It took a while for Trueman to answer.
‘Anything new?’ asked Horton, hopefully.
‘I got a PC to take Cliff Wesley’s statement without Uckfield knowing that he’d come in. I didn’t fancy mopping up the blood. The Super gave another media appeal after the briefing. It was the ACC’s suggestion.’
More like a command, thought Horton.
‘That, and the national newspaper coverage, means the phones haven’t stopped ringing. Walters has been roped in to answer them. DCI Bliss is interviewing Reggie Thomas.’
Lucky old Reggie. ‘Anything useful from the appeals?’
‘Salacia’s been seen in Milton Keynes, Market Harborough and all points west of Plymouth but nowhere within a twenty-mile radius of Portsmouth.’
Horton wasn’t surprised. Public appeals always resulted in speculative sightings and a great deal of wasted time. But sometimes, just occasionally, they got a result.
‘And Mrs Harlow’s been on the telephone to make a formal complaint about the press hounding her because we gave her name to them.’
‘We?’ There was a slight pause that told Horton that was not what Patricia Harlow had said. She’d obviously named him.
‘I’ve passed her over to Communications and I’ve told Marsden to stay at Tipner Quay until he finds something belonging to the victim, even if it’s a broken fingernail, otherwise he might have to apply for a transfer. I’m thinking of putting in for one myself.’
And that wasn’t like Trueman. He rarely got fazed by pressure. His exasperation was explained by his next words.
‘The ACC’s been in the incident suite and Uckfield’s office more times in the last two hours than in the last two years, demanding an update, asking if anything new has come in, poking about on my desk and tut-tutting at the crime board. I think there might be another murder by the end of the day and we’ll have to lock up the Super. Pity you didn’t take him to the Isle of Wight with you.’
And Uckfield was probably wishing he had come. Horton reported back on the interview with Victor Wainstone then asked if they had the results of stomach contents for Salacia.
‘Lobster.’
Not the Lord Horatio cuisine, then. ‘And that’s it?’
‘Except for traces of vegetables; mangetout and asparagus.’
‘No doubt washed down with champagne.’
‘Best with a Pouilly-Fuisse, preferably one about five years old.’
‘And I had you down for a beer man,’ Horton said surprised.
‘Only when the Super’s buying and I don’t think he’ll be doing that for some time unless we get a quick result.’
‘Better stick to water, then.’
‘We’re doing a check on all the restaurants in the area which served lobster on Tuesday, as well as asking around at the supermarkets, fishmongers and delicatessens.’
‘Check the fish market at the Camber. Either Salacia or the man she was with could have bought a lobster there.’ It was too much to hope that someone might have seen and recognized her. He rang off promising to update Trueman the moment he had anything worth reporting and told him not to hold his breath. Then he rang the marina and enquired after Ballard.
‘He says he’s feeling fine and he looks OK. We’ve been checking on him every couple of hours. He’s getting fed up with us,’ Eddie answered.
‘Better that than finding him unconscious. I’ll look in on him when I get back but I’ve no idea when that will be.’
‘You on that murder case,’ Eddie asked with relish, ‘the woman found in that old wreck? I read about it in the paper this morning and that boss of yours has been on the telly.’
Horton said he was on the case and rang off before Eddie could ask any more questions. Not that Horton would have answered them. He joined Eames, who was eyeing the wooded coastline of the Isle of Wight as it came closer. He thought she looked troubled.
‘My family have a house on the Island. It’s over there, behind those trees and around the point from Wootton. We use it in the summer and at Christmas, or rather my family use it.’
She looked solemn and sad for a moment and Horton wondered if she was regretting her decision to join the force, or perhaps her family disapproved of her choice of career. They had to be wealthy to own a holiday home but he’d never doubted that. Despite his earlier promise not to take an interest in her background he found himself saying, ‘Why did you join the police?’
She eyed him closely for a moment, causing his pulse to beat a little quicker. Then she smiled and said brightly, ‘To find myself a nice husband, of course.’
Her reply took him aback for a moment before he returned her smile. It was clearly a subject she didn’t want to discuss. He understood that completely. He relayed what Trueman had said about the lobster and wine.
‘Good choice, but I’d probably go for a Chablis, Grand Cru 1997.’
‘I’ll pass your tip on to Trueman.’
‘It’s not the kind of meal any of Woodley’s associates would buy,’ she said.
‘No, even given Sholby and Hobbs’ sudden rise in income. But it could be the type of meal the man who brought her into the country would buy.’
‘If she lived abroad.’
‘OK, then, the man who drove her to the crematorium and away again.’ But Horton was convinced Salacia had been living abroad.
The announcement for passengers to return to their cars came over the loudspeaker and twenty-five minutes later Horton was showing his warrant card to the security officers at the backstage entrance to Seaclose Park. The festival kicked off tonight and the fields away from the main performance areas were packed with tents and people. He asked where they could find Gregory Harlow, the event-catering manager for Coastline.
‘The blue and white tent,’ came the answer. ‘It’s the one that’s kitted out like a beach cafe with deckchairs, sand and surfboards.’
Following directions, and leaving the car inside the gates, as instructed, they threaded their way through the hordes of workers and security officers across the bone-hard field towards a giant blue-and-white-striped tent emblazoned with the words, ‘Coastline Cool’. It was one of many they passed, along with several coffee stalls, ice-cream kiosks and fast-food outlets. The hot midday air resounded with the sounds of shouting, drilling, banging and a blast of music loud enough to be heard on the mainland six miles across the Solent.
‘I’m glad I don’t live round here,’ Horton said, with feeling, spotting the bulky figure of DI Dennings talking to a lean fair-haired man in his mid-to-late forties outside the Coastline Cool tent. Dennings was wearing the navy polo shirt and dark trousers of the official festival security officers.
‘Most of the residents move out for the festival,’ Eames said.
‘Can’t say I blame them.’
Dennings glanced across at them but gave no indication of recognition or hint of surprise, but Horton glimpsed the anger behind his eyes as they drew level. He guessed Dennings was thinking they were there to muscle in on his operation, or spoil it.
‘We’re looking for Mr Gregory Harlow,’ he said, politely.
‘You’ve just found him,’ answered the man beside Dennings.
Horton showed his ID and introduced Eames as a colleague. He caught Dennings’ baffled look as he obviously tried to place her.
‘We’d like a word, Mr Harlow.’
‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘This won’t take long. There are a few questions we’d like to ask you in connection with the death of a woman.’
His expression showed no surprise, only extreme agitation and fatigue. Horton thought he might be a few years younger than his wife.