‘Who was, Mr Sharp?’ Dave turned back to the manager.
Sharp walked round the counter to consult a duty roster. ‘Natalie Lester,’ he said. ‘She’ll be on at four o’clock.’
‘She’ll need to be interviewed when she arrives,’ I said.
The manager tutted. ‘This is all very inconvenient,’ he said.
‘It was for Mrs Gregory, too,’ said Dave.
We took the lift to the second floor, gave our details to the incident officer at the tapes and made our way along the corridor.
Linda Mitchell met us at the door to room 219. Kate Ebdon was with her.
‘Kate, there’s a receptionist named Natalie Lester who’s due on duty at four o’clock. It’s a long shot, I know, but ask her if during her tour of duty anyone enquired for Sharon Gregory. And would you also ask if there was anyone with her when she checked in.’
‘Leave it with me,’ said Kate, and made her way downstairs.
‘We’ve finished here, Mr Brock,’ said Linda. ‘It didn’t take long, being only the one room. I gathered a few hairs from the pillows and the bed that might give us a DNA that we can profile. And there are fingerprints all over the place, so I doubt we’ll be able to get any immediate idents, but we might be lucky. I guess the chambermaids don’t do too much in the way of cleaning. At least, not every day.’
‘I’d better have a serious word with the manager about that,’ said Dave. ‘Definitely not what one would expect of a hotel of this standard.’
‘By the way …’ Linda gave me a wry smile. ‘You might care to have a look at her underwear. It’s on the floor, what there is of it, but I wouldn’t think it’s the sort that the airline would approve of its staff wearing. There’s a uniform hanging in the closet, but I’ve not opened the suitcase or her handbag. If there are any items in them that you want examined, let me know.’
Inside the room, Dr Mortlock was in the act of packing away his thermometers and the other tools of his trade. The body of Sharon Gregory lay spreadeagled on the bed, her sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. She was naked save for a pair of sheer black hold-up stockings. A cream satin robe had been thrown carelessly on the floor near a chair. Beside the chair was a small suitcase on a luggage rack. Scattered about the room, as though they’d been cast aside in a hurry, were a pair of high-heeled shoes, a scarlet thong and what I recognized as a shelf bra. Gail keeps me up to date about these things; in fact, she often wore them herself.
All of which told me that Sharon had undressed – or had been undressed – hurriedly after her attacker arrived. Everything pointed to her having known him, and it looked very much like an assignation that for some reason had gone fatally wrong.
‘You seem to be making a habit of providing me with dead bodies just recently, Harry,’ said Mortlock, by way of a greeting.
‘It’s the trade I’m in, Henry. What can you tell me?’
‘Manual strangulation. By the look of it, I’d say that her killer used both hands. Someone with a pretty powerful grip, I’d think. I might be able to tell you more when I carve her up, but I doubt it.’
‘Any idea of the time of death?’ I asked.
‘A bit tricky given the weather, the open windows and the air conditioning, Harry, but I’d hazard a guess at sometime after six o’clock last night. I can’t pin it down any nearer than that. I might know a bit more when I’ve analysed her stomach contents.’
‘Have you finished with the body, Henry?’
‘Yes. You can shift it to the mortuary as soon as you like.’
The laboratory liaison officer had been waiting in the wings. His job was to preserve continuity of evidence by taking charge of the mortal remains of Sharon Gregory and making the necessary phone calls. It was an important function; the last thing we wanted was some smart-arse barrister suggesting that the cadaver Henry had carved up at the mortuary was not the one found in room 219 of the Dickin Hotel. It had been known in the past for prosecutions to founder on minor technicalities, such as a detective omitting to put a signature on the right form at the right time, thus breaking the chain of evidence.
I opened the suitcase. It contained, among other necessaries, two summer dresses, a linen trouser suit, changes of sensible underwear, spare tights, a somewhat risqué bikini, and a make-up bag. There was also a small leather bag containing a variety of perfumes. It looked as though she’d intended staying away from West Drayton for some time. One thing was for sure: she’d never be going back there now.
Sharon’s handbag was on a bedside table. It was a black satchel bag from Aspinal of London, and I knew from my occasional enforced shopping trips with Gail that it retailed for not much less than £500. Inside, apart from what one would expect to find in a woman’s handbag, I found a small wallet containing credit cards, one of which was in the name of Clifford Gregory. According to the partial number on the receipts, that card had been used at a retail outlet and a restaurant at the Chimes Shopping Centre, Uxbridge. There was also a paper napkin bearing a mobile telephone number.