Reckless Endangerment (19 page)

‘Yes, a couple of times in Miami. We met on a flight and she made it fairly clear that she was—’

Kate held up a hand. ‘We get the picture, Mr Digby. As a matter of fact, we’ve heard it all before. From the numerous other men she slept with.’

‘Good God!’ exclaimed Digby. ‘There were others?’ he asked, rather naively.

‘Oh yes, there were dozens,’ said Dave. ‘Do you still have the ticket stubs for your visit to Covent Garden?’ he asked. ‘Or perhaps you’d rather we checked with Miss Douglas.’

‘I’d prefer that you didn’t speak to Fiona, Sergeant,’ said Digby hurriedly. ‘But I’m afraid I don’t have the ticket stubs any more.’

‘Did you throw them away?’ Kate posed the question innocently, but she didn’t believe that Digby had been to the ballet at all.

‘Not exactly, Inspector,’ said Digby. ‘Fiona has them. She keeps a scrapbook and pastes them in. Do you
really
have to talk to her about it?’ he implored.

‘There is a way round that, Mr Digby,’ said Dave.

‘Yes? Anything,’ pleaded Digby.

‘You can give us a DNA sample.’

‘Certainly, if that means you don’t have to speak to Fiona.’

Dave produced a DNA kit from his briefcase and took a swab from inside Digby’s mouth. It would have no evidential value without the authorization of a superintendent, but it may help to eliminate Digby from their enquiries.

‘Oh, you’re still here.’ Fiona Douglas came back into the room just as Dave was putting the kit back into his briefcase.

‘We were just leaving, Miss Douglas.’ Kate turned to Digby. ‘Thank you for your help,’ she said. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

Fiona Douglas stood at the window and watched as the police car pulled off the drive. ‘What did they want, Frank?’ She turned to face Digby, her arms folded and a suspicious expression on her face. ‘Have you been out kerb-crawling again?’

‘Certainly not. And you know that that was a case of mistaken identity. The police were collecting car numbers that night. Everybody’s car number. But you’ll never let me forget it, will you?’

‘What
did
they want, then?’

Digby paused before answering. ‘Er, they wanted to know if we’d seen a hit-and-run accident in Bow Street outside the Royal Opera House last Monday,’ he said eventually. ‘But I told them we hadn’t seen a thing.’

‘What the hell made them think we were at Covent Garden last Monday? Is there something you’re not telling me? What have you been up to, Frank?’

‘Nothing, darling, and I don’t know why they thought that,’ said Digby lamely. ‘I suppose the police have access to all sorts of records these days. They’re probably interviewing everyone who had tickets to
Swan Lake
. After all, I did book them online.’

‘What, all two thousand of them?’ asked Fiona sarcastically. ‘But I don’t suppose you mentioned to them that we didn’t see it anyway. Or that you cancelled at the last minute because you told me that you had to see someone who wanted to place a large wine order for their restaurant. An order that didn’t materialize. So, where the hell were you?’

‘Well, I was—’

‘O what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive!’ quoted Fiona, and turned on her heel. ‘I’m going to take a shower. Alone!’

It wasn’t until Dave had steered the car on to the A413 that Kate mentioned the interview with Frank Digby.

‘What d’you reckon, Dave?’

‘Same problem as with all the others, guv. If his DNA shows that he’s the father of Sharon’s unborn child, it merely means he joins the merry band of men who had sex with her. It doesn’t mean he murdered her.’

‘Did you notice the perfume that Fiona was wearing?’

‘I’m no good at identifying perfumes. All I know is that they cost an arm and a leg.’

‘It was Lancôme Trésor.’

‘Is that important, guv?’

‘It’s the perfume that Sharon Gregory was wearing when she was found at the Dickin Hotel.’

‘A coincidence?’ asked Dave.

‘Could be. Anyway, we’ll see what Max Riley has to say,’ said Kate. ‘And he’s the last of the names on Sharon’s contact list. I don’t know where the hell the guv’nor will go after that.’

‘He’ll think of something,’ said Dave, and accelerated to overtake a dithering pensioner wearing a flat cap and doing twenty-five.

A
fter Kate and Dave had left to interview more of our ‘suspects’, I spent some time going over the statements we had accrued so far.

I hadn’t been at it long before I was interrupted by the arrival of a detective inspector from the Serious Organized Crime Agency.

‘Good morning, sir. I’m DI Ken Sullivan from SOCA.’

‘Take a seat,’ I said, pushing aside the pile of statements, ‘and tell me what I can do for SOCA.’

‘Gordon Harrison, boss.’ Sullivan was obviously from a northern force where ‘boss’ was an informal alternative to ‘guv’.

‘You’ve got my interest. What about him?’

‘I picked up that you’d put his name on the PNC, and I’m interested to know whether it has any relevance to the current enquiries my agency is making.’

I explained briefly how we had come to interview Harrison, but were still undecided about whether he had been involved in the murder of Sharon Gregory, or indeed had been her accomplice on the night of Clifford Gregory’s murder.

‘But what is SOCA’s interest in him?’ I asked.

‘Drug smuggling,’ said Sullivan. ‘He has a Romanian girlfriend called Krisztina Comaneci.’

‘Yes, that much he told us, Ken. He actually said that she was his partner.’

‘In more ways than one,’ said Sullivan. ‘We believe her to be a courier, taking heroin into Romania from the Czech Republic. All we’ve learned so far is that Harrison imports antique statuary from Romania, and we’re pretty sure that those items contain the drugs that Comaneci obtains. The story is that she legitimately buys these so-called artefacts and brings them back to the UK.’

‘But hasn’t customs examined them at the point of entry?’ I asked.

‘Oh, sure. Discreetly, of course, but Harrison’s a smart guy and the statues don’t always contain drugs. So far, customs haven’t struck lucky. But they have to be careful because we’d like to know the origin and where those statues containing drugs go once they’re in this country.’

‘He told us that he planned holidays for tired executives who wanted to get away with their girlfriends. He also told us that in furtherance of that business, he travels quite often to the States. Florida and California mainly.’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Sullivan, ‘and will be of even greater interest to the FBI or the DEA. If he’s taking drugs into America, that is. On the other hand, that might be a smokescreen for his drug activities.’

‘We called on him this morning,’ I said, ‘for the second time, but that was strictly in connection with the murder of Sharon Gregory. He knew her and had had sex with her on several occasions in Miami. There was a young black girl there by the name of Shona Grant. He told us that he was with her, at home, at the time of the murder. But when my sergeant spoke to her alone, she claimed that she was at work as a hostess in a nightclub. I’m having one of my officers checking her story.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t, boss,’ said Sullivan. ‘A number of possibilities open up here. We know about Shona Grant and it’s possible that she might be another of his couriers.’ He paused. ‘D’you think it’s possible that Sharon Gregory was involved in his drug-smuggling activities and that’s what got her killed?’

‘I don’t know, Ken,’ I said, ‘but we’ve scientific evidence that leads us to believe that one of her many male friends, and there were quite a few, might have been responsible. The best I can offer is to keep you informed of anything we find out.’

‘I’m grateful, boss,’ said Sullivan. ‘And if I find anything that points to her killer being tied up in our enquiries, I’ll let you know.’

Sullivan departed, leaving me to ponder yet another twist in the murder of Sharon Gregory.

It was forty miles from Chalfont St Giles to Guildford, and it was nearing five o’clock before Kate and Dave arrived at Max Riley’s top-floor apartment not far from the ruins of the eleventh-century Guildford Castle.

‘Hello. I hope you’re not selling something.’ The woman who came to the door had smooth black skin and softened her statement with a radiant smile. She was about forty, tall, and dressed in a tight-fitting red woollen dress that accentuated every contour of her shapely figure. Her black hair was flecked with grey and cropped very short. Higher-than-usual cheekbones lent a diamond-shaped, almost sculpted appearance to her face. Most men would doubtless find her sexually compelling, but she could not be described as a beauty.

‘We’re police officers,’ said Kate. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Ebdon and this is Detective Sergeant Poole. We’d like to have a word with Mr Max Riley if he’s at home.’

The woman threw back her head and burst out laughing. It was an infectious, bubbly sort of laugh. ‘I’m Max Riley,’ she said. ‘Actually, my name’s Maxine, but I’ve only ever used Max and that’s what everyone calls me. There is no
Mr
Riley. Anyway, you’d better come in and explain why you wanted to talk to this fictitious Mr Riley.’ She spoke with mellifluously rounded, educated tones.

The two detectives followed Maxine into a large airy studio at the back of the apartment. It had a picture window running almost the length of the room, and close to it, where it would receive the maximum light, was an easel on which was a canvas covered with a cotton sheet. A nearby paint-spattered bench bore a number of paint pots, several palettes, a maulstick and a jar of brushes. And a dirty coffee cup. A painter’s smock had been thrown carelessly over a stack of canvases leaning against the wall on the far side of the studio.

‘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.