Reckless Endangerment(74)

Flynn had obviously been making further use of his clandestine sources to obtain that information, but who was I to question it.

‘I’m sure it will, Charlie,’ I said. ‘The bloody man’s too naive to be cunning.’

‘That’s very nearly a truism, sir,’ murmured Dave. ‘If it’s not an oxymoron.’

‘Keep me posted, Charlie,’ I said, ignoring Dave’s little sideswipe.

‘Yes, guv. I reckon that Reed employs a creative accountant.’

‘What d’you think about that, Dave?’ I asked, once Flynn had departed.

‘It puts a different slant on Muriel’s claim that Julian couldn’t afford to leave her, guv. If Charlie’s right about Julian’s financial affairs being a bit dodgy, Muriel might’ve been putting the black on him. After all, it wouldn’t do for a future earl to be done for fraud, tax evasion and anything else the Fraud Squad might dig up, would it?’

‘You could well be right,’ I said, as I absorbed this latest twist in our investigation. ‘But that’s better than a future earl being charged with the murder of his extramarital sleeping partner.’

‘Excuse me, sir, but I was looking for Sergeant Poole,’ said DC Appleby, glancing at Dave as he hesitated in the doorway of my office. ‘He asked me to do some urgent checking.’

‘Come in, John. What did he ask you to do?’ I knew that when Dave gave a DC an urgent job he usually had a very good reason for wanting it done.

‘I suggested that John did a check on the cameras on the A4, guv,’ said Dave. ‘As we’ve nicked Julian Reed on suspicion of murdering Sharon, I thought it might be useful to see if we could get a fix on the exact time his car was on its way back from Heathrow Airport to Chelsea. If that’s the route he took.’

‘And did he, John?’ I asked Appleby.

‘That was certainly the route, sir. At eighteen-forty-one Reed’s Mercedes was clocked by the speed camera near Hatton doing eighty-seven miles an hour.’

‘He must’ve stayed there quite a long time if that’s the time he returned to Chelsea,’ I said.

‘He wasn’t going home, sir. The vehicle was actually travelling westbound. In other words, towards Heathrow Airport.’

‘What the hell was it doing going that way at that time?’ I said, half to myself.

‘We could ask him,’ said Dave.

‘Oh, we will,’ I said, and turned back to Appleby. ‘You’ve done a good job there, John.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Appleby

‘And now, Dave, you and I are going to spin the Honourable Julian Reed’s drum.’





EIGHTEEN


It was half past one by the time we’d finished filling in all the necessary forms and had journeyed to Marylebone Road to obtain a search warrant from the district judge at Westminster Magistrates’ Court.

We arrived at the Reeds’ Chelsea house at just after two. I had decided to take Linda Mitchell with us, and thought it would be a good idea to have Kate Ebdon along as well. But I told Linda to remain outside in her van until we needed her and her team of forensic examiners. If we needed them.

Muriel Reed opened the door. ‘Oh, it’s you again.’ There was a resigned note in her voice.

‘Yes, it’s us, Mrs Reed. Is your husband at home?’

‘Yes, he is. He’s not long back from Chelsea police station. For some ridiculous reason he has to report there every day as part of his bail conditions. This whole business is rapidly becoming most intolerable.’

If you think that’s intolerable, the worst is yet to come, I thought.

‘I have a warrant to search these premises, Mrs Reed.’

‘Oh my God! When is all this going to end? It’s absolutely farcical that my husband should be suspected of murdering that tart, whatever her name is.’

‘It’s Sharon Gregory, Mrs Reed, as you well know.’ I was tired of the woman’s prevarication, and of standing on the doorstep. I pushed past her.

‘Oh, come in, why don’t you?’ Muriel’s response was bitingly sarcastic.

Accompanied by Dave and Kate Ebdon, I walked upstairs to the sitting room, followed by Mrs Reed.

‘Hello, Chief Inspector.’ Julian Reed was sitting in an armchair reading a copy of The Times. He looked tired, but his face expressed no surprise at our being there.

‘I was just explaining to your wife, Mr Reed, that I have a warrant to search this house.’

‘I suppose that’s what you have to do in cases like this,’ said Reed, standing up and casting the newspaper untidily to the floor.

‘Are you just going to stand there and let them ransack my house, Julian?’ Muriel Reed’s whole body seemed to vibrate with fury at our intrusion. Reaching back, she undid the clasp that was holding her titian hair in a ponytail, and shook it free so that it cascaded around the shoulders of her well-cut grey trouser suit.