by Graham Ison
‘Interesting,’ I said. ‘I wonder what happened to it? More to the point, where did the one we found come from?’
‘I doubt we’ll be able to find out, sir,’ said Sheila. ‘Mobile phones are difficult to track down.’
I’d not met Ben Donaldson before, but he’d taken over the legal attaché’s post when Joe Daly had returned to New York on retirement after twenty-four years with the Bureau.
Ben was a big man who originated from Montgomery, Alabama. Although he later told me that he’d spent many years in Washington and New York, with spells in Ottawa and Paris, his accent and Southern bonhomie hadn’t left him. He almost leaped across the office as we entered.
‘How ya doin’, Harry?’ he said, as though he’d known me all my life.
‘Pleased to meet you at last, Ben,’ I said. ‘This is Dave Poole, my sergeant.’
Donaldson seized each of our hands in turn and pumped them vigorously. ‘Guess you know Darlene,’ he said, as his secretary came into the room bearing a tray of coffee. ‘Joe left her behind when he went back to the States.’
‘Yes, we’ve met,’ I said, smiling. That Darlene was still here rather surprised me; I thought that she and Joe had had a ‘thing’ going. She was a beautifully packaged American redhead who looked as though she belonged in a Hollywood movie rather than in a London office. And she had the happy knack of producing coffee the minute we arrived at Grosvenor Square. And for anyone else who arrived, I imagined.
‘Take a seat, fellers.’ Donaldson swept his hand magnanimously towards the bank of armchairs in one corner of his impressive office. ‘What can I do for y’all?’
I explained about the murder of Sharon Gregory and the events that led up to it, including our certainty that she’d murdered her husband. Both Ben and I were law enforcement officers and, even though this was our first meeting, I trusted him implicitly to keep my theories to himself.
‘Dave has discovered that the phone numbers of two men, Lance Kramer and Miles Donahue, were on our murder victim’s mobile—’
‘What’s a mobile?’ asked Donaldson, feigning innocence.
‘It’s what you call a cellphone in America, Ben.’
‘Oh, I thought you were talking about one of those gadgets you hang over a baby’s crib.’ Donaldson laughed. ‘I’ve only been here about three weeks, but I guess I’ll come to grips with your language if I stay long enough.’ He paused. ‘Only kidding, Harry.’
‘Both these men live in the Miami Beach area of Florida.’ I turned to Dave. ‘Tell Ben your problem,’ I said.
‘We don’t know whether to contact Miami-Dade Police Department, or the Miami Beach Police, which seems the more obvious,’ said Dave. ‘Or even the Florida State Police.’
Donaldson took a mouthful of coffee and set down his cup before replying. ‘The set-up of the American police is a minefield, Dave,’ he said. ‘Half the guys in it don’t even understand who to talk with about interstate enquiries, let alone how to deal with international ones. But you’ve come to the right place. When in doubt, contact the FBI. As it happens, we have a Bureau office on Second Avenue at North Miami Beach, and I’ll contact the special agent in charge ASAP.’
‘Excellent,’ said Dave.
‘Yeah, excellent.’ Donaldson savoured the word and grinned. ‘I like that,’ he said, and shouted for Darlene. ‘Dave here will give you the details, Darlene. Perhaps you’d send a request to the Florida office and ask them to make enquiries.’
Darlene sat down in the armchair next to Dave and spent the next few minutes noting down the sparse details of the relevant dates, and what we knew about Kramer and Donahue.
‘I’ll call you as soon as they come back with the information, Harry.’
‘Thanks, Ben,’ I said. ‘We must have a drink sometime.’
‘Sure, I’d like that.’ Donaldson paused. ‘D’you happen to know an English pub that doesn’t serve warm beer?’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Dave.
‘Excellent!’ Donaldson laughed, stood up and shook hands again. ‘Like I said, Harry, I’ll call you.’
TEN
It was past five o’clock when we left the embassy, and I decided it was time to start talking to the other subscribers to the British telephone numbers that Dave had found on Sharon’s airport mobile.
‘Where d’you want to go first, guv?’
‘We’ll try this Julian Reed in Chelsea for a kick off. It’s not far from here.’
The house in Chelsea where Reed lived would undoubtedly have attracted a price tag of several millions in today’s property market.
The woman who answered the door was about thirty, maybe thirty-five. She had long titian hair and was expensively dressed. But given the value of the house in which she lived, her designer white-linen trouser suit came as no surprise. Neither did the expensive jewellery she was wearing.
‘Can I help you?’ She cast an enquiring, superior gaze over us.
‘We’re police officers, madam,’ I said. ‘I was hoping to have a word with Mr Julian Reed. I am given to understand he lives here.’ This was going to be a difficult interview if this was Reed’s wife.
‘I’m Muriel Reed, his wife,’ said the woman, confirming what I’d feared to be the case. ‘I think Julian’s in the study. If you’d like to come in, I’ll get him for you. Just as soon as I can find him.’
In my experience, a woman usually expressed surprise when the police came to her door asking to speak to her husband, and demanded to know why. But this woman didn’t seem in the slightest bit curious about our arrival. Perhaps she knew what we wanted.
We followed the woman upstairs and were shown into a large airy room that was predominately white in décor: white walls, white carpet, and matching white sofas and armchairs that had the appearance of having been selected for their style rather than their comfort. A few original abstract paintings adorned the walls. The white marble fireplace contained a gas-operated fake log fire, and the mantelshelf was crowded with white candlesticks of varying sizes. In the centre of this Arctic-style room was a wrought-iron glass-topped table upon which was the usual pile of coffee-table books. Against this snowy background the white-suited Muriel Reed all but disappeared.
As Dave commented later, the room looked like a large igloo inhabited by a rich Eskimo.
‘Do please take a seat, gentlemen,’ said Muriel Reed. ‘May I offer you a drink? Tea or coffee? Something stronger, perhaps?’
‘No thank you, Mrs Reed,’ I said.
‘I’ll go and see if I can find my husband, then.’ The woman still didn’t enquire why we wished to see him, and walked gracefully from the room.
When she returned, she was accompanied by a man, probably between thirty-five and forty, who was scruffily dressed in khaki shorts that were too long to be fashionable, a casual shirt and sandals. He wore heavily-framed spectacles and an innocent expression on his face that, together with his untrimmed auburn hair, lent him the overall appearance of an ageing Boy Scout. He did appear to be quite well-built, though.
‘I’m Julian Reed, gentlemen. My wife tells me you wanted to speak to me.’ He gazed at us quizzically with his head on one side.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock and this is Detective Sergeant Poole, Mr Reed. We’re investigating a murder that occurred on Monday, the twenty-ninth of July.’
‘Really?’ Julian Reed blinked at us through his finger-marked spectacles, his reaction one of bland acceptance that such things were commonplace these days.
‘Good gracious!’ Muriel Reed’s response was much the same, but her tone indicated interest rather than shock. ‘Was this locally?’ she asked.
‘No, at Heathrow Airport. Well, in one of the hotels near there, to be precise.’
‘How d’you think that I can help?’ Leaning forward, Reed seemed genuinely interested that we thought he may be able to assist us.
‘The murder victim was a stewardess who regularly flew on the service from Heathrow to Miami i
n Florida,’ I said hesitantly.
Muriel Reed laughed. ‘And you want to know if Julian was having an affair with her, I suppose?’
The woman’s candour stunned me for a moment, as did her husband’s lack of protest at his wife’s comment. ‘I was certainly wondering if you’d met her, Mr Reed,’ I said eventually, unable to think of anything else to say. I was not yet prepared to mention that his phone number had been found on Sharon’s airport mobile, at least not while his wife was there.
‘Was she a tart, in her twenties and willing to open her legs at the drop of a hat?’ Muriel’s coarse language seemed strangely at odds with her rounded upper-class tones.
‘Well, I—’
‘Oh, come on, Chief Inspector, don’t beat about the bush,’ said Muriel, throwing back her head and laughing. ‘Julian might’ve had a fling with this woman, but he wouldn’t’ve murdered her. To be quite frank, he hasn’t got the guts for that sort of thing. Have you, darling?’ she added, shooting a mischievous glance in her husband’s direction.
‘Are you in the habit of having casual affairs, Mr Reed?’ Dave was much less inhibited with his questions than I was, and got straight to the crux of the matter.
‘All the time, Sergeant Poole.’ It was Muriel Reed who replied, at the same time raising her eyebrows in surprise at Dave’s educated and well-modulated English accent. Perhaps she was expecting a stereotypical Jamaican sing-song delivery. ‘I think the term is screwing around, and my husband’s very good at it.’
This woman was quite obviously quick to grasp people’s names and to remember them. And she didn’t mind telling us that her husband was a philanderer, even in his presence. She was so composed and overbearing that it seemed to me that Julian Reed was completely dominated by her.
As if to confirm it, he didn’t react to his wife’s statement and gazed into the middle distance with a blank expression on his face.
‘Do you ever go to Miami, Mr Reed,’ I asked, hoping to get a response from this largely unresponsive man.
‘I go fairly regularly, as a matter of fact, Chief Inspector.’
‘On holiday, or do you have business interests there?’
‘I’m an international property developer,’ said Reed. ‘So, yes, on business …’
Julian Reed seemed to be about to say something more, but before he could continue, Muriel Reed intervened yet again. ‘My late father took Julian into partnership when Julian and I were married eight years ago, Chief Inspector, and when my father died, he left Julian the business. And my father left me this house and a large sum of money.’ She raised her chin slightly. ‘Is there anything else you want to know about our private life, Chief Inspector?’ It was an enquiry laden with sarcasm. ‘I don’t really know what you want of my husband. He obviously doesn’t know this woman who was murdered.’
‘Were you here the day before yesterday, Mr Reed?’ I ignored the woman’s petty attempt to defend her husband and decided to take her advice to get straight to the point.
‘Yes, I was.’
‘All day?’
‘No, I was out during the afternoon.’
‘And the evening?’
‘I was here all evening.’
‘That’s quite right, but God knows where he was that afternoon. Most likely stuffing five-pound notes into a stripper’s garter at some sleazy Soho club; that’s the usual way he fills his otherwise empty days,’ said Muriel, continuing to speak as though her husband was not there. ‘Isn’t that so, darling? Didn’t you say something about having been to the Dizzy Club?’
‘Er, yes. As a matter of fact, I spent all afternoon there,’ said Reed hesitantly, before shooting a guilty glance in his wife’s direction. ‘But why d’you want to know, Chief Inspector?’ I got the impression that he had lied when confirming his whereabouts.
Not only did Muriel Reed ignore her husband’s sheepish admission, but she continued to talk as though he hadn’t spoken or wasn’t even in the room. ‘We tend to live separate lives, you see, Mr Brock, and before you ask, no, we’re not getting divorced.’ She laughed again. ‘Despite his waywardness, Julian’s fun to be with and I rather like having him around. Apart from which, he couldn’t afford to leave me.’ Reed’s wife stood up. ‘I’ll show you out.’
With that final enigmatic statement, it was obvious that Muriel Reed had decided the interview was over. But I hadn’t finished yet.
‘Did you ever meet a stewardess on the Heathrow to Miami flight by the name of Sharon Gregory, Mr Reed?’
So far Julian Reed had said very little of consequence, but at the mention of the victim’s name he suddenly gripped the arms of the chair in which he was sitting and the colour drained from his face. ‘Was she the girl who was murdered?’ he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘Yes, she was. As I said, at a hotel near Heathrow Airport. Have you ever stayed at the Dickin Hotel, Mr Reed?’
‘Oh my God! I don’t believe it. What happened?’
‘So you did know her, Mr Reed. How well?’
‘I don’t think you should say any more, Julian,’ said his wife authoritatively, ‘not without Brian being here.’
‘Who is Brian?’ asked Dave.
‘Our solicitor,’ said Muriel.
‘Where were you on the twenty-ninth of this month, Mr Reed?’ I asked. ‘That was the day before yesterday.’
‘My husband’s already told you that, Chief Inspector,’ snapped Muriel. ‘He was at the Dizzy Club in Soho in the afternoon and he was here with me all evening.’
‘I presume there’s someone at the Dizzy Club who can vouch for your presence there, Mr Reed?’
‘Of course there is,’ said Muriel, before Reed could reply. ‘Half a dozen of their resident trollops, I should imagine.’
‘I think my wife’s right, Mr Brock,’ said Reed. ‘I think I need to speak to my solicitor.’
‘I’ll see the gentlemen out, Julian,’ said his wife, crossing swiftly to the sitting room door before her husband could move.
Once outside the sitting room and with the door firmly closed, Muriel continued the conversation at the top of the stairs. ‘He might’ve been at the Dizzy Club in the afternoon,’ she said, ‘but it’s not true that we were at home during the evening. This is where we were the evening before last.’ She put a hand in her jacket pocket and handed me a printed card upon which was an address in Dorking. ‘In fact, we were there most of the night.’
‘What happens there?’ asked Dave. He took the card from me and wrote the details in his pocketbook. ‘It appears to be a private address. Are they friends of yours, the people who live there?’
‘Not exactly,’ Muriel responded guiltily. ‘It’s a sort of private club. My husband didn’t tell you because he’s embarrassed that we go there. But he enjoys what goes on and so do I.’
‘And what does go on there, Mrs Reed?’
Muriel paused only momentarily. ‘Oh, it’s a sort of intimate social club, Sergeant Poole,’ she said. ‘An opportunity to meet other people of our persuasion. It’s very select,’ she added, implying that mere policemen wouldn’t be welcome. ‘You can check if you like.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,’ said Dave, closing his pocketbook and putting it away.
‘But I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention to my husband that I told you. He doesn’t like it to be known that he goes there.’
‘Your secret’s safe with us, Mrs Reed,’ said Dave. But I could always tell when he was lying.
‘Why did you tell them that we weren’t getting divorced, Muriel?’ asked Reed, when his wife returned to the sitting room. ‘You know damned well that I can’t wait to be separated from you.’
‘Just because you think you’re going to leave me, Julian, our domestic affairs are really nothing to do with the damned police. But apart from anything else, it’s obvious they think you murdered this Sharon Gregory. And once they start poking about, there’s no telling what they might come up with. And the more you say,
the more they’ll twist it. It wouldn’t be the first time an innocent man has been sent to prison. You must speak to Brian before they ask you any more questions. I’ll ring him straight away.’ Muriel paused in the doorway. ‘I suppose you didn’t murder her, did you?’
‘Of course not, and you know why,’ said Reed. ‘But why did you tell them that our money was all yours? You know full well it’s mine. And your father didn’t take me into any sort of partnership; he was a bloody estate agent who went bankrupt. And that takes some doing for an estate agent.’
‘For the same reason: it muddies the waters. The police are naturally nosy, it’s what they do. And just because you were screwing this Sharon Gregory person doesn’t mean you have to tell them about it. And I repeat: they’ll think you murdered her. They’ll put two and two together and before you know it you’ll be in the dock at the Old Bailey. And don’t run away with the idea that you were the only one who was shafting the little slut; there’s bound to have been dozens of others.’ And with that parting sally, Muriel Reed swept from the room. ‘I’m going for a swim,’ she said, over her shoulder.
‘What d’you think, Dave?’ I asked, as we made our way back to the car.
‘He’s a wimp, guv, and firmly under his wife’s thumb. I think he knows more than he’s telling, but he didn’t dare say another word while she was there. As Muriel Reed said, I doubt he’s got the guts to murder anyone. Except possibly his own wife. And I reckon that’s a non-starter. From what she said, I suspect he’s living on her money. And it wasn’t a coincidence that she was able to produce that card with the Dorking address on it so quickly.’
‘I’ll get Charlie Flynn to have a look at his company’s records,’ I said. ‘Might turn up something useful. And tomorrow we’ll visit the address Mrs Reed gave us to check on his alibi. But for now we’ll have a word with the Dizzy Club.’
I rang the office on my mobile and told Colin Wilberforce what we’d learned from our visit to the Reeds, and asked him to get Flynn to make the necessary enquiries.
