Reckless Endangerment--A Brock and Poole Police Procedural

by Graham Ison

  Linda Mitchell, the senior forensic examiner, came into the room as Mortlock departed. ‘Can I start processing this room now, Mr Brock?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all yours, Linda. Will it be all right for us to have a look around downstairs?’

  ‘Yes, the fingerprint and photographic people should’ve finished there by now, but get their OK before you start,’ said Linda. ‘Incidentally, the whole place is a real wreck. God knows what the burglar was looking for, but he made a thorough job of turning the place upside down.’

  When Kate and I reached the sitting room I could see what Linda Mitchell had been talking about. We didn’t touch anything because some of the scenes-of-crime guys were still there.

  ‘It’s all yours, Mr Brock,’ said one of the examiners as he packed up the remainder of his equipment. ‘It’s a right bloody mess. I’ve never seen the likes of it.’

  I was forced to agree. The cabinet beneath where the television set had stood was open and DVDs and CDs had been spread about the floor. The television set itself had been hurled from the cabinet and now lay face down on the carpet. Both occasional tables had been overturned and the lamps that had been on them thrown to the floor. Two uplighters had suffered a similar fate and were lying across the floor, their glass shades shattered.

  The dining room was also a scene of devastation; drawers had been pulled out of the sideboard and left on the floor, and their contents – mainly table linen – scattered over the thick pile carpet. There were pictures on the floor, too, while those that had been left on the walls were askew. In addition, a wine bottle had been emptied on to the carpet. An open, half-full whisky bottle stood on the sideboard. As Mortlock had jokingly suggested, it was a supermarket brand.

  Detective Sergeant Flynn appeared in the doorway of the room and for a moment or two stood surveying the substantial damage.

  ‘Jesus!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s just like a bomb’s hit this place. Looks like a job for the anti-terrorist boys, guv?’ he suggested jocularly.

  ‘It’s one hell of a mess, Charlie.’

  ‘Our intruder certainly had a go at this lot,’ said Flynn, ‘and the upstairs is probably the same.’

  ‘Apart from the second bedroom, I understand. At least that’s where Mrs Gregory is at the moment, so I’m told. I wonder why the burglar left that room undisturbed?’

  ‘I suppose he must’ve found what he was looking for,’ said Flynn.

  ‘It took him long enough,’ I mused aloud. ‘And I wonder what he was after? I’ve never come across a villain who made this much mess. I very much doubt that he was a professional. No, Charlie, there’s more to this screwing than the usual sort of break-in. He must’ve been searching for something specific.’

  ‘Maybe Mrs Gregory can shed some light on it, guv,’ said Kate. ‘It could’ve been something that the Gregorys didn’t want the rest of the world to know about, like a naughty home-made porno DVD or something the intruder could blackmail them with.’

  ‘Slow down, Kate,’ I said, although I thought she might have a point. But it didn’t do to jump to a hasty conclusion before we’d analysed all the evidence. And there was plenty of that about.

  We were joined by Dave Poole.

  ‘What’s this neighbour, Sidney Miller, got to say about all this, Dave?’ I asked.

  ‘He strikes me as being quite a good witness, guv,’ Dave began. ‘He said that at about eleven forty-five, just as he was preparing to go to bed, he heard a woman screaming. Being a hot night, all his windows were open and so, he later discovered, were some in the Gregorys’ house, but only the upstairs ones. He quickly worked out that the screams were coming from the Gregorys’ place. When he got here, he found that the front door was open and Mrs Gregory was lying on the hall floor just inside. He said she was naked and bound with rope around her wrists and ankles. He untied her, and she told Miller that about an hour earlier a man had broken in, grabbed her and then tied her up and gagged her. She then said that the man left, but it took her some considerable time to dislodge the gag from her mouth, and that’s when she started screaming.’

  ‘She said the man left?’

  ‘That’s what Miller said she’d told him, guv.’

  ‘Did you take a written statement, Dave?’

  ‘Not yet. Miller looked about all in, so I told him to go to bed and that someone would call on him later today to get it all down in writing.’

  ‘Any idea what Miller does for a living?’

  ‘I didn’t ask, guv, but I expect he’s something to do with an airline or a hotel. From what he was saying, it seems that a lot of the people who live in this area have jobs in and around Heathrow. In fact, he mentioned that Mrs Gregory is an airline stewardess, long haul, and is away from home more often than she’s here.’

  ‘What do we know about our murder victim?’

  ‘His name’s Clifford Gregory, and Miller thought that he might be an accountant, but he’s not sure,’ Dave said. ‘However, he’s fairly certain he’s not employed by an airline because he works at home most of the time.’

  ‘We’ll see if he’s got anything to add to that when we talk to him later today. In the meantime, I’ll interview Mrs Gregory if she’s sufficiently recovered. In the circumstances, Kate, I think it might be better if you came with me. She’s probably a bit fragile after an experience like this and might be more responsive to a woman officer.’

  ‘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.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’ asked Kate, having included the deceased man’s full name.

  ‘Seven years,’ said Sharon promptly.

  ‘Are you saying that you couldn’t wake up your husband because he was drunk?’ Kate wanted to be absolutely clear on the point.

  ‘I’m afraid so. He often went to bed in that state, I’m sorry to say.’ A few forced tears rolled down Sharon’s face and she reached across to a box of tissues. ‘In the circumstances I had no alternative but to go downstairs myself, but I was a bit scared.’

  ‘What were you wearing, Sharon? You don’t mind if I call you Sharon, do you?’

  ‘Not at all, Inspector. And I wasn’t wearing anything.’

  ‘I see. So, you went downstairs completely naked to find out what this noise was. Is that correct?’ Kate stared at Sharon, clearly wanting to confirm what, in her view, was strange behaviour for any woman. Especially one who had claimed to be ‘a bit scared’.

  ‘I don’t see that there was anything wrong in that.’ Sharon lifted her chin slightly, almost giving the impression of defiance. ‘My husband and I never wear nightclothes, especially in weather like this. It is awfully hot, isn’t it?’ She smiled and fanned herself with her left hand. The hand bore neither an engagement ring nor a wedding ring, not that that meant a great deal these days.

  ‘And you didn’t think to put on a robe?’

  ‘No, why should I? I often walk about with nothing on. Anyway, it’s our house, and I honestly didn’t think the noise was anything serious. It was just something I’d heard. I thought it could even have been something outside because all the windows were open; we get a lot of noise from people going home from the pub. But I had to satisfy myself that everything was all right, otherwise I’d never have got back to sleep again. I’m sure you know how it is.’

  ‘When you say that all the windows were open, did that include the downstairs windows?’ asked Kate, who knew perfectly well that they were closed. At least, they had been when we arrived. And when Miller, the next-door neighbour, had spoken to Dave, he’d said that they were closed when he’d arrived. But Kate knew the value of checking everything a witness said. And then checking it again.

  ‘No, of course not. Everyone living in this area takes part in Neighbourhood Watch. And we’ve been told all about crime prevention by the local home-beat policewoman.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then,’ said Kate quietly, but her sarcasm was apparent to me if not to Sharon Gregory. Kate shared the view of most police officers: that the scheme was pointless and time-wasting. It had actually degenerated into a system of telling people about crimes long after they’d been committed, and that was of no value at all in terms of preventing crime.

  ‘Please carry on, Sharon,’ I said.

  ‘I had a look round downstairs, and when I went into the sitting room there was this man standing there.’

  ‘Did you recognize the man?’

  ‘No, of course not. I’d never set eyes on him before. Anyway, he was wearing a mask. The sight of him terrified me and I screamed. Then he stepped towards me and put his hand over my mouth. He said that if I didn’t be quiet he’d kill me.’

  ‘What sort of mask was it?’

  Sharon spent a few moments thinking about that. ‘It looked as though it was a stocking what he’d pulled over his head,’ she said after a short pause.

  ‘What colour was it?’ I asked. For no particular reason I made a mental note of her grammatical slip. ‘Black, brown?’

  Sharon hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t remember. It was such a shock seeing him there in my house that I felt violated.’ Once more, she cast her eyes down, but then looked up, a coy expression on her face.

  ‘Did this man say anything else, after he’d told you to be quiet?’

  ‘No. I asked him what he wanted and why he was there, but he didn’t say another word.’

  ‘What sort of accent did he have? Was it local, or maybe North Country? Scottish or Welsh perhaps, or even foreign?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t pay too much attention. I was so scared.’

  ‘Can you describe him? What he was wearing, how tall he was, if he was stocky.’

  ‘He was quite tall; about your height, I should think,’ said Sharon, glancing at me. ‘And he was quite slim. He was wearing a black sweater and jeans – genuine Levis, I think – and trainers.’

  ‘D’you remember anything about the trainers?’ asked Kate.

  There was no hesitation before Sharon replied, ‘They were black with light green soles. Oh yes, they were Nikes. They had, like, that tick trademark on the side what they all have.’

  Again Sharon made a syntactic error and that prompted a question.

  ‘Where were you born, Sharon?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m a Home Counties girl.’

  ‘Yes, but where exactly?’

  Sharon paused before replying. ‘Basildon,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s in Essex.’ She spoke reluctantly, as though her birthplace was something of which she should be ashamed.

  ‘What happened next?’ I asked.

  ‘He grabbed hold of me.’

  ‘But hadn’t he already got hold of you?’ Kate paused and waggled her pen in the air. ‘You said that he’d put his hand over your mouth.’

  ‘Yes, but then he held me really tight.’

  ‘How did he do that?’ I asked. ‘Did he take hold of your arms?’ I was beginning to have doubts about this story. I had interviewed many victims of violent crime, and to my experienced ear her account sounded as though it had been carefully rehearsed. It was much more detailed than I would have expected. Then again, shock has some strange effects. Perhaps she was babbling on in a mistaken attempt to be helpful.

  ‘At first, yes. He held me really tight,’ she said again. ‘I was terrified. Then he swung me round and got hold of me by the waist. At least, I think he did, but it all happened so fast. He picked me up – he was very strong – and carried me into the hall, stood me down and then forced me on to the floor. Then he tied me up and stuffed a rag in my mouth. It was
dreadful, Mr Brock. I was frightened to death. I was sure he was going to rape me.’ Sharon looked down demurely as she spoke of her apprehension. ‘Or even attack me with a knife,’ she added, looking up again. ‘It was all quite awful. I was choking a bit and I think I must’ve fainted, but I can’t remember how long I was out.’

  ‘Did he have a knife, then?’ I asked. ‘You said you thought he might attack you with one.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sharon, ‘but don’t people like that usually carry a knife?’

  ‘Is it true that you’re an airline stewardess?’ asked Kate. From the dramatic fashion in which Sharon Gregory was describing the events of the night, it had crossed Kate’s mind that the woman might be an actress.

  ‘Yes, I am. But we’re actually called airline cabin crew. I’m usually on the long haul to Miami out of Heathrow.’

  ‘Getting back to this assault, Sharon, exactly how did this man tie you up?’

  ‘He knelt down and put a knee in my back and forced my arms behind me and then he tied my wrists and ankles together and then he—’

  ‘Hold on. Slow down a minute.’ Kate was recording Sharon’s account on a statement form as fast as she was able to write in an attempt to keep up with the woman’s story.

  ‘Did he bring this rope with him?’ I asked.

  Sharon Gregory appeared to be nonplussed by the question. ‘I suppose he must’ve done,’ she said eventually. ‘I honestly don’t know where it came from.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘The next thing I heard was him crashing around the house as though he was searching for something.’

  ‘Did you see him leave?’

  ‘No, but I think I must’ve fainted again. When I came round I managed to push the gag out of my mouth with my tongue and I started screaming at the top of my voice.’

  ‘Didn’t you think that this intruder might still be in the house and would come back to attack you, or even kill you?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking. Anyway, a few minutes later Sid came in through the front door and untied me.’

  ‘My sergeant has spoken to Mr Miller,’ I said, ‘and Miller claims that you told him that the man had already left. Is that true?’