by Graham Ison
‘Take a seat.’ Maxine pointed at a sofa. ‘It’s old, but it’s clean and comfortable. I cover it with a red velvet shawl whenever I do the occasional life study.’
‘You’re an artist,’ said Dave, as he and Kate sat down.
‘I can tell you’re a detective.’ Maxine smiled mockingly. ‘Now, what’s this all about?’
‘Sharon Gregory. We found your phone number on her mobile,’ said Kate.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Maxine. ‘We had a relationship for a while, Sharon and I.’
‘Would you care to explain?’
‘May I ask why you’re interested in my relationship with Sharon?’
‘She was murdered last Monday,’ said Dave.
‘Oh my God, how awful!’ Maxine was clearly shocked at the news of Sharon’s murder and sat down heavily in a director’s chair. ‘D’you know who did it?’
‘Not at the moment,’ said Dave, ‘which is why we’re making enquiries of anyone who knew her. When did you last see her?’
‘It must’ve been all of six months ago, I should think,’ said Maxine, ‘and then our affair sort of fizzled out. By unspoken mutual consent, if you know what I mean. Mind you, I know that I wasn’t the only lover in her life, male or female. As a matter of fact, she talked quite openly about her affairs. She’d often tell me about her conquests, as she called them, both here and in the States. I told her she was being too reckless for her own good and that such irresponsible behaviour would get her into trouble one day.’ Her face took on a sad expression. ‘And it looks as though I was right,’ she added, unaware that she was echoing what Jill Gregory had said about her late sister-in-law’s promiscuity.
‘How did you meet Sharon?’ asked Kate.
‘On a flight to Miami. I’d treated myself to a rare holiday. I thought that to have a look at America would be a change from my usual jaunts to Europe.’
‘When was this?’ asked Dave.
‘About a year ago, I suppose, maybe eighteen months. It was a night flight, but I can never sleep on an aeroplane, so I went up to the first-class lounge for a few drinks. There was no one else there and Sharon was on duty, and we got talking. I could see straightaway that she had a good figure and a vibrant personality, and my artist’s eye told me that she’d make a good nude study. I do the occasional life painting, although landscapes and seascapes are my usual métier.’
‘And did she pose for you?’ enquired Kate.
‘Yes, she did, but only once.’
‘Why was that?’
‘I’m afraid the sight of a naked Sharon was just too much of a distraction for me, and the next time she came we finished up in the bedroom for a couple of passionate hours.’ Maxine smiled, but displayed no sign of embarrassment at her admission. She crossed to the pile of canvases, sorted through them and selected one that depicted an unclothed Sharon reclining elegantly on the very couch Kate and Dave were occupying. It was unfinished.
‘Was that the last time you saw her?’
‘No, she came to the studio quite a few times after that, but not to pose. At least, not for a painting.’ Maxine smiled at the recollection. ‘She even turned up uninvited on one occasion when my boyfriend was here. That was a fun few hours, I can tell you.’
‘Did she ever mention any of her male friends by name?’ asked Kate.
‘No, and I didn’t ask. But I think she was too discreet to name names. Oh, what a loss. We had some good times together.’
‘Did you know that she was married?’ asked Dave.
‘No, I didn’t. What does it matter, anyway?’
‘When you said that your boyfriend was here on one occasion, Miss Riley …’ began Kate.
‘Please call me Max, Inspector. In fact, Jonno – his name’s actually Jonathan – was here more than once.’
‘And did Sharon meet him here more than once?’
‘Yes, several times. I think Jonno took quite a shine to her. She certainly did to him. I could see there was chemistry between the two.’
‘Didn’t that worry you?’ asked Kate, seeking a motive for murder.
‘Why should it? We were all free spirits and I haven’t got a jealous bone in my body.’
‘Do you think she and Jonathan were ever alone, away from here perhaps?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose. As I said, it wouldn’t have bothered me. Neither of us was married – Jonno and I – and we enjoyed a fairly free lifestyle. And I wouldn’t have blamed him for having sex with Sharon; as I said, she was a very passionate woman.’
‘Are you still seeing this boyfriend?’ asked Dave.
‘He was killed in a car accident three months ago.’ Maxine grabbed a tissue from the box on the table and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I still miss him. He was a good artist, painted portraits mainly. It seems that everyone in my life is getting killed.’
‘I apologize for having to ask this, Max, but where were you last Monday?’ asked Kate, conscious of the fact that evidence of another woman’s involvement had been found at the scene of Sharon’s murder.
‘I suppose that’s what you police persons call a routine enquiry,’ said Maxine, quickly recovering her composure and smiling. ‘Actually I was in Southampton. I spent all that day and the following painting the Queen Mary 2. Not painting the ship itself,’ she added, with a laugh, ‘painting a depiction of it.’ She crossed to the easel and whipped off the cloth to reveal an almost finished study of Cunard’s flagship cruise liner. ‘I stayed at the Hilton Hotel in Southampton that night and the night after, and came home on Wednesday. I can finish the rest of the painting here.’
‘I understand that you don’t own a car, Max,’ said Dave.
‘My word, you have been doing your homework. I used to own a vintage MG, but it got stolen about six months ago. The police told me that it was probably well on its way to Eastern Europe before I’d even noticed it gone. I haven’t bothered to get another; it doesn’t seem worth it. I hire a car if I need one, but most of the time I take taxis. As a matter of fact, it’s worked out cheaper in the long run.’
‘Thank you, Max,’ said Kate. ‘I don’t think we need to trouble you further.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t like to sit for me, Inspector, would you?’ asked Maxine, appraising Kate’s figure with an artist’s eye.
‘No thanks,’ said Kate. ‘I don’t think that would be a very good idea.’
‘No, I didn’t think you would, Inspector. I should think you’re all hetero.’ Nevertheless, there was an element of regret in Maxine’s reply. ‘I’ll show you out.’
‘I reckon you had a lucky escape there, guv,’ said Dave, as they drove away from Maxine Riley’s apartment.
‘So do I, Dave,’ said Kate. ‘But I wonder what Max’s boyfriend was like,’ she said, almost to herself.
Kate and Dave got back to the office at about half past six.
‘How did you get on?’ I asked.
‘Frank Digby’s a bit sussy, guv,’ said Kate, ‘but Dave got his DNA. Voluntarily. Well, with a little gentle persuasion.’
‘And Max Riley turned out to be Maxine Riley, a bisexual artist,’ said Dave. ‘Miss Ebdon had to do a bit of verbal tap-dancing when she was propositioned.’
‘Like hell I did,’ said Kate. ‘She didn’t stand a chance – but I notice she didn’t ask you to pose, Dave.’
‘No, a pity that,’ said Dave, a dreamy look in his eye.
‘You say that this Max Riley is bisexual, Kate. D’you think that—’
‘No,’ said Kate firmly. ‘She has an alibi for the night of Sharon’s murder – it’ll have to be checked out, of course, but she seemed genuinely shocked when I told her that Sharon had been murdered.’
I took the opportunity to brief Kate and Dave about the visit of DI Ken Sullivan.
‘Blimey!’ said Dave. ‘If that’s true we’ve been looking in the wrong direction.’
‘I don’t think so, Dave,’ said Kate. ‘I’m convinced that Sharon Gre
gory’s murder is down to one of her lovers.’
‘So am I,’ I said. ‘But there’s one other thing we’ve got to do, Dave. Get on to Richie at Sharon’s airline and find out where her friend Cindy Patterson lives and when she’s likely to be there. I think it’s time we had a word with her. She might have something useful to tell us. In the meantime, I think we’ll have a word with Lance Kramer. I just hope he’s not out painting the town red.’
The Holiday Inn, Regents Park, was in Carburton Street off Great Portland Street.
‘We’re police officers, miss,’ I said to the receptionist. ‘I understand that you have a Mr Lance Kramer staying here.’
The receptionist turned to her computer and keyed in the name. ‘He’s in room 314,’ she said.
‘Is he in the hotel now?’
‘As far as I can tell. I can call him for you if you like.’
‘No thanks, we’d like to surprise him,’ said Dave.
‘Take the lift to the third floor,’ said the receptionist helpfully.
‘I’d more or less worked that out,’ said Dave.
We made our way to Kramer’s room and knocked.
‘Mr Kramer?’
‘Yep, in person.’ The man who answered the door of room 314 was not very tall, probably the same height as Sharon had been: about five foot seven. He was clearly a devotee of permatan; probably an ‘all-over’ guy. He was wearing a half-open orange shirt and light-coloured slacks. A gold medallion was around his neck, nestling in his hairy chest, and an ostentatiously chunky gold watch adorned his right wrist. Possibly left-handed, I thought. Not that that meant anything; Mortlock had said that Sharon’s killer had used both hands. Apart from which, I’d often noticed that ‘arty’ people, particularly actors, were left-handed.
‘We’re police officers, Mr Kramer. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock, and this is Detective Sergeant Poole.’
‘Come right on in, gentlemen, have yourselves a seat and tell me how I may help you.’ Kramer perched on the edge of the bed, his face expressing curiosity.
I decided to get straight to the point.
‘How often did you sleep with Sharon Gregory, Mr Kramer?’
‘Jesus! You London cops don’t go in for the small talk, do you?’
‘We found your number on her cellphone,’ I said, using the American term for a mobile, not wanting Kramer to be under any illusion as to what we were talking about. ‘To start with, can you account for your movements on the evening of Monday the twenty-ninth of July?’
‘If it’s not a rude question, Detective, why are you interested in what I was doing last Monday evening?’ Kramer sat forward, hands linked loosely between his knees, perfectly relaxed.
‘Because we’re investigating her murder, Mr Kramer.’
‘You’re joking, right?’ Kramer smiled.
‘It’s not our custom to make jokes about murder, Mr Kramer,’ said Dave, speaking for the first time. His educated English accent seemed to surprise the man.
‘No, I guess not. Sorry,’ said Kramer. ‘Sharon Gregory. Yes, I met her on a flight, maybe a year back. I’d been here in London and was on my way home to Miami Beach. That’s where I live,’ he added. ‘But, hell, man, I don’t sleep around. I’ve got me the cutest little wife and two adorable kids back in Miami. Why would I want to risk that?’ He leaned across for his wallet and promptly produced a photograph of his family to back up his story.
‘Have you any idea why she should have had your cellphone number?’ asked Dave.
‘Sure. We got to talking and she asked me if I’d been in London on vacation. I told her I was a designer of theatre sets, and she said that she loved the theatre. I gave her my cellphone number and told her any time she wanted to go to a theatre in Miami she was to call me. I get plenty of free tickets and I said she’d be welcome to have a couple for herself and a friend. That’s all there was to it. She never did call me, though. But now you tell me she was murdered. Any idea who did it?’
‘No, Mr Kramer,’ I said. ‘That’s why we’re talking to you.’
‘Well, sure as hell, I had nothing to do with it. As a matter of fact, I was having dinner at your Savoy Hotel that night, with some guys from the production I’m working on. If you want, I can give you their names.’
‘That would be helpful,’ I said. ‘You see, I’ve got this boss who insists on me covering all the bases.’
‘Yeah, I get your drift, Detective. I worked on a TV cop show once, and the police adviser – a guy from the LAPD – told me that those shows are nothing like the real thing.’ Kramer took one of the hotel’s complimentary notepads from the bedside cabinet and scribbled three names on it together with their office addresses. I noticed that he wrote with his left hand. ‘There y’go,’ he said, tearing off the sheet and handing it to me. ‘I hope you catch the guy. She was a sweet kid, but not my type.’
‘And now I think we’ll call it a day, Dave,’ I said, as we left the Holiday Inn. ‘See you Monday, and we’ll sit down and rethink our strategy.’
‘What strategy, sir?’ asked Dave.
It was ten past nine that evening by the time I opened the door of my flat in Surbiton. I was looking forward to a shower and a whisky, but didn’t fancy cooking anything for myself. I was no good at cooking anyway, the cooker and I being natural enemies. And, as Mrs Gurney had pointed out, the microwave had broken down. I decided that I would send out for a Chinese, and then I’d go to bed.
But all my plans were set at nought when I shut the front door.
‘I’m in the kitchen, darling.’ And there was Gail in a red tee-shirt, white slacks and an apron. She turned and gave me a kiss. ‘I rang your office, but they told me you’d left for home, so I decided to come round and get supper for you. I knew your fridge and freezer would be empty,’ she said, making a sour face, ‘so I brought a few things in with me. And you haven’t got a wok!’ She pointed a spatula at me and made the accusation sound as though I was guilty of serious criminal negligence.
‘Sorry about that,’ I said, with feigned contrition. ‘I’d be no good at using it anyway, even if I had one. I’ll open the champagne. At least I’ve got some of that.’
‘I’d rather have a G-and-T, if you don’t mind,’ said Gail, waving away the idea of bubbly with the spatula.
‘Good,’ I said, ‘because I’m going to have a Scotch.’ I put the champagne back in the fridge.
I don’t know how Gail does it, but the meal was amazing. In no time at all, she had produced chicken breasts coated in flour and lightly fried, boiled rice and stir-fried vegetables that, as she pointedly observed, she had been obliged to cook in a frying pan. Because I hadn’t got a wok! I provided a bottle of Gewürztraminer, one of the few commendable wines that Helga, my ex, had introduced into our sixteen years of marriage. Finally, Gail rounded off the meal by producing a tub of Häagen-Dazs mint and chocolate ice cream. She’s all class, that girl.
‘That was superb, darling,’ I said, sitting back with a satisfied smile. ‘Cognac?’
‘Please.’
As usual Gail stayed the night, and I was hoping that we might spend Sunday lazing around and doing nothing in particular. It was at times like that I tended to forget I was a detective.
At nine-thirty on that Sunday morning, while we were still in bed, the dream was shattered by a phone call. I disentangled myself from Gail and reached for my mobile, which, as ever, was never far away from me.
‘Good morning, guv. It’s Dave.’
‘Don’t tell me, Dave. You’ve arrested our murderer, but you’ve mislaid the phone number of the Crown Prosecution Service.’
Dave laughed. ‘I’d like to mislay the CPS altogether, guv. No, it’s about Cindy Patterson, Sharon Gregory’s crewmate. The incident room got a call from Ted Richie last night to say that the Patterson girl is at home today, but is flying off to Miami early tomorrow morning. She’ll be leaving home very early, like zero-five-hundred. Unless we see her today, we won’t get a chance to speak to her
for another four days.’
‘Give her a ring, Dave, and tell her we’ll be there to see her this afternoon, if she’s free to see us. Where does she live?’
‘Feltham, guv. Richie said that she shares a flat with two other airline girls. I’ll pick you up at about two. Is that all right?’
I sighed. ‘It’ll have to be, I suppose.’
‘Work?’ asked Gail, as I cancelled the call.
‘I’m afraid so,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to see a ravishing air hostess this afternoon.’
‘Oh, have you indeed?’ said Gail apprehensively.
FIFTEEN
The door to Cindy Patterson’s Feltham flat was opened by a plain, leggy girl with straggly shoulder-length chestnut hair. She was casually dressed in a sloppy cream sweater and green leggings.
‘Hi,’ she said with a smile. She shot an appraising glance in Dave’s direction and swept her hair back behind her ears. Why do girls do that?
‘Cindy Patterson?’
‘No, I’m Liz, one of her flatmates.’
‘We’re police officers,’ I said. ‘We’ve arranged to have a word with her.’
‘Sure. Come on in. She is expecting you.’ Liz showed us into a comfortable but cluttered living room. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess,’ she said, rushing around and gathering up magazines and items of female apparel that were spread over the armchairs and sofa. ‘We’re always coming and going at odd hours and never seem to have the time to clear up,’ she added breathlessly, before turning off the TV. ‘I’ll fetch Cindy for you.’
The girl who entered a few moments later was of medium height and her jet-black hair was gathered into an untidy ponytail. She was wearing a full-length cotton skirt and a green polo-necked jumper. ‘Hi! I’m Cindy.’
‘We’d like to talk to you about Sharon Gregory, Miss Patterson,’ I said, and told Cindy who we were and why we were there.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, it’s Cindy, there’s no need to stand on ceremony. And please sit down.’ She seated herself in an armchair and crossed her legs. ‘It was awful, hearing that Sharon had been murdered,’ she said. ‘We’ll miss her terribly. She was great fun to be with.’