Reckless Endangerment(9)

‘Maybe,’ said Kate cynically.





THREE


We made our way upstairs to the second bedroom at the rear of the house. The curtains were open, as were the windows, and both the bedside lights had been turned on, casting a warm glow throughout the room.

But Kate wasn’t about to have our interview stage-managed. She turned on the overhead light, left the windows open, but closed the curtains; it was a still night and there wasn’t even a ripple of air to move them.

Sharon Gregory, wearing a white satin robe, her feet curled beneath her, was reclining elegantly on a velvet-covered chaise-longue set against a wall adjacent to the window. An attractive woman, probably in her mid-twenties, she had found the time to prepare for the interview by brushing her long, honey blonde hair and applying lipstick and eye shadow. Despite the fact that it was now half past two in the morning and the windows were open, she was perspiring quite freely.

The woman constable who had been posted there to keep her company was lounging in a nearby chair. She had slackened off the cravat at her neck and undone the top two buttons of her shirt.

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard, Mrs Gregory, and this is Detective Inspector Ebdon. D’you feel up to telling us what happened? From the very beginning.’

‘Yes, certainly.’ Sharon smiled at me, but then cast a nervous glance in Kate’s direction. Kate Ebdon has that unnerving effect on people, especially women and villains, and particularly if the two are combined in one person. In Kate’s view everyone is a suspect until proved otherwise.

‘You can go now,’ Kate said to the woman officer who was still seated, a lack of courtesy that had obviously irritated her.

‘At last, thank God!’ The PC stood up and stretched. ‘I could do with a cup of tea. I’m parched. Well, I’ll be off, then,’ she said, directing her comment at Kate.

Kate followed the woman officer to the door, out of earshot of Sharon Gregory. ‘It’s ma’am when you talk to me, young woman, and don’t you forget it,’ she said, in a menacingly low voice. ‘And do up your cravat and button your shirt. You’re a bloody disgrace to the uniform.’

‘Sorry, ma’am,’ said the PC, adjusting her clothing as she fled from the room.

Kate Ebdon could be very hard on her own sex, particularly those in the Job. A flame-haired Australian, she had honed her detective skills as a sergeant on the Flying Squad, where, it was rumoured, she had given pleasure to several male officers; but you shouldn’t believe everything that policemen tell you.

Kate was attired in jeans and a man’s white shirt, a form of dress that she usually adopted. It was this informal attire that had somewhat irritated our conventional commander when Kate had joined HSCC on promotion to DI; he took the view that an officer reaching the rank of inspector should behave like a lady. Not that there was any doubt that Kate was a lady, no matter what she was wearing. Certainly her appearances at the Old Bailey, in a smart blue suit, high-heeled shoes and gold earrings, turned a few male heads, including the judges and members of the legal profession. However the commander didn’t see it that way, and when he had suggested that I speak to Kate about her outfit, I had jocularly warned him that this may be seen as either sexism or racism, or both. The commander, a keen devotee of diversity, had taken me seriously and had said no more on the matter.

‘Perhaps you would start by telling me where you were when this man broke in, Mrs Gregory,’ I began. ‘Inspector Ebdon will write down what you say in the form of a statement, and I’ll ask you to sign it when we’ve finished. Are you up to doing that now?’

‘Yes, of course. To answer your question, I was in bed with my husband.’ Sharon Gregory spoke confidently and seemed perfectly composed, despite the gruelling ordeal she had undergone, to say nothing of the brutal slaying of her husband. ‘It must’ve been about ten o’clock when I heard this noise downstairs and I shook Cliff, but I couldn’t wake him.’ She paused and cast her eyes down. ‘I’m afraid he has a drink problem and he’d had a lot to drink this evening,’ she said in a soft voice that was probably intended to inspire sympathy.

But if she was hoping for consolation from Kate, she failed; Kate wasn’t much interested in Sharon Gregory’s alcoholic husband, at least not yet. ‘Is Cliff his given name?’ she asked.

‘No, it’s actually Clifford, but he’s always called Cliff.’

‘I’ll make that clear in the statement, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Yes, of course.’