Reckless Endangerment--A Brock and Poole Police Procedural

by Graham Ison

  The study on the ground floor was clearly where Clifford Gregory had worked. A state-of-the-art computer was on the workstation, along with all manner of hi-tech equipment – far more than seemed necessary for an accountant. A small filing cabinet stood next to it, but it appeared that Gregory had tried to keep paper to a minimum in his office. I don’t think our dear commander would have taken to him at all. It was mildly interesting that there were at least twenty model aeroplanes suspended from the ceiling, most of which were warplanes of the two world wars. I certainly spotted a Sopwith Camel and a German Fokker dreidecker among them.

  ‘Looks like Clifford Gregory’s into making model aircraft,’ said Dave, stating the obvious. ‘A bit of an anorak as well as a computer nerd, if that equipment of his is anything to go by.’

  We finished touring the house, but learned little more that was likely to be of use to our investigation.

  ‘It seems very strange that this intruder took the place apart, Dave,’ I said once again, ‘but apparently only took the jewellery. And then left it in the garage.’

  ‘Left it in the garage?’ queried Dave, who had not been a party to my earlier conversation with Linda.

  ‘Yes, Linda found it on a shelf behind some paint pots, along with a window sash weight and a clothes line. But she reckons the tomfoolery is worthless. I’ve a feeling there’s something not quite right with all this. And Sharon seemed perfectly in control of herself when she was telling the tale, but it didn’t hang together somehow. I’m beginning to wonder if it was just that: a tale that she made up as she went along.’

  ‘I think Miss Ebdon’s right, guv,’ said Dave. ‘There’s certainly more to this whole business than meets the eye. I reckon he took the jewellery and hid it along with the sash weight and the clothes line rather than run the risk of being stopped by police in the middle of the night with a bloodstained sash weight in his possession. That’d take a bit of explaining. And all of that points to the primary motive being murder, not burglary.’

  ‘I think you’re right, Dave. She knew the accomplice. When we get back to the office, see if you can track down the security officer for the airline Sharon Gregory works for. He’s bound to be ex-Job, and he might be able to tell us something. I’d be particularly interested to know if he’s heard anything about her having any admirers.’

  ‘A racing certainty, I should think,’ said Dave. ‘Sexy young bird like that married to a fat anorak.’

  Having decided that we’d done all we could for the time being, I rounded up the rest of the team and we headed back to the factory, as CID officers are wont to call their office.

  It was almost half past nine on that same Sunday morning by the time we got back to Empress State Building. Two months ago, for some reason best known only to the hierarchy of the Metropolitan Police, but probably as a result of budget cuts, it had been decided to move our offices from Curtis Green in Whitehall, which was now rumoured to become the fourth Scotland Yard. Over a period of two days of glorious mayhem we had been shifted to an inaccessible monolithic abomination in Lillie Road, Earls Court. The only person to be pleased was the commander, who had acquired a larger office, and with it a second filing cabinet.

  Detective Sergeant Colin Wilberforce, the incident room manager, had already arrived, early as usual, in order to relieve Gavin Creasey, the night-duty man. Always immaculately attired, Wilberforce was an administrative master with an encyclopaedic knowledge of the particular enquiry on which we were engaged. He had been completely unfazed by the move from Whitehall, and his little empire had been fully operational within an hour of our arrival in Earls Court. His desk was a classic example of orderliness and I had only to ask him for a particular statement or report and it was on my desk within minutes.

  ‘I’m set up and ready to go on this Gregory enquiry, sir. But do you think we’re likely to need HOLMES?’ Wilberforce looked up enquiringly.

  ‘Not at the moment, Colin, but we’ll have to wait and see how this one pans out,’ I said. HOLMES, the Home Office Large Major Enquiry System, was installed whenever the police were faced with an investigation that was likely to be complicated and wide-ranging. Its value lay in those cases where we were dealing with a suspected serial killer who might have committed several murders spread over more than one police force area. ‘Although this particular job is unusual, I doubt that we’re dealing with a mass murderer. Nevertheless, I’m keeping my options open.’

  While this conversation had been going on, the other members of my team had been standing around awaiting further instructions. For those of them who had not been at the Gregorys’ house in West Drayton, or privy to the finer points of what we knew so far, I briefed them on the situation.

  ‘Sergeant Poole is already tracking down the security officer of the airline Mrs Gregory worked for,’ I continued, ‘and I want the usual house-to-house enquiries made in the vain hope that someone might have seen something or heard something. It might also be useful to discover if any of them knew the Gregorys. If they did, ask what sort of people they were. Did they have fights, hold parties, or did they keep themselves to themselves? Speak to the local nick in case police have ever been called to a domestic, or another break-in. See if you can find out if Sharon Gregory had a reputation for putting herself about or if they had ever seen a man, other than Clifford Gregory, calling at the house at any time. There must’ve been people in the street at that time of a Saturday evening, especially as there’s a pub nearby, and particularly as it was a hot night. Perhaps you’d oversee that, Len. You know the sort of thing we’re interested in.’ Detective Inspector Len Driscoll was one of the three inspectors on my team.

  ‘Right, guv,’ said Driscoll, making a few notes on a clipboard.

  ‘This afternoon, Dave Poole and I will interview Sidney Miller, the neighbour who found Mrs Gregory all trussed up like a chicken – after we’ve paid Doctor Mortlock a visit at his carvery.’

  ‘There’s more to this death than was at first apparent at the scene, Harry,’ said Dr Henry Mortlock, when we arrived at the mortuary at two o’clock that same day. A day that was proving to be far too long and was not yet over.

  ‘This job’s turning out to be full of surprises, Henry,’ I said. ‘And I suppose you’ve got another one for me.’

  ‘You could say that.’ Chuckling ominously, Mortlock led Dave and me across the white-walled room to where Clifford Gregory’s naked body had been laid out on a stainless steel table. ‘There are two superficial wounds to the skull, here and here,’ he said, pointing with a pair of forceps. ‘And although they were enough to have stunned him and produce a lot of blood that must’ve splashed on the killer, they weren’t sufficient to have killed him. I would surmise that the blows were struck by a woman rather than a man. But I’m really only guessing.’

  ‘So what did kill him, Henry?’

  ‘Asphyxia.’

  ‘Was he strangled?’ I asked.

  ‘No. The most likely method was suffocation. When I examined the body in situ, I noticed that although he was lying with his head on a bloodstained pillow, there was another one on the floor. That pillow had bloodstains on the underside, which probably means it was moved after the blows to the head were made. It might be as well if you got the scientific people to examine all the pillows in the room. Traces of saliva or mucus might be found on one of them. But whether such traces are found or not, there’s no doubt in my mind that Gregory was suffocated, not bludgeoned to death. And there’s one other thing that may interest you, Harry,’ said Mortlock, peering at me over his rimless spectacles. ‘Clifford Gregory had had a vasectomy.’

  ‘Fascinating, but probably irrelevant,’ I said. ‘Incidentally, his wife said that he was drunk. She complained that he had a drink problem.’

  ‘I doubt that somehow. His liver and other organs showed no signs of his having been a heavy drinker. And I found no trace of alcohol in his stomach, although there were traces of recently ingested cocoa. As I said at the time, there was
a strong smell of alcohol surrounding the body, almost as if it had been sprinkled over him post-mortem.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘When we examined the master bedroom there was no sign of a cup or a mug. And there were no washed-up cups or mugs on the draining board in the kitchen. And no dirty Scotch glasses either.’

  ‘That’s your problem rather than mine, Harry,’ said Mortlock. ‘However …’ He paused and beamed, rather like a stage magician about to pull off an astonishing trick. ‘I examined a sample of the victim’s hair and it showed traces of the drug Rohypnol.’

  ‘What, the date-rape drug?’ I said.

  ‘The very same,’ said Mortlock. ‘But in this case it was used to sedate the victim, thus making him defenceless against attack. And before you ask, Harry, Rohypnol’s easily obtainable on the Internet if you know where to look.’

  ‘It looks as though Mrs Gregory’s story is beginning to unravel,’ said Dave.

  He was right. It was now becoming clear that Sharon’s account of what had occurred had an increasing number of inconsistencies. I determined that she would be interviewed again, preferably at a police station, when I hoped she could be persuaded to reveal the name of her accomplice, because I was bloody sure there was one. But first, it was necessary to get Sidney Miller’s detailed account of what had occurred.

  FIVE

  That afternoon, we drove back to West Drayton. This year’s model of a Lexus IS was parked on Sidney Miller’s drive, and Dave stopped briefly to admire it.

  ‘This guy’s not in the Job, that’s for sure,’ said Dave, running a hand over the bonnet of the car.

  ‘Stop drooling, Dave,’ I said as I rang the bell.

  ‘Ah, I’ve been expecting you. You’re the coppers dealing with Cliff’s murder, aren’t you?’ said Miller, as he opened the door. He was a stocky, cheerful man, probably in his forties.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I met Sergeant Poole in the wee small hours. This is a dreadful business. You don’t expect your next-door neighbour to be killed like that. Car accidents I can understand, but not murder. Of course, you hear about murders all the time these days, but you never think of them happening next door. It really turned my stomach seeing poor old Cliff lying there all covered in blood. God knows how it must’ve affected Sharon. Is she all right?’

  ‘She seems to be holding up,’ I said. In fact I thought she was holding up all too well.

  ‘Come on in.’ Miller led us into a large, pleasantly furnished sitting room with a couple of sofas, two or three armchairs, a long coffee table, an iPod player and a 40-inch television set. Dave looked around and nodded enviously.

  ‘Make yourselves comfortable,’ said Miller. ‘I was just about to have some tea. D’you fancy some?’

  ‘Thank you, yes,’ I said. ‘I hope we haven’t kept you from your work, Mr Miller.’

  ‘Kept me from my work?’ Miller shot me a puzzled look and then chuckled. ‘I’m a plumber, guv’nor, but I don’t work on Sundays. Unlike you blokes.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said with a laugh. ‘I’d quite forgotten that it was still Sunday.’

  ‘I suppose it happens in your job,’ said Miller. ‘Hang on, and I’ll get the missus to organize the tea.’

  ‘A plumber!’ exclaimed Dave, after Miller had left the room. ‘I knew I’d made a wrong career choice, guv. I’d never be able to afford a car like his.’

  ‘Didn’t you notice it last night?’

  ‘It was dark, sir.’ Dave always called me ‘sir’ when I’d posed a fatuous question.

  ‘Right, the tea will be here soon.’ Miller returned, rubbing his hands together, and took a seat opposite us. ‘Now then, gents, what d’you want to know?’

  ‘Perhaps you could run through exactly what happened last night, Mr Miller. Right from when you heard the screaming that attracted your attention. Sergeant Poole will take down what you say in the form of a written statement, and then I’ll ask you to sign it.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. It must’ve been about a quarter to midnight. The missus had already gone to bed, but I’d stayed up late to watch some crap on the TV. I don’t know why I bothered really. There’s never anything worth watching these days, and it’s mostly repeats. Anyway, I’d just turned off the telly and was about to shut the downstairs windows before going up to bed when I heard this screaming. It was really loud, but not the sort of screams you hear when a group of drunken tarts are making their way home after a night of binge drinking, if you know what I mean. And we get quite a lot of that, our road being a short cut from the nearest pub to a council estate.’

  ‘Mrs Gregory told us about the pub,’ I said.

  ‘Well, at first that’s what I thought it was, and so I—’

  ‘Could you go a bit slower, Mr Miller,’ said Dave, looking up from the statement form on which he was writing. ‘I’m having a job keeping up with you.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, yes. I forgot you chaps have to write everything down, even though Mr Brock just told me. As a matter of fact, I thought about joining your lot when I left school, but all that paperwork would do my head in. So I got an apprenticeship with a plumber. Best decision I ever made. And it pays better.’

  ‘All right, Mr Miller, carry on,’ said Dave. ‘I’ve caught up with you now.’

  ‘OK. So I went outside to see what it was all about, and realized straight away that it was coming from Cliff and Sharon’s house. Their front door was open; well, not so much open as slightly ajar really. I went in and there was poor Sharon lying on the floor all tied up.’

  At that point we were interrupted by the arrival of a well-endowed faux blonde bearing a tray of tea. She appeared to be quite a bit younger than her husband and I put her age at about thirty. Even so, the skirt she was wearing was too short and a bit too tight to suit her figure, and her make-up was definitely over the top; there was certainly an excessive amount of green eye shadow.

  ‘Oh, this is the wife,’ said Miller. ‘These gents are from Scotland Yard dealing with poor Cliff’s murder, doll.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ said Miller’s wife, seemingly unimpressed by our arrival or the reason for our being there. ‘I’ll leave you to do the honours, Sid.’ She put the tray on a coffee table. ‘Unless you want to ask me something about it,’ she said, smiling at me.

  ‘Do you know anything about what happened, Mrs Miller?’ I asked.

  ‘No, dear, I must’ve slept right through it all. I’m such a heavy sleeper that Sid always has a job waking me up in the morning. But it was the police sirens and all the noise outside that eventually brought me to life. I never knew nothing about it till Sid got back and told me what’d happened. Terrible, isn’t it?’ Miller’s wife glanced at me and turned towards the door.

  ‘Thanks, doll,’ said Miller to his wife’s departing back. ‘Now then, gents, what’s next?’ he asked, as he poured the tea and handed it round.

  ‘How exactly was Mrs Gregory tied up?’ asked Dave.

  ‘Now, let me see.’ Miller took out a packet of cigarettes and offered it to Dave and me.

  ‘No thanks, Mr Miller.’ I’d been trying to give up for ages and managed to resist this latest temptation. Even my old schoolmaster’s story of his brother’s untimely death as a result of smoking-induced lung cancer had failed to have the required effect. But at least I wasn’t smoking as many as I used to. I suppose that’s progress of a sort.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Dave, accepting a cigarette. He’d given up giving up. ‘You were about to tell us how Mrs Gregory was tied up.’

  ‘Oh yes. She was lying on her side and her hands were tied behind her, round her wrists, and there was another piece of rope tying her ankles together.’

  ‘How tightly was the rope tied, Mr Miller?’ I asked, bearing in mind what Kate Ebdon had said about the lack of rope burns.

  ‘Now that you mention it, not very tight,’ said Miller thoughtfully. �
��Not that I realized it at the time. The rope round her ankles was reasonably tight, but the rope round her wrists was not really tied at all. Sort of loose, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘What exactly do you mean?’ asked Dave.

  ‘It was more like two loops that had been tied beforehand and slipped over her hands and on to her wrists. I was able to slide them off quite easily; I didn’t have to undo the knots.’

  ‘Are you quite sure about that, Mr Miller?’ I asked. When we had examined the ropes, they had all been untied. If what Miller said was true, Mrs Gregory must’ve untied the wrist ropes between Miller finding her and our arrival on the scene. I made a mental note to ask Tom Watson about it.

  ‘Positive,’ said Miller.

  ‘And what about the gag?’ I asked. ‘She told us that she’d managed to dislodge it, and that’s when she’d started screaming.’

  ‘I s’pose that’s right. There was a bit of cloth on the floor near her head, so that’s what must’ve happened. It looked like a piece of a tea towel.’

  ‘What did she say after you’d freed her?’ asked Dave.

  ‘She wasn’t making much sense, but she muttered something about a man breaking in and tying her up. She told me the man had gone, but I had a quick look round to make sure she was right.’

  ‘And I presume he had?’

  ‘Long since, I should think,’ said Miller, ‘but he hadn’t half made a mess of the place.’

  ‘And you’re quite sure that she said the man had already left?’ said Dave.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Changing the subject,’ I said, ‘what sort of couple were the Gregorys?’

  ‘Normal, I s’pose,’ said Miller. ‘Kept themselves to themselves, if you know what I mean. Sharon’s away a lot on account of her being an air hostess, and Cliff’s an accountant, I think. He seems to do most of his work on a computer at home. And he certainly knows his stuff when it comes to computers. He fixed mine once when it went belly-up on me. Plumbers and computers don’t always mix well. You can’t fix a computer with a blowlamp. Give me water and pipes every time.’