by Graham Ison
‘I’m afraid we can’t entertain singles. It upsets the balance, you see.’
‘We’re police officers from Scotland Yard, madam,’ I said, and gave the woman our names.
‘Oh my God!’ The woman grasped the edge of the door for support, her face blushing scarlet with embarrassment. ‘We’re not doing anything wrong, Officer.’
‘I think it might be a good idea if we were to come inside, madam,’ suggested Dave.
‘Yes, yes, of course. Come in. I’ll fetch my husband. I think it would be better if you spoke to him. Oh dear! I don’t know what he’ll say. I suppose we’ll have to cancel.’
We entered the hall just in time to see a naked man rush out of a room, slam the door and run up the stairs.
‘Was that your husband?’ asked Dave.
‘No, of course not. I’ve no idea who that was.’ Mrs Simpson started to cross the hall. ‘I’ll fetch Jimmy now.’
But she had not gone more than a couple of paces when another man emerged from a different room. He too was in his sixties, but was fully dressed in red trousers, a short-sleeved yellow shirt and sandals.
‘What’s going on, Laura?’ said the man, glaring at Dave and me.
‘These gentlemen are from the police, Jimmy.’
‘Oh Christ!’ said the man. ‘It’s all above board, what we’re doing here. It’s just a bit of fun. All consenting adults and that sort of thing.’
‘Perhaps we’d better start with who you are, sir,’ said Dave with a smile. He had obviously worked out what was happening in this overtly respectable Surrey house and had difficulty in suppressing his amusement.
‘I’m James Simpson and this is my wife Laura.’
‘And what exactly is this bit of fun that you host here?’
‘Well, it’s a sort of club for couples,’ said Simpson hesitantly. ‘We provide an opportunity for like-minded people to meet others with similar interests and to get to know them.’ But he didn’t sound at all convincing.
‘With no clothes on presumably?’ queried Dave mischievously. ‘Or is dress optional?’
‘I really don’t know what you mean,’ protested Simpson, blinking at Dave through finger-marked spectacles and tweaking at his toothbrush moustache.
‘Unless my eyes deceived me,’ continued Dave, ‘I saw a naked man legging it upstairs just now.’
‘You’ll have to tell them, Jimmy,’ said Laura Simpson, resigned to what she believed would be a prosecution and a heavy fine. If not worse.
‘It’s not illegal,’ said Simpson, trying desperately to avoid what he too believed to be his imminent arrest. And doubtless wondering what the neighbours would think if they saw him and his wife being escorted from their house in handcuffs. ‘It’s all very discreet.’
I decided to put Simpson on the spot. ‘You’re running a club for swingers, aren’t you? And not licensed by the local authority, I imagine.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Simpson quietly, his shoulders sagging in defeat.
‘Well, we’re not here about that,’ I said.
‘You’re not?’ Simpson greeted that statement with obvious relief. ‘What then?’
‘Not unless the neighbours complain, but that would be a matter for the Surrey Police and the council,’ I said. ‘I’m investigating a double murder.’
‘Murder!’ exclaimed Laura Simpson, gasping and putting a hand to her mouth, convinced that their already precarious situation was getting even worse. ‘Not here, surely?’
‘No, Mrs Simpson, not here, but I need to know if a Mrs Muriel Reed was here last Monday evening. That was the twenty-ninth of July.’ I deliberately didn’t mention Julian Reed; I still had reservations about the story that his wife had told.
‘I’m afraid our clients’ names are confidential, Chief Inspector,’ said Simpson, regaining some of his pomposity now that he believed himself to be in the clear.
‘Are you a medical practitioner, a lawyer, or a clerk in holy orders?’ Dave inclined his head, giving the impression that he was genuinely interested in Simpson’s reply.
‘No, of course not. I’m a retired bank officer. Why d’you ask?’
‘In that case, you can’t claim that such information is privileged. Of course, we could get the local police to obtain a warrant and seize your records, if you have any. And there’s no telling what else they may find. Or for that matter what interest Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs may take in your activities. You do pay tax on your enterprise, I imagine?’
‘Yes, Muriel was here on the twenty-ninth,’ said Simpson, admitting defeat in the face of Dave’s implied threat to involve the tax authorities. ‘I seem to remember that she arrived at about half past seven and stayed all night.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘That would be right, Laura, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s right.’
‘Your wife said you don’t take singles,’ I remarked. ‘So Mrs Reed must’ve arrived with someone.’
‘She was here with her husband, Julian, as far as I can recall,’ said Simpson. ‘To be honest, a lot of couples arrive at about the same time on the nights we hold a party, but I’m fairly sure he was here.’
‘Yes, he was. Definitely,’ said Laura Simpson.
‘Thank you, Mr Simpson,’ said Dave, barely able to conceal his mirth. ‘I don’t think we need to trouble you further.’ He glanced at me. ‘Do we, sir?’
‘I don’t think so, Sergeant,’ I said, matching Dave’s formality.
We had driven to the end of the Simpsons’ road before Dave’s reserve finally gave way to almost hysterical laughter. He stopped the car. ‘Well, if that doesn’t take the biscuit, guv, I don’t know what does,’ he said, hammering the steering wheel with his right hand. ‘That Muriel Reed is one devious bitch. She spent half an hour telling us that her husband was the one who was over the side when all the time she’s at it, too.’
‘Why the hell couldn’t she have said what they’d come here for when we interviewed them? It would have saved us a trip all the way to Dorking.’
‘Perhaps he’s shy, guv, and that’s why Muriel didn’t give us the address until we were at the top of the stairs. Anyway, you wouldn’t have believed her without checking it out.’
‘Well, that lets Julian Reed off the hook, Dave. And tomorrow we’d better have a look at the remaining two names on Sharon’s mobile. But I somehow doubt we’ll have any more luck than we’ve had so far.’
First thing on Saturday morning, DS Flynn came into my office clutching a fistful of computer printouts.
‘This property development company of Julian Reed’s, guv,’ he began.
‘I think I might’ve wasted your time, Charlie. Reed’s probably in the clear, but do go on.’
‘Julian Reed owns fifty-one per cent of the shares and his wife Muriel holds forty-nine per cent, not the other way round. But it looks as though the company’s going down the tubes. It hasn’t shown a profit for three years.’
‘I’m not surprised, Charlie. Muriel Reed said that her husband couldn’t afford to leave her. I reckon he’s living on her money and she’s bolstering up his company. Though God knows why.’
‘That’s not the case,’ said Flynn. ‘Muriel doesn’t have a brass farthing of her own. And Julian Reed is due to inherit a very large estate from his father, the Right Honourable Earl Dretford, when the old boy snuffs it. In the meantime, the earl gives Julian a substantial allowance. And that’s probably why he lives the life of a dilettante.’
‘How on earth did you find out all that, Charlie?’
Flynn grinned. ‘Ways and means, guv. Ways and means. I’ve still got friends on the Fraud Squad who know their way round the financial assault course.’
‘Anyway,’ I said, deciding not to enquire too deeply into Flynn’s ‘ways and means’ of acquiring sensitive information, ‘we’ve cleared Reed from the enquiry now. He was at a swingers’ club in Dorking the night that Sharon Gregory was murdered, and his wife was with him.’
‘Some p
eople have all the luck.’ Flynn flourished his bunch of printouts. ‘I’ll give this little lot to Colin Wilberforce to file away, guv, just in case.’
I decided that Saturday would be a good day to interview the other two names Dave found on Sharon’s mobile. Most people don’t work at the weekend, unless they happen to be policemen, that is. But then I decided I’d had enough of traipsing around London and its environs. I sent for Kate Ebdon.
‘I’ve got a job for you, Kate,’ I said, handing her details of those of Sharon’s contacts who had yet to be interviewed. ‘Speak to these two men, find out how well they knew Sharon and where they were on the night of her murder. And take Dave Poole with you.’
In the meantime, I intended to interview Gordon Harrison again. When Dave and I saw him previously, Sharon Gregory hadn’t been murdered. I was now interested to know where he was when she was killed. It had been early evening when we’d interviewed him, on the day that Sharon Gregory had checked into the Dickin Hotel, and he would have had plenty of time to get to Heathrow from Fulham, a distance of about sixteen miles. I sent for Detective Sergeant Lizanne Carpenter.
‘We’re going to Fulham, Liz,’ I said, ‘to see a guy called Gordon Harrison. He claims to make his money by planning expensive holidays for rich businessmen who want some quality time with their girlfriends.’ And I told her what had taken place on my last visit.
THIRTEEN
A girl with coffee-coloured skin, wearing nothing but a scarlet thong, opened the door to Harrison’s house. She could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen and had long, black hair and a figure of which most women would have been jealous.
‘Oh my God!’ said the girl, putting her hand to her mouth and moving quickly behind the door. ‘I thought you were Gordie.’
‘So it would appear.’ Lizanne surveyed the girl’s figure with an envy that, in her case, was quite unnecessary.
‘Oh hell!’ exclaimed a familiar voice.
I turned to find that Harrison was standing behind me. ‘So there you are,’ I said.
‘Shall we go in?’ Harrison glanced nervously at the door of his neighbour’s house and steered us quickly towards to the sitting room.
Lizanne paused in the hall to slip off her shoes. ‘I don’t want to damage your parquet flooring with my heels,’ she said. Even without shoes she was an impressive height, and her well-cut blue jacket and skirt made her a woman who clearly took care over her appearance.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter about the floor. I’m thinking of having it carpeted anyway.’ Looking at the girl, he said, ‘And for God’s sake, Shona, go and put some clothes on, quickly.’
The girl called Shona dashed upstairs, only to reappear in the sitting room a minute or two later. ‘Can I get anyone a drink?’ Her idea of putting on some clothes had been to don a short, diaphanous negligee over her thong.
‘Go away, Shona.’ Harrison spoke sharply. He was obviously displeased that we’d caught him out. ‘I need to talk to these police officers.’
‘Is it about your car again?’ asked Shona innocently.
‘It’s nothing to do with my car,’ said Harrison.
‘But I thought you said—’
‘Go!’ said Harrison. He took hold of the girl’s shoulders, spun her round and gave her bottom a sharp slap.
The girl pouted and sashayed provocatively from the room, making a point of slamming the door.
‘Sorry about that. I’d just popped out for a packet of cigarettes.’ Harrison did not seem at all surprised to see me again. ‘You were lucky to find me still here. I’m about to throw a few things into a grip before I take off for Los Angeles. I’m catching the fourteen-thirty flight from Heathrow.’
‘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? S
he 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.’
