‘Good grief! What a dreadful state of affairs. But I can tell you categorically that nobody got in touch with us here about this tragedy, Mr Brock. Not that it would’ve helped.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘John Gregory is in the advanced stages of senile dementia. His short-term memory just doesn’t exist any more. Mind you, he can tell you all about the air raids during the war when he was at school in Poplar. And one day he told us all about the Battle of Britain. Apparently he and his mates watched it from the local recreation ground.’
‘I take it there’d be no point in telling him about his son, then?’ said Dave.
‘Not really. He wouldn’t be able to take it in. He probably doesn’t even know he’s got a son. Not now, anyway.’
A young girl entered the room and placed a tray on the table near where we were sitting. She poured the tea and handed it round without a word.
‘Does John Gregory have a wife?’ I asked.
‘No, Mr Brock,’ said Daphne. ‘According to our records, she died ten years ago.’ She glanced at the folder again. ‘I do have another name here, though. There’s a Peter Gregory listed as John’s other son. He lives in Bromley.’
‘We’d better see him, then,’ said Dave. ‘Perhaps you’d give me the address, Daphne.’
‘Someone will have to arrange the funeral,’ I said. ‘Well, both funerals, I suppose.’
The matron scribbled down the address and handed it to me. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘It’s not my problem, thank the Lord.’
We finished our tea and headed back to my favourite Italian restaurant in central London. As we were leaving, Dave got a call on his mobile.
‘That was Colin Wilberforce, guv. Ben Donaldson rang from the embassy. He’s got the information we wanted.’
‘That’s damned good going, Dave.’ It had taken just two days for Ben Donaldson at the US Embassy to get a result. I glanced at my watch. ‘Bromley will have to wait,’ I said. ‘We’ll call at the embassy and then drive on from there to see Clifford Gregory’s brother.’
Dave and I arrived at the US Embassy in Grosvenor Square twenty minutes later. Having once again been interrogated by a stern-faced and highly suspicious US Marine Corps corporal as to our reasons for being there, we eventually found our way to Donaldson’s office.
I was tempted to refuse the obligatory cup of coffee, just for the hell of it, but decided that to do so might completely upset Darlene’s routine.
‘I’ll give y’all a copy of this report, Harry, but to summarize what it says, one of the two guys you mentioned has been seen,’ said Donaldson, once Dave and I were ensconced in his comfortable armchairs.
‘One?’ I queried.
‘Yeah. Miles Donahue. He calls himself an entrepreneur, and admitted having had sex with your victim Sharon Gregory on quite a few occasions. He told the agent that he first picked her up in a bar in downtown Miami.’ Donaldson glanced up. ‘He told our agent that he was surprised that she refused to drink any alcohol. Probably knows all about date-rape drugs.’
She certainly does, I thought.
‘No, she wouldn’t have had a drink, Ben,’ said Dave. ‘If she’d had too much to drink before duty on the return flight, she’d get the bullet.’
‘Sounds like she did anyhow,’ commented Donaldson with a chuckle.
‘No, she was strangled,’ said Dave, matching Donaldson’s quip with one of his own.
‘Anyway,’ Donaldson went on, ‘after that, Donahue said he always arranged to meet her in her room at the Shannon Hotel. Reckons he shacked up with her at least three or four times in the past year.’
‘Busy girl,’ commented Dave drily, ‘considering all the others she entertained. Did this guy have an alibi for the date in question?’
‘Yep, sure did,’ said Donaldson. ‘He was in bed with a hooker at one of the other hotels in Miami Beach. Our man checked. He also made enquiries at the Shannon,’ he continued, ‘but no one there could recall anyone asking for Sharon Gregory. But that don’t mean squat. If she’s the sort of good-time girl you think she is, she probably called these guys on her cellphone and told ’em where to find her.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘I never managed to find a broad like that,’ he added.
‘What about Lance Kramer?’ I asked.
Donaldson flipped over a page in the report he was reading. ‘Kramer might interest you, Harry. He designs theatre sets and is here in London at the present time.’
‘Was he over here on the twenty-ninth of July?’ asked Dave.