‘You have indeed, sir.’ I said nothing further and waited for some magisterial advice.
‘No arrests? The DAC was enquiring. He’s very interested in the outcome.’
‘No, sir, no arrests.’ I could visualize the consternation that had ensued when the deputy assistant commissioner had posed a question to which the commander had no answer, if in fact the DAC had posed it at all. It was one of the commander’s traits that he tried to shift responsibility for asking a question by implying that the query had come from higher up the food chain. But I decided to put him out of his misery. ‘But such evidence that we have gathered so far suggests that Clifford Gregory was murdered by Sharon Gregory, his wife.’
‘She murdered her own husband? Good gracious me.’ For a moment or two, the commander gazed at me, slack-jawed. And then he glanced at the photograph of his battleaxe of a wife. Perhaps he was wondering if he might one day fall victim to a spousal attack.
‘But of course we can’t arrest her now because she too is dead.’
‘Quite so, quite so,’ murmured the commander, apparently still stunned by the realization that a woman could actually murder her husband. ‘Keep me informed, Mr Brock.’
‘Of course, sir,’ I said smoothly, and hastened away to get on with the job in hand before the boss could think of another question.
At ten-thirty a call came in from the police in Essex to say that earlier that morning they had at last managed to contact Sharon Gregory’s parents, Kevin and Helen Cross, at an address in Basildon. According to the local police, the couple had just enjoyed a fortnight’s river cruise the length of the Rhine, and arrived home to find a note asking them to telephone the police station. Fifteen minutes later two police officers had called at the Crosses’ house and told them the sad news that their daughter had been murdered.
I decided that an interview with the bereaved parents was an unpalatable priority. I opted to take Kate Ebdon with me; it’s always wise to be accompanied by a woman officer on these occasions.
ELEVEN
It was about forty miles from Earls Court to Basildon, but even with Kate’s ‘positive driving’ skills, an expertise that was somewhat akin to Dave’s, it took her nearly two hours to get us there. We arrived at a quarter past two.
The Crosses’ house was a neat semi-detached three-up two-down property, of a style which pointed to it having been built before the Second World War. The front garden, in common with most of the houses in the street, had been paved over to accommodate the ubiquitous motor car. The vehicle outside the Crosses’ house was an ageing Honda Civic fitted with manual controls.
A wreath was already hanging on the front door, an indication perhaps that Sharon Gregory’s parents were very conventional people when it came to signs of mourning.
A woman answered the door. ‘Are you from the press?’ she asked. Although she was in plain clothes, I guessed who she was and why she was there. ‘Because if you are—’
‘No, we’re police officers from the Met,’ I said. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Brock and Detective Inspector Ebdon.’
‘Sorry about that, sir, but the vultures have started circling already. I’m PC Jacobs from Basildon police station, a victim support officer. You’re here about the Crosses’ daughter, I suppose.’
‘Yes, we are.’
PC Jacobs beckoned us into the small hall and closed the front door. I noticed that a chair lift had been fitted to the staircase. Jacobs shut the door to the sitting room. ‘It’s not a happy state of affairs, sir,’ she said in a low voice. ‘Mrs Cross suffers from multiple sclerosis. She’s in a wheelchair, and her husband Kevin is severely disabled. He was badly crippled in a train crash some years ago.’
‘Are they up to being interviewed?’ It was not a pleasant task talking to people who had just lost a member of their family, but in these circumstances it would be doubly harrowing.
‘I think they’d want to hear what happened, sir,’ said Jacobs. ‘I’ll take you in. Incidentally, Sharon was their only child.’
The Crosses’ sitting room was neatly furnished and clean, but it was fairly evident that they were not well off, despite having just returned from a cruise. There was a small television set in one corner, and a three-piece suite that had seen better days, as had the cheap carpet, now showing wear in places.
‘These police officers are from London, Mr Cross,’ said Jacobs. ‘They’ve come to talk to you about Sharon.’
‘I’m Kevin Cross,’ said the man, pressing a button that raised him from a chair that was different from the others. He struggled into an upright position with some difficulty and leaned heavily on a walking stick. ‘And this is my wife, Helen.’ He indicated a grey-haired woman seated in a wheelchair. ‘We got back from holiday first thing this morning only to find that our daughter had been murdered. Some homecoming this has turned out to be. It was the first holiday we’ve had in years and we’d been saving for it for ages.’