'When did the idea about the phoney break-in at the club come to you?' he asked, wishing fervently that Dunsley had been their man. Dunsley couldn't talk quickly enough, which only reinforced Horton's opinion of him.
'I should have got back to the club by eleven thirty in time to cash up and lock up. But I was stuck in the hospital. So I called Doris and told her to lock up and leave the money in the till but the silly cow forgot to lock the back door. It gave me an idea. I thought I could make some extra money if I said there had been a break-in, what with being in the hospital with a cut head. I loaded the car with some booze, cigarettes and crisps and drove it to Neil's place.'
'Time?' Horton snapped. He wanted out of here.
'About four a.m. Had to wake him up. Neil didn't mind. He can always find someone to sell stuff on to if only to the kids. I went back to the club, cut my finger so that there would be blood on the ground, and reported the break-in.'
'At four thirty a.m.' Horton's eyes flicked down to the report. 'And a unit responded at five a.m. You told them the break-in had happened just as you were about to lock up and you had been attacked and dazed, had gone to the hospital and hadn't thought to report it until you got back,' Horton read out.
Dunsley nodded. 'That's right. You can check it with Neil. We didn't kill anyone. I swear it.'
Horton scraped back his chair.
'What happens now?' Dunsley asked nervously.
'We talk to Cyrus, and we check out your story.' That would take the rest of the evening and night, and they would still be no nearer to catching this blasted killer.
Horton adopted the same tactics with Cyrus, who was ready to hold his hands up for the break-in at the school in order to be cleared of committing murder.
Later that night to Uckfield, Horton wearily said, 'The landlord of the Three Crowns has confirmed that Dunsley was in there drinking, and watching football on the big television screen, from seven until just before ten p.m. They each give the other as their alibi for after ten p.m., and Dr Clayton says that Langley was killed some time between nine and eleven p.m. Langley could have returned to the school after receiving that second telephone call and after ditching Ranson at eight p.m.' But Horton didn't really think so.
'Could Cyrus be her lover?'
'Not her type.' Still, Horton thought, there was no accounting for taste. Horton would hardly have said that Edward Shawford was Catherine's type. But he was almost sure that Cyrus couldn't be Langley's lover. 'Cyrus was on duty, alone, as assistant caretaker until ten p.m. He could have killed her between nine and ten p.m., but there's no motive and he denies it vehemently. He also says Langley never returned to the school. And if he did kill her how did he and Dunsley get the body on to a boat, which neither of them has, and take her to the mulberry? It doesn't add up. And both Cyrus and Dunsley have an alibi for Edney's death. They were at Fratton Park watching Pompey play Manchester United.'
'Which means we've still got a killer out there. Back to square bloody one. Are you sure this architect didn't do it?'
'His alibi checks out.'
'So who the fuck is it?' Uckfield stomped across to the crime board and picked up a felt pen. Horton didn't blame him for being frustrated. 'We can cross off Dunsley, Cyrus and Ranson.' He struck the names through with a large cross. 'Tom Edney gets himself killed, so he's already gone. What about his wife? Could she have returned and killed Langley?'
'I doubt it, and she couldn't have killed her husband, because she was with us at the time.' Horton stared at the board. 'There's still Eric Morville,' he pointed out. 'And that betting slip.'
'Yes, and there's still those callers. Are we any nearer to finding out who they were?'
'Marsden is waiting for the mobile phone company to get back to us. The second caller must be the person that Langley went to meet. It could be a lover who hasn't yet come forward, but there's nothing in her life, belongings or background to suggest one, and Ranson swears there wasn't anyone else. I'd also like to know who the first caller is and why she was so short with him or her.' Maybe tomorrow, he thought, those questions would be answered. They still hadn't found Langley's laptop or her mobile phone. 'Have Jessica Langley's medical records come in?'
'There's nothing of any interest in them. No dark secrets: abortions or illegitimate babies. She was very healthy, hardly ever saw a doctor, except to get her prescription for the Pill and her regular cervical smear and that's it.'
Horton hadn't really expected anything else. He left Uckfield stomping around the incident room grumbling and growling like a bear with a hangover, and returned to his office. He pushed open the window and let the wind tear in. It caught him in his chest and he leaned into it and let its chill damp edge cleanse him after the disappointment of yet another of his theories about Langley's killer being proved false.
Two cases cleared off the books, the club break-in and the school theft, but there was another case outstanding: that of double murder. Who could those callers have been? Did they have anything to do with Langley's death? Why the devil was she killed and dumped on the mulberry and what did the Lear poem have to do with it? What was he missing for Christ sake? A hell of a lot it seemed. His head was throbbing, and he was tired.
He closed the window, and turned back to his desk. Perhaps it would come to him if he tried to clear his mind of it for a while. Somerfield had put her latest report on the antiques thefts on his desk and he began to read through it. Damn Mickey Johnson, he should have cracked under questioning but he hadn't. Maybe if Horton had another go at him he'd get something, like the name of his accomplice — the boy seemed to have vanished into thin air — or who was masterminding these robberies, because Horton was damned sure Mickey or the boy wouldn't have the brains for it.
He pulled out the file containing all of Somerfield's reports and read them through again for what seemed like the hundredth time. Somerfield had been thorough. Horton took out a blank piece of paper and drew up four columns, each headed with the name of a victim and then reading through the reports he picked out the key factors that Somerfield had discovered, methodically listing them down the columns. His door opened and Horton looked up to see Cantelli enter.
'We've got the bloke who was receiving the stolen goods from Cyrus and Dunsley,' Cantelli said, easing himself into the seat opposite Horton with a yawn. 'What are you doing?'
Horton told him. 'So far I can't find a blessed thing that the robbery victims have in common, except they all live in Old Portsmouth, near or around the Town Camber…' His words trailed off and he glanced down at the list of addresses and then at Cantelli. He'd been trying to puzzle out the antique thefts but the connection with Langley, which had occurred to him on the day he'd seen her flat when he and Cantelli had stood on the quayside at the Town Camber, returned to him only this time stronger. Was it possible? Was this the missing piece of the jigsaw? He felt a thrill of excitement that told him it could be. He said, 'Langley's death could be connected with these robberies.'
'You mean our missing athletic youth?'
'No.' He didn't think it could be him. But maybe he'd been on the right lines about the location. Feeling his excitement increase, he said, 'The stolen antiques haven't shown up anywhere in the local area and neither have they been picked up elsewhere in the UK, so I reckon they are being taken out of the country pretty quickly, and that could be by boat, kept in or moved to the Town Camber for the purpose. Johnson took the stolen goods to a boat. I know that particular boat belonged to the victim but that wasn't usual because none of the other victims are boat owners. And I don't believe Johnson did those other robberies. The haul was different on this last one.'