Uckfield picked up his pen and began to play with it. ‘Why would Marty want her killed?’
‘For any number of reasons: he’s discovered she’s been cheating on him while he’s been inside; she’s been spending too much of his money; she’s begun to blab; he’s got bored with her; he just wants to show he’s still boss, or could be for all of those reasons. And Stapleton’s not going to tell us. He’s kept quiet about her until now.’
Uckfield threw down his pen. ‘OK, I’ll buy it. Anything else?’
Horton reported the outcome of his brief interviews with Fiona Wright and Cliff Wesley, deciding to omit the bit about Wesley’s photograph of them possibly being in the newspaper tomorrow. That certainly wouldn’t improve the Super’s mood. He’d find out about it soon enough and hopefully when Horton was some miles away. ‘The funeral director called me while we were on our way to Patricia Harlow’s to collect the list of mourners at her aunt’s funeral. His drivers didn’t see the victim while the service was being conducted and neither of them noticed her beforehand. They don’t remember seeing her after the service either so unless she was with this unknown person in the crematorium gardens she must already have left, possibly with him. We’ve also got the list of the members who were drinking in the club last night. Aside from the Chief Constable and Councillor Levy there were only six people, two women and four men. Anything from SOCO?’
‘There are tyre tracks in the boatyard, but they’re too vague to be of any use. There’s no forensic evidence where the body lay on the wreck but Taylor’s sent the seaweed and fragments of wood from the boat for examination, for all the good it will do. Trueman’s got teams checking the statements supplied by Manley and his divers, the boatman and the crane operative.’
‘Any joy from your press briefing?’
‘Nothing so far,’ Uckfield answered gloomily. ‘I’ve asked for anyone at the crematorium at the critical time to come forward but we’ll probably get all the loonies and the usual nutters confessing to murder, including that mad woman from Gosport who claims to have killed everyone from the Duke of Buckingham in 1628 onwards.’
Horton gave a brief smile.
Uckfield rose and stretched his back.
Horton continued. ‘Gregory Harlow is currently on the Isle of Wight at the festival. Despite what his wife says we need to make sure he doesn’t recognize or know Salacia, so why don’t I kill two birds with one stone tomorrow, interview Harlow, show him photographs of the victim dark-haired and fair-haired, and visit the prison. I can talk to the Head of Operations and see what I can flush out on Woodley, and the attack on Stapleton. I can also see what the Intelligence Directorate haven’t told us.’
‘Good idea,’ Uckfield replied with enthusiasm.
‘I’d also like to re-interview the landlord of the Lord Horatio and see if I can jog his memory. He might recall something new about Woodley’s visit there before he was attacked. And I can get his reaction when I show him the photographs of Salacia. I’d like Eames with me.’
‘I bet you would.’ There was a tap on the door and Eames entered. ‘Talk of the devil,’ Uckfield muttered.
‘I’ve checked the Marty Stapleton file and there’s no record of Stapleton owning a boat or any reference to his known associates having one.’
‘Doesn’t mean they haven’t got one now or hired one,’ Uckfield replied then bellowed, ‘What?’ as another knock came at his office door.
Marsden entered flushed and excited. ‘We’ve found her shoe, sir.’
‘All right, no need to wave it about like a bloody trophy.’
‘Sorry, sir. The divers are continuing the operation tomorrow morning.’
‘Are they on a work to rule?’ cried Uckfield with a pointed look at his watch.
‘It’ll be dark in less than an hour-’
‘So? It’s as dark as pitch down there anyway, what difference does the night make?’
‘They need to take a break, sir, and er it will cost more if they have to work overtime.’
‘They’ll be having their own union next. I thought they were police officers like us.’
Eames, taking the evidence bag containing the shoe from Marsden, said, ‘Where did they find it?’
‘Lodged under some wood on the wreck below the one the victim was discovered on. The divers are searching the second wreck more thoroughly tomorrow for her handbag, and the murder weapon.’
Horton said, ‘Ask them to look for a torch.’
‘Yeah, to light their bloody way.’
Ignoring Uckfield’s comment, Eames said, ‘This matches the victim’s. It’s a Jimmy Choo.’
With heavy sarcasm, Uckfield said, ‘Goody, now all we have to do is interview all of Jimmy Choo’s customers who bought this shoe in a size six, ask them to show us their shoes and the woman who can’t is our victim, just like bloody Cinderella, which about sums up this pantomime of a case.’
Horton wondered who the ugly sisters were.
To Marsden, Uckfield said, ‘Tell Trueman I want a briefing tomorrow morning eight thirty sharp and I want everybody there. That includes you, Agent Eames.’ He flicked her a glance. Horton couldn’t interpret what was behind it but he thought he saw suspicion and resentment.
Dismissed, Eames and Marsden left. Uckfield’s phone rang and Horton slipped away leaving him talking to his wife. He told Eames they were off to the Isle of Wight tomorrow after interviewing the landlord of the Lord Horatio pub, but he didn’t relay his theory about Marty possibly having arranged Salacia’s death. Time for that tomorrow.
In his office, he viewed his desk despairingly. At the rate his paperwork was piling up there’d soon be no rainforests left. He proceeded to push a few bits of the stuff around and replied to a couple of emails but his mind was elsewhere. He’d achieve nothing more by staying and twenty minutes later he was pulling into the marina. He caught sight of a large sleek motor cruiser on the waiting pontoon and the glimpse of a man in his early sixties on board before heading down the pontoon to his yacht. His eyes were scratching with the heat, dirt and fatigue. He felt in need of a long cool shower and an equally long cold drink but when he reached his yacht he drew up with a start; his body stiffened. Sitting in the cockpit was a tall, slim silver-haired man in an immaculate light grey suit: Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer.
‘Inspector, I wondered if I might have a word.’
It wasn’t a question. ‘If you’ve come to discuss the case, I’m off duty,’ Horton answered tersely, climbing on board and unlocking the hatch, annoyed with himself for not spotting Sawyer’s car in the marina car park. But perhaps Sawyer, or his driver, had parked further away so that he wouldn’t see the car, wanting the element of surprise, and he’d certainly achieved that. How long had Sawyer been waiting? Not long, Horton guessed, but how had Sawyer known when he’d be arriving? Even if the man had been at the station and not headquarters some twenty miles away he couldn’t see how Sawyer could have arrived before him.
‘It’s not about the case,’ Sawyer answered.
No. Horton already knew that. There was only one reason why Sawyer was here and that was Jennifer Horton.
SIX
‘I have no idea what happened to my mother and I’m not interested,’ Horton said, descending into the cabin.
‘I don’t think you mean that.’
Horton turned and held Sawyer’s cool, penetrating stare. His dislike of the man was augmented by the fact that Sawyer knew more about his past than he cared for, but even without that Horton would have been suspicious of him. He considered Sawyer to be a man without conscience, practised in deception, emotionless and cold-hearted. And as if to prove his suppositions the bloody man wasn’t even perspiring despite the heat. Sawyer should team up with the ice-maiden, Bliss, thought Horton feeling soiled and sweaty. He didn’t offer him a seat.
Sawyer said, ‘Have you found a copy of the missing photograph belonging to former PC Adrian Stanley?’