‘That old boatyard must have been worth a lot of money,’ he said quietly. And he’d like to know how much.
Eames hailed Foxbury and a few seconds later a bulky man in his mid-sixties appeared on deck wearing beige shorts and an oversized brightly patterned floral shirt open at the neck to reveal grey hair matching that on his round, suntanned and heavily lined face. Eames made the introductions and asked if they could speak to him.
‘Come on board.’ Foxbury eyed Eames licentiously as she nimbly climbed on deck.
Horton followed suit, quickly surveying the boat and noting the tender on the rear with two powerful Suzuki outboard engines. ‘Nice craft, Mr Foxbury,’ he said admiringly, though it wasn’t to his taste. ‘How long have you had it?’
‘Bought it at the Southampton Boat Show September before last. I used to sail but the wife doesn’t like it. She doesn’t mind this, though, doesn’t mess her hair up.’ He smiled at Eames. She returned it with what seemed like genuine warmth tinged with a dash of coquettishness. Surely she couldn’t fancy the old devil? No, she’d quickly got the measure of Foxbury and was just softening him up. Perhaps there was a side to Eames he hadn’t noticed. Perhaps she was a better cop than he’d given her credit for. And perhaps she hadn’t been seconded to work with him to get close to him as he’d suspected after Sawyer’s visit because she’d not even given a hint that she fancied him. Probably didn’t.
Foxbury continued, ‘With a cruiser you can shoot across to France or the Channel Islands without it taking all day, although I’ve only been to the Hamble today. This is about the body you found at my old boatyard, I take it?’ Foxbury led them below deck. ‘Drink?’ They both refused. He poured himself a glass of white wine from a bottle that was half full before waving them into seats behind the table in the spacious cabin that smelt strongly of alcohol and perfume. He slid onto the seat nearest Eames and at right angles to her. Horton surmised by his heightened colour and slightly clumsy manner that it wasn’t his first bottle of the day. Horton hoped he wasn’t driving home.
‘So who is she?’ Foxbury asked.
Horton felt like asking the same question but his thoughts were on the owner of the perfume, because it wasn’t Mrs Foxbury; Eames had said Debbie Foxbury had been shopping all day and was now at home.
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish, sir.’ Eames reached for the photographs from the jacket resting on her lap and handed across two pictures, one of Salacia with dark hair taken at the crematorium and the other the computer-altered image showing Salacia with fair hair. Foxbury placed his wine glass on the table and took them from her making sure to touch her fingers. Eames didn’t recoil or react in any way. Foxbury sniffed and with a slight frown of concentration studied the photographs. Horton could hear a boat making its way into the marina. ‘Do you recognize her?’ Eames prompted after several seconds had passed.
‘Can’t say I do.’
He placed them on the table. Horton watched him closely. A lie or the truth? He couldn’t tell.
‘How about this man?’ She placed the photograph of Woodley on the table beside the pictures of Salacia.
‘I saw him in the newspapers and on the telly. He’s the one they found dead at the marshes.’ He eyed them curiously. Horton could see him trying to fathom out the connection, or perhaps trying to work out how much they knew.
‘Have you ever seen him before that?’ asked Eames.
‘No.’
Foxbury’s gaze was steady. Horton hadn’t expected him to say anything different. He said, ‘What about Marty Stapleton?’
‘What about him?’
‘You know him?’ Eames asked barely disguising her surprise.
‘Never heard of him. Should I have done?’
Horton swiftly continued, noting that Foxbury was enjoying playing with them. ‘What can you tell us about the three wrecks that are being salvaged?’
Foxbury picked up his glass and took a swallow before answering. ‘One is a Second World War ammunition barge. The navy paid my dad to take several off their hands after the war but that one sunk before he could tow it out into the Solent and he left it there because it would have cost too much to raise. That must have been about 1948.’
Foxbury paused to top up his wine glass. Horton wondered if the gesture was designed to give himself time to think of a lie before continuing. But he had no reason to suspect Foxbury of anything, except that two bodies had turned up in his old boatyard and that was too compelling a coincidence to overlook, especially if they took Woodley out of the equation. But there was no reason to do that. And, as Horton had said to Uckfield, he didn’t think Kirby was lying about the photograph found in Woodley’s cell. The boatyard was also close to Woodley’s home ground and that of his fellow mourners. He left the thought hanging and concentrated on what Foxbury was saying.
‘The wreck on top of the munitions barge was recovered from the harbour. I remember its engine failed and it was towed in. There was an old man on board. I expected him to come back for it but he never did. It was left just off the quayside, slowly rotting, and it broke its mooring in a storm and sank over the barge.’
‘When?’ asked Eames.
Foxbury shrugged. ‘Late eighties, early nineties.’
And was the elderly man their bones? If so then perhaps the bracelet they’d found had no connection with the human remains after all. Horton said, ‘Weren’t you curious why he didn’t return? Didn’t you contact him and ask him to move the yacht?’
Foxbury eyed him as though he were mad. ‘Why should I? I dealt in old boats, and wrecked boats. It didn’t bother me it being there. It was just one of many. If the owner wanted it he had only to return and take it away.’
And had he returned and accidentally drowned while trying to recover it? Or had he been killed because he’d returned and witnessed something illegal? And could that be linked to Stapleton or Foxbury? Foxbury didn’t look uneasy, though.
‘Do you have his contact details, sir?’ asked Eames.
Foxbury eyed her as though she’d just asked him to explain quantum theory. ‘You must be kidding, love.’
‘What was the boat called?’
‘No idea and before you ask we didn’t keep records, or rather we did but only those for the tax man,’ he added somewhat hastily, throwing a glance at Horton.
Yeah, I bet. ‘And the other wreck on top of that?’
‘That was towed around for scrap in 2002. We took off anything that we could sell and we were going to break up the hull when the next morning we found she’d sunk, so we just left her there. And don’t ask me who owned that either because I don’t remember. And I haven’t got any paperwork.’
‘You said “we”, who worked with you?’ asked Eames, her pen poised.
‘They came and went, love. I can’t remember their names.’
Convenient. ‘Didn’t you keep records of employees?’ Horton asked.
‘When I needed to but I wouldn’t have them from back then.’
The law didn’t require anyone to keep records beyond six years. And Horton was guessing that Foxbury employed casual labour and much of that was cash in hand avoiding paying tax and national insurance and all the hassle that went with employing staff. There didn’t seem much more they could learn from Foxbury, but Horton wasn’t ruling him out of the investigation yet. He slid along the seat so that he could stand at the opposite end of the table to where Foxbury was sitting. Eames could slide along after him. He decided not to mention the bones. They’d save that for another time. Taking the hint, Eames put away her notebook and followed suit.
‘Is that it?’ Foxbury asked, somewhat surprised. Horton wondered what he had expected.