‘Not at this stage,’ said Kate. ‘I’ll get someone to ring your nick at Basildon when we hear. I imagine that her funeral and Clifford Gregory’s will take place together. It’s probable that Sharon’s parents will want to be involved, but it’s all up in the air at the moment.’
‘It seems that Sharon’s parents didn’t know anything about the murder of their son-in-law, ma’am,’ said Jacobs.
‘We’d automatically assumed that Sharon would’ve let them know,’ said Kate, ‘but then she too was murdered. As the Crosses were on holiday she was probably unsuccessful anyway.’ But both Kate and I knew that Sharon wouldn’t have bothered.
‘I know what you said to Kevin, but do you think it was the same killer?’
‘We’ve no idea,’ said Kate, deeming it unwise to tell her that we were sure Sharon had killed her husband. Some things tend to slip out, even unintentionally, and she didn’t want to add to the Crosses’ distress.
On Friday morning, Dave came breezing into my office.
‘What are we going to do about the other two men on Sharon’s mobile phone list, guv? Max Riley in Guildford and Frank Digby out at Chalfont St Giles.’
‘They’re both within reasonable striking distance of Heathrow,’ I said. ‘We’ll try and get to them later today, and we’ve got to fit in a visit to this place in Dorking to check Julian Reed’s alibi. But first of all I think it’s more important that we speak to Clifford Gregory’s parents, wherever they live.’
‘I found an address for a J. Gregory among the papers in Clifford Gregory’s study,’ said Dave, ‘but there was nothing to indicate whether that’s his father or his mother. It could be a brother or even a sister, I suppose.’
‘We’ll soon find out, Dave,’ I said. ‘Get the car.’
‘I can’t believe we’re having this much bad luck,’ I said, when we pulled up outside the address. ‘It’s a care home.’ In its heyday the substantial property had probably been occupied by an affluent family.
‘Definitely not our day, guv’nor,’ said Dave.
The tall black woman who answered the door studied us both, and then concentrated her gaze on Dave.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We’re police officers,’ I said.
‘I’m Daphne, the matron,’ said the woman. ‘Come in and tell me what I can do for you.’
We followed the matron into the spacious tiled hall. There was a large table on which were a vase of fresh flowers and a few magazines. The windows were open and the room smelled of polish and had a fresh, airy feel about it. This was obviously one of the better care homes.
‘Hello, Daphne,’ shouted a man with a walking frame as he shuffled across the hall, making for a door on the far side. ‘You all right, then?’
‘Hello, Jim. Yes, I’m fine.’ The matron waved at the man. ‘You’d better come into the office,’ she said, turning back to me. She opened the door to a room on the front of the house. There were more flowers on a side table and a small potted plant on the desk.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, Matron, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’
‘May I ask what this is about?’ The matron nodded briefly in Dave’s direction and perched on the edge of her desk.
‘I’m led to believe that you have a J. Gregory in your care, Matron,’ I said.
‘Please call me Daphne, everyone does. Yes, John Gregory is a resident here.’
‘Are you able to tell us if he is Clifford Gregory’s father? Or is he some other relative?’
‘Just a tick. I’ll have a look.’ The matron crossed to a filing cabinet and pulled out a folder. ‘Yes, he’s Clifford Gregory’s father,’ she said, ‘and Clifford Gregory, who has an address in West Drayton, is listed as John’s primary next of kin. Is there a problem?’
‘You could say that, Daphne,’ said Dave. ‘Clifford Gregory was murdered last Saturday at his home in West Drayton.’
‘Oh crikey!’ exclaimed the matron. ‘You’d better sit down while we sort this out.’ She waved a hand at a group of armchairs. ‘I think we ought to have a cup of tea as well.’ She picked up the telephone handset, tapped out a number and ordered tea for three. ‘Presumably you’ve come with the intention of telling John about his son’s murder.’
‘We’re not sure whether he knows already,’ I said. ‘Clifford’s wife might’ve told him, but the problem is that she was murdered a day or so later.’