Horton turned to his voicemail, where he found a message from Sergeant Elkins.
‘There’s no sign of any of Woodley’s known associates owning a boat. They still might though because that lot would rather risk a fine if they were caught in the harbour than bother to register it. Nothing new to report on assaults on boat owners or anyone acting suspiciously in Langstone Harbour and no new metal thefts.’
Tomorrow, Horton would ask Elkins to see if he could find any sightings of Foxbury’s boat at any of the marinas on the Isle of Wight for Tuesday.
There was, thankfully, no sign of Sawyer or his car in the marina when Horton reached it, or any unexpected visitor sitting in the cockpit of his yacht, but he’d only been on board a couple of minutes when someone hailed him and he looked out to find Edward Ballard on the pontoon.
‘I wanted to thank you for your help last night,’ Ballard said.
Was that only last night? It seemed like ages ago. Ballard was sporting a clean plaster on his forehead and seemed to have fully recovered from his ordeal. He looked tanned and relaxed in shorts and a polo shirt, and Horton again noted the tautness of his muscles.
‘Think nothing of it. Would you like a drink?’ he asked surprising himself. He rarely went in for company and although he was tired, he suddenly thought that talking to Ballard might free his mind from thoughts of Zeus, the case and Catherine. He didn’t expect Ballard to accept, but he did with alacrity.
‘I won’t stop long, though,’ Ballard added, climbing on board. ‘It’s late and you must be tired. I saw on the news about the murder of that woman at the boatyard and Eddie in the marina office said you were working on the investigation.’
Ballard’s words brought him up sharply. Ballard, like Foxbury, had a powerful motor cruiser, with a tender on it. Where had Ballard sprung from last night? Did he know Salacia? Had he really come here to thank him or was it to pump him for information? But if he was involved then why hang around after killing Salacia, and if he had come into this marina to pump him for information then how had he known that he was on the case and where he lived? No, he was way off beam with that one. He was beginning to feel the effects of the long day and the heat. His brain felt ragged. He, like Uckfield, was simply desperate for some answers and he’d seized on this poor man as hopefully being able to give them a lead on the case. Next he’d be suspecting every passing yachtsman of murder.
Horton offered him a choice of drinks and handed over a Coke before grabbing one himself. He found himself saying, ‘What we don’t understand is why she was at the old boatyard at Tipner. Do you know it?’
‘No. I’ve seen it on the charts though when sailing into the harbour. Do you know why she was killed?’
Horton gave his stock policeman’s answer, ‘We’re following up a couple of possible lines of inquiry.’ He gestured Ballard into a seat and sank down heavily opposite, across the table.
‘On the news that police officer said you’re trying to establish her identity. You’d think someone would have missed her, a mother, husband, lover, father?’
‘Perhaps there isn’t anyone.’
‘Not even children? A daughter or son?’
There had been one according to Dr Clayton, but as Eames had suggested the child could have been given up for adoption, or died. ‘Perhaps they don’t know that she’s missing.’
Ballard looked thoughtful. ‘I guess she could have told them she was going to be away for a few days.’
‘Or perhaps they’re not a close family and only keep in touch infrequently. Once a year at Christmas is sometimes all some families manage, if that, and, as you say, if she had friends then she might have told them she was going away on business or on holiday.’
‘She appeared to be a nice-looking woman. Her picture was on the news.’
‘Have you ever seen her before?’
Ballard’s head came up with surprise. ‘Me? No. Why do you ask?’
‘I’ve asked so many people it’s become a kind of habit,’ Horton joked, wearily.
Ballard gave a smile. ‘And here’s me making you talk about it when that’s the last thing you probably want to do. I came to say thank you and to tell you that I’m heading off early tomorrow morning.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘France, I think, for a while.’ He took a pull at his drink and surveyed the cabin. ‘Do you live on board?’
‘Most of the time,’ Horton replied, not wanting to be drawn.
‘It’s nice.’
‘Bit smaller than yours, and not as fast,’ Horton answered, taking a swallow of his drink and adding, ‘How long have you had your boat?’
‘Not long.’
‘Been around much in it?’
‘The Channel Islands, Spain, France, here.’
‘Wish I had the time. Are you retired?’
‘Sort of. I have some investments. I dabble a bit here and there.’
Evasive thought Horton but then there was no reason why Ballard should tell him his life story, just as he wouldn’t relay his.
Ballard rose and consulted his watch. A Rolex, Horton noted, and genuine. ‘I’d better be going. Thanks again for your help.’ He had hardly touched his drink. He stretched out a hand and Horton took it noting the firm dry grip and the steady confident eye contact. He thought he detected something behind the eyes in that brief glimpse but he couldn’t define what exactly.
Ballard turned away and climbed on deck. Horton followed him.
‘I’ve asked for any further incidents like the one that happened to you last night to be reported to me. I’ll let you know if we catch whoever attacked you. How do I get in contact?’
‘Forget it. I don’t want any fuss,’ Ballard said, smoothly and pleasantly.
‘It would help us to secure a conviction if you’d press charges.’
‘Sorry, but I’d rather not.’
Horton let him go. He watched him strike out down the pontoon. Before he reached the security gate Ballard turned and raised his hand. There was something in the gesture that tugged at the back of Horton’s mind. It had the smack of a farewell in it. And why shouldn’t it? Horton was hardly likely to see Ballard again.
He stayed on deck long after Ballard had disappeared from view, scouring the marina and the car park. There was no one about and he recognized all the cars in the car park. Why wouldn’t Ballard give him his contact details? OK, so the man was entitled to his privacy but Horton wasn’t just anyone. He replayed their conversation, mentally dissecting it. Had he missed something? Had Ballard merely been thanking him for being a Good Samaritan and making chit-chat about the murder case, or had there been something more to his visit? He recalled that brief eye contact. What had he seen? There was something, he was sure of it but what, he couldn’t define.
He thought back to what he had seen on Ballard’s boat. One cabin door had been ajar but there had been nothing on the ruffled double bed. He hadn’t seen into the other cabin. In the shower room, where he had washed his hands before attending to Ballard’s cut, there had been men’s toiletries: toothpaste, toothbrush, electric razor, aftershave, expensive brand. No women’s toiletries but then Ballard would have cleared them out if they had belonged to Salacia. Could he be involved? Could he be her killer? But why not clear out after her death? Why come into Southsea Marina? Had he wanted to tell him something but couldn’t bring himself to? No, he must be wrong. Then what was it that bothered him so much about Edward Ballard? It was there, at the back of his mind, nagging at him, tormenting him.
He returned to the cabin, and stood just inside it. First Sawyer had shown up here and then Ballard, but had they arrived at the marina in that order? Had Sawyer got here before Ballard? He’d certainly arrived before Horton, which he’d already considered surprising. Had Sawyer known that Ballard was here? Was that why Sawyer had been at the marina? Ballard was connected with Sawyer. Or could he be connected with one of Sawyer’s investigations. And was that investigation to do with Marty Stapleton and Salacia? Or. . Horton stiffened. Was Ballard connected with Zeus? Was that why Sawyer had been here and had warned him?