‘How often did you sleep with Sharon Gregory, Mr Kramer?’
‘Jesus! You London cops don’t go in for the small talk, do you?’
‘We found your number on her cellphone,’ I said, using the American term for a mobile, not wanting Kramer to be under any illusion as to what we were talking about. ‘To start with, can you account for your movements on the evening of Monday the twenty-ninth of July?’
‘If it’s not a rude question, Detective, why are you interested in what I was doing last Monday evening?’ Kramer sat forward, hands linked loosely between his knees, perfectly relaxed.
‘Because we’re investigating her murder, Mr Kramer.’
‘You’re joking, right?’ Kramer smiled.
‘It’s not our custom to make jokes about murder, Mr Kramer,’ said Dave, speaking for the first time. His educated English accent seemed to surprise the man.
‘No, I guess not. Sorry,’ said Kramer. ‘Sharon Gregory. Yes, I met her on a flight, maybe a year back. I’d been here in London and was on my way home to Miami Beach. That’s where I live,’ he added. ‘But, hell, man, I don’t sleep around. I’ve got me the cutest little wife and two adorable kids back in Miami. Why would I want to risk that?’ He leaned across for his wallet and promptly produced a photograph of his family to back up his story.
‘Have you any idea why she should have had your cellphone number?’ asked Dave.
‘Sure. We got to talking and she asked me if I’d been in London on vacation. I told her I was a designer of theatre sets, and she said that she loved the theatre. I gave her my cellphone number and told her any time she wanted to go to a theatre in Miami she was to call me. I get plenty of free tickets and I said she’d be welcome to have a couple for herself and a friend. That’s all there was to it. She never did call me, though. But now you tell me she was murdered. Any idea who did it?’
‘No, Mr Kramer,’ I said. ‘That’s why we’re talking to you.’
‘Well, sure as hell, I had nothing to do with it. As a matter of fact, I was having dinner at your Savoy Hotel that night, with some guys from the production I’m working on. If you want, I can give you their names.’
‘That would be helpful,’ I said. ‘You see, I’ve got this boss who insists on me covering all the bases.’
‘Yeah, I get your drift, Detective. I worked on a TV cop show once, and the police adviser – a guy from the LAPD – told me that those shows are nothing like the real thing.’ Kramer took one of the hotel’s complimentary notepads from the bedside cabinet and scribbled three names on it together with their office addresses. I noticed that he wrote with his left hand. ‘There y’go,’ he said, tearing off the sheet and handing it to me. ‘I hope you catch the guy. She was a sweet kid, but not my type.’
‘And now I think we’ll call it a day, Dave,’ I said, as we left the Holiday Inn. ‘See you Monday, and we’ll sit down and rethink our strategy.’
‘What strategy, sir?’ asked Dave.
It was ten past nine that evening by the time I opened the door of my flat in Surbiton. I was looking forward to a shower and a whisky, but didn’t fancy cooking anything for myself. I was no good at cooking anyway, the cooker and I being natural enemies. And, as Mrs Gurney had pointed out, the microwave had broken down. I decided that I would send out for a Chinese, and then I’d go to bed.
But all my plans were set at nought when I shut the front door.
‘I’m in the kitchen, darling.’ And there was Gail in a red tee-shirt, white slacks and an apron. She turned and gave me a kiss. ‘I rang your office, but they told me you’d left for home, so I decided to come round and get supper for you. I knew your fridge and freezer would be empty,’ she said, making a sour face, ‘so I brought a few things in with me. And you haven’t got a wok!’ She pointed a spatula at me and made the accusation sound as though I was guilty of serious criminal negligence.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said, with feigned contrition. ‘I’d be no good at using it anyway, even if I had one. I’ll open the champagne. At least I’ve got some of that.’
‘I’d rather have a G-and-T, if you don’t mind,’ said Gail, waving away the idea of bubbly with the spatula.
‘Good,’ I said, ‘because I’m going to have a Scotch.’ I put the champagne back in the fridge.
I don’t know how Gail does it, but the meal was amazing. In no time at all, she had produced chicken breasts coated in flour and lightly fried, boiled rice and stir-fried vegetables that, as she pointedly observed, she had been obliged to cook in a frying pan. Because I hadn’t got a wok! I provided a bottle of Gewürztraminer, one of the few commendable wines that Helga, my ex, had introduced into our sixteen years of marriage. Finally, Gail rounded off the meal by producing a tub of Häagen-Dazs mint and chocolate ice cream. She’s all class, that girl.