So far Julian Reed had said very little of consequence, but at the mention of the victim’s name he suddenly gripped the arms of the chair in which he was sitting and the colour drained from his face. ‘Was she the girl who was murdered?’ he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
‘Yes, she was. As I said, at a hotel near Heathrow Airport. Have you ever stayed at the Dickin Hotel, Mr Reed?’
‘Oh my God! I don’t believe it. What happened?’
‘So you did know her, Mr Reed. How well?’
‘I don’t think you should say any more, Julian,’ said his wife authoritatively, ‘not without Brian being here.’
‘Who is Brian?’ asked Dave.
‘Our solicitor,’ said Muriel.
‘Where were you on the twenty-ninth of this month, Mr Reed?’ I asked. ‘That was the day before yesterday.’
‘My husband’s already told you that, Chief Inspector,’ snapped Muriel. ‘He was at the Dizzy Club in Soho in the afternoon and he was here with me all evening.’
‘I presume there’s someone at the Dizzy Club who can vouch for your presence there, Mr Reed?’
‘Of course there is,’ said Muriel, before Reed could reply. ‘Half a dozen of their resident trollops, I should imagine.’
‘I think my wife’s right, Mr Brock,’ said Reed. ‘I think I need to speak to my solicitor.’
‘I’ll see the gentlemen out, Julian,’ said his wife, crossing swiftly to the sitting room door before her husband could move.
Once outside the sitting room and with the door firmly closed, Muriel continued the conversation at the top of the stairs. ‘He might’ve been at the Dizzy Club in the afternoon,’ she said, ‘but it’s not true that we were at home during the evening. This is where we were the evening before last.’ She put a hand in her jacket pocket and handed me a printed card upon which was an address in Dorking. ‘In fact, we were there most of the night.’
‘What happens there?’ asked Dave. He took the card from me and wrote the details in his pocketbook. ‘It appears to be a private address. Are they friends of yours, the people who live there?’
‘Not exactly,’ Muriel responded guiltily. ‘It’s a sort of private club. My husband didn’t tell you because he’s embarrassed that we go there. But he enjoys what goes on and so do I.’
‘And what does go on there, Mrs Reed?’
Muriel paused only momentarily. ‘Oh, it’s a sort of intimate social club, Sergeant Poole,’ she said. ‘An opportunity to meet other people of our persuasion. It’s very select,’ she added, implying that mere policemen wouldn’t be welcome. ‘You can check if you like.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,’ said Dave, closing his pocketbook and putting it away.
‘But I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention to my husband that I told you. He doesn’t like it to be known that he goes there.’
‘Your secret’s safe with us, Mrs Reed,’ said Dave. But I could always tell when he was lying.
‘Why did you tell them that we weren’t getting divorced, Muriel?’ asked Reed, when his wife returned to the sitting room. ‘You know damned well that I can’t wait to be separated from you.’
‘Just because you think you’re going to leave me, Julian, our domestic affairs are really nothing to do with the damned police. But apart from anything else, it’s obvious they think you murdered this Sharon Gregory. And once they start poking about, there’s no telling what they might come up with. And the more you say, the more they’ll twist it. It wouldn’t be the first time an innocent man has been sent to prison. You must speak to Brian before they ask you any more questions. I’ll ring him straight away.’ Muriel paused in the doorway. ‘I suppose you didn’t murder her, did you?’
‘Of course not, and you know why,’ said Reed. ‘But why did you tell them that our money was all yours? You know full well it’s mine. And your father didn’t take me into any sort of partnership; he was a bloody estate agent who went bankrupt. And that takes some doing for an estate agent.’
‘For the same reason: it muddies the waters. The police are naturally nosy, it’s what they do. And just because you were screwing this Sharon Gregory person doesn’t mean you have to tell them about it. And I repeat: they’ll think you murdered her. They’ll put two and two together and before you know it you’ll be in the dock at the Old Bailey. And don’t run away with the idea that you were the only one who was shafting the little slut; there’s bound to have been dozens of others.’ And with that parting sally, Muriel Reed swept from the room. ‘I’m going for a swim,’ she said, over her shoulder.