‘Hello! Welcome to our little soirée,’ said a beaming Laura Simpson, at first failing to recognize who was standing on her doorstep. But then she did recognize us. ‘Oh, my God, it’s you.’
When we’d called last Friday Mrs Simpson had been soberly dressed, but now she was attired in a short black basque, a thong, and black stockings held up with suspenders. It was one of the most ridiculous visions I’d seen in years. Particularly as I’d decided, the last time we were there, that Laura Simpson must be at least sixty. Disregarding her age, she was certainly too plump to get away with such an outrageous costume. If it was an attempt at sexual allure, it failed miserably; she had merely succeeded in becoming a rather ludicrous and pathetic figure. I could only conclude that she intended to take an active part in that night’s proceedings.
‘Yes, it’s us, Mrs Simpson,’ said Dave. ‘We’d like a word with you.’
‘But when you came the last time I thought you said that what we were doing here was all right.’ Laura Simpson reluctantly admitted us, at the same time trying unsuccessfully to hide behind the front door.
‘We didn’t actually say that, Mrs Simpson,’ I said. ‘Merely that what you were doing here was of no interest to us in our murder investigation. Is your husband here?’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘We’d like a word with him as well as with you.’
‘I’ll fetch him.’ Laura Simpson hurried away, unsteady on the stiletto heels to which she was clearly unaccustomed, and trying desperately to cover her wobbling naked buttocks with her hands.
We had to wait for some time before James Simpson appeared. I presumed that the delay was caused by the need for him to dress in presentable clothing. Laura Simpson had certainly taken the time to don an all-embracing pink candlewick dressing gown and exchange her high heels for fluffy bedroom slippers. The result was that she looked even more absurd than she had done previously.
‘What is it this time?’ James Simpson spoke with impatient arrogance. ‘We’re expecting guests.’
‘You can come off your high horse right now, Simpson,’ said Dave, who was clearly irked by the man’s lofty attitude and what he saw as prevarication. ‘My chief inspector only has to make one phone call and you’ll be having a visit from the local police. Tonight.’
‘So, er, how can I, um, help you, gentlemen?’ In the face of Dave’s uncompromising threat, Simpson capitulated, and immediately became a stuttering sycophant.
‘Have a look at this photograph, Mr Simpson,’ I said, taking the print from Dave, ‘and tell me if you’ve ever seen this man before.’
Simpson studied the image closely. ‘I think that’s Julian Reed,’ he said, and then passed the photograph to his wife.
‘Yes, that’s Julian,’ said Laura Simpson, handing the print back to Dave. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘Julian Reed is the man you said was here with his wife Muriel on the night of the twenty-ninth of July.’
‘I’m sure they were here,’ said Simpson. ‘He and his wife are regular visitors. But I suppose it’s possible that I was confused.’
‘Really?’ said Dave sarcastically. ‘Then perhaps you can tell me what sort of car this couple, who might or might not have been the Reeds, arrived in.’
‘I think it was a Lexus, a new one by the look of it,’ said Simpson.
In my book that confirmed that the Reeds had not been at Dorking on the night of Sharon Gregory’s murder. Julian Reed did not own a Lexus; his car was a Mercedes.
Dave marked the photograph of Julian Reed as an exhibit and took a statement from each of the Simpsons, testifying that it was not a likeness of the man who’d come to their swingers’ party on the night of Sharon’s murder, but adding that they recognized Reed as a previous caller at their house.
We arrived at Charing Cross police station early on Tuesday morning. I had to go through the whole business of explaining to a different custody sergeant why we were there and what we wanted.
‘I’ll have him brought up, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Interview Room Three.’
Julian Reed carved a sorrowful figure as he was escorted into the interview room. Deprived of his belt and tie – I presumed he was one of those rare men who actually wore a tie these days – he was clearly showing signs of having been on a bender the previous day.
He put on his spectacles and took some time to focus on Dave and me, but eventually recognition dawned.
‘What are you doing here, Chief Inspector?’ It was an odd question for Reed to have asked. After all, it wasn’t unusual for policemen to be in a police station.