by Graham Ison
‘Yes, go ahead, Linda.’
For the next twenty minutes, Linda conducted a meticulous examination of the car’s interior before emerging with a mobile phone.
‘This was in the glove compartment,’ she said. ‘I’ve examined the calls register on it and it shows that a call was made to Reed’s landline from this phone at twelve minutes past twelve on the afternoon of Monday the twenty-ninth of July.’
‘The call was made to Reed?’ I queried. ‘Not from Reed?’
‘That’s right,’ said Linda, and paused while she referred to her notes. ‘The number called was one of those in Sharon Gregory’s contact list, which is the one Dave obtained from her SIM card. That means that this is her mobile phone, and the one we found in her room at the Dickin Hotel most likely belongs to the murderer.’
‘That must mean that Julian Reed, if he’s Sharon’s killer, took her phone with him by mistake,’ said Dave. ‘I reckon we’ve got him, guv. It’s got to be down to him.’
‘It certainly looks like it, Dave,’ I said, ‘but there’s still the question of the swingers’ club at Dorking. The Simpsons said he was there with his wife. Ask the custody sergeant if they’ve photographed Reed yet. If they have, get a copy and we’ll have a run to Dorking again. There’s nothing else we can do for the time being.’
‘Wonderful,’ said Dave. ‘I love Dorking,’ he added sarcastically.
We arrived at the Simpsons’ house in Dorking at just after six o’clock. This time there was only one car on the drive. But I expected more would arrive before long.
‘Hello! Welcome to our little soirée,’ said a beaming Laura Simpson, at first failing to recognize who was standing on her doorstep. But then she did recognize us. ‘Oh, my God, it’s you.’
When we’d called last Friday Mrs Simpson had been soberly dressed, but now she was attired in a short black basque, a thong, and black stockings held up with suspenders. It was one of the most ridiculous visions I’d seen in years. Particularly as I’d decided, the last time we were there, that Laura Simpson must be at least sixty. Disregarding her age, she was certainly too plump to get away with such an outrageous costume. If it was an attempt at sexual allure, it failed miserably; she had merely succeeded in becoming a rather ludicrous and pathetic figure. I could only conclude that she intended to take an active part in that night’s proceedings.
‘Yes, it’s us, Mrs Simpson,’ said Dave. ‘We’d like a word with you.’
‘But when you came the last time I thought you said that what we were doing here was all right.’ Laura Simpson reluctantly admitted us, at the same time trying unsuccessfully to hide behind the front door.
‘We didn’t actually say that, Mrs Simpson,’ I said. ‘Merely that what you were doing here was of no interest to us in our murder investigation. Is your husband here?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘We’d like a word with him as well as with you.’
‘I’ll fetch him.’ Laura Simpson hurried away, unsteady on the stiletto heels to which she was clearly unaccustomed, and trying desperately to cover her wobbling naked buttocks with her hands.
We had to wait for some time before James Simpson appeared. I presumed that the delay was caused by the need for him to dress in presentable clothing. Laura Simpson had certainly taken the time to don an all-embracing pink candlewick dressing gown and exchange her high heels for fluffy bedroom slippers. The result was that she looked even more absurd than she had done previously.
‘What is it this time?’ James Simpson spoke with impatient arrogance. ‘We’re expecting guests.’
‘You can come off your high horse right now, Simpson,’ said Dave, who was clearly irked by the man’s lofty attitude and what he saw as prevarication. ‘My chief inspector only has to make one phone call and you’ll be having a visit from the local police. Tonight.’
‘So, er, how can I, um, help you, gentlemen?’ In the face of Dave’s uncompromising threat, Simpson capitulated, and immediately became a stuttering sycophant.
‘Have a look at this photograph, Mr Simpson,’ I said, taking the print from Dave, ‘and tell me if you’ve ever seen this man before.’
Simpson studied the image closely. ‘I think that’s Julian Reed,’ he said, and then passed the photograph to his wife.
‘Yes, that’s Julian,’ said Laura Simpson, handing the print back to Dave. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Julian Reed is the man you said was here with his wife Muriel on the night of the twenty-ninth of July.’
‘I’m sure they were here,’ said Simpson. ‘He and his wife are regular visitors. But I suppose it’s possible that I was confused.’
‘Really?’ said Dave sarcastically. ‘Then perhaps you can tell me what sort of car this couple, who might or might not have been the Reeds, arrived in.’
‘I think it was a Lexus, a new one by the look of it,’ said Simpson.
In my book that confirmed that the Reeds had not been at Dorking on the night of Sharon Gregory’s murder. Julian Reed did not own a Lexus; his car was a Mercedes.
Dave marked the photograph of Julian Reed as an exhibit and took a statement from each of the Simpsons, testifying that it was not a likeness of the man who’d come to their swingers’ party on the night of Sharon’s murder, but adding that they recognized Reed as a previous caller at their house.
We arrived at Charing Cross police station early on Tuesday morning. I had to go through the whole business of explaining to a different custody sergeant why we were there and what we wanted.
‘I’ll have him brought up, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Interview Room Three.’
Julian Reed carved a sorrowful figure as he was escorted into the interview room. Deprived of his belt and tie – I presumed he was one of those rare men who actually wore a tie these days – he was clearly showing signs of having been on a bender the previous day.
He put on his spectacles and took some time to focus on Dave and me, but eventually recognition dawned.
‘What are you doing here, Chief Inspector?’ It was an odd question for Reed to have asked. After all, it wasn’t unusual for policemen to be in a police station.
‘We’ve some questions to put to you, Mr Reed,’ I said, as Dave broke the seals of the tapes, inserted them into the recording equipment and turned it on.
‘Interview at Charing Cross police station commencing at oh-nine-twelve,’ said Dave, and added the date. ‘Present are Mr Julian Reed, Detective Chief Inspector Harry Brock and Detective Sergeant David Poole.’
‘What’s this about, Mr Brock?’ Reed’s vacant expression implied that he was totally bemused by all this legalistic mumbo-jumbo.
‘It’s about this for a start, Mr Reed.’ I produced the mobile phone – now sealed into a plastic bag – that Linda Mitchell had found in his Mercedes. ‘I am showing Mr Reed a mobile telephone marked Exhibit LM Forty-One,’ I said, for the benefit of the tape. ‘This was found in your car, Mr Reed.’
Reed picked it up and examined it. ‘I’ve never seen it before,’ he said, putting it back on the table. ‘Does it have something to do with my being arrested yesterday?’
I couldn’t work out whether Reed’s response to this first question meant that he intended to deny everything, or that he was so naive that he didn’t realize why we were questioning him.
‘Where were you during the afternoon and evening of Monday the twenty-ninth of July, Mr Reed?’ I asked.
‘I know I told you that I was at the Dizzy Club in the afternoon, and that I was at home with my wife that evening, but that’s not true. I was at an address in Dorking that evening.’ Reed may have been suffering from a hangover, but his recall wasn’t lacking.
‘We’ve visited that address,’ said Dave. ‘It was a swingers’ party. We have statements from Mr and Mrs Simpson who were shown the photograph of you taken when you were arrested yesterday. The Simpsons are prepared to testify that you were not there on that occasion. They did, however, state that you had been there on pre
vious occasions. We’ve also visited the Dizzy Club and your favourite stripper told us that you weren’t there that afternoon.’
‘What has any of this to do with my being arrested for being drunk yesterday?’ Reed stared at me through his heavy-rimmed spectacles, the innocent Boy Scout image that had been apparent at our previous interview still prevailing.
‘Are you willing to give a sample of your DNA, Mr Reed?’ I asked.
‘Of course, if you think it’ll help whatever it is you’re enquiring into. But I don’t understand what this has to do with drink-driving.’
‘It has nothing to do with it,’ I said. ‘I have sufficient evidence to suspect you of the murder of Sharon Gregory on the night of Monday the twenty-ninth of July.’
‘My God! That’s absurd. I didn’t kill her. I loved her. We were going to get married,’ exclaimed Reed, clearly shocked by my bald accusation. ‘I’ve hardly been sober since I heard that awful news when you came to the house the other day.’ For a moment or two he stared at me before sinking his head into his hands. It was some time before he looked up again. ‘I told you where I was. I was at Dorking.’
‘And I’ve already told you that the Simpsons will testify that you weren’t there.’ I was beginning to wonder what clever game Reed was playing. Perhaps the innocent Boy Scout image was a charade.
‘I suppose I’d better tell you the truth then,’ said Reed, his shoulders slumping. ‘I was certainly with Sharon Gregory at the Dickin Hotel at Heathrow, but I didn’t kill her. Why would I? I went there at about a quarter past one on that day and we spent an hour or so in bed.’
‘One question, Mr Reed,’ said Dave. ‘Is your wife Muriel bisexual?’ He was obviously thinking of the unidentified vaginal fluid found on Sharon’s body.
Reed stared at Dave in astonishment. ‘Muriel, bisexual? D’you know I haven’t the faintest idea. I never asked her.’
There was now no alternative but to caution Reed, and I did so, and went on to tell him that he was entitled to the services of a solicitor. ‘I shall now obtain the authority of a superintendent to take a DNA sample from you. Are you also prepared to consent to having your fingerprints taken?’
‘Of course,’ said Reed, ‘if it’ll help to prove that I didn’t kill Sharon. You’ve got to understand, Chief Inspector, that I loved her. I told my wife I was leaving her and it was our intention, Sharon’s and mine, to get married as soon as I could get a divorce.’
‘You told your wife that you were divorcing her?’ It was a rhetorical question, but it revealed a situation I hadn’t foreseen, and it opened up another field of possibilities. ‘I still think it would be a good idea for you to speak to a lawyer, Mr Reed.’
‘What, about the divorce?’
This man’s continuing naivety astounded me. ‘No, about the fact that I believe you murdered Sharon Gregory.’
‘Well I didn’t, but I’ll send for my own lawyer, if you think I need one.’
‘That’s entirely a matter for you,’ I said, becoming increasingly frustrated with what I saw as a feigned innocence. ‘However, Julian Reed, I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering Sharon Gregory on or about the twenty-ninth of July.’ And I cautioned him.
‘Am I going to get bail?’ Reed posed the question rather like a small boy asking if he could get down from the dining table. I was utterly mystified by his total lack of alarm at being arrested for murder, and I was beginning to wonder if he actually was innocent. Either that or he was a damned good actor.
‘That’s not in my discretion,’ I said. But I saw no reason why he shouldn’t be bailed; he was too ingenuous to run. That said, it was always possible that he might be tempted to go to Miami. ‘However, I will require you to surrender your passport.’
Without querying why I wanted it, Reed took the document from his pocket and handed it over.
I went upstairs to the chief superintendent’s office and briefly explained the circumstances that had led to my suspecting Julian Reed of murder.
‘It’s essential that I obtain Mr Reed’s DNA, sir,’ I said, ‘and I’d be obliged if you’d authorize the taking of an intimate sample. He has given his consent.’
‘No problem, Mr Brock.’
I handed the chief superintendent the appropriate form and waited while he filled in the details and signed it.
I returned to the interview room and told Dave to go ahead. He produced the necessary kit and took a sample of Reed’s saliva from inside his mouth. Then he escorted him to the custody suite where his fingerprints were taken.
‘What now, guv?’ asked Dave, as we returned to our car.
‘Get that sample of Reed’s DNA off to the lab immediately and the fingerprints to Linda.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘We’ll go back to the office and get Charlie Flynn to do urgent background checks on Reed. And then, this afternoon, we’ll pay a visit to Muriel Reed to see if she confirms this story about a divorce.’
‘I suppose that’ll help … sir,’ said Dave. ‘But his fingerprints were taken by the traffic guys.’
‘Just do it, Dave.’
A surprise in the shape of DI Ken Sullivan of SOCA awaited me when Dave and I got back to ESB. And he brought news that I hadn’t expected.
‘An interesting development, boss,’ Sullivan began, as he seated himself in my office. ‘It’s about Gordon Harrison, one of your suspects in the case of the Sharon Gregory murder.’
‘I think we have our murderer, Ken, so Harrison can be ruled out of it now,’ I said.
‘In more ways than one,’ said Sullivan. ‘He’s been murdered.’
‘Where and when?’ I had a nasty feeling about this.
‘Wandsworth, boss.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ I said, with a feeling of relief.
Sullivan raised his eyebrows. ‘Any particular reason you should be pleased by that?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘that means the investigation’s down to Homicide and Serious Crime Command South.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Sullivan laughed. ‘They already have a man in custody.’
‘Good, but what’s the SP?’
‘The what?’ queried Sullivan.
‘What happened?’ I asked, realizing that the term ‘SP’ was probably unknown to officers in northern forces.
‘Oh, I see. I’ll remember that,’ said Sullivan, with a grin. ‘I’m slowly getting used to the language of the Met.’
Wait until you meet Kate Ebdon, I thought.
‘We’ve had an observation on Harrison for the last couple of days and he met with a man in a bar in Putney,’ continued Sullivan. ‘There was obviously some sort of falling out, and the next thing our obo team knew was that Harrison had been shot dead. The shooter ran for it, but he was promptly arrested by our chaps. They handed him over to your HSCC guys; an open-and-shut case. He’s a Nigerian called Emedubi Anubi, a known drug dealer. We also arrested Shona Grant, who we’re satisfied was one of Harrison’s couriers. And the day before that, customs officers at Manchester Airport were lucky enough to pick up Harrison’s partner, Krisztina Comaneci, arriving with a statue filled with heroin. Case closed. So, all in all, a good result.’
‘Thanks for that,’ I said, standing up to shake hands with Sullivan. But the murder of Gordon Harrison was of no real interest to me.
‘It turns out that Anubi is wanted for murder in Nigeria. So, rather than mounting a costly trial followed by appeals, the powers-that-be will probably deport him.’
‘You must be joking,’ I said. ‘We seem to find it impossible to deport people from this country. Anyway, Nigeria still has the death penalty, and no doubt our brave politicians will have a touch of the vapours at the mere suggestion that we send him back to be hanged. That’s what they do with murderers.’
SEVENTEEN
‘If you want to speak to my husband, he’s not here. In fact I’ve no idea where he is.’ Muriel Reed, her arrogance no less apparent than before, was attired in a mauve maxi kaftan below which her bare feet p
eeped out.
‘He’s just been released from Charing Cross police station, Mrs Reed. He was arrested yesterday afternoon for driving under the influence of alcohol.’
‘Oh, what a stupid man.’ Muriel opened the door wide. ‘You’d better come in.’
We followed her upstairs to the sitting room and accepted her offer of a seat.
‘Where did this happen, Chief Inspector?’ Muriel raised her eyebrows and paused. ‘But surely you’re not dealing with that, are you?’ She opened her hands in a theatrical gesture; she knew perfectly well that the CID didn’t normally deal with drunken drivers. Unless there was more to it than that.
‘He was arrested in Saint James’s Street by traffic unit officers,’ said Dave. ‘At about two o’clock yesterday afternoon.’
‘Surely you haven’t come here just to tell me that, have you?’ Muriel adopted an amused expression. ‘And if this happened yesterday, why hasn’t he come home? He’s not at another strip club, is he?’
‘He’s been arrested for the murder of Sharon Gregory on the twenty-ninth of July,’ I said.
‘Murder?’ exclaimed Muriel, and after a moment’s hesitation, added, ‘But it’s absurd to think that Julian’s capable of murdering anyone. Anyway, he was with me on that date. All day.’
‘But the last time we were here, he told us that he’d gone to the Dizzy Club in Soho, but only in the afternoon.’ We’d confirmed that he hadn’t been there on that day, and I knew what he’d told us earlier, but I wanted to see what his wife said about that.
‘You’re quite right. I was confused,’ said Muriel. It was almost an apology. ‘In the evening we went to a swingers’ club in Dorking for the sole purpose of having sex with other people.’ There was no embarrassment about her admission as she pointed an accusing finger at Dave. ‘And I gave you the address.’
‘How did you get there, Mrs Reed?’ asked Dave.
‘By car, of course.’
‘The Mercedes?’
‘Of course the Mercedes. We don’t have another car.’
