‘Do you have to ask them now? We’re way behind. The first bands are due to play in less than six hours.’
‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private, sir?’ Eames said politely, ignoring his plea and eyeing Dennings pointedly. She didn’t know him.
‘I’ll leave you to it, Greg. Thanks for the coffee,’ Dennings said pleasantly enough but Horton could tell he was bursting with curiosity.
‘You’d better come inside,’ Harlow said grudgingly, leaving them to follow him through the tent. Horton cast an eye over it. It was decorated with fishermen’s nets, lobster pots, sand and shells. Several people were putting out metal folding chairs and tables, while soul music blared out. At the bar, workers were busily stocking the shelves.
‘In here.’ Harlow led them to a tented extension behind the bar which was clearly a storeroom and rest room. Turning to them he made no attempt to conceal his irritation. ‘I haven’t a clue who this woman is, my wife told me you’d been asking questions about her, and I didn’t speak to her at the funeral.’
‘You remember seeing her, then?’
Harlow ran a hand across his perspiring forehead and wiped it down the front of his T-shirt which was emblazoned with the company logo and ‘Coastline Cool’.
‘No.’
‘Can you take us through the events leading up to your aunt’s funeral, sir, when the hearse turned into the crematorium?’ asked Horton.
‘I’ve already told you I didn’t see her,’ Harlow snapped.
Horton held his hostile eye contact and said nothing. Eames remained silent. Eventually Harlow was forced to continue. In clipped tones, he said, ‘Pat and I were in the car behind the hearse; we arrived just before the service. We got out. I nodded at a couple of people, neighbours of Amelia’s. We followed the coffin into the chapel. That’s it. Now if you’ve-’
‘What the hell’s going on here?’
Horton swung round to find a slender man with keen features about mid-fifties glowering at them. He was dressed casually and expensively in beige trousers and a short-sleeved pale blue cotton shirt open at the neck. Harlow’s fair face flushed and he shifted uneasily. ‘It’s the police, Ross. It’s OK, it’s got nothing to do with the festival,’ he hastily added before addressing Horton. ‘This is my boss, Ross Skelton, he owns Coastline Catering.’
Skelton barely glanced at Horton. Levelling his still irate gaze on his employee he said, ‘If it’s nothing to do the festival then sort it out in your own time and not mine.’
With deliberate politeness Horton said, ‘We won’t keep Mr Harlow from his work for very long, sir.’
Skelton frowned before stomping off. Horton heard him shouting at someone in the main tent.
Harlow quickly addressed Horton, ‘I’ve told you I can’t help you. I have no idea who she is.’
He turned away but Eames, taking two photographs from her trouser pocket, said, ‘This is the victim at the funeral and another picture taken of her with her natural colouring. Do you recognize her?’
‘No.’
‘If you’d take a closer look, Mr Harlow.’
Reluctantly Harlow stared at the photographs. Watching him carefully, Horton thought he detected a ghost of a reaction but whether it was of recognition it was difficult to say.
Thrusting the photographs back at Eames, Harlow said, ‘I’ve never seen her before.’
‘How about this man?’ Eames passed across a photograph of Daryl Woodley.
‘Look, I’ve no idea who they are. Now I’ve got work to do.’
Horton let him go.
‘Very tetchy,’ said Eames when they were heading back towards the security entrance.
‘He’s clearly under pressure.’ Horton nodded towards Harlow’s bad-tempered boss, Skelton, who was now having a go at his staff at one of his coffee stalls. Horton could see Dennings waiting for him by the car. Despatching Eames to buy some sandwiches and a couple of bottles of water, Horton made for him.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Dennings hissed.
‘It’s too long and too complicated to explain.’
‘Not if it has something to do with my operation.’
‘Don’t you mean the Border Agency’s operation?’
‘I’m not having you mess things up, Horton.’
Horton swiftly told him about the murder at Tipner Quay and that the dead woman had been seen at the crematorium the same time as Patricia and Gregory Harlow, who had been there for their aunt’s funeral. ‘What are your views on Gregory Harlow?’
‘Seems OK.’
‘When did he arrive here?’
‘No idea.’
‘He must have logged in.’
Dennings entered the temporary security office. Horton followed.
‘His van was checked in Wednesday morning at seven thirty-five.’
So Harlow must have been at home the night of his aunt’s funeral. That didn’t mean he stayed home. He could have gone out to meet Salacia. But would he have eaten lobster and had sex with her? There was no evidence to suggest that Salacia had any connection with Gregory and Patricia Harlow and no evidence to say Gregory Harlow could have killed her. The Harlows’ reaction to Salacia’s deaths weren’t what he would call normal but in this line of work he’d long since learnt that there was no ‘normal’.
Another blast of ear-deafening music filled the air. This time it didn’t seem to want to stop. By the time it did Horton could see Eames heading for the car. He made a point of politely thanking Dennings for his help adding, ‘Enjoy the festival.’
Horton climbed in. ‘Just checking Harlow’s movements,’ he explained, taking his sandwich from her. He wasn’t going to tell her who Dennings was. It didn’t concern her or their investigation.
‘I did the same with Gregory Harlow’s boss. He said he hoped we weren’t going to come around bothering them every five minutes. And he wasn’t too happy that Gregory Harlow had taken Tuesday afternoon off to attend his aunt’s funeral. Skelton expected him back Tuesday night; the senior staff sleep on site in a caravan during the festival, but Harlow called in to say he wouldn’t be back until Wednesday morning.’
So why did Harlow change his plans? Or perhaps he hadn’t intended to return on Tuesday night but had just told Skelton that to pacify him. On the other hand he could have been emotionally drained after the funeral and didn’t feel up to returning to work. Or perhaps Patricia Harlow was upset and her husband had stayed home that night to comfort her.
A prolonged blast of music followed them into the town of Newport. With feeling, Horton said, ‘I never thought I’d be glad to visit the relative peace and quiet of a prison.’
‘Then let’s hope there’s not a riot on, sir.’
NINE
Geoff Kirby, Head of Operations, rose from behind a modern desk in the small office and stretched out a large, strong hand. Horton hadn’t met him before. His first impressions were of authority and intelligence. He wondered what Kirby’s were of him. He hoped his claustrophobia didn’t show. He tried to shut out the sounds of the prison, which had followed him into Kirby’s office in the central administration block. There was no slamming of doors or rattling of keys here, they were all in Horton’s mind along with the smell of men and disinfectant that reminded him too much of his days spent in children’s homes.
Eames had been despatched to talk to the officers who had worked on Woodley’s wing, and to enquire about Reggie Thomas. She’d already caused quite a stir at the reception area and on their way through the prison both from prisoners and officers. She showed no sign of being aware of it but he knew that she was and that it didn’t affect her in the slightest. Another lesson they must have taught her at that Swiss finishing school, he thought.
‘I’d like to talk to you about Woodley’s attack on Marty Stapleton,’ Horton said after Kirby gestured him into the seat opposite.
‘I gave a full report to Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer and to Detective Superintendent Uckfield,’ Kirby answered a tad tetchily, his brown eyes studying Horton warily.