Darlene sat down in the armchair next to Dave and spent the next few minutes noting down the sparse details of the relevant dates, and what we knew about Kramer and Donahue.
‘I’ll call you as soon as they come back with the information, Harry.’
‘Thanks, Ben,’ I said. ‘We must have a drink sometime.’
‘Sure, I’d like that.’ Donaldson paused. ‘D’you happen to know an English pub that doesn’t serve warm beer?’
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Dave.
‘Excellent!’ Donaldson laughed, stood up and shook hands again. ‘Like I said, Harry, I’ll call you.’
TEN
It was past five o’clock when we left the embassy, and I decided it was time to start talking to the other subscribers to the British telephone numbers that Dave had found on Sharon’s airport mobile.
‘Where d’you want to go first, guv?’
‘We’ll try this Julian Reed in Chelsea for a kick off. It’s not far from here.’
The house in Chelsea where Reed lived would undoubtedly have attracted a price tag of several millions in today’s property market.
The woman who answered the door was about thirty, maybe thirty-five. She had long titian hair and was expensively dressed. But given the value of the house in which she lived, her designer white-linen trouser suit came as no surprise. Neither did the expensive jewellery she was wearing.
‘Can I help you?’ She cast an enquiring, superior gaze over us.
‘We’re police officers, madam,’ I said. ‘I was hoping to have a word with Mr Julian Reed. I am given to understand he lives here.’ This was going to be a difficult interview if this was Reed’s wife.
‘I’m Muriel Reed, his wife,’ said the woman, confirming what I’d feared to be the case. ‘I think Julian’s in the study. If you’d like to come in, I’ll get him for you. Just as soon as I can find him.’
In my experience, a woman usually expressed surprise when the police came to her door asking to speak to her husband, and demanded to know why. But this woman didn’t seem in the slightest bit curious about our arrival. Perhaps she knew what we wanted.
We followed the woman upstairs and were shown into a large airy room that was predominately white in décor: white walls, white carpet, and matching white sofas and armchairs that had the appearance of having been selected for their style rather than their comfort. A few original abstract paintings adorned the walls. The white marble fireplace contained a gas-operated fake log fire, and the mantelshelf was crowded with white candlesticks of varying sizes. In the centre of this Arctic-style room was a wrought-iron glass-topped table upon which was the usual pile of coffee-table books. Against this snowy background the white-suited Muriel Reed all but disappeared.
As Dave commented later, the room looked like a large igloo inhabited by a rich Eskimo.
‘Do please take a seat, gentlemen,’ said Muriel Reed. ‘May I offer you a drink? Tea or coffee? Something stronger, perhaps?’
‘No thank you, Mrs Reed,’ I said.
‘I’ll go and see if I can find my husband, then.’ The woman still didn’t enquire why we wished to see him, and walked gracefully from the room.
When she returned, she was accompanied by a man, probably between thirty-five and forty, who was scruffily dressed in khaki shorts that were too long to be fashionable, a casual shirt and sandals. He wore heavily-framed spectacles and an innocent expression on his face that, together with his untrimmed auburn hair, lent him the overall appearance of an ageing Boy Scout. He did appear to be quite well-built, though.
‘I’m Julian Reed, gentlemen. My wife tells me you wanted to speak to me.’ He gazed at us quizzically with his head on one side.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock and this is Detective Sergeant Poole, Mr Reed. We’re investigating a murder that occurred on Monday, the twenty-ninth of July.’
‘Really?’ Julian Reed blinked at us through his finger-marked spectacles, his reaction one of bland acceptance that such things were commonplace these days.
‘Good gracious!’ Muriel Reed’s response was much the same, but her tone indicated interest rather than shock. ‘Was this locally?’ she asked.
‘No, at Heathrow Airport. Well, in one of the hotels near there, to be precise.’
‘How d’you think that I can help?’ Leaning forward, Reed seemed genuinely interested that we thought he may be able to assist us.
‘The murder victim was a stewardess who regularly flew on the service from Heathrow to Miami in Florida,’ I said hesitantly.