Wilberforce glanced up as I walked into the incident room with Dave. ‘I’ve got the results of the subscriber checks on the numbers on Sharon’s phone, sir. The one Dave found at the airport.’
‘Where do they live, Colin? Scotland, Wales, Cornwall, or none of the above?’ I suggested cynically.
‘As a matter of fact, we’re in luck. One goes out to a Gordon Harrison in Glenn Road, Fulham; there’s a Max Riley in Guildford; Frank Digby’s at Chalfont St Giles; and a Julian Reed lives in Chelsea. I’m still waiting for Dave to get the details of the two in the United States.’
‘At least that’ll give us something to start with. Given that the subscribers probably all work, we’d better leave it until this evening.’
‘Oh good!’ exclaimed Dave. ‘That’s another evening taken care of.’
‘Is Madeleine working, then?’ Dave’s wife was a principal dancer with the Royal Ballet and more often than not their hours of work conflicted rather than coincided.
‘She’s pretending to be a swan in Swan Lake at Covent Garden,’ said Dave. ‘For two whole weeks. I sometimes think that her job is worse than ours.’
I returned to my office and sent for DC Appleby.
‘I’ve got a job for you, John.’
‘Sir?’ John Appleby was a young, smartly-dressed and very keen detective constable.
‘Get on to the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency at Swansea and see if you can get details of any cars that might be owned by the names that Sergeant Poole found on Sharon Gregory’s mobile phone. The British ones, of course.’
‘Right, sir.’ Appleby loved tasks like that and he set to work immediately.
I had no idea whether that information would be of any help to us, but in cases like the present one, I had to try everything. It was what Dave called clutching at non-existent straws.
It took Appleby half an hour to complete his check with the DVLA.
The list he handed me was interesting. Frank Digby of Chalfont St Giles boasted a Ford Galaxy; Julian Reed, who lived in Chelsea, owned a Mercedes; and Gordon Harrison, the man in Glenn Road, Fulham, owned a Jaguar XF. All expensive cars. But according to Swansea, Max Riley of Guildford was not registered as the keeper of a motor vehicle of any description.
‘Well done, John. Give them to Sergeant Wilberforce and ask him to put them on the Police National Computer with the proviso that sightings are to be reported, but the driver is not to be questioned. Unless, of course,’ I added, ‘they’ve been stopped for a traffic offence. I wouldn’t want to upset the Black Rats by preventing them from doing their job.’
Appleby looked rather pained. ‘I can put them on the PNC, sir.’
‘Sorry, John, of course you can. Go ahead, but tell DS Wilberforce what you’ve done.’ I didn’t want to upset our office genius either.
SEVEN
After leaving her home in West Drayton on Monday morning, Sharon Gregory had driven the four miles to the Chimes Shopping Centre at Uxbridge and spent half an hour looking around the shops. In one of them, a boutique that specialized in erotica, she selected a thong, a shelf bra and a pair of black hold-up stockings.
‘That should get my man excited, don’t you think?’ Sharon asked the salesgirl.
‘Without a doubt,’ said the assistant. ‘I’ve got a similar set and they work for me every time.’
‘I should think you’re lucky enough not to have to try very hard,’ said Sharon, glancing enviously at the girl’s décolletage, while paying for her purchases using her dead husband’s credit card. The assistant didn’t see the card and therefore wouldn’t have noticed that it bore a man’s name, but she wouldn’t have cared anyway.
Her shopping finished, Sharon found an Italian restaurant and took a seat away from the window. It was not yet time for lunch, but she had skipped breakfast and was feeling a little hungry. She ordered an omelette, followed by a cup of coffee and a pastry. Twenty minutes later, she ordered a second cup of coffee, but dismissed the idea of another pastry. She did have her figure to worry about.
‘Is there anything else you’d care for?’ asked the handsome young waiter when Sharon asked for her bill.
‘You never know,’ she said, laying a hand on the waiter’s arm. Perhaps no more than twenty, he was tall and slender and had a face that suggested Italian ancestry, although he spoke with a Cockney accent. He was certainly of the type that appealed to her. ‘But I don’t have the time right now. Maybe later?’ She spoke in a contrived sultry voice and flashed the young man a beguiling smile. ‘Why don’t you give me your phone number?’