kate, deeming it unwise to tell her that we were sure Sharon had killed her husband. Some things tend to slip out, even unintentionally, and she didn’t want to add to the Crosses’ distress.

On Friday morning, Dave came breezing into my office.

‘What are we going to do about the other two men on Sharon’s mobile phone list, guv? Max Riley in Guildford and Frank Digby out at Chalfont St Giles.’

‘They’re both within reasonable striking distance of Heathrow,’ I said. ‘We’ll try and get to them later today, and we’ve got to fit in a visit to this place in Dorking to check Julian Reed’s alibi. But first of all I think it’s more important that we speak to Clifford Gregory’s parents, wherever they live.’

‘I found an address for a J. Gregory among the papers in Clifford Gregory’s study,’ said Dave, ‘but there was nothing to indicate whether that’s his father or his mother. It could be a brother or even a sister, I suppose.’

‘We’ll soon find out, Dave,’ I said. ‘Get the car.’

‘I can’t believe we’re having this much bad luck,’ I said, when we pulled up outside the address. ‘It’s a care home.’ In its heyday the substantial property had probably been occupied by an affluent family.

‘Definitely not our day, guv’nor,’ said Dave.

The tall black woman who answered the door studied us both, and then concentrated her gaze on Dave.

‘Can I help you?’

‘We’re police officers,’ I said.

‘I’m Daphne, the matron,’ said the woman. ‘Come in and tell me what I can do for you.’

We followed the matron into the spacious tiled hall. There was a large table on which were a vase of fresh flowers and a few magazines. The windows were open and the room smelled of polish and had a fresh, airy feel about it. This was obviously one of the better care homes.

‘Hello, Daphne,’ shouted a man with a walking frame as he shuffled across the hall, making for a door on the far side. ‘You all right, then?’

‘Hello, Jim. Yes, I’m fine.’ The matron waved at the man. ‘You’d better come into the office,’ she said, turning back to me. She opened the door to a room on the front of the house. There were more flowers on a side table and a small potted plant on the desk.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, Matron, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’

‘May I ask what this is about?’ The matron nodded briefly in Dave’s direction and perched on the edge of her desk.

‘I’m led to believe that you have a J. Gregory in your care, Matron,’ I said.

‘Please call me Daphne, everyone does. Yes, John Gregory is a resident here.’

‘Are you able to tell us if he is Clifford Gregory’s father? Or is he some other relative?’

‘Just a tick. I’ll have a look.’ The matron crossed to a filing cabinet and pulled out a folder. ‘Yes, he’s Clifford Gregory’s father,’ she said, ‘and Clifford Gregory, who has an address in West Drayton, is listed as John’s primary next of kin. Is there a problem?’

‘You could say that, Daphne,’ said Dave. ‘Clifford Gregory was murdered last Saturday at his home in West Drayton.’

‘Oh crikey!’ exclaimed the matron. ‘You’d better sit down while we sort this out.’ She waved a hand at a group of armchairs. ‘I think we ought to have a cup of tea as well.’ She picked up the telephone handset, tapped out a number and ordered tea for three. ‘Presumably you’ve come with the intention of telling John about his son’s murder.’

‘We’re not sure whether he knows already,’ I said. ‘Clifford’s wife might’ve told him, but the problem is that she was murdered a day or so later.’

‘Good grief! What a dreadful state of affairs. But I can tell you categorically that nobody got in touch with us here about this tragedy, Mr Brock. Not that it would’ve helped.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘John Gregory is in the advanced stages of senile dementia. His short-term memory just doesn’t exist any more. Mind you, he can tell you all about the air raids during the war when he was at school in Poplar. And one day he told us all about the Battle of Britain. Apparently he and his mates watched it from the local recreation ground.’

‘I take it there’d be no point in telling him about his son, then?’ said Dave.

‘Not really. He wouldn’t be able to take it in. He probably doesn’t even know he’s got a son. Not now, anyway.’

A young girl entered the room and placed a tray on the table near where we were sitting. She poured the tea and handed it round without a word.

‘Does John Gregory have a wife?’ I asked.

‘No, Mr Brock,’ said Daphne. ‘According to our records, she died ten years ago.’ She glanced at the folder again. ‘I do have another name here, though. There’s a Peter Gregory listed as John’s other son. He lives in Bromley.’

‘We’d better see him, then,’ said Dave. ‘Perhaps you’d give me the address, Daphne.’

‘Someone will have to arrange the funeral,’ I said. ‘Well, both funerals, I suppose.’

The matron scribbled down the address and handed it to me. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘It’s not my problem, thank the Lord.’

We finished our tea and headed back to my favourite Italian restaurant in central London. As we were leaving, Dave got a call on his mobile.

‘That was Colin Wilberforce, guv. Ben Donaldson rang from the embassy. He’s got the information we wanted.’

‘That’s damned good going, Dave.’ It had taken just two days for Ben Donaldson at the US Embassy to get a result. I glanced at my watch. ‘Bromley will have to wait,’ I said. ‘We’ll call at the embassy and then drive on from there to see Clifford Gregory’s brother.’

Dave and I arrived at the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square twenty minutes later. Having once again been interrogated by a stern-faced and highly suspicious US Marine Corps corporal as to our reasons for being there, we eventually found our way to Donaldson’s office.

I was tempted to refuse the obligatory cup of coffee, just for the hell of it, but decided that to do so might completely upset Darlene’s routine.

‘I’ll give y’all a copy of this report, Harry, but to summarize what it says, one of the two guys you mentioned has been seen,’ said Donaldson, once Dave and I were ensconced in his comfortable armchairs.

‘One?’ I queried.

‘Yeah. Miles Donahue. He calls himself an entrepreneur, and admitted having had sex with your victim Sharon Gregory on quite a few occasions. He told the agent that he first picked her up in a bar in downtown Miami.’ Donaldson glanced up. ‘He told our agent that he was surprised that she refused to drink any alcohol. Probably knows all about date-rape drugs.’

She certainly does,
I thought.

‘No, she wouldn’t have had a drink, Ben,’ said Dave. ‘If she’d had too much to drink before duty on the return flight, she’d get the bullet.’

‘Sounds like she did anyhow,’ commented Donaldson with a chuckle.

‘No, she was strangled,’ said Dave, matching Donaldson’s quip with one of his own.

‘Anyway,’ Donaldson went on, ‘after that, Donahue said he always arranged to meet her in her room at the Shannon Hotel. Reckons he shacked up with her at least three or four times in the past year.’

‘Busy girl,’ commented Dave drily, ‘considering all the others she entertained. Did this guy have an alibi for the date in question?’

‘Yep, sure did,’ said Donaldson. ‘He was in bed with a hooker at one of the other hotels in Miami Beach. Our man checked. He also made enquiries at the Shannon,’ he continued, ‘but no one there could recall anyone asking for Sharon Gregory. But that don’t mean squat. If she’s the sort of good-time girl you think she is, she probably called these guys on her cellphone and told ’em where to find her.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I never managed to find a broad like that,’ he added.

‘What about Lance Kramer?’ I asked.

Donaldson flipped over a page in the report he was reading. ‘Kramer might interest you, Harry. He designs theatre sets and is here in London at the present time.’

‘Was he over here on the twenty-ninth of July?’ asked Dave.

‘Sure was. According to the agent who made the enquiry, Kramer flew into London’s Heathrow on Friday twenty-sixth. According to his office, he made a reservation at the Holiday Inn on Regents Park.’

‘Did the person your agent saw in Kramer’s office ask why he wanted that information, Ben?’ I asked. I was concerned that Kramer’s secretary might’ve called him and alerted him to our interest.

‘No, sirree!’ said Donaldson emphatically. ‘FBI agents don’t say why they’re making an enquiry. They’re Federal agents, for krissakes,’ he added, as though that was sufficient explanation. ‘Guess you’ll go talk with him, huh?’

‘Oh yes, we most certainly will,’ I said. I paused as we turned to leave. ‘If you’re ever in touch with Joe Daly, give him my regards, and tell him I hope he’s enjoying his retirement.’

‘Retirement? Joe? No way. He’s set up as a gumshoe in New York. Apparently he’s working his butt off.’

‘A gumshoe?’ queried Dave. ‘Is that something to do with the footwear industry?’ he added, pretending naivety.

‘Hell no! He’s a private eye, a PI.’ For a moment or two, Donaldson stared at Dave in disbelief. ‘Hey, Dave, you’re having me on,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Excellent!’

H
aving completed our business at the embassy, we drove out to Bromley. I didn’t think we’d learn much from Clifford Gregory’s brother, but we had to try. We also had to discover if he was prepared to deal with the question of the funerals, not that that was of any real concern to the police. If the worst came to the worst, the local authority would inter or cremate the Gregorys.

The woman who answered the door was wearing jeans and a white tee-shirt.

‘Are you Mrs Gregory?’ I asked.

‘Yes, I’m Jill Gregory. Who are you?’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock of Scotland Yard, Mrs Gregory, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole. Am I right in thinking that Peter Gregory is your husband?’

‘Yes, but he’s at work.’ Jill Gregory’s face suddenly assumed a worried look. ‘Oh my God! Has something happened to him? A car accident?’

‘No, nothing like that, Mrs Gregory,’ I said. ‘I hope we’re not disturbing you.’

‘Not at all. I’m a nurse, but I’m on night duty at the moment.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did we wake you up?’ I was only too aware of what it was like to do shift work and to have one’s sleep during the day broken by unthinking callers.

‘No, it’s all right. As a matter of fact I always sleep just before going on duty, rather than straight after I’ve finished,’ said Jill Gregory. ‘What’s this about if it’s not about Peter?’

‘It concerns your brother-in-law, Clifford Gregory.’

‘Has
he
had an accident?’

‘No, Mrs Gregory, I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s been murdered.’

‘Oh no, not Cliff!’ said Jill Gregory. ‘When did this happen?’ She suddenly realized that she was carrying on the conversation on her doorstep. ‘I’m so sorry, do come in.’

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

‘When did this happen?’ Jill Gregory asked again. She sat on the edge of her chair, shoulders hunched and hands clasped together, an earnest expression on her face.

‘On Saturday last, the twenty-seventh of July.’

‘Was Sharon there?’

‘Yes, Mrs Gregory. But two days later she was also murdered.’

‘I don’t believe it.’ Jill Gregory gasped and shook her head in bewilderment. ‘How on earth …? I mean, who would want to murder them?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, Mrs Gregory. Clifford was murdered at the marital home in West Drayton. Sharon was found strangled in a hotel room near Heathrow Airport.’

‘Huh!’ exclaimed Jill. ‘I suppose I should be surprised by that, but I’m not. Did Sharon murder Cliff? What did she do, poison him?’

‘We’re still investigating both murders, Mrs Gregory,’ I said diplomatically, ‘but you don’t seem at all surprised that Sharon was murdered.’ I found it interesting that Jill Gregory had immediately jumped to the conclusion that Clifford Gregory had been murdered by Sharon.

‘Not in the least. She was a slut, that one. Why on earth Cliff ever married her I shall never know. She’d readily sleep with any man who asked her. And you said she was murdered in a hotel room? No doubt she was there to have sex with one of her fancy men and it was he who killed her. Peter and I often said that she’d finish up with her throat cut, and it looks as though we were right. She didn’t give a damn who she slept with, and she didn’t give a damn about Cliff, either.’

‘Did you know any of the men Sharon was seeing?’ asked Dave, busily taking notes in his pocketbook.

‘It would be a full-time occupation to list them all, I should think,’ replied Jill Gregory cuttingly. ‘But no, I don’t know who any of them were. Cliff was a quiet sort of chap, an accountant, you know. All he wanted was an ordinary home life and children, but when he found out what Sharon was like he had a vasectomy. He confided in us that he wasn’t going to have kids with a whore. It took an awful lot to rile Cliff, and an outburst like that was very much out of character, but that’s how he described her. Frankly, I think Sharon drove him to the end of his tether.’

‘He knew about her affairs, then?’ queried Dave.

‘Oh yes, he knew all right. Well, guessed anyway. But Cliff was a fool to himself. Peter and I told him he should get a divorce and start again. But he said he was too old. Mind you, he was only forty. So he didn’t do anything about it. He was rather a weak man, was Cliff, and Sharon could twist him round her little finger. She treated him like dirt. The fact that she was an air hostess didn’t help, either. Always jetting off to some foreign place and, no doubt, hopping into some man’s bed whenever the mood took her. And I gather the mood took her quite often.’

‘This morning we called at the care home where your father-in-law is living, Mrs Gregory,’ I said. ‘But after a conversation with the matron it was apparent that there would have been little point in talking to him.’

‘No, there wouldn’t be. He’s suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. The poor old chap is out of this world to all intents and purposes. I don’t think he’s got long, and if he’d been able to take in the news, which I doubt, the shock would probably have killed him.’