After a summing-up by the coroner, his jury brought in a verdict that Clifford Gregory had been murdered by his wife, and that Sharon Gregory had been murdered by the Honourable Muriel Reed. Not that any of it meant anything now, but it tied up the loose ends.
I hadn’t told Julian Reed when the inquest was to take place and I didn’t tell him the verdict. I reckoned he’d suffered enough.
It was August, just over one year after the murder of Sharon Gregory.
The Miami flight had taken off from Heathrow Airport on time. Once it was airborne – and the seat-belt warning light had been extinguished – the cabin staff set about tending to the needs of the passengers.
‘Good morning.’ The smiling man seated in the first-class section of the aircraft was forty-one years of age and a frequent traveller to Miami where he had interests, business and social – but one in particular. ‘It’s nice to see you again …’ He paused while pretending to read the stewardess’s name badge. ‘Cindy.’
‘Good morning, sir.’ The stewardess’s name was Cindy Patterson. She was twenty-seven years of age, shapely, and her long jet-black hair was fashioned into a French roll. She returned the man’s smile. ‘Would you care for coffee, sir?’
‘Thank you, Cindy. Decaf, black, no sugar.’
‘I know, sir.’ Cindy smiled. ‘Breakfast will be served shortly.’
‘Thank you. That’ll be nice,’ said the man.
‘Will you be staying in Miami long, sir?’ Although it sounded like the normal trite enquiry that a stewardess would make to pass the time of day, there was more to it than that. And the man knew it.
‘Just for twenty-four hours. I should’ve had a business meeting later, but just as I arrived at Heathrow, I got a phone call to say that it was cancelled. But I decided to come anyway.’
Cindy leaned closer. ‘Liar!’ she whispered, and smiled. ‘What are you going to do here, then, sir?’ she asked, raising her voice again.
‘I’ll think of something,’ said the man. Now it was his turn to lean closer and whisper. ‘Usual hotel?’
‘Of course,’ said Cindy.
‘Call me with the room number.’
Nine hours later, the huge aircraft touched down at Miami International, taxied to the walkway and the passengers began to alight.
‘Enjoy your stay, sir,’ said Cindy to the man from first class. She was standing at the exit, a fixed smile on her face, bidding farewell to the disembarking passengers. ‘I hope we’ll see you again soon.’
‘You know jolly well you will. Quite soon,’ said the man in a voice that only Cindy heard.
Once the enormous airliner was empty of passengers, the crew gathered their overnight suitcases and disembarked, making their way to customs and thence to the crew bus that awaited them outside the airport terminal.
Once in her room at the Shannon Hotel, Cindy made a phone call, stripped off her clothes and took a shower. Returning to the bedroom, she dabbed Lancôme Trésor on her neck and between her breasts. Next, she donned frilly white underwear and a summer dress. Finally she slid her bare feet into a pair of high-heeled mules.
She had to wait only fifteen minutes before the expected knock came at her door.
‘Just coming, darling.’ Cindy opened the door and the passenger she had served on the flight that morning entered the room. But before locking the door, he hung a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign outside. As he always did on these occasions.
Later, when the couple were lying side by side and perspiring freely from the exertions of their lovemaking, the man raised himself on one elbow and gazed down at the girl.
‘You are a thoroughly wanton woman, Cindy Patterson,’ he said, tracing little patterns on her damp breast with a finger. ‘But you know that, don’t you?’
‘Only when I’m with you, darling.’ Cindy placed her hands behind her head and stretched sensuously.
‘Oh, come on,’ said the man teasingly. ‘I’d bet you’d jump into bed with any man who asked you.’
‘You know that’s not true.’ Cindy lowered her arms and prodded him gently in the chest.
‘Of course I do, darling.’ The man laughed and relaxed against the pillows.
‘But you’d hop into bed with any available woman.’
‘There was a time when I would’ve done,’ said the man. ‘But not any more, because there’s something important I want to ask you about. Something really important.’
It was a good eighteen months after the murder of Sharon Gregory that Kate came into my office flourishing a copy of the Daily Telegraph.