'And you've got it. That's what you were going to tell Langley. Why didn't you tell the coroner?' Horton's voice was harsher.
'Didn't want to upset Rosemary. She'd already suffered enough.'
Bollocks, thought Horton. 'It might have reassured her.'
'Not this kind of note. I didn't think she'd want to know that her daughter was a lesbian.'
So that was it. 'She was only fifteen.'
'Yeah, well, you should know teenagers. You'd be surprised what fifteen-year-olds can get up to,'
Horton felt Cantelli tense beside him. Horton knew that his eldest daughter, Ellen, was fifteen. And Morville was right; they'd had enough of them through their doors over the years.
Cantelli said crisply, 'So when you read about Langley in the newspaper you thought you would make some money from her.'
'I saw her quite by accident. It was the Thursday morning she was killed. I was waiting to see Dr Stainton and Langley was coming out of one of the consulting rooms. I recognized her. She didn't recognize me. She stopped at the reception counter. I found the betting slip in my pocket and wrote that message on it. As she made to leave I bumped into her and slipped it into her hand. I said I'd be in touch. She climbed into her sports car and drove off. I couldn't follow her because I don't have a car, and I didn't know where she lived.'
Cantelli said, 'You could have contacted her at the school.'
'I could, but I didn't. You showed up the next day and told me she was dead. Now I've told you everything, can I go?' Morville half rose.
'Not until we have the note that Michelle left, and you've made your statement. We can apply for a search warrant and tear your place to pieces looking for it, but it would be easier if you gave us a key and told us where it is.' Horton stood up and held out his hand.
Morville sat down again. He stretched in his pocket and handed across the key to his flat. 'It's in the drawer of the sideboard in the living room.'
'Did you tell Tom Edney any of this or show him the note?'
Morville's surprised expression gave Horton his answer. 'No. Why should I?'
As Horton reached the door Morville said, 'Any chance of some breakfast while I'm here.'
They found the note. It was pathetic and Horton and Cantelli were both shaken. Cantelli said, 'Poor kid. What a bloody waste. I don't feel so sorry for Langley now. Morville must have thought he was sitting on a gold mine; can you imagine what the newspapers would have made of it?'
'It was a long time ago.'
'But the girl killed herself!'
'Yes, that, and the heart-wrenching declarations of love in that note, plus Langley's callous treatment of her friend, would be enough to make a good story. It might even have been enough to make the local education authority think twice about their appointment.'
'Pity Tom Edney didn't know about it.'
Horton thought it would certainly have given him a hold over the head teacher he despised. And yet, as Cantelli went to take Morville's statement, Horton could only visualize Jessica Langley laughing at both Morville and Edney, and wriggling out of the situation somehow. 'When she was bad she was horrid.' Indeed.
She had been an ambitious, driven woman, dedicated to the kids. 'When she was good, she was very, very good…' But she was probably a user of people for her own satisfaction. She would flatter, cajole, bully, bribe, make love to them, whatever it took as long as she got what she wanted. Then she would discard them like an old pair of tights.
She had been a clever, manipulative woman. Horton wondered if she had always been like that. Or perhaps the death of her parents had made her hard inside. Had that been the only way she could cope with the grief and the great gaping hole that her parents' death had left in her life? Somehow he doubted it. He had a feeling that Jessica Langley had been born manipulative.
His phone rang. It was Dr Clayton.
'I've got the toxicology report on Timothy Boston.'
Horton took a breath and waited.
'He was injected with methadone.'
He was right and Uckfield was wrong. Yes! Boston had been murdered.
She said, 'If his clothes hadn't caught on that spike under the pontoon he would probably have drifted into the harbour and might not have been found for some time. We might never have known about the puncture mark or the drugs in his body. Your killer was unlucky.'
Wasn't he? Good. About time luck favoured the good guys. Horton thanked her and sat back thinking over what she had told him. Who had access to methadone? A chemist, nurse, doctor, patient, drug user, or perhaps a professional killer. Methadone could be easily obtained; it was sold on the streets. Mickey Johnson wasn't a drug addict and neither was Wayne Goodall — he'd seen the lad's chest and arms, and they were white as snow. But there was still something eluding him.
Horton rose and began to pace his office. Think, damn it, think, he urged himself. Langley had dropped Ranson and gone to meet someone, who could have been Boston, but with him now dead that suggested it could have been someone else; Boston's killer perhaps and Langley's lover. Both Boston and Edney had seen who that lover was and recognized him. Leaving the pub, Edney must have seen Langley's killer outside her apartment, not at Sparkes Yacht Harbour on Hayling Island where Langley's car had ended up. Langley had never gone to Hayling. Her killer had driven her car there, after Langley was dead. Which meant she had been killed in or near her apartment, and then transported by boat. But no forensic evidence had been found in her flat. So, perhaps she had been killed on her lover's boat, which had been moored in Town Camber.
Horton began to put his new theory together. After Ranson had left Langley at eight p.m., Langley had walked round to the quayside. Edney must have followed her. He'd seen her greet her lover as she climbed on board his boat. Unbeknown to Edney, Boston was also there, watching. Whoever had moored in Town Camber, and taken the boat out, had not radioed up to the Queen's harbour master. Why should he draw attention to himself?
The rain hurled itself against the windows as Horton's mind raced. Had they interviewed all the fishermen in Town Camber? Had anyone working in the fish market seen a boat that wasn't normally kept there? The manager said not, but perhaps one had slipped in without his knowing. Horton recalled reading through the statements taken by the team who had interviewed people in Town Camber and no one had mentioned seeing an unknown boat. So was he completely off beam?
Horton felt as though his head was going to explode with all the information swirling around in it. He couldn't see his way through it. Time to clear it and where better than the Town Camber? Maybe inspiration would come to him there.
The fish market was still open when he reached the quayside and there were people working on their boats. He walked slowly around the harbour. The seagulls were squawking noisily, dipping and dive-bombing, as the wind was rising. The sky was grey and turbulent. The throb of the Wightlink ferry across the Town Camber carried to him on a stiffening wind full of salt and the smell of seaweed and fish. The air was chill and damp. Yet the case still remained a muddle to him.
The cathedral clock chimed five. Horton knew that the only thing to do would be to re-interview everyone here and his heart sank at the thought. Tomorrow it would no longer be his investigation. He hated to leave it unsolved not just because he had wanted to prove to Uckfield he was a far better detective than Dennings, but because he had always disliked loose ends.
He began to walk back to his Harley, knowing that there would be no re interviewing because Uckfield would ignore the fact that methadone had been found in Boston's system. Or perhaps he'd claim that Boston must have bought it on the street for his own use. As far as Uckfield was concerned the case was closed. But Boston hadn't injected himself, his killer had done that and expertly…Horton stood stock-still. How could he not have seen it? Bloody hell! And he called himself a detective!