‘We’ve no option, Muriel,’ said Reed mildly. ‘If they have a warrant there’s nothing we can do about it, except cooperate. And it’s my house, not yours.’
‘Well, you can cooperate if you like. I’m going to lie down. I’ve got a migraine coming on.’
‘My sergeant has some questions for you before you go, Mrs Reed,’ I said.
‘Has he indeed?’ Muriel glanced imperiously at Dave and sat down in the chair furthest from where her husband was standing.
‘What time did Mr Reed arrive home on the evening of Monday the twenty-ninth of July?’ asked Dave.
‘I got in just before five o’clock,’ said Reed.
‘The sergeant was asking me, Julian,’ snapped Muriel. ‘And the answer is I don’t know. I was downstairs having a swim.’ Noticing Dave’s expression of surprise, she added, ‘We have our own pool in the basement.’
‘No you weren’t, Muriel,’ said Reed. ‘You were sitting in that chair.’ He waved a hand at the uncomfortable white armchair in which his wife was now nonchalantly reclining. ‘And you were reading a magazine. It was much later that you had a swim.’
‘You’re wrong, Julian, and anyway I do occasionally have more than one swim in a day,’ said Muriel cuttingly. ‘Particularly when the weather’s as hot as it was at the end of July.’
Dave ignored this inconsequential tiff and got to the crux of the matter. ‘Did you go out again that night, Mr Reed?’
‘No, I didn’t. What makes you ask?’
‘Because a Mercedes car registered in your name was recorded by a speed camera on the A4 – that’s the Great West Road – at six-forty-one that evening, and its speed was logged at eighty-seven miles an hour. So, if it wasn’t you driving, who was it?’
‘I must’ve got home later than I thought, then,’ said Reed thoughtfully. ‘I don’t really remember.’
‘It has nothing to do with your returning here,’ said Dave, ‘because your car was travelling in a westbound direction. In other words, it was going towards Heathrow, not away from it.’
This awesome announcement was followed by a second or two of complete silence.
Clenching his fists, but otherwise controlling the anger he must’ve felt, Reed stared at his seated wife. ‘It was you who murdered Sharon,’ he said in a remarkably restrained voice. Despite his apparent absent-mindedness, he was obviously quick to grasp the implications of this latest revelation.
‘Don’t try and swing this on me, Julian,’ said Muriel, matching her husband’s mildness with her own calm response. ‘Do you really think I could be that bothered about one of your tarts? It was you who killed her, wasn’t it? Just be honest for once in your life.’
‘I wasn’t driving the bloody car, Muriel,’ said Reed, ‘so it must’ve been you.’
And I believed him. It was time for me to put a stop to this argument before it damaged our case.
‘Stand up, Mrs Reed,’ I said. ‘Muriel Reed, I am arresting you on suspicion of murdering Sharon Gregory on or about the twenty-ninth of July. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later rely on in court. Do you understand the caution?’
‘Of course I do,’ snapped Muriel. ‘I’ve watched police programmes on television often enough, but you should know that you’re making a big mistake.’ Apart from that statement, she was remarkably unmoved by her arrest. ‘And I warn you, Chief Inspector, that I shall instruct my solicitor to take proceedings for wrongful arrest.’
‘Put your hands behind your back, Mrs Reed,’ said Kate Ebdon, and promptly handcuffed her.
‘Is that really necessary?’ asked Julian Reed.
‘Yes, it’s for your wife’s own safety, Mr Reed,’ I said. But I was nevertheless surprised that Reed was concerned for Muriel’s reputation and the indignity of seeing her taken out to a police car in handcuffs. I don’t think he was too worried about what the neighbours might think; he wasn’t that sort of man. Apart from which, the residents of Chelsea were occasionally arrested, but usually as a result of holding heroin parties. It was that sort of area.
‘Would it be all right if I came with you to the police station, Chief Inspector?’ asked Reed.
‘Yes, in fact it’s necessary for you to come with us, Mr Reed.’
Leaving Dave to oversee a search of the house – not that I thought anything useful would be found – Kate and I escorted the Reeds out to the car. The street was quiet and none of the neighbours seemed to notice that Muriel Reed was handcuffed. Or if they did, they were observing this minor melodrama from behind Venetian blinds or net curtains.