‘Inspector Brock, did you—?’
‘I’m a chief inspector, madam,’ I said. ‘A detective chief inspector.’
‘Quite so. I do apologize, Chief Inspector. I have you down in my brief as an inspector.’
That was always a show-stopper, one that threw her for a moment or two, and I could foresee a junior in her chambers getting a flea in his ear for making that mistake. But she quickly recovered and embarked upon a curious line of questioning.
‘Chief Inspector, did you form any opinion about my client?’
‘What sort of opinion, madam?’ I thoroughly enjoyed this sort of forensic jousting.
‘Well now, let me see.’ Pushing back her gown, the woman placed her left hand on her hip while holding her brief loosely in her other hand. ‘Do you think that Mrs Reed’s behaviour was entirely rational?’ she asked, as though that question had just popped into her head.
The judge raised his eyebrows and peered at counsel over his spectacles, but I was able to get my answer in before he queried whether her client’s defence was to be one of diminished responsibility.
‘I can’t answer that question, madam. I’m not qualified in psychiatry.’ I had to admit, but only to myself, that the cold way in which Muriel Reed had described how she’d murdered Sharon Gregory made me wonder about her sanity.
‘No, I appreciate that,’ said the lady barrister, a syrupy smile masking her disappointment that I’d not fallen into her rather obvious little trap. ‘But surely the crime of which she stands accused was not the action of a rational person.’
Oh, well, you asked for it. ‘In my experience, madam, no murderer or murderess is a rational being, otherwise they would not commit murder. But, as I said, I’m not a psychiatrist.’
The judge smiled, but said nothing.
Defence counsel tried one or two other well-known ploys, but had no greater success than she had with the first one. But she had to try; that’s what she was paid for.
And so it ground on, day after day. Testimony was given by Dr Mortlock, Linda Mitchell, Kate Ebdon and everyone else who had been involved in the investigation.
But the evidence that clinched it came from a forensic scientist who testified that the DNA sample taken from Muriel Reed matched the vaginal fluid found on Sharon’s body. A fingerprint officer assured the court that Muriel Reed’s fingerprints had also been found in room 219 and on the phone in the glove compartment of the Reeds’ Mercedes.
Julian Reed’s evidence was interesting. He recounted his conversation with his wife when he’d told her he was leaving her for Sharon Gregory, but altogether he didn’t contribute much. I don’t know why the prosecution bothered to call him at all.
Defence counsel made several attempts to undermine the evidence, but rather reminded me of a small dog angrily snapping at the witnesses’ heels. Wisely, she decided against putting her client into the witness box, probably assuming that Muriel Reed would merely repeat what she had said to me: ‘Of course I murdered the little slut.’
After thirteen days filled, for the most part, with technical evidence that would neither have excited nor interested aficionados of crime fiction, the jury retired to consider their verdict.
Despite Muriel Reed’s confession, it took the twelve upright citizens two hours to find her guilty. God knows what they were talking about during that time. Perhaps they were considering adding a rider for mercy.
Fourteen days after the verdict, we were back at the Old Bailey to hear the sentence.
Personally, I think the judge was a trifle soft in expressing the view that Muriel Reed had been betrayed by her husband. I’m not quite sure how that could’ve justified cold-blooded murder, but he imposed a life sentence with a tariff of just fifteen years before she could apply for parole.
After several weeks of deliberation, the Crown Prosecution Service decided that Julian Reed shared no culpability in the murder of Sharon Gregory. It was a conclusion at which I had arrived within seconds of finishing my interview with him. But then I’m not a lawyer and I didn’t know that it should have taken weeks to arrive at such a decision.
The resumed inquest into the death of Clifford Gregory took place a week after the sentencing of Muriel Reed.
Dave and I attended the Hammersmith coroner’s court at nine o’clock on the morning of Monday the thirtieth of September. The weather was dull and overcast; a suitable climate, I thought, for the final act in the murders of Clifford and Sharon Gregory.
I entered the witness box and told the court that Muriel Reed had been convicted of the wilful murder of Sharon Gregory. But then came the difficult part. I outlined the evidence that had been amassed regarding the death of Clifford Gregory and the inference I had drawn that he’d been murdered by his wife. I was followed by Henry Mortlock who gave the medical details.