Reckless Endangerment--A Brock and Poole Police Procedural

by Graham Ison

  ‘We’ve checked with the Simpsons, the couple who run that club, and they seemed to be under the impression that you’d arrived in a Lexus, and that you’d parked on their drive.’

  ‘They must’ve made a mistake. There were quite a few cars there that night and there was no room on the drive. We had to park on the road, some way away.’ Despite providing what must have seemed to her a reasonable explanation, Muriel Reed was suddenly neither as composed nor as disdainful as she had been when we’d first arrived. ‘Ah!’ she said, having come up with another excuse, ‘I realize how the Simpsons’ confusion must’ve arisen. We were there with some friends of ours. They own a Lexus.’ She looked at me, almost imploring me to believe her.

  ‘What are the names of these friends?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not prepared to tell you.’

  ‘You’re not helping your husband, Mrs Reed,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t see how telling you the names of our friends is going to help Julian in any way, Chief Inspector. I refuse to tell you who they were. They might not wish it to be known that they’re swingers. They certainly wouldn’t appreciate being questioned by the police about what is an innocent if unconventional pastime. What would their neighbours think?’

  I heard the front door slam and seconds later Julian Reed burst into the room. He looked at me and then addressed his wife.

  ‘I suppose they’ve told you that they think I murdered Sharon, Muriel.’

  ‘Yes, they have,’ said Muriel. ‘And who exactly is this Sharon?’

  ‘You know bloody well who she is,’ said Reed, shaking his head at his wife’s duplicity. ‘Sharon Gregory’s the stewardess I met on a flight to Miami. But I told you that, and I told you I was going to divorce you and marry her.’ This was an entirely new Julian Reed, one that I’d never before seen standing up to his wife.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, Julian. But did you murder her?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Reed stared at his wife in disbelief before switching his glance to me. ‘She knew all about Sharon,’ he said. ‘I told Muriel everything. She knew where I’d been.’

  Despite what Muriel Reed had said previously – that she rather liked having Julian around – I detected a distinct lack of warmth in the relationship. And I’d noticed that neither Julian nor Muriel ever used terms of endearment when speaking to each other.

  ‘Your wife has just told us that you and she were at a swingers’ party in Dorking the night that Sharon was murdered, Mr Reed,’ I said.

  There was but a moment’s hesitation before Reed clutched at the lifeline that had been extended to him by his wife. ‘Yes, we were.’

  ‘We both enjoy having sex with other people, Chief Inspector,’ said Muriel, clearly relieved that her husband had confirmed her story. ‘It livens up our own sex lives. Julian is always on the lookout for an attractive and willing girl and I simply love getting laid by a younger virile man.’ She lifted her chin as if defying me to criticize her behaviour. ‘I suppose I’m what you might call a cougar.’

  Once again I was surprised at the woman’s willingness to discuss her sex life quite openly with a complete stranger. But I also got the impression that Muriel Reed now found herself in a corner and was trying desperately to find a way out of it.

  ‘I thought you preferred playing tennis, Muriel,’ said Reed sarcastically, continuing to stand up to his wife. He looked at me. ‘She’s got a wicked forearm smash, Chief Inspector.’ He paused before adding what, for him, was an unusually subtle remark. ‘Especially when she’s playing with new balls.’

  ‘I think that’s all for the time being,’ I said. ‘We’ll let ourselves out.’ I decided that Julian Reed would have to be questioned further, but not in the presence of his wife.

  Dave and I hadn’t reached the front door before we heard a monumental screaming match breaking out between Julian and Muriel Reed.

  On the way back to the office, I mulled over the claim by Muriel Reed that she and her husband had been to the Dorking swingers’ party with friends. But despite her candid admission as to what she was doing there, I was intrigued that she refused to tell us who the friends were. She must’ve known that it would be simplicity itself to discover their identity. More to the point, she probably feared that they would not support her story.

  When we arrived at ESB, I asked Dave to come into the office.

  ‘Give the Simpsons a call, Dave, and persuade them to shed some light on the identity of the people who Muriel Reed claims that she and Julian met there on the twenty-ninth of July.’

  ‘Are the Simpsons likely to know the names of these people, guv? I got the impression that anyone could turn up there and use any name they liked.’

  ‘Yes, I realize all that, but they might’ve heard one of the Reeds use their names.’

  Dave did not seem at all enamoured of the idea, and probably wondered whether discovering the Reeds’ friends identity would help our investigation.

  ‘But we’ve got Julian Reed bang to rights, sir.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said pensively, ‘but it’s the only way to break his alibi. I can already hear defence counsel asking if we’d identified these other people, and if not why not. They might’ve been more than just swinging partners; they could be implicated.’

  With a certain element of bad grace, Dave retired to the incident room to make the call.

  Fifteen minutes later he was back.

  ‘You were right, guv,’ he said, somewhat grudgingly. ‘The Reeds weren’t there at all.’

  ‘How did you get that out of them, Dave?’

  ‘I spoke to James Simpson. He wasn’t very forthcoming to start with until I threw in a few threats about conspiracy, perjury and perverting the course of justice. I also explained the penalties that went with them, and hinted that if peers of the realm and MPs could get done for it, he stood no chance.’

  ‘And I presume that had the desired effect, Dave?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Dave laughed. ‘He couldn’t admit fast enough that on reflection he didn’t think that Julian and Muriel Reed were there that night. He said it was a much younger couple who came in the Lexus, and that the man paid by credit card. His name is Adrian Curtis, and Simpson described the woman as being in her early twenties with a good figure and short blonde hair. I got Adrian Curtis’s address from the credit card company and he lives in Effingham, eight miles from Dorking.’

  ‘Did you ask when the Reeds had previously been to Dorking?’ I asked.

  ‘According to Simpson, about a week previously. In fact he said they were regulars, but he’d said that before.’

  ‘Did Simpson explain why he was so confused?’

  ‘After a fashion, guv. He made some lame excuse about people not always giving their real names for fear of embarrassment if it ever got out that they’d been swinging. But it was plain that he was bobbing and weaving, right from the start. I think he’s still terrified he might finish up in court.’

  ‘He’s right, Dave. I think I will have a word with the Surrey Police after all,’ I said. ‘I doubt that the CPS would be interested in doing the Simpsons for conspiracy, but at least the local law can put them out of business.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘Get the car, Dave, we’re going to Effingham.’

  ‘But what for, guv?’

  ‘To interview Adrian Curtis, of course.’

  It was eight o’clock by the time Dave and I arrived at the cottage where Adrian Curtis lived on the outskirts of Effingham in Surrey. A red Lexus was parked outside. Without doubt, and in view of what we now knew, it was the one that the Simpsons had said was parked at their Dorking house on the night of Sharon Gregory’s murder.

  ‘Adrian Curtis?’ I asked, when a young man, attired in jeans and a rugby shirt, answered the door.

  ‘Yes?’ Curtis gazed at us apprehensively, but maybe that was because I was accompanied by a tall, well-built black man of menacing appearance.

  ‘We’re police officers, Mr Curtis, and we’
d like a word with you. May we come in?’ In no mood for prevarication, I took a step towards him.

  ‘What’s this about?’ Curtis continued to display nerves as he showed us into his sitting room. ‘This is my girlfriend, Donna Webb,’ he said, indicating a young blonde seated in an armchair. A plain-looking girl, dressed in shorts and a crop top, was watching a wildlife programme on television, but grabbed the remote and switched it off as we entered.

  ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Brock of New Scotland Yard and this is Detective Sergeant Poole. I have it on good information, Mr Curtis, that you and Miss Webb attended a swingers’ party in Dorking on the night of Monday the twenty-ninth of July. I’ve also been told that you were there with friends of yours, a Mr and Mrs Reed.’

  ‘Donna and I were certainly there, but Julian and Muriel weren’t, not that night,’ said Curtis. ‘Anyway, what’s this about? It’s not a crime to go to a party of that sort, is it?’ His question wasn’t so much a protest as a concerned enquiry. Perhaps he thought he was about to be prosecuted for it.

  ‘No, not at all,’ I said. ‘What you do in your private lives is none of our business. Except when it involves murder.’

  ‘Murder?’ Curtis stared at me open-mouthed. ‘What murder? I don’t know anything about a murder. Are you sure it’s me you want to speak to?’

  ‘Julian Reed has been arrested on suspicion of murdering a woman named Sharon Gregory at a hotel near Heathrow Airport on the night you were at this swingers’ party in Dorking.’ I glanced briefly at Donna Webb, whose face bore a similar expression of shock.

  ‘Julian? Murder?’ exclaimed Curtis. ‘I don’t know anyone called Sharon. I think there’s been some sort of mix-up here. Surely Julian didn’t murder anyone.’

  ‘What sort of mix-up would that be, Mr Curtis?’ asked Dave.

  ‘We were supposed to meet the Reeds at Dorking that night, but they never showed up.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d better explain,’ said Dave.

  But it was Donna Webb who explained. ‘We’ve often “swapped” with the Reeds: Adrian and Muriel, and Julian and me. And we’ve been to Dorking with them on quite a few occasions. On the night you mentioned, Muriel rang and said they were going to the Simpsons’ place and they’d like to meet us there. Well, we always enjoyed a bit of fun with those two, so we jumped into the car and off we went. But, as Adrian said, the Reeds didn’t show up.’

  Even though Muriel Reed must’ve been at least ten years older than Adrian Curtis, I could quite see that he would have found her attractive enough to want to have a sexual encounter with her; she was certainly possessed of a compelling ice-cold allure and had admitted having an appetite for younger men. But I found it difficult to envisage the apparently gormless Julian Reed appealing to Donna, given that he must’ve been at least fifteen years older than she was.

  ‘Are you absolutely certain that the Reeds were not there? This is vitally important, Mr Curtis.’

  ‘I’m adamant,’ said Curtis. ‘The four of us had been there often, and when Donna and I arrived that evening, I asked Jimmy if the Reeds had arrived yet, but he said they hadn’t.’

  ‘You say that Muriel telephoned you that evening, Miss Webb,’ said Dave. ‘At what time?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I was having a bath and Adrian took the call. What time was it, darling?’ Donna glanced at Curtis.

  ‘It was certainly after five o’clock,’ said Curtis. ‘Perhaps quarter past, even half past. But to tell you the truth, I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Did this happen often, that they’d ring you at a moment’s notice and suggest a meeting at Dorking?’ I asked, and noted that Dave had begun writing in his pocketbook.

  ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, that was the way we usually fixed our get-togethers,’ said Donna. ‘All four of us liked the idea of a spur-of-the-moment arrangement like that; it added to the excitement. Spiced it up, if you know what I mean.’

  Actually, I didn’t know what she meant, but I invited her to continue.

  ‘Sometimes they’d suggest coming here or they’d ask us to their place in Chelsea,’ said Donna. ‘Sometimes they’d just arrive and we’d indulge our fantasies here, or they’d give us a lift to Dorking. We’ve been there quite often. Sometimes we dress up to act out a game, but it’s all innocent fun. The Simpsons sometimes join in, too.’

  Donna Webb appeared to be quite uninhibited as she described the arrangements that she and Curtis had made for their orgies with the Reeds. But that aside, I thought that Adrian Curtis and Donna Webb were too honest to have been part of a complex plot whereby they’d been used by the Reeds to cover up the murder of Sharon Gregory. And I had to be satisfied with their account of what had happened on that night.

  On Wednesday morning, Linda Mitchell reported the result of the forensic science laboratory’s tests on the DNA sample taken from Julian Reed.

  ‘Julian Reed is definitely the father of Sharon’s unborn child, Mr Brock, and the hairs found on the pillow and elsewhere on the bed at the Dickin Hotel also match his DNA. But there were several other hairs present on the bed that are neither Reed’s nor Sharon’s. And of course, the vaginal fluids.’

  ‘Any result on fingerprints, Linda?’ I asked.

  ‘The fingerprints don’t help much,’ said Linda. ‘There is, however, a set on the mobile phone that Dave found in the hotel room, but they’re not Sharon’s.’ She paused. ‘They’re Julian Reed’s.’

  ‘Forgetting the phones for a moment,’ I said, ‘I reckon the DNA clinches it. In my book it confirms that Julian Reed’s the killer and was in such a hurry to leave that he picked up the wrong phone.’

  ‘In addition to the phone, we found some other prints in the hotel room that match the set that were taken from Reed yesterday,’ continued Linda, ‘but there were a hell of a lot more that we couldn’t identify, including a set on the mobile phone found in Reed’s car. But it’s no surprise that Sharon’s prints are on it.’

  ‘It looks as though I was right,’ I said. ‘In his hurry to get the hell out of there, Reed picked up Sharon’s phone by mistake and left his own. Which just goes to show that a killer can usually be relied upon to make a mistake.’

  ‘There was one other set found in the room that might interest you, Mr Brock.’ Linda shuffled through her sheaf of papers and handed me a criminal record printout. ‘They go out to a Paul Matthews with an address in Sheffield. He’s got a previous conviction for false accounting and theft. He was a bank clerk and stole funds from the account of one of the bank’s customers. He got three years.’

  ‘I told you they didn’t clean those hotel rooms properly,’ commented Dave.

  ‘This Matthews doesn’t sound like a murderer,’ I said, ‘but ask Sheffield Police to check on his whereabouts when Sharon was topped, Dave. And then we’ll get a search warrant for the Reeds’ house in Chelsea.’

  ‘We don’t need one, guv,’ said Dave, ‘now that we’ve arrested Reed for Sharon’s murder.’

  ‘I know we don’t need one, Dave, but I’d rather have a district judge who can be blamed if it all goes pear-shaped. And right now I’ve got a nasty feeling it might.’

  ‘Got a minute, guv?’ Detective Sergeant Flynn hovered in the doorway of my office clutching his large daybook.

  ‘What is it, Charlie?’

  ‘The Honourable Julian Reed, guv. Turns out his property development business is going down the tubes. Of course, it could be some tax avoidance scheme,’ said Flynn. ‘There’s a lot more to it all than meets the eye, but it’s beginning to look like some sort of scam. I think it might finish up in the Fraud Squad’s lap. But my take on it is that he has substantial funds in offshore accounts – tax havens probably. Mind you, it’ll probably turn out to be legit.’ He looked a bit disappointed.

  Flynn had obviously been making further use of his clandestine sources to obtain that information, but who was I to question it.

  ‘I’m sure it will, Charlie,’ I said. ‘The bloody man’s too naive to be cunn
ing.’

  ‘That’s very nearly a truism, sir,’ murmured Dave. ‘If it’s not an oxymoron.’

  ‘Keep me posted, Charlie,’ I said, ignoring Dave’s little sideswipe.

  ‘Yes, guv. I reckon that Reed employs a creative accountant.’

  ‘What d’you think about that, Dave?’ I asked, once Flynn had departed.

  ‘It puts a different slant on Muriel’s claim that Julian couldn’t afford to leave her, guv. If Charlie’s right about Julian’s financial affairs being a bit dodgy, Muriel might’ve been putting the black on him. After all, it wouldn’t do for a future earl to be done for fraud, tax evasion and anything else the Fraud Squad might dig up, would it?’

  ‘You could well be right,’ I said, as I absorbed this latest twist in our investigation. ‘But that’s better than a future earl being charged with the murder of his extramarital sleeping partner.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir, but I was looking for Sergeant Poole,’ said DC Appleby, glancing at Dave as he hesitated in the doorway of my office. ‘He asked me to do some urgent checking.’

  ‘Come in, John. What did he ask you to do?’ I knew that when Dave gave a DC an urgent job he usually had a very good reason for wanting it done.

  ‘I suggested that John did a check on the cameras on the A4, guv,’ said Dave. ‘As we’ve nicked Julian Reed on suspicion of murdering Sharon, I thought it might be useful to see if we could get a fix on the exact time his car was on its way back from Heathrow Airport to Chelsea. If that’s the route he took.’

  ‘And did he, John?’ I asked Appleby.

  ‘That was certainly the route, sir. At eighteen-forty-one Reed’s Mercedes was clocked by the speed camera near Hatton doing eighty-seven miles an hour.’

  ‘He must’ve stayed there quite a long time if that’s the time he returned to Chelsea,’ I said.

  ‘He wasn’t going home, sir. The vehicle was actually travelling westbound. In other words, towards Heathrow Airport.’

  ‘What the hell was it doing going that way at that time?’ I said, half to myself.

  ‘We could ask him,’ said Dave.

  ‘Oh, we will,’ I said, and turned back to Appleby. ‘You’ve done a good job there, John.’