Free Reckless Endangerment by Graham Ison

learned is that a compliment of that sort only holds good until your next mistake.
    I made a note of the details of Sharon’s Mini Cooper, and Dave and I went inside and made for the sitting room. It was still in its state of chaos and Sharon had obviously made no attempt to clear up the mess. We had a final look round, but found nothing more to interest us.
    ‘It looks as though she’s changed her duties, Dave. She wasn’t supposed to have been flying again until Wednesday,’ I said. ‘At least, that’s what she told us, wasn’t it?’
    ‘To coin an apt phrase, guv,’ said Dave, ‘it looks as though the bird has flown.’
    ‘Put details of her Mini Cooper on the Police National Computer, Dave. If it’s found we might have some idea where she’s gone. Ask for a check to be made on car parks, particularly at airports and railway stations. Then arrange for an all-ports warning. There’s just a chance that she might’ve taken off for foreign parts,’ I said. ‘As a passenger.’
    ‘I’ve already put her car’s details on the PNC, sir. I made a note of the index mark when I saw it in the garage.’
    ‘You could’ve told me that when I was talking to that PC, Dave.’
    ‘What, and ruin his moment of glory, guv?’ said Dave, and then offered me one of his pearls of wisdom. ‘Miss Ebdon said she was a lying bitch. We should’ve nicked her when we had the chance.’
    ‘On what grounds?’
    ‘From reading her statement, it strikes me that her story doesn’t hang together. But more importantly there are Doc Mortlock’s findings that Cliff Gregory had been fed Rohypnol. Added to all of that, there’s Charlie Flynn’s information about her buying a sash weight and a clothes line in Ruislip. To say nothing of the new insurance policy for a hundred grand.’
    ‘You have to remember that she was in shock when Miss Ebdon and I spoke to her, Dave,’ I said, ‘even though she seemed composed enough. And we didn’t know that she’d bought the sash weight and the clothes line until recently. And we certainly don’t know that she bought the Rohypnol.’
    ‘What’s next, then?’ asked Dave, having made his point.
    ‘There’s nothing else we can do here,’ I said. ‘We’ll see what Richie at the airport has to say about her.’

SIX
    W e found Ted Richie’s office tucked away in Terminal Two at Heathrow Airport. There were maps and duty rosters adorning the walls, and his desk was cluttered with paperwork and a model of a passenger aircraft, several more of which were beside a kettle and a cafetière on a side table.
    ‘DCI Harry Brock, from the Metropolitan Murder Investigation Team, Mr Richie, and this is DS Dave Poole.’
    ‘Yeah, we spoke on the phone, Dave. The name’s Ted, by the way. Come in, gents, and tell me how I can help you.’ Richie was a large man with a bald pate, a North Country accent, a substantial moustache and a red face that seemed to indicate a fondness for alcohol. But he had been a CID officer and it’s a hard life; at least that’s always the excuse. ‘I’m ex-Job myself. Did thirty years up North flogging my guts out getting a string of petty villains banged up, took my money and ran. Best decision I ever made. Take a pew, gents.’
    I explained briefly about the murder of Sharon Gregory’s husband.
    ‘Yeah, I heard about that,’ said Richie. ‘Airline grapevine. People here seem to fall over themselves to tell me the latest scuttlebutt. Never happened in the Job. Mind you, I did have one or two good snouts.’
    ‘Dave and I have just been to Sharon Gregory’s house at West Drayton, Ted,’ I continued, ‘but I’m told that she left there less than an hour ago. According to the PC on duty at the house, Sharon was in uniform and she told him that she was going to work. But when we interviewed her on the night of the murder she told us that she wasn’t rostered to fly until this coming Wednesday.’
    Richie turned to one of the crew duty rotas on his wall and