Not that Gail had to worry about earning a living. Her father, George, was a multimillionaire property developer whose home and business were in Nottingham, and he gave his only daughter a generous allowance. George’s only apparent vice was a tendency to talk non-stop about the land speed record and Formula One motor racing until his wife, Sally, an effervescent former dancer, told him to shut up. But I could put up with non-stop lectures about such historical luminaries as Sir Malcolm Campbell, Sir Henry Segrave, Tazio Nuvolari, Hans Stück and their contemporaries on the odd occasion that I was in George’s company.
Alighting from the train at Surbiton, I bought a bottle of chilled champagne from a local wine shop and took a taxi to Kingston.
Gail’s neo-Georgian townhouse – a euphemism for a modern three-storied terraced house – was only a mile or so from my flat on the other side of Surbiton railway station. But these days I tended to spend more time at Gail’s house, and in her bed, than at my own pad.
I let myself in with the key that Gail had given me a few months ago. In return, I’d given her a key to my flat. It was a sort of compromise; we had discussed my moving in with her, but had eventually reached a mutual agreement that our relationship might become less harmonious if we lived with each other on a permanent basis. This was especially true given the odd hours at which I was called back to duty.
‘Where are you?’ I shouted.
‘In here,’ Gail replied unhelpfully.
I took a guess and walked through to the dining room on the ground floor. Gail was busy setting out some exotic cold supper. Barefooted, she was attired in a pair of short denim shorts that were almost hidden by one of my casual shirts. I’d often wondered where that shirt had gone.
‘Ah, the wanderer returns,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen you for ages, darling. What’s kept you away? Another dead body?’
‘You guessed,’ I said, as I opened the champagne and took a couple of flutes from the sideboard.
‘I’m just about finished here. Let’s go upstairs and have our drink.’
I gave her a hug and a kiss, and ran my forefinger up her spine, but she smacked my hand away. ‘First things first,’ she said playfully.
‘Just what I was thinking,’ I said. I picked up the two glasses and the bottle and followed her upstairs to the sitting room.
The meal was superb, as usual – Gail’s a brilliant cook – and I drank too much wine. Declaring myself unfit to walk home, and having no hope of finding a taxi, I stayed the night. Again.
I arrived at work about nine o’clock on Tuesday morning, feeling tired and reminding myself not to spend the night with Gail when I’m working on a case. And not to drink too much.
I’d just settled in my office with a strong cup of coffee and a couple of paracetamol tablets when Colin Wilberforce appeared on the scene.
‘What is it, Colin?’
‘An interesting development, sir. I did the usual routine check of criminal records on all the names that have come up so far in the enquiry. The only one to have previous convictions is Sidney Miller, Sharon Gregory’s neighbour.’
‘Oh?’ I took a sip of my coffee, but decided I didn’t need the paracetamol after all. There’s nothing quite like that sort of revelation to bring me back to life. ‘What’s his form, Colin?’
‘One for burglary when he was seventeen, sir …’ Wilberforce smiled knowingly. ‘And one for rape when he was thirty years of age. He was sent down for a seven-year stretch, but was released on licence after he’d served three and a half years. He was placed on the Sex Offenders’ Register for twenty years. He’s got another five to go before he’s clear.’
‘What did he get for the burglary?’
‘Probation, sir. It seemed there were extenuating circumstances.’
‘Is that it, Colin?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Wilberforce handed me a printout. ‘Apart from the rape, he’s not been convicted of any offence since the burglary.’
‘You mean he hasn’t been caught. Thank you, Colin.’
For the next ten minutes I mulled over the implications of a convicted housebreaker living next door to a recently burgled house. Especially one where the householder had been murdered.
I sent for Kate Ebdon. ‘I’ve heard, guv,’ she said, when I began to tell her about Miller’s past. ‘What d’you intend to do about it?’
‘I’ve thought all along that Sharon Gregory’s burglar was an accomplice, rather than an unknown intruder, Kate. I want you and Dave to go out to West Drayton and feel Miller’s collar on suspicion of aggravated burglary. That’ll do for a start, but we might be able to up it to murder if we’re lucky.’