Reckless Endangerment--A Brock and Poole Police Procedural Page 9

‘But it’s true,’ protested Miller. ‘It was my mate’s fault, see. It was just after midnight and we’d been out clubbing. My mate reckoned as how he’d lost his key and he asked me to help him get into his house without waking up his parents. I’d just got through a ground floor window round the back when I was grabbed by the bloke who lived there. Far from being in bed, him and his missus had been watching telly. Well, you could’ve knocked me down with a feather. His wife must’ve got straight on the blower because the next thing I knew was the law turning up. By that time, my mate had scarpered and I got nicked. Turned out it wasn’t his house at all, but a drum he’d fancied screwing. I still got done for it, though.’

  ‘Didn’t you know where your mate lived, then?’ Dave was obviously having a problem swallowing this tale.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Miller. ‘I wouldn’t’ve got talked into it if I’d known it wasn’t his house. It was only later I learned he’d been done for burglary before. Some mate he turned out to be.’

  ‘And the rape of a fifteen-year-old girl called Janet Smith?’ I asked. I didn’t believe Miller’s tale about the burglary, but I intended to return to it later.

  ‘That wasn’t rape. I was stitched up.’ Miller leaned forward and placed his arms on the table, implying that he was about to impart a confidence. ‘We’d met at a nightclub down Harwich—’

  ‘That’s where you were living at the time, was it?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Yeah, I was born and bred there. Can’t you hear my Essex accent?’ said Miller, with a twisted grin. ‘Anyway, me and Janet had been going steady for about six months and we’d just got engaged. We was in love, see. And it was her what suggested having sex. She said it was OK, now we was going to get spliced, and we took precautions an’ all. But after, when she got home, her mum cottoned on straight off what she’d been up to. That’s the trouble with mothers, they can always tell. Anyhow, Janet got the third degree from her parents and they threatened to throw her out on the street if she didn’t say I’d raped her.’

  ‘And I suppose it was her parents who called the police?’ I said.

  ‘Called ’em?’ Miller scoffed heatedly. ‘They marched her straight down to the bloody nick, didn’t they? Well, it turned out she was only fifteen. She’d told me she was nineteen, coming up twenty. Anyway, the next thing I know is I’m nicked and I went down for seven years. The prosecuting brief had her tied up in knots in the box. The poor little bitch was in tears by the time he’d finished with her, and she eventually admitted that she was only fifteen and the brief conned her into saying that I’d forced her into having sex.’

  ‘And did you?’ asked Dave. ‘Force her, I mean.’

  ‘Of course I never. She was willing enough, but it was all down to her bloody parents. They’d told her that she wasn’t old enough to give her consent and that meant it was automatically rape, whether she’d agreed or not. But that was all bullshit because after I got banged up I shared a cell with a bent solicitor and he told me what the law was. I thought about appealing, but he said I’d got no chance. And he said that if Janet changed her statement now, then she’d get done for perjury and she’d finish up in the nick an’ all.’

  ‘Did you ever see this girl again?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course I did, and you’ve met her an’ all, Mr Brock. I’m married to her. She waited till I got out and we was wed eleven years ago. And I’ve been going straight ever since.’

  ‘Let’s get back to the night that Clifford Gregory was murdered, Sid.’

  ‘What d’you want to know that I ain’t told you already, Mr Brock?’

  ‘Just run through what you said to us before.’

  Miller recounted, word for word, what he had told us the previous Sunday afternoon. When he finished, I glanced at Dave, who had been following Miller’s account against a copy of his statement. He nodded.

  Nevertheless, I deemed it politic to caution Miller at this stage of the interview.

  ‘You’re a convicted burglar, Sid, so think carefully before you answer my next question,’ I said. ‘Did you have anything to do with the burglary at the Gregorys’ house or the death of Clifford Gregory?’

  ‘No, I bloody didn’t,’ said Miller vehemently. ‘When I came out of the nick, I swore I’d never go back again, Mr Brock, and that’s the God’s honest truth,’ he said. ‘It’s no joke being banged up for rape, especially when you ain’t done it. You get sick of everyone calling you a nonce. Even the screws would have a sly dig every chance they got.’

  ‘Were you having an affair with Sharon Gregory?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. D’you think I’m mad, Mr Brock? You don’t do it on your own doorstep. Anyway, I wouldn’t do a thing like that to my Janet. I’d never cheat on her.’

  ‘Very well. I shall admit you to police bail to report to Uxbridge police station one month from now. If your attendance is not required, I’ll let you know.’

  ‘That’s bloody rich, that is,’ said Miller disgustedly. ‘I go and help the girl next door in her hour of need and this is all the thanks I get for it.’

  ‘What’s next, guv?’ asked Dave, once Miller had departed, still muttering to himself about the injustice of the world.

  ‘We go back to the factory and see if Sharon Gregory’s turned up yet. But I don’t suppose she has. I’ve got a nasty feeling that she could be anywhere in the world by now and doesn’t want to be found.’

  It wasn’t until later that day that we discovered Sharon Gregory wasn’t missing any more.

  DI Len Driscoll was waiting for me when Dave and I got back to the office.

  ‘I’ve got all the results from the house-to-house enquiries, guv.’

  ‘Did you find anything useful, Len?’

  ‘It was the usual blow out,’ said Driscoll. ‘Nobody saw anything. No one saw any unusual cars. Nobody saw anybody hanging around. Mind you, it was late on a Saturday evening and apparently Tarhill Road is a cut-through from a pub to a council estate.’

  ‘Yes, Miller told us that. So did Sharon.’

  ‘One or two near neighbours heard screaming, but put it down to kids coming back from the pub,’ continued Driscoll. ‘Even so, one of ’em did actually think about calling the police.’ That statement was followed by a cynical laugh. ‘But then the screaming stopped, so they all went to bed.’

  ‘Did any of them know the Gregorys, Len?’

  ‘Only in passing. I got the impression that they’re all at pains to keep themselves to themselves. It was the usual “don’t want to get involved” attitude. A lot of them work at Heathrow, of course, and that means that many of them are on shift work. Those who knew Sharon knew she was a flight attendant – they’d seen her going to work in uniform – but didn’t suggest that that made her flighty.’ Driscoll chuckled at his little joke. ‘But as for visitors, or any suggestion that she put herself about, zilch! Mind you, guv, they probably knew, but weren’t prepared to say. And I wouldn’t have put it past some of them to have got across her themselves.’

  ‘All of which is more or less what I expected, Len. Thanks, and thank the team for their efforts.’

  ‘By the way, the Gregorys haven’t come to the notice of the local police either. No domestics or anything like that,’ said Driscoll. ‘But there was one other thing, although I don’t think it means much. We spoke to the customers at the local pub and one of them, a lad of about nineteen, said he was passing the Gregorys’ house at just after ten on Saturday night when he caught sight of a naked girl at the window. He stopped to have a good look and whistled, but the girl quickly drew the curtains.’

  ‘That fits in with her story,’ I said. ‘She must’ve gone up to bed just after that, and then come down again later when she heard this noise she claimed disturbed her.’

  As a result of my interview with Sidney Miller at Fulham nick, I’d missed lunch, but I’d had the foresight to pick up a packet of sandwiches from the local Starbucks. I’d just settled in my office with the door firmly shut and was stirring my cup of coffe
e when Colin Wilberforce appeared again.

  ‘What is it now, Colin?’ I had to admit to being a little irritated at having my scratch lunch interrupted.

  ‘Sharon Gregory’s been found, sir. She’s dead.’

  ‘Where and when was this?’ Don’t ask me why, but I’d somehow expected this. Call it ‘copper’s nose’, if you like.

  ‘Just after midday at the Dickin Hotel at Heathrow Airport, sir. According to the DI on the Homicide Assessment Team, it looked as though she’d been strangled.’

  Believe it or not, Homicide and Serious Crime Command West is responsible for investigating homicide and serious crime in the west of London. And there aren’t many units left with a title that tells you exactly what they do. Our remit, as the hierarchy is fond of saying, stretches from Westminster to Hillingdon on the edge of the Metropolitan Police District and encompasses all the heavy-duty villainy that takes place in between. Unfortunately, that area also includes Heathrow Airport. Not that it would have made any difference in this particular case; anything to do with Sharon Gregory, wherever she’d been found – in the London area, of course – was down to me.

  ‘What’s the SP, Colin?’

  ‘According to the HAT DI, sir, Sharon Gregory checked in at about twelve o’clock midday yesterday for one night only and was allocated room 219. The room was booked until twelve noon today, but she hadn’t checked out by then, and a “Do Not Disturb” sign was still on the door of her room. The chambermaid knocked several times, but got no answer. Rather than go in, she called the duty manager, and when they entered the room they found Sharon Gregory’s dead body naked on the bed.’

  ‘Was her Mini Cooper at the hotel?’

  ‘Yes, sir. In the car park.’

  ‘Now you know why I joined the Job, Colin,’ I said, reluctantly dropping the remains of my sandwich into the waste paper basket. ‘It’s the excitement of it all.’

  The moment Dave and I stepped through the doors of the Dickin Hotel we were confronted by an agitated, fussy little man hovering in the foyer.

  ‘Are you in charge?’ he demanded, peering through rimless spectacles and stepping towards me as if to prevent me from going any further.

  ‘And who might you be?’ asked Dave.

  ‘My name’s Mr Sharp and I am the general manager. And I’d like to know how much longer your people are likely to be here. It’s not good for the image of the hotel having the police running about all over the place.’

  ‘It doesn’t do much for its image if you allow your guests to be murdered, either,’ observed Dave drily. ‘But to answer your question, as long as it takes. What you’ve got on the second floor is a crime scene, and until my chief inspector here says otherwise, it’ll remain a crime scene.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ The anguished Mr Sharp spent a moment or two wringing his hands. ‘The board of directors will be furious.’

  ‘Very likely,’ said Dave unsympathetically.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, Mr Sharp,’ I said. ‘Now that we’ve got you here, perhaps you can tell me at what time Mrs Gregory checked in.’ I knew what Wilberforce had said, but I always like to verify information I’ve received second-hand.

  Sharp turned to the young woman behind the counter, flicked his fingers and repeated my question.

  The receptionist, whose badge bore the name Kirsty, scrolled through the computer. ‘Ms Gregory checked in at twelve-oh-two yesterday afternoon, Mr Sharp,’ she said.

  ‘Was anyone with her?’ asked Dave, bypassing the manager and speaking directly to Kirsty.

  ‘I can’t tell from the entry on the computer. We don’t record both names if it happens to be a couple, just the name of the person making the booking. She did ask specifically for a double room with a double bed, though.’ Kirsty smiled at Dave, but most young women do. Even some of the more mature ones have been known to cast an appraising eye over him.

  ‘Could you let me have a printout, Kirsty?’ asked Dave, returning the girl’s smile.

  ‘Did she have any visitors that you know of, Kirsty?’ I asked, once she had given Dave the printout. ‘Did anyone call at the desk asking for her room number?’

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t on duty when Ms Gregory checked in.’

  ‘Who was, Mr Sharp?’ Dave turned back to the manager.

  Sharp walked round the counter to consult a duty roster. ‘Natalie Lester,’ he said. ‘She’ll be on at four o’clock.’

  ‘She’ll need to be interviewed when she arrives,’ I said.

  The manager tutted. ‘This is all very inconvenient,’ he said.

  ‘It was for Mrs Gregory, too,’ said Dave.

  We took the lift to the second floor, gave our details to the incident officer at the tapes and made our way along the corridor.

  Linda Mitchell met us at the door to room 219. Kate Ebdon was with her.

  ‘Kate, there’s a receptionist named Natalie Lester who’s due on duty at four o’clock. It’s a long shot, I know, but ask her if during her tour of duty anyone enquired for Sharon Gregory. And would you also ask if there was anyone with her when she checked in.’

  ‘Leave it with me,’ said Kate, and made her way downstairs.

  ‘We’ve finished here, Mr Brock,’ said Linda. ‘It didn’t take long, being only the one room. I gathered a few hairs from the pillows and the bed that might give us a DNA that we can profile. And there are fingerprints all over the place, so I doubt we’ll be able to get any immediate idents, but we might be lucky. I guess the chambermaids don’t do too much in the way of cleaning. At least, not every day.’

  ‘I’d better have a serious word with the manager about that,’ said Dave. ‘Definitely not what one would expect of a hotel of this standard.’

  ‘By the way …’ Linda gave me a wry smile. ‘You might care to have a look at her underwear. It’s on the floor, what there is of it, but I wouldn’t think it’s the sort that the airline would approve of its staff wearing. There’s a uniform hanging in the closet, but I’ve not opened the suitcase or her handbag. If there are any items in them that you want examined, let me know.’

  Inside the room, Dr Mortlock was in the act of packing away his thermometers and the other tools of his trade. The body of Sharon Gregory lay spreadeagled on the bed, her sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. She was naked save for a pair of sheer black hold-up stockings. A cream satin robe had been thrown carelessly on the floor near a chair. Beside the chair was a small suitcase on a luggage rack. Scattered about the room, as though they’d been cast aside in a hurry, were a pair of high-heeled shoes, a scarlet thong and what I recognized as a shelf bra. Gail keeps me up to date about these things; in fact, she often wore them herself.

  All of which told me that Sharon had undressed – or had been undressed – hurriedly after her attacker arrived. Everything pointed to her having known him, and it looked very much like an assignation that for some reason had gone fatally wrong.

  ‘You seem to be making a habit of providing me with dead bodies just recently, Harry,’ said Mortlock, by way of a greeting.

  ‘It’s the trade I’m in, Henry. What can you tell me?’

  ‘Manual strangulation. By the look of it, I’d say that her killer used both hands. Someone with a pretty powerful grip, I’d think. I might be able to tell you more when I carve her up, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Any idea of the time of death?’ I asked.

  ‘A bit tricky given the weather, the open windows and the air conditioning, Harry, but I’d hazard a guess at sometime after six o’clock last night. I can’t pin it down any nearer than that. I might know a bit more when I’ve analysed her stomach contents.’

  ‘Have you finished with the body, Henry?’

  ‘Yes. You can shift it to the mortuary as soon as you like.’

  The laboratory liaison officer had been waiting in the wings. His job was to preserve continuity of evidence by taking charge of the mortal remains of Sharon Gregory and making the necessary phone calls. It was an i
mportant function; the last thing we wanted was some smart-arse barrister suggesting that the cadaver Henry had carved up at the mortuary was not the one found in room 219 of the Dickin Hotel. It had been known in the past for prosecutions to founder on minor technicalities, such as a detective omitting to put a signature on the right form at the right time, thus breaking the chain of evidence.

  I opened the suitcase. It contained, among other necessaries, two summer dresses, a linen trouser suit, changes of sensible underwear, spare tights, a somewhat risqué bikini, and a make-up bag. There was also a small leather bag containing a variety of perfumes. It looked as though she’d intended staying away from West Drayton for some time. One thing was for sure: she’d never be going back there now.

  Sharon’s handbag was on a bedside table. It was a black satchel bag from Aspinal of London, and I knew from my occasional enforced shopping trips with Gail that it retailed for not much less than £500. Inside, apart from what one would expect to find in a woman’s handbag, I found a small wallet containing credit cards, one of which was in the name of Clifford Gregory. According to the partial number on the receipts, that card had been used at a retail outlet and a restaurant at the Chimes Shopping Centre, Uxbridge. There was also a paper napkin bearing a mobile telephone number.

  ‘Give the credit cards and the receipts to Charlie Flynn, Dave. He might be able to tell us if there’s anything interesting on the various accounts. And check out the number on this napkin.’

  ‘There’s this mobile on the bedside cabinet, guv.’ Dave picked up the phone with latex-gloved hands and scrolled through to the record of sent messages. ‘There’s nothing on it,’ he said. ‘I suspect it’s a pay-as-you-go throwaway job.’

  ‘Is there anything to say whether it’s Sharon’s?’ I asked. ‘There is a receipt dated yesterday in her handbag for a mobile purchased in Uxbridge. Oddly enough it was a cash purchase, but she paid for the other items with a card.’

  ‘Looks as though she didn’t want it to be traced,’ said Dave. ‘I’ll check it out, but I doubt I’ll be able to confirm it. It’s probably one that she used to arrange a meeting with her lover and wiped clean after she made the call. Either that or it hasn’t been used at all.’