Reckless Endangerment (18 page)

‘Another executive holiday to arrange?’ I asked.

‘Something like that,’ said Harrison, without elaborating.

‘We’ll not keep you too long,’ I said, as Liz and I settled into the armchairs. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Lizanne Carpenter.’

‘Hi!’ said Harrison, nodding in Lizanne’s direction.

We took a seat and waited while Harrison moved his computer chair to face us and sat down.

‘I take it that Shona is your wife, Mr Harrison,’ I said, knowing damned well that she wasn’t.

‘Er, no, not exactly.’

Lizanne said nothing, but fixed Harrison with a quizzical gaze, forcing him into saying something.

‘My wife’s visiting her folks. Well, she’s my partner; we’re not actually married. She’s a Romanian called Krisztina Comaneci.’ Harrison seemed at pains to explain his marital status.

‘Oh, I see. And Shona’s your housekeeper, I suppose.’ But I smiled as I said it.

‘Oh, what the hell! While the cat’s away …’

It was some time before I discovered that even that was not the truth.

‘However, we’ve not come here to discuss your domestic arrangements, Mr Harrison,’ I said.

‘So, what can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’ Harrison was more relaxed now that we’d dealt with the matter of Shona’s status. And his demeanour was certainly not that of someone who thought he was about to be arrested for murder. But I’d met cool killers before and I recalled one in particular who was eventually convicted of murdering three women in various parts of London. Almost cherubic in appearance, he had remained unperturbed throughout the two days of interviews I’d conducted with him. And he hadn’t displayed any emotion when he was eventually sentenced to life imprisonment with a tariff of thirty years before he could apply for parole.

‘We came to see you last Monday,’ I began.

‘Yes, I remember,’ said Harrison, leaning forward and linking his hands between his knees.

‘Would you mind telling me how you spent the rest of that evening?’

‘Does that have something to do with Sharon Gregory?’ asked Harrison, the trace of a frown on his face.

‘Yes, it does, but I’ll explain why in a moment.’

‘As a matter of fact, I was here all evening. I watched
The Cruel Sea
: Jack Hawkins, Donald Sinden and the delectable Virginia McKenna. I once nurtured the idea of going into the navy, but eventually opted for making money instead.’

That all came out like a well-rehearsed alibi
, I thought.

‘Was it on TV or was it a DVD?’ asked Liz casually.

‘A DVD,’ replied Harrison immediately.

‘Were you alone?’

‘No. Shona was here.’

Really?
I couldn’t imagine Shona settling down to watch a war film. A porn video maybe, but not
The Cruel Sea
.
That idle thought was interrupted by Harrison speaking again.

‘But you still haven’t told me why you want to know.’ Harrison spent a few seconds discreetly appraising Lizanne’s nylon-clad legs before switching his gaze back to me.

‘That was the evening Sharon Gregory was murdered,’ I said.

‘Murdered? My God! What happened to the poor little bitch?’ Harrison shook his head. ‘But it can’t be true …’

It’s strange the way people always say that when a police officer has just related an incontrovertible fact to them.

‘That’s why I’m interested in your whereabouts that evening, Mr Harrison.’

‘Hey, whoa, hold on! Surely you can’t think I had anything to do with that?’ Harrison’s protest sounded genuine, but murderers are often good actors, which is how they manage to persuade their victims into vulnerable situations where help is far from hand.

‘D’you think I could use your bathroom, Mr Harrison?’ asked Lizanne, affording Harrison a shy smile before giving me a knowing glance.

‘Yeah, sure. It’s up the stairs and first door on the right. That’s the bedroom. The bathroom leads off it. If Shona’s in there, chuck her out.’

‘Thank you.’ Lizanne stood up and made for the door.

‘What happened, Mr Brock? To Sharon, I mean.’

‘Someone strangled her,’ I said.

‘Why the hell would anyone want to do that? She was a sweet girl and very …’ Harrison paused. ‘How can I put it … amorous.’ He smiled boyishly.

‘And when did you last have contact with Sharon?’ I knew what he had said previously, but wanted to find out if he would say the same again.

‘A month ago, I think I said, the last time you were here. Yes, it was at least a month.’

‘Do you happen to know the name of anyone else she might’ve been seeing?’ I asked.

‘No, I’m afraid not. Mind you, knowing what sort of girl she was, it wouldn’t surprise me to know that she had a string of lovers.’ Harrison glanced out of the window before looking back at me. ‘As well as a husband,’ he added ruefully. ‘And you told me that he was murdered too.’ He shook his head as he tried to absorb a situation that was entirely outside his own experience.

Lizanne came back into the room and gave me a discreet nod just as I stood up.

‘We’ll not delay you any further, Mr Harrison,’ I said, ‘but I might need to see you again.’

‘Of course.’

‘Enjoy your trip,’ said Lizanne, as she stopped in the hall to pick up her shoes.

Shona, having abandoned her negligee, returned to the sitting room.

‘Who is this Sharon Gregory they were talking about, Gordie?’

‘Were you listening, you little bitch?’

‘Of course I was. You said last time that they’d come about your car, but they hadn’t, had they?’

‘It’s nothing to do with you, Shona, my pet. It was about a girl I knew ages ago.’

‘That policeman said something about her being murdered. Do they think you did it?’

‘Of course not. They’re talking to everyone who might have known her.’

‘Why did you tell them that you were here with me that night, Gordie?’

‘For God’s sake stop calling me Gordie. My name’s Gordon,’ snapped Harrison. ‘I told them that because otherwise they’ll start making enquiries. And they might find out what I really do on these trips of mine. And that’d be a damned nuisance because I didn’t have anything to do with her murder. But I told them I was here with you, so don’t forget to back me up.’

‘Too late,’ said Shona, throwing herself into a chair and hooking one leg over the arm. ‘When that policewoman came upstairs she asked me if I was here that night, and I told her I was at work. Well, they check on these things, don’t they?’

‘You did
what
? You silly little cow. Now they’ll think I was mixed up in Sharon’s murder.’

‘Where were you, then,
Gordon
?’ asked Shona.

‘None of your damned business. But when they start probing they might uncover things that I don’t want uncovered. Now get yourself up to the bedroom. It seems to me that it’s the only place where you know what you’re doing.’

‘What did you make of that, Liz?’ I asked, as we drove out of Glenn Road.

‘As I went into the hall, Shona shot upstairs. She’d obviously been standing in the hall listening to our chat with Harrison. Anyway, I cornered her in the bedroom and asked her about the night Sharon Gregory was murdered. She said she wasn’t here at all that evening. Her full name’s Shona Grant and she claimed to be employed as a West End nightclub hostess most evenings, including the twenty-ninth of July. Personally I think she’s a stripper in this nightclub, but I’ll check it out. I thought that Harrison came up with what he was doing that night just a bit too glibly, sir; it’s bound to be untrue.’

‘I thought so too, but we’ll need a lot more evidence before we can think about arresting Harrison. It’s just possible that he had another bird with him. But if that was the case, why not say so?’

‘Perhaps he got confused.’ Lizanne laughed, and without taking her eyes off the road, took a small plastic envelope from her jacket pocket and handed it to me. ‘This might help,’ she said. ‘I took a couple of hair samples from his comb when I used his bathroom. The boffins should be able to get a DNA sample from those.’

‘And if it matches the DNA from the fetus that Doctor Mortlock found when he did the post-mortem on Sharon, we might be getting somewhere.’

‘But you said that Harrison had admitted having sex with her, sir.’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘And from what we know about her, so did a hell of a lot of other men. So that doesn’t necessarily make Harrison her killer, does it, sir?’

Frank Digby lived in what was known as a chalet bungalow in a quiet road in Chalfont St Giles. Predominantly white, the house had brown windows and doors, and decorative brown shutters that were fixed permanently to the walls.

It was half past midday when Dave pulled up on the drive next to a Ford Galaxy, and he and Kate Ebdon alighted.

Kate rang the bell and waited for some two or three minutes. She was on the point of giving up when a man opened the door. A good-looking thirty-something, he was tall and muscular, and had a clipboard in one hand and a pen lodged behind an ear.

‘Good morning.’ The man glanced at his watch. ‘Or, should I say, good afternoon.’

‘Mr Frank Digby?’

‘Yes, I’m Frank Digby. Sorry to have kept you waiting, I was dealing with an order on my computer. How can I help?’ Digby smiled at Kate and rapidly appraised her figure, his glance travelling from head to toe and back again.

‘We’re police officers, Mr Digby. I’m Detective Inspector Ebdon and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’

‘Oh! I was hoping you’d come to buy some wine.’ Digby laughed nervously. ‘But if it’s about the licences, I can assure you that all the paperwork is in order.’

‘I take it you’re a wine merchant, Mr Digby.’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘It’s not about wine or the relevant paperwork; that’s nothing to do with us. We’re from Scotland Yard and we’d like to speak to you concerning another matter.’

‘This is all very mysterious. You’d better come in,’ said Digby, as he showed the two detectives into a living room at the front of the house. A young woman in a plain cream dress was reclining on a sofa, her feet tucked up beneath her. She put down the magazine she was reading, lowered her feet and pushed them into a pair of mules. ‘The police have come to see us, Fi.’ He turned to Kate. ‘Fiona Douglas is my partner. And my business partner.’

‘How d’you do?’ said Fiona.

‘Ripper, thanks,’ said Kate.

‘Ah, you’re Australian,’ said Digby, as he recognized the accent and the colloquial response. Kate, as she always did, had mistaken the customary English greeting for a question. Brock thought she did it on purpose. ‘You have some fascinating wines Down Under. There’s quite a market for them here these days.’

‘Yes, I’m sure there is, but as I said just now, we haven’t come here to talk about wine.’ Kate shot a glance in Fiona Douglas’s direction. ‘D’you travel to Miami very often, Mr Digby?’

‘Occasionally,’ said Digby, but the response was guarded, hesitant almost. It was a loaded question and he recognized it as such. ‘I more often go to California. The New World wines have become increasingly popular over here. But what’s with Miami? I think I’ve only been there two or three times.’ As if sensing what was coming next, he glanced at his partner. ‘Be a pet, Fi, and check on the orders and send them to the warehouse. Practically all our wine business is online, Inspector,’ he explained, as his partner left the room. ‘If we don’t keep up with the orders, it quickly gets out of hand. Now, then, what’s this interest in Miami?’

‘Sharon Gregory, a cabin attendant on the Heathrow to Miami service,’ said Kate bluntly.

‘Oh God!’ exclaimed Digby with a hunted look. He pushed a hand through his hair. ‘What about her?’

‘We understand from our enquiries that you and she were rather close.’

Digby glanced at the door. ‘Yes, I’ve met her a couple of times. Why?’

‘I was also told that you and she had a sexual relationship,’ said Dave, hazarding a guess at the reason Digby’s phone number was on Sharon’s mobile phone list of contacts.

‘Now look here,’ said Digby, displaying a hint of steel. ‘I don’t see that this has anything to do with the police. Is adultery a criminal offence all of a sudden?’ he asked sarcastically.

‘Not any more,’ said Dave. ‘But it might reach the divorce courts if you’re actually
married
to your business partner.’

‘I’m not,’ snapped Digby.

‘You admit to having sex with Sharon Gregory, then,’ said Kate, getting none too subtly to the nub of the matter.

‘I’m not admitting anything. I have nothing further to say and I’d be grateful if you left. Now! If you come back again, you’d better have a warrant.’

‘I think you’ve touched a nerve, ma’am,’ commented Dave quietly.

‘Where were you on the twenty-ninth of July, Mr Digby?’ Kate ignored Digby’s request to leave, and her Australian accent became a little sharper. ‘That was last Monday.’

‘I don’t have to answer that.’

‘In that case,’ said Dave, ‘we
will
come back with a warrant and we’ll turn this place upside down. And we might just bring Revenue and Customs with us. They’re always interested in online businesses.’

‘Fiona and I went to the Royal Opera House to see
Swan Lake
.’ Digby caved in.

‘Really? My wife is in that,’ said Dave quietly.

‘Doing what?’

‘She’s a principal dancer,’ said Dave.

‘Oh!’ said Digby. Unaware that Dave’s wife was white, he was obviously trying to recall whether he had ever seen a black ballet dancer. ‘But you still haven’t told me what’s so important about last Monday.’

‘It’s the night that Sharon Gregory was murdered. Two days after her husband was murdered,’ said Kate, and was pleased to see the shocked expression on Digby’s face. But, being the cynic she was, she was uncertain whether it was shock at the death of someone he had slept with, or the fact that the victim had been married, or that the police had arrived at his front door in connection with the woman’s murder. Or even that of her husband.

‘That’s terrible,’ said Digby. But there was no sign of guilt, just transparent insincerity.

‘I’ll ask you again,’ said Kate. ‘Did you have sex with Sharon Gregory?’