‘Let’s see what you’ve got for us this time,’ she said cheerfully, running her practised eye over the corpse. ‘Well, I can certainly certify death. As to the time, I’ll be more precise when I conduct the autopsy, which I’ve scheduled for first thing tomorrow morning, but I’ll give you an estimate once we’ve undressed her.’
Horton watched her ease down the ruffle around the neck and caught a glimpse of a slightly quizzical expression as she studied the head and neck.
‘I can’t see any obvious signs of cause of death, no bullet or stab wounds, and no visible marks of strangulation, although there is trauma to the skull, but that could have been caused by the body coming into contact with an obstruction in the sea.’ She stepped back and nodded at Tom to begin undressing the body.
Horton tensed in anticipation and sensed Cantelli’s heightened interest beside him as Tom eased off the sodden trainers.
‘Size nine,’ he announced, turning them over. ‘Cheap, ordinary chain store make, marking too faint to read. Well worn, especially on the right foot, but size still visible on the sole.’ He dropped them into one of the evidence bags on the nearby trolley.
Surprised, Horton said, ‘Large feet for a woman. How tall would you say she was?’
‘Five foot ten, maybe eleven,’ answered Gaye. ‘We’ll measure the body, of course.’
Consulting his notebook, Cantelli said, ‘Karen Jenkins, the missing forty-year-old, is five three, and the teenagers are five four and five six. So we can positively rule out all three.’
So who was she? Had anyone missed her? Perhaps she had lived alone. Horton watched Tom’s big hands ease the dress up the purple, half-chewed flesh of the legs. He frowned in puzzlement as a pair of dark-coloured lightweight shorts came into view.
‘Unusual underwear for a woman,’ Cantelli said.
‘But not completely unknown,’ added Gaye.
Cantelli stopped chewing. ‘She’s wearing a T-shirt.’
‘So am I, Sergeant, under this get-up,’ Gaye replied, brightly, pointing at her mortuary garb.
‘Yeah, but there are T-shirts and T-shirts, and that one looks more like a-’
‘Vest,’ furnished Horton, thoughtfully. It was loose, round-necked and short-sleeved, not the sort of garment to compliment the intricate and old-fashioned dress that Tom was now holding. And there was something else peculiar about the body, but before Horton could express it, Tom said, ‘There’s a label inside but with only faint markings on it. There’s also a pocket in the side. It’s zipped up. There’s something in it.’
Horton’s pulse quickened as Tom eased the small zip down, thrust his big hand inside it and retrieved a small object. It was a plastic key fob minus the keys and inside the small plastic case, shaped like a Christmas tree, was a perfectly preserved picture of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, with dark curly hair and a broad smile.
Cantelli studied it, puzzled. ‘Could that be a daughter or granddaughter who has died and, distraught, this woman took her own life?’
It was possible, Horton supposed, but it could also be a photograph of the corpse itself taken when younger. Tom put the key ring into a small evidence bag and handed it to Cantelli, then he folded the dress carefully into another evidence bag. Gaye stepped closer to the corpse.
‘Anything wrong?’ Horton asked as her brow furrowed.
‘Plenty, but please go on, Tom.’
Horton saw a knowing glance pass between them. He dashed a look at Cantelli and got raised eyebrows in return. With his heart beating fast Horton watched as the mortuary attendant eased the shorts carefully down the decaying legs. Cantelli gave a low whistle and Horton drew in a sharp breath. He could see exactly what was ‘wrong’ but it was Gaye who expressed it.
‘As I suspected, your she is a he,’ she said brightly, pointing to the genitals.
And a missing man wearing a dress certainly put a new slant on things, thought Horton. It was an opinion Cantelli ventured twenty minutes later as they headed towards Gosport Marina to collect Horton’s Harley. There were no further surprises from the body and no indication either from Dr Clayton of the cause of death. She estimated the man was aged between thirty-five and sixty and that he’d been dead four to five days, which took them back to last Wednesday or Thursday. There was nothing to indicate, at this stage, it was a suspicious death, and although Horton didn’t much care for the fact that the corpse had been wearing a dress there was no law against it.
‘A transvestite?’ Cantelli posed.
The dress wasn’t sexy but then Horton knew it didn’t need to be. ‘Don’t transvestites usually wear women’s underwear? Isn’t that what gives them the buzz, wearing something feminine and sexy close to the skin?’
‘If you say so. Maybe he didn’t have time to put it all on, go the whole hog.’
‘Possibly. But the dress, as you pointed out, Barney, is old-fashioned.’
‘Perhaps it was his mother’s. Depressed over her death he decided to end his life wearing her favourite dress. Or perhaps he liked dressing up, got drunk, went cavorting around the beach on a full moon and thought he’d seen Amphitrite beckon to him from the sea.’
‘Who?’ asked Horton, throwing Cantelli a surprised look.
‘Greek goddess, Queen of the Sea. I thought being a seafaring type you would know that,’ Cantelli grinned. ‘Marie’s got a thing about Greek mythology. Says it’s helping her to write her first fantasy novel.’
Marie, at twelve, was the third of Cantelli’s five children and had recently won a scholarship to a private school where she was blossoming. Horton hoped the same would apply to Emma.
Cantelli said, ‘Or perhaps he was at a fancy dress party and always carried that picture with him, so he put it in the pocket, got pilled up, wandered off and fell into the sea from a cliff.’
In this job, thought Horton, they’d all seen ten incredible things before breakfast so anything was possible. Should there have been keys on the key ring though, he wondered, staring through the rain-soaked windscreen as Cantelli headed past the old town quay at Fareham down towards Gosport. And if so, where were they? Or had he simply carried the fob because of the picture?
‘The girl’s name might be on the reverse of that photograph,’ Cantelli suggested, following Horton’s train of thought.
‘That would be nice.’ Horton didn’t think it would be that simple, though. ‘Send it over to Joliffe and ask if someone in the forensic lab can open it without damaging it. Get a photograph of it first though.’ He called Walters who took an age to answer. ‘I was beginning to think Russell Glenn must have offered you a job as a security officer on his superyacht,’ Horton grumbled.
‘He’s already got one, with muscles like Schwarzenegger.’
‘A broad-shouldered man with cropped hair.’
‘Yeah, how do you know that?’
‘I know a lot of things, Walters, like you’re eating your way through a packet of Hobnobs.’
Walters swallowed noisily. ‘That boat’s bloody huge, Guv. And it’s got this state of the art security system that would make the scum cry.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Infra sensors in every room-’
‘Cabin,’ corrected Horton.
‘Yeah, and a GPS locator and notification system, which can raise the alarm by all means known to mankind. It’s got an ignition immobilizer security alarm, as well as a marine security system alarm with a siren for every cabin, which is broadcast so loud that everyone will think the three minute warning’s gone off, or so Schwarzenegger claims.’
‘And his real name?’
‘Lloyd.’
‘First or surname?’
‘Dunno. Just said he was called Lloyd.’
Horton sighed. How Walters had got to be a DC was a mystery to them all. ‘Well let’s hope he never has to put it to the test; on my patch at least,’ Horton added, thinking that with the increase in pirate attacks on superyachts and commercial shipping in other less friendly waters Glenn probably needed all the security he could afford, and that was clearly a great deal.