‘Yes, Muriel was here on the twenty-ninth,’ said Simpson, admitting defeat in the face of Dave’s implied threat to involve the tax authorities. ‘I seem to remember that she arrived at about half past seven and stayed all night.’ He glanced at his wife. ‘That would be right, Laura, wouldn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure that’s right.’
‘Your wife said you don’t take singles,’ I remarked. ‘So Mrs Reed must’ve arrived with someone.’
‘She was here with her husband, Julian, as far as I can recall,’ said Simpson. ‘To be honest, a lot of couples arrive at about the same time on the nights we hold a party, but I’m fairly sure he was here.’
‘Yes, he was. Definitely,’ said Laura Simpson.
‘Thank you, Mr Simpson,’ said Dave, barely able to conceal his mirth. ‘I don’t think we need to trouble you further.’ He glanced at me. ‘Do we, sir?’
‘I don’t think so, Sergeant,’ I said, matching Dave’s formality.
We had driven to the end of the Simpsons’ road before Dave’s reserve finally gave way to almost hysterical laughter. He stopped the car. ‘Well, if that doesn’t take the biscuit, guv, I don’t know what does,’ he said, hammering the steering wheel with his right hand. ‘That Muriel Reed is one devious bitch. She spent half an hour telling us that her husband was the one who was over the side when all the time she’s at it, too.’
‘Why the hell couldn’t she have said what they’d come here for when we interviewed them? It would have saved us a trip all the way to Dorking.’
‘Perhaps he’s shy, guv, and that’s why Muriel didn’t give us the address until we were at the top of the stairs. Anyway, you wouldn’t have believed her without checking it out.’
‘Well, that lets Julian Reed off the hook, Dave. And tomorrow we’d better have a look at the remaining two names on Sharon’s mobile. But I somehow doubt we’ll have any more luck than we’ve had so far.’
First thing on Saturday morning, DS Flynn came into my office clutching a fistful of computer printouts.
‘This property development company of Julian Reed’s, guv,’ he began.
‘I think I might’ve wasted your time, Charlie. Reed’s probably in the clear, but do go on.’
‘Julian Reed owns fifty-one per cent of the shares and his wife Muriel holds forty-nine per cent, not the other way round. But it looks as though the company’s going down the tubes. It hasn’t shown a profit for three years.’
‘I’m not surprised, Charlie. Muriel Reed said that her husband couldn’t afford to leave her. I reckon he’s living on her money and she’s bolstering up his company. Though God knows why.’
‘That’s not the case,’ said Flynn. ‘Muriel doesn’t have a brass farthing of her own. And Julian Reed is due to inherit a very large estate from his father, the Right Honourable Earl Dretford, when the old boy snuffs it. In the meantime, the earl gives Julian a substantial allowance. And that’s probably why he lives the life of a dilettante.’
‘How on earth did you find out all that, Charlie?’
Flynn grinned. ‘Ways and means, guv. Ways and means. I’ve still got friends on the Fraud Squad who know their way round the financial assault course.’
‘Anyway,’ I said, deciding not to enquire too deeply into Flynn’s ‘ways and means’ of acquiring sensitive information, ‘we’ve cleared Reed from the enquiry now. He was at a swingers’ club in Dorking the night that Sharon Gregory was murdered, and his wife was with him.’
‘Some people have all the luck.’ Flynn flourished his bunch of printouts. ‘I’ll give this little lot to Colin Wilberforce to file away, guv, just in case.’
I decided that Saturday would be a good day to interview the other two names Dave found on Sharon’s mobile. Most people don’t work at the weekend, unless they happen to be policemen, that is. But then I decided I’d had enough of traipsing around London and its environs. I sent for Kate Ebdon.
‘I’ve got a job for you, Kate,’ I said, handing her details of those of Sharon’s contacts who had yet to be interviewed. ‘Speak to these two men, find out how well they knew Sharon and where they were on the night of her murder. And take Dave Poole with you.’
In the meantime, I intended to interview Gordon Harrison again. When Dave and I saw him previously, Sharon Gregory hadn’t been murdered. I was now interested to know where he was when she was killed. It had been early evening when we’d interviewed him, on the day that Sharon Gregory had checked into the Dickin Hotel, and he would have had plenty of time to get to Heathrow from Fulham, a distance of about sixteen miles. I sent for Detective Sergeant Lizanne Carpenter.