'What did I tell you?' Horton said with disgust. 'Those anonymous calls were a pack of lies staged by one of these prats for publicity. And they've got it. Bet one of them went running to the press as soon as we were out of sight. You'll have to buy your own lunches, Barney.' Horton threw the newspaper in his bin and rose, picking up the Daniel Collins file.
'It still could be genuine,' Cantelli insisted, following Horton out of his office. 'I could get that list of contacts from Corinna Denton, just in case.'
'Waste of time.' And there was no need to send an officer around to collect those staff and guest lists. Good, because they had better things to do.
Horton dropped the Collins file on Walters' desk. 'Call Mrs Collins and arrange to see her. But read the file first. We're going to see if we can raise Marion Keynes from her sickbed. I only hope she hasn't got anything infectious. If DCI Bliss asks where we are you don't know.'
'What was all that about?' Cantelli asked, as they headed out of the station.
Horton told him.
'Such a waste.' Cantelli shook his head and folded a fresh piece of chewing gum into his mouth. 'That stretch of road's a notorious black spot. Even sober it can be nasty.'
Cantelli lived not far from Salterns Wharf.
'Did you hear anything about the accident?'
'No. Too busy making sure Santa got his mince pie and glass of sherry. It was tough facing all that stuff this Christmas with Dad going like that, but you can't let the kids down, can you? Poor woman.'
Horton knew he was thinking of Daniel Collins's mother and what her Christmas must have been like. She deserved their sympathy.
Marion Keynes on the other hand didn't. That much was clear from their first encounter, as she glared with open hostility at their warrant cards. When Cantelli asked if they could come in, she shrugged and padded off on fat, splayed feet, leaving them to follow her into a small open-plan room in the narrow terraced house. It stank of stale food, over-stewed tea and cigarettes and looked as though it had been turned over by junkies desperate for a fix. In the midst of the chaos sat two fat boys gazing open-mouthed at a large plasma television screen, where a hyperactive youth in torn clothes was doing an impersonation of someone in excruciating pain. Horton guessed the youth was attempting to sing because there was a microphone glued to his mouth, but he'd heard better sounds coming from a pneumatic drill.
She reached for a packet of cigarettes on the mantelpiece. 'Why are you interested in Irene? She's dead.'
'Could you turn the television down,' Horton said firmly but politely, not much caring for her hard mouth and sharp eyes.
She snatched up the remote control and stabbed at it with a frown. Instantly the two boys howled in protest.
'Upstairs.' She pointed at the ceiling as if her offspring had no idea where their bedrooms were.
Neither child moved. The younger one folded his plump arms across his chest and scowled for the Olympics, whereas the eldest glared at Horton as though he'd willingly stick a knife in him. Maybe a few years from now, Horton thought, he would try. He felt like hauling them up and telling them to do as they were told. Judging by Cantelli's unusually fierce expression and his rapid chewing of gum, Horton guessed he was thinking along the same lines.
Marion Keynes said, 'Take a packet of crisps with you.'
They shot up with a whoop and yell and like two mini tornados whizzed past Horton and into the kitchen.
'Kids!' she said, as the boys returned munching their crisps. 'You give them all these toys for Christmas and they're still bored. You've got to blackmail them into doing everything these days.'
Horton dashed a glance at Cantelli and read in his deep dark eyes, not mine you haven't. A run round the football pitch would do them more good than staring at a television screen, Horton thought, before the gyrating youth started howling above them, as if he'd just taken poison.
'Turn it down,' Marion Keynes yelled, making Cantelli jump. Nothing happened.
As she shook out a cigarette and lit it, Horton quickly glanced at the photographs on the mantelpiece. Marion Keynes was the complete opposite to her husband, who was dark haired with a keen face, and had the body of a cyclist or runner. There was a photograph of the couple on holiday abroad. He was wearing a scuba diving outfit whilst she was decked out in a swimming costume. The expression 'a beached whale' flitted into his head.
They weren't invited to sit, probably because every chair was covered with clothes, toys or magazines. And the room was stifling hot. The gas fire was belting out full blast, and Horton guessed the central heating was also turned up.
'What did Irene Ebury talk about?' he asked.
'How she was once Miss Southsea, but you had to take everything she said with a pinch of salt.'
Horton thought her voice held a trace of spite. And she didn't look to be suffering from any illness that he could see.
'She used to go on and on about the famous men she'd met and dated when she'd been working in the clubs and casinos. Roger Moore, Ronald Reagan, Dean Martin, you name them, she'd had them all. She even claimed her son was the illegitimate child of Frank Sinatra.' Marion Keynes laughed.
Neither he nor Cantelli joined in.
'You stop listening after a while,' Marion Keynes said sharply. 'I've had enough of it. That's why I'm off sick — stress. I'm handing in my notice. I'll probably go back to agency work. It pays more.' She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, but Horton wasn't going to take the hint. If Marion Keynes had stress, then he was Dr Freud. Here was a woman who had fancied a few days off and judging by the state of the room, it wasn't to do her housework.
'Why do you want to know about her anyway? She was just an old woman.'
With an unusual edge of steel to his voice, Cantelli said, 'What time did you discover her body?'
'So, that's it, is it? They're saying it's my fault,' she flashed. 'The bastards! They're covering their backsides. She was dead when I went into her room, and if anyone says any different then they're lying.'
'Who are they, Mrs Keynes?' Horton asked wearily. He'd had enough of Marion Keynes already.
'Mr Chrystal and his bloody brothers, that's who. They own the Rest Haven and half a dozen old people's homes on the coast. They're probably looking for someone to blame in case the family sue, not that Irene's son is in a position to. Did you know he's in prison?' she said with relish.
Horton disliked her considerably, and he didn't much care if it showed.
'What time did you discover Irene?' Cantelli persisted.
'Five thirty a.m.,' she snapped, glaring at him.
'Why did you go into her room at that time?' Horton asked.
'It's when I do the rounds.'
Horton didn't believe her.
'Did you hear or see anything unusual that night?' Cantelli spoke again.
She smiled with a smugness that looked as though it was going to drive Cantelli to violence. Usually the sergeant managed to keep a tight rein on his emotions, despite his half-Italian blood, but this time she'd really got to him.
She took another pull at her cigarette and said with heavy cynicism, 'It was New Year's Eve. The ships' hooters and fireworks were going like the clappers, and there was a party in the street.'
Which, Horton thought, would have served to cover up the noise of someone entering the building and killing Irene Ebury. If she had been killed. There was that half landing where the stairs turned. The window looked out on to the flat-roofed extension of the kitchen and the gardens beyond. It was, as far as he had seen, the only window which wasn't double glazed. It made a good entry point.