FIFTEEN
Geoff Kirby was surprised to see him back so soon and was clearly a little irritated, if his expression was anything to go by. But after Horton had explained about the discovery of the human remains and the fact that Harlow seemed to have gone missing, he relaxed slightly and called up the computer files. Fifty minutes later Horton was heading back to Portsmouth on the ferry with some of the information he needed. It wasn’t conclusive but there was a link, as he explained to Trueman on the phone.
‘Coastline Catering Supplies deliver fish and frozen food to the prison. They have a branch on the Island and another in Portsmouth. Although Gregory Harlow used to deliver from the Portsmouth office, I called Skelton and he says that Harlow did occasionally work for the Island branch when they were short staffed. Kirby is sending over a list of all the delivery drivers for the period three months before the attack on Stapleton. It’s possible either Gregory Harlow or one of his work colleagues, under Harlow’s instructions, got that photograph of Salacia to an inmate who then made sure it got to Woodley. But I’m not sure how Stapleton fits in with the Harlows and Ellie Loman.’
‘There’s no record of Harlow’s van having been booked on any of the car ferries.’
That didn’t mean that Harlow hadn’t crossed to the mainland, he could have abandoned the van close to the ferry terminals, or elsewhere on the Island, and returned as a foot passenger. But where would he have gone after that? Horton asked Trueman to put out a call for Harlow and his van both on the Island and the mainland.
‘Has the search warrant come through for Amelia Willard’s house?’
‘Yes. It’s a different address to the one on the Ellie Loman case file. Amelia Willard moved to the new address in 2004, two years after Rawly died and a year after her husband’s death.’
‘Which means there’s probably nothing left of her son’s belongings.’
‘And if there had been then the Harlows could already have cleared it out following their aunt’s death.’
‘Apply for a search warrant for the Harlows’ house, Dave,’ Horton instructed. He didn’t expect any revelations but they needed to be certain, especially in the light of Harlow’s vanishing act. ‘I’ll go straight to Amelia Willard’s house.’ Trueman relayed the address. Horton said, ‘Has Eames returned from her interview with Foxbury?’
‘On her way back now.’
‘Ask her to collect Patricia Harlow and take her to Amelia Willard’s house, but to say nothing about Gregory Harlow being missing. I’ll meet them and a unit outside in an hour.’
Horton grabbed some food and had just taken a bite into his sandwich when Elkins rang.
‘Edward Ballard’s making for Guernsey,’ Elkins reported.
Not France then as he’d said. But a man had the right to change his mind.
‘I’ve asked the Port to alert me when he arrives. His boat’s not registered at any of the marinas there. I’ve checked.’
That was good thinking and Horton said so. ‘Any joy with Horsea Marina?’
‘Yes. Ballard arrived there on Monday and paid cash for two nights’ berthing. He left late on Wednesday evening.’
Which coincided with his arrival at Southsea Marina.
Elkins continued. ‘The lock master says he doesn’t remember Lazy Days going out of the marina during that time but it is possible that a small dinghy or RIB could easily have slipped in and out alongside or behind a larger boat in the dark.’
And the same could be said for Foxbury’s tender, which Horton had seen on his motor cruiser. But Gregory Harlow’s disappearance made it look increasingly unlikely that either Foxbury or Ballard were involved in Salacia’s death.
He rang off after asking Elkins to notify him when Ballard reached Guernsey. He spent the remainder of the ferry crossing speculating on the reaction he’d get from the abrasive Patricia Harlow. Did she know her husband had gone walkabout? Maybe? Did she know why? Had she lied about not knowing Salacia? It seemed that her husband had, and if Salacia hadn’t been at the crematorium for Woodley’s funeral then perhaps she had been there to see Gregory Harlow. Could Harlow have been the man Ellie Loman had spent her last day with and Salacia, whoever she was, had discovered this and had threatened to tell? But why wait all these years? Had she only just found out? If so how? Had Harlow confessed it to her in a post-coital daze after drinking wine and eating lobster, then realizing what he’d done he’d killed her?
As Trueman had said they’d get little, if anything, from the search of Amelia Willard’s house but it would be interesting to see Patricia Harlow’s reaction when he told her about Ellie Loman. According to Danby this would be the first time she’d been questioned about her.
When he arrived outside the house, not far from Southsea Common, some thirty minutes later, he was surprised to find it much smaller and shabbier than he’d expected. The tiny terraced house fronted straight onto the pavement in a road of similar houses sporting satellite dishes on the front elevation on one side of the road and wheelie bins on both. A patrol unit was parked outside number fourteen and Eames was waiting for him in her hired car with a cross-looking Patricia Harlow.
‘I’ve got better things to do than watch you tear my aunt’s house to pieces,’ Patricia Harlow snapped, as she unlocked the door and they entered the musty smelling narrow passageway. Horton nodded at the two uniformed officers to begin their search. ‘I’ve had to cancel several appointments,’ she continued. ‘This is most inconvenient for me and my clients. I shall be making a formal complaint to your Chief Constable regarding this harassment over the death of a woman I know nothing about. And I shall demand financial compensation for loss of earnings.’
‘Of course,’ Eames answered politely but wearily. By her tone, Horton guessed she’d already heard this several times on the journey here. With a slight nod he gestured Eames towards the rear of the house and remained in the hall with Patricia Harlow. From the glimpse into the small front room Horton didn’t think there was much to ‘tear to pieces’. She’d said nothing about her husband being missing, so Horton surmised Ross Skelton hadn’t called her to ask her if she’d seen him, probably too busy at the Festival.
‘I don’t know what you expect to find,’ Patricia Harlow added, her expression stern as the sound of drawers opening came from upstairs.
Nothing significant clearly, Horton thought. ‘Shall we go into the kitchen.’ It wasn’t a question but a command. He stood back and gestured her forward. After a moment she marched towards it, annoyance in every short step.
It was larger than the Lomans’ kitchen but not much. It was also dated, with cupboards in a shiny sickly grey and a worn dark grey Formica worktop. Eames, who had been searching it, gave a slight shake of her head. She’d left the cupboards open and Horton could see they were empty. There was also a gap where the fridge must have been and another where a washing machine had once stood. It was spotlessly clean, though. Through the window, devoid of curtains or blinds, Horton could see a small concrete-covered yard with a rotary washing line, and beyond that a high wall, which backed on to the houses in the next street.
‘Let’s sit down.’ He waited for Patricia Harlow to sit, which she did primly on the edge of one of three wooden chairs at a small table pushed up against the wall, before sitting himself. Eames took up position next to him and opposite Patricia Harlow, who sat tight-lipped and frowning.
Eames removed her notebook from her jacket pocket. Danby’s words flashed through Horton’s head. This tiny kitchen in this tiny house was probably smaller than one of Eames’s daddy’s horse boxes. The sound of PC Allen searching the front room brought his thoughts back to the job in hand. He could hear Johnson clomping about upstairs. Despite the heat outside the house was cold.