‘Did you ask when the Reeds had previously been to Dorking?’ I asked.
‘According to Simpson, about a week previously. In fact he said they were regulars, but he’d said that before.’
‘Did Simpson explain why he was so confused?’
‘After a fashion, guv. He made some lame excuse about people not always giving their real names for fear of embarrassment if it ever got out that they’d been swinging. But it was plain that he was bobbing and weaving, right from the start. I think he’s still terrified he might finish up in court.’
‘He’s right, Dave. I think I will have a word with the Surrey Police after all,’ I said. ‘I doubt that the CPS would be interested in doing the Simpsons for conspiracy, but at least the local law can put them out of business.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Get the car, Dave, we’re going to Effingham.’
‘But what for, guv?’
‘To interview Adrian Curtis, of course.’
It was eight o’clock by the time Dave and I arrived at the cottage where Adrian Curtis lived on the outskirts of Effingham in Surrey. A red Lexus was parked outside. Without doubt, and in view of what we now knew, it was the one that the Simpsons had said was parked at their Dorking house on the night of Sharon Gregory’s murder.
‘Adrian Curtis?’ I asked, when a young man, attired in jeans and a rugby shirt, answered the door.
‘Yes?’ Curtis gazed at us apprehensively, but maybe that was because I was accompanied by a tall, well-built black man of menacing appearance.
‘We’re police officers, Mr Curtis, and we’d like a word with you. May we come in?’ In no mood for prevarication, I took a step towards him.
‘What’s this about?’ Curtis continued to display nerves as he showed us into his sitting room. ‘This is my girlfriend, Donna Webb,’ he said, indicating a young blonde seated in an armchair. A plain-looking girl, dressed in shorts and a crop top, was watching a wildlife programme on television, but grabbed the remote and switched it off as we entered.
‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard and this is Detective Sergeant Poole. I have it on good information, Mr Curtis, that you and Miss Webb attended a swingers’ party in Dorking on the night of Monday the twenty-ninth of July. I’ve also been told that you were there with friends of yours, a Mr and Mrs Reed.’
‘Donna and I were certainly there, but Julian and Muriel weren’t, not that night,’ said Curtis. ‘Anyway, what’s this about? It’s not a crime to go to a party of that sort, is it?’ His question wasn’t so much a protest as a concerned enquiry. Perhaps he thought he was about to be prosecuted for it.
‘No, not at all,’ I said. ‘What you do in your private lives is none of our business. Except when it involves murder.’
‘Murder?’ Curtis stared at me open-mouthed. ‘What murder? I don’t know anything about a murder. Are you sure it’s me you want to speak to?’
‘Julian Reed has been arrested on suspicion of murdering a woman named Sharon Gregory at a hotel near Heathrow Airport on the night you were at this swingers’ party in Dorking.’ I glanced briefly at Donna Webb, whose face bore a similar expression of shock.
‘Julian? Murder?’ exclaimed Curtis. ‘I don’t know anyone called Sharon. I think there’s been some sort of mix-up here. Surely Julian didn’t murder anyone.’
‘What sort of mix-up would that be, Mr Curtis?’ asked Dave.
‘We were supposed to meet the Reeds at Dorking that night, but they never showed up.’
‘Perhaps you’d better explain,’ said Dave.
But it was Donna Webb who explained. ‘We’ve often “swapped” with the Reeds: Adrian and Muriel, and Julian and me. And we’ve been to Dorking with them on quite a few occasions. On the night you mentioned, Muriel rang and said they were going to the Simpsons’ place and they’d like to meet us there. Well, we always enjoyed a bit of fun with those two, so we jumped into the car and off we went. But, as Adrian said, the Reeds didn’t show up.’
Even though Muriel Reed must’ve been at least ten years older than Adrian Curtis, I could quite see that he would have found her attractive enough to want to have a sexual encounter with her; she was certainly possessed of a compelling ice-cold allure and had admitted having an appetite for younger men. But I found it difficult to envisage the apparently gormless Julian Reed appealing to Donna, given that he must’ve been at least fifteen years older than she was.
‘Are you absolutely certain that the Reeds were not there? This is vitally important, Mr Curtis.’