This is the way we come out of school, Come out of school, come out of school, This is the way we come out of school, On a cold and frosty morning.'
It had nothing to do with the war. 'The school is the link,' Horton said.
'I hope you're not expecting another victim in a launderette. The third verse is about the way we wash our clothes.'
Christ! He sincerely hoped not.
'This doesn't tie in with "The Owl and the Pussycat" though,' Gaye said.
'Doesn't it? We've got a killer whose got a thing about nursery rhymes and comic verse.' And Horton recalled seeing some children's books on the back seat of Ranson's Range Rover.
Gaye said, 'Your murderer is right-handed, and if you think it is the same person who killed Langley then remember she was struck on the right side of the head, most probably by a left-handed person, though that might not have been the person who suffocated and killed her.'
Did they have two killers at large? It was possible, but Ranson could have an accomplice. 'What kind of knife was used, doctor?'
'A single-bladed kitchen knife.'
'Which are two a penny.'
'Precisely.'
Horton immediately briefed Uckfield who groaned.
'I can just see the headlines if this gets out.'
So could Horton and he didn't go a bundle on it himself. Being the investigating officer, he guessed he'd come in for a fair amount of stick from the tabloid writers who would eagerly be trawling their childhood memories and kiddies' nursery-rhyme books to find witty headlines.
Uckfield continued, 'Does this mean we have to put a watch on all the bloody launderettes in the city?'
'Not if Ranson's our killer. We'll pick him up when he returns home. The marina manager is calling us as soon as his boat goes through the lock.'
'Where the hell is he?'
Horton didn't answer.
The minutes ticked into hours. Horton waited impatiently. He had almost given up hearing anything that day when the call came through at ten past seven to say that Ranson had returned.
'Right, get out there and arrest the bastard,' declared Uckfield when Horton told him, but before Horton had gone two steps the big man's phone rang and he waved at Horton to stay put.
Horton watched the expressions on Uckfield's face turn from puzzlement to anger and then finally exasperation as he slammed down his phone.
'The bugger's got a watertight alibi,' he roared, rising and pacing the room. 'Is nothing straightforward with this bloody case?'
'What alibi?' Horton asked sharply, feeling disappointment well up in him.
'That was Sergeant Elkins. Leo Ranson and his loving family have been safely tucked up in the Channel Islands, Guernsey. He moored up in St Peter Port at midday on Saturday and didn't leave until lunchtime today. So he can't be Edney's killer.'
Horton's heart sank. 'Was Leo Ranson definitely on board?'
'Oh, yes. The marina manager spoke to him when he came in. And the whole family attended a party last night on shore in the yacht club. The manager himself was there. So unless he's lying and in on these murders you can kiss good-bye to your theory.'
Damn! He'd been wrong. Then he recalled what Dr Clayton had said about Edney's killer being right-handed and the person who struck Langley was left-handed.
'Ranson might not have killed Edney, but that doesn't mean to say he didn't kill.' Horton saw a glimmer of hope dawn in Uckfield's rather bloodshot eyes. Horton went on, 'Ranson has given himself the perfect alibi for Edney's death. Why else take his wife and kids away sailing at the end of October?'
'Why not? I do it, or I would if I didn't have such incompetent and sick staff.'
Horton didn't rise to the bait. 'He could have got someone else to kill Edney.'
'Like who?'
How the hell do I know? thought Horton with desperation. He wasn't going to give up on this one yet. 'I'd like to catch Ranson off guard and I know what will really rile him.' Disturbing him at work he thought, recalling the architect's manner at that first meeting at the Sir Wilberforce Cutler School.
Uckfield sucked in his breath and then let out a heavy sigh. 'OK, but remember if you don't get this bugger by Friday I'll be handing the case over to DI Dennings.'
'Do you know, I'd almost forgotten that?' Horton said with heavy sarcasm. As an exit line he thought, maybe it wasn't half bad.
Thirteen
Monday: 9.30 A.M.
Horton took PC Seaton and WPC Kate Somerfield out of uniform and set them to keep a watch on Ranson's house. He didn't want the bugger slipping out and killing anyone else, and he didn't want him doing a moonlight flit. Somerfield reported the next morning, that Ranson hadn't gone anywhere except to his office in Southsea at eight a.m.
'Is he there now?' Horton asked glancing at his watch, as Cantelli knocked and entered his office.
'No, sir. He left there fifteen minutes ago. He's at Nettleside High School. There's a board outside that says, 'Ranson and Rawlings are the architects of the new sports hall'.
Ranson seemed to specialize in schools. Another factor which slotted in with his choice of nursery rhyme. 'Right, we're on our way. Call me if he leaves. Glad to see you back, Sergeant. You're just in time for school.'
'The Sir Wilberforce Cutler?' 'No, the high school in Old Portsmouth. It's where we might find our killer. I'll brief you on our way there.'
Twenty minutes later Horton and Cantelli walked into reception. It wasn't half term in the private sector. After showing their ID, the receptionist paged the school caretaker and asked him to locate Leo Ranson. Horton knew that Ranson wouldn't run away, why should he if he thought he was in clear? If he were guilty then he would be curious to know how far the police had got with their inquiries. And if he were innocent? Then he'd be one very tetchy man.
He saw the receptionist pick up the phone and punch in a number that was clearly an internal extension. She spoke quietly into the receiver but her eyes kept glancing up at them. He guessed she was calling the bursar or the school business manager to say there were police officers on the premises. He stepped away from the desk to examine a large organization chart opposite. At the top was the head teacher, dressed in cap and gown, Dr Simon Thornecombe BD, DD, MBBS, BSc (Hons.), PGCE, MBA.
'Looks as though he's collecting the alphabet,' Cantelli said beside him. 'Wonder what they all stand for. I bet Jessica Langley didn't have as many initials after her name.'
No, thought Horton, recalling from memory, just BEd and MBA: Bachelor of Education and Master of Business Administration. How did anyone have time to take two degrees, let alone a whole batch of them like Dr Thornecombe? It was a wonder he ever found the time to hold down a proper job.
The door on their left opened and a stockily built man, with thinning brown hair swept back off a broad forehead, marched towards them with a slightly apprehensive smile and an outstretched hand. Horton recognized him instantly as the head teacher. So that's whom the receptionist had been calling, or probably his secretary.
Thornecombe introduced himself in a quiet but confident voice that had just a hint of an accent, Yorkshire, thought Horton. The head teacher's grey eyes coolly assessed them both before he said, 'I wonder if I might have a word, Inspector? It won't take a moment. Mrs Harris, my secretary, can show Mr Ranson into my office when he's located, and you can talk to him there, if you wish.'
'Of course,' Horton replied, raising his eyebrows slightly at Cantelli as they followed Thornecombe's purposeful steps down a short corridor and into a spacious, tidy office. It was furnished, Horton noted, with a deep pile burgundy carpet, expensive oak furniture and equipped with the latest in computer technology. Bit different from Edney's and Langley's offices, he thought dryly.