Horton gazed out to sea, his mind working rapidly. He said, ‘They could have arrived in a bigger boat with an engine and a cabin where the accomplice remained out of sight. After she’s been killed the accomplice alights and drives the victim’s car away to dump it while the other person takes the boat back to where it’s usually moored, which could be anywhere along this stretch of water, or further afield even. But I can’t see any of Woodley’s crowd owning a boat.’
Eames said, ‘They could have stolen one.’
He’d get Elkins to check. To Marsden he said, ‘Make sure the dinghy gets back to the sailing club.’
‘How?’ Marsden asked surprised.
‘You’re a detective, figure it out. Did Marty Stapleton own a boat?’ he asked Eames as they headed for the car.
‘Not that we’re aware of.’
‘What about his associates?’
‘There’s no record or mention of boats, but it’s possible one or more of them could have one.’ She studied the area. ‘It must have been very dark waiting here. There are no street lights or security lights. I suppose she could have left her car lights on, which could have guided the boat in.’
It was a good point. And there was no one in this isolated position to have seen that, therefore making it an ideal location for a rendezvous. ‘She could have had a powerful torch, which she kept in her car, and that’s in the sea along with her handbag.’ If it was he hoped the divers would find it. After a moment he added, ‘I wish we had a name for her.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. Salacia.’
‘What?’ He threw her a glance.
‘It’s the Roman name for the goddess of salt water.’
‘Seems very apt.’
‘Salacia was the wife and queen of Neptune, god of the sea. She was beautiful and crowned with seaweed.’
‘Spot on,’ Horton said, recalling the victim when alive and when her body had been lifted from the sea, covered with seaweed, dirt and sea creatures.
‘She bore Neptune three children.’
Horton recalled what Dr Clayton had said, that Salacia had certainly borne one child, so where was that son or daughter? Why hadn’t he or she reported their mother missing? Why hadn’t anyone? He said as much as Eames started the car and headed towards the outer cordon.
‘Perhaps the child has died, or she gave it up for adoption,’ she answered. ‘Or perhaps it’s living abroad and not in regular contact with its mother. There’s no record of Marty Stapleton having a child, legitimate or otherwise.’
‘Doesn’t mean to say he hasn’t any, though. Have you traced all his girlfriends?’
‘I doubt it. He was married once. She died in a car accident in 1996.’
‘Convenient.’
‘Yes.’
A car passed them heading for the boatyard. Horton recognized it instantly. ‘Quick, turn round. That’s Cliff Wesley.’
Eames expertly swung the vehicle around and they drew up alongside Wesley at the outer cordon where PC Allen had stopped him. Through the open passenger window Horton addressed the dishevelled dark-haired man.
‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you all day, Mr Wesley; is there something wrong with your phone?’
‘Not my phone, my editor.’ He looked hot and harassed. ‘He’s had me dashing about from job to job like a blue-arsed fly. If the newspaper put its hands deeper in its pockets and employed a couple more press photographers I might not have to re-do jobs that the so-called professional freelancers they engage cock up, which is why I’ve had to return here after all the fun is over,’ he grumbled.
‘I’d hardly call it that,’ Horton said acerbically.
‘Perhaps I could get a shot of the police divers.’ Wesley jerked his head in the direction of the quay.
‘Unlikely. A moment of your time, sir.’ It wasn’t a question. Horton climbed out and indicated he expected Wesley to do the same.
With a weary sigh he obliged. Eames followed suit.
‘What do you know about this woman?’ Horton nodded at Eames, who showed Wesley the photograph of Salacia.
‘Leanne told me about her. She was at Woodley’s funeral.’
‘Did you see her talk to any of Woodley’s mourners?’
‘Not while I was photographing them. And I didn’t take any pictures of her either. My life might be a lot easier if I had done,’ he complained, taking a packet of cigarettes from the top pocket of his short-sleeved white shirt. ‘If I’d have known she was going to get herself killed I’d have ignored Woodley’s sycophantic lot and concentrated on the poor cow.’ He removed a cigarette and offered the packet to Horton, who shook his head. Eames did likewise.
‘Did you see her arrive?’
‘Not exactly.’ He lit up and exhaled.
Horton wondered what the hell that meant. Before he could ask, Wesley continued. ‘Superintendent Uckfield and his boy arrived and walked to the rear of the crem. I was in the car having a fag and checking the images I’d just shot which, judging by the expressions of the mourners, would make you think that Woodley was not only a blessed saint but had been loved as much as Mother Teresa. I thought I might get some more interesting shots after the funeral when Woodley’s friends thought I’d gone.’
‘Did you?’ Horton recalled the photographs the picture editor had shown them.
‘Only the one of you with the fat detective looking baffled.’
Yeah, thanks, thought Horton, knowing that was the real reason why Wesley had stayed on. He’d seen Uckfield arrive, thought he might get an interesting shot, and Horton wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already sold the image to one of the tabloids. Tomorrow he, Uckfield and Marsden could be staring out of one of the national newspapers accompanied by indignant headlines that would make them look incompetent. It was par for the course but Dean was not going to be a happy man and Uckfield would go ballistic. Perhaps he’d better warn him.
Crisply he said, ‘So when did you first notice her?’
‘I’d checked the pictures, had a fag, and it was getting hot in the car so I got out and went to stand under the trees to watch for Woodley’s mob. I didn’t think they’d be long and they weren’t. I’d only just got there when I heard them. So I walked back to the front and she was there. I thought nice-looking woman, good figure, smart. The mourners for the next funeral were arriving. I turned, took some more shots of Woodley’s crowd and of you, then showed them to Leanne.’
Horton remembered seeing them in a huddle over the camera.
‘I went back to the car, lit a fag and left.’
‘And the woman?’
‘I didn’t see her again.’
Disappointing. Horton studied the careworn sharp-featured face and the slightly bloodshot eyes. There was no reason for Wesley to lie.
‘Were the mourners for the next funeral still outside when you left?’
Wesley exhaled, and scratched his chin. ‘I think they were going into the chapel. I don’t remember noticing the woman with them, or I should say I don’t recall seeing that hat. She could have taken it off I suppose but I think I would have noticed that dress and her figure in amongst a lot of older people. Any idea who she is?’
‘Not yet.’ Horton wasn’t going to be drawn into commenting any further. There didn’t seem anything more Wesley could tell him but as a final shot he asked, ‘Have you ever seen her before?’
Wesley again studied the photograph, Horton wondered if he should ask him to imagine her as a blonde rather than dark-haired but he’d hold back on that for now.
‘No, can’t say that I have.’
‘We’ll need a statement from you. Call into the station tomorrow,’ he insisted, knowing that tomorrow Wesley’s photograph of him, Uckfield and Marsden would be in the newspapers.
‘If I can.’
‘We’ll send a car for you.’