Reckless Endangerment(70)

‘It turns out that Anubi is wanted for murder in Nigeria. So, rather than mounting a costly trial followed by appeals, the powers-that-be will probably deport him.’

‘You must be joking,’ I said. ‘We seem to find it impossible to deport people from this country. Anyway, Nigeria still has the death penalty, and no doubt our brave politicians will have a touch of the vapours at the mere suggestion that we send him back to be hanged. That’s what they do with murderers.’





SEVENTEEN


‘If you want to speak to my husband, he’s not here. In fact I’ve no idea where he is.’ Muriel Reed, her arrogance no less apparent than before, was attired in a mauve maxi kaftan below which her bare feet peeped out.

‘He’s just been released from Charing Cross police station, Mrs Reed. He was arrested yesterday afternoon for driving under the influence of alcohol.’

‘Oh, what a stupid man.’ Muriel opened the door wide. ‘You’d better come in.’

We followed her upstairs to the sitting room and accepted her offer of a seat.

‘Where did this happen, Chief Inspector?’ Muriel raised her eyebrows and paused. ‘But surely you’re not dealing with that, are you?’ She opened her hands in a theatrical gesture; she knew perfectly well that the CID didn’t normally deal with drunken drivers. Unless there was more to it than that.

‘He was arrested in Saint James’s Street by traffic unit officers,’ said Dave. ‘At about two o’clock yesterday afternoon.’

‘Surely you haven’t come here just to tell me that, have you?’ Muriel adopted an amused expression. ‘And if this happened yesterday, why hasn’t he come home? He’s not at another strip club, is he?’

‘He’s been arrested for the murder of Sharon Gregory on the twenty-ninth of July,’ I said.

‘Murder?’ exclaimed Muriel, and after a moment’s hesitation, added, ‘But it’s absurd to think that Julian’s capable of murdering anyone. Anyway, he was with me on that date. All day.’

‘But the last time we were here, he told us that he’d gone to the Dizzy Club in Soho, but only in the afternoon.’ We’d confirmed that he hadn’t been there on that day, and I knew what he’d told us earlier, but I wanted to see what his wife said about that.

‘You’re quite right. I was confused,’ said Muriel. It was almost an apology. ‘In the evening we went to a swingers’ club in Dorking for the sole purpose of having sex with other people.’ There was no embarrassment about her admission as she pointed an accusing finger at Dave. ‘And I gave you the address.’

‘How did you get there, Mrs Reed?’ asked Dave.

‘By car, of course.’

‘The Mercedes?’

‘Of course the Mercedes. We don’t have another car.’

‘We’ve checked with the Simpsons, the couple who run that club, and they seemed to be under the impression that you’d arrived in a Lexus, and that you’d parked on their drive.’

‘They must’ve made a mistake. There were quite a few cars there that night and there was no room on the drive. We had to park on the road, some way away.’ Despite providing what must have seemed to her a reasonable explanation, Muriel Reed was suddenly neither as composed nor as disdainful as she had been when we’d first arrived. ‘Ah!’ she said, having come up with another excuse, ‘I realize how the Simpsons’ confusion must’ve arisen. We were there with some friends of ours. They own a Lexus.’ She looked at me, almost imploring me to believe her.

‘What are the names of these friends?’ I asked.

‘I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to tell you.’

‘You’re not helping your husband, Mrs Reed,’ I said.

‘I don’t see how telling you the names of our friends is going to help Julian in any way, Chief Inspector. I refuse to tell you who they were. They might not wish it to be known that they’re swingers. They certainly wouldn’t appreciate being questioned by the police about what is an innocent if unconventional pastime. What would their neighbours think?’

I heard the front door slam and seconds later Julian Reed burst into the room. He looked at me and then addressed his wife.

‘I suppose they’ve told you that they think I murdered Sharon, Muriel.’

‘Yes, they have,’ said Muriel. ‘And who exactly is this Sharon?’

‘You know bloody well who she is,’ said Reed, shaking his head at his wife’s duplicity. ‘Sharon Gregory’s the stewardess I met on a flight to Miami. But I told you that, and I told you I was going to divorce you and marry her.’ This was an entirely new Julian Reed, one that I’d never before seen standing up to his wife.