Reckless Endangerment(50)

‘Did you know any of the men Sharon was seeing?’ asked Dave, busily taking notes in his pocketbook.

‘It would be a full-time occupation to list them all, I should think,’ replied Jill Gregory cuttingly. ‘But no, I don’t know who any of them were. Cliff was a quiet sort of chap, an accountant, you know. All he wanted was an ordinary home life and children, but when he found out what Sharon was like he had a vasectomy. He confided in us that he wasn’t going to have kids with a whore. It took an awful lot to rile Cliff, and an outburst like that was very much out of character, but that’s how he described her. Frankly, I think Sharon drove him to the end of his tether.’

‘He knew about her affairs, then?’ queried Dave.

‘Oh yes, he knew all right. Well, guessed anyway. But Cliff was a fool to himself. Peter and I told him he should get a divorce and start again. But he said he was too old. Mind you, he was only forty. So he didn’t do anything about it. He was rather a weak man, was Cliff, and Sharon could twist him round her little finger. She treated him like dirt. The fact that she was an air hostess didn’t help, either. Always jetting off to some foreign place and, no doubt, hopping into some man’s bed whenever the mood took her. And I gather the mood took her quite often.’

‘This morning we called at the care home where your father-in-law is living, Mrs Gregory,’ I said. ‘But after a conversation with the matron it was apparent that there would have been little point in talking to him.’

‘No, there wouldn’t be. He’s suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. The poor old chap is out of this world to all intents and purposes. I don’t think he’s got long, and if he’d been able to take in the news, which I doubt, the shock would probably have killed him.’

‘There is the question of the funerals …’ I began tentatively, loath to raise the matter. ‘At the moment both bodies are in the public mortuary at Townmead Road, Fulham.’

‘That’s all we need,’ said an exasperated Jill Gregory. ‘My husband works for the local authority and my job as a nurse only pays a pittance, so we’re not exactly rolling in money.’ For a moment or two she paused, thinking. ‘How much would a double funeral cost, I wonder?’ she said eventually. A sudden thought occurred to her. ‘But I think that Cliff had life insurance.’

‘He did originally, for twenty thousand pounds, but it was cashed in when he and Sharon were married. As a deposit for the house, I understand.’

‘Well, I don’t know how Peter and I are going to foot the bill for two funerals.’

‘We’ve also discovered that a month ago Sharon took out insurance on her husband’s life in the sum of one hundred thousand pounds.’

‘The cunning little bitch. It’s obvious she did murder him, then. What happens to that money now?’

‘Policemen are not experts on civil law, Mrs Gregory,’ said Dave, ‘but I imagine it will come to your husband or your father-in-law. It depends on whether Clifford Gregory made a will. But being an accountant I dare say he tied up all the loose ends. It’s something your husband will have to take up with the insurance company.’

‘If your husband will get in touch with me, Mrs Gregory,’ I said, ‘I’ll give him all the details.’ I handed her one of my cards. ‘But I’d suggest that you and your husband speak to a solicitor. Despite what I just said, it’s still possible that Clifford Gregory died intestate.’ I paused. ‘By the way, would you or your husband want to view the bodies?’

‘No thank you,’ said Jill Gregory emphatically. ‘I see quite enough dead bodies at work, and Peter wouldn’t have the time or the inclination.’

And that was that. We’d gleaned a little more about Sharon Gregory, but nothing that would advance our enquiries into her death. And what we had learned merely served to confirm what we knew already.

It was nearly fifty miles from Bromley to Dorking. Even by driving much of the way round the M25 – known as the biggest car park in England – we didn’t arrive until half-past seven that evening.

The address at which Muriel Reed claimed that she and Julian had spent the evening, and indeed the night, of Sharon Gregory’s murder was a large double-fronted detached house set back quite a way from the road. There were two or three cars parked on the drive. Even though it was bright sunshine, I was slightly puzzled to see that the Venetian blinds at every one of the windows were closed.

I rang the bell and moments later the door was opened by a grey-haired woman who must’ve been sixty if she was a day. She looked at each of us in turn and appeared slightly disconcerted that one of us was black and that both of us were male.