Reckless Endangerment(17)

‘Right, guv,’ said Driscoll, making a few notes on a clipboard.

‘This afternoon, Dave Poole and I will interview Sidney Miller, the neighbour who found Mrs Gregory all trussed up like a chicken – after we’ve paid Doctor Mortlock a visit at his carvery.’

‘There’s more to this death than was at first apparent at the scene, Harry,’ said Dr Henry Mortlock, when we arrived at the mortuary at two o’clock that same day. A day that was proving to be far too long and was not yet over.

‘This job’s turning out to be full of surprises, Henry,’ I said. ‘And I suppose you’ve got another one for me.’

‘You could say that.’ Chuckling ominously, Mortlock led Dave and me across the white-walled room to where Clifford Gregory’s naked body had been laid out on a stainless steel table. ‘There are two superficial wounds to the skull, here and here,’ he said, pointing with a pair of forceps. ‘And although they were enough to have stunned him and produce a lot of blood that must’ve splashed on the killer, they weren’t sufficient to have killed him. I would surmise that the blows were struck by a woman rather than a man. But I’m really only guessing.’

‘So what did kill him, Henry?’

‘Asphyxia.’

‘Was he strangled?’ I asked.

‘No. The most likely method was suffocation. When I examined the body in situ, I noticed that although he was lying with his head on a bloodstained pillow, there was another one on the floor. That pillow had bloodstains on the underside, which probably means it was moved after the blows to the head were made. It might be as well if you got the scientific people to examine all the pillows in the room. Traces of saliva or mucus might be found on one of them. But whether such traces are found or not, there’s no doubt in my mind that Gregory was suffocated, not bludgeoned to death. And there’s one other thing that may interest you, Harry,’ said Mortlock, peering at me over his rimless spectacles. ‘Clifford Gregory had had a vasectomy.’

‘Fascinating, but probably irrelevant,’ I said. ‘Incidentally, his wife said that he was drunk. She complained that he had a drink problem.’

‘I doubt that somehow. His liver and other organs showed no signs of his having been a heavy drinker. And I found no trace of alcohol in his stomach, although there were traces of recently ingested cocoa. As I said at the time, there was a strong smell of alcohol surrounding the body, almost as if it had been sprinkled over him post-mortem.’

‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘When we examined the master bedroom there was no sign of a cup or a mug. And there were no washed-up cups or mugs on the draining board in the kitchen. And no dirty Scotch glasses either.’

‘That’s your problem rather than mine, Harry,’ said Mortlock. ‘However …’ He paused and beamed, rather like a stage magician about to pull off an astonishing trick. ‘I examined a sample of the victim’s hair and it showed traces of the drug Rohypnol.’

‘What, the date-rape drug?’ I said.

‘The very same,’ said Mortlock. ‘But in this case it was used to sedate the victim, thus making him defenceless against attack. And before you ask, Harry, Rohypnol’s easily obtainable on the Internet if you know where to look.’

‘It looks as though Mrs Gregory’s story is beginning to unravel,’ said Dave.

He was right. It was now becoming clear that Sharon’s account of what had occurred had an increasing number of inconsistencies. I determined that she would be interviewed again, preferably at a police station, when I hoped she could be persuaded to reveal the name of her accomplice, because I was bloody sure there was one. But first, it was necessary to get Sidney Miller’s detailed account of what had occurred.





FIVE


That afternoon, we drove back to West Drayton. This year’s model of a Lexus IS was parked on Sidney Miller’s drive, and Dave stopped briefly to admire it.

‘This guy’s not in the Job, that’s for sure,’ said Dave, running a hand over the bonnet of the car.

‘Stop drooling, Dave,’ I said as I rang the bell.

‘Ah, I’ve been expecting you. You’re the coppers dealing with Cliff’s murder, aren’t you?’ said Miller, as he opened the door. He was a stocky, cheerful man, probably in his forties.

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

‘Yes, of course. I met Sergeant Poole in the wee small hours. This is a dreadful business. You don’t expect your next-door neighbour to be killed like that. Car accidents I can understand, but not murder. Of course, you hear about murders all the time these days, but you never think of them happening next door. It really turned my stomach seeing poor old Cliff lying there all covered in blood. God knows how it must’ve affected Sharon. Is she all right?’