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Uckfield jerked his head towards the door. Horton said, ‘My colleague will stay with you in here while we conduct the search.’

She made no reply.

In the hall Uckfield raised his eyebrows and gestured for them to enter the kitchen. ‘God, she’s tough,’ he said quietly.

‘And capable of killing,’ Horton replied. ‘Perhaps Gregory Harlow didn’t meet and kill Salacia but she did when she discovered he’d had an affair with her. And perhaps she told her husband that and he killed himself, unable to live with it.’

‘Yeah, that’s possible. I’ll poke around in here and the garden. See what they’ve found in the lounge and upstairs.’

Horton was keen to see the house. He hoped it might give him a greater understanding and insight into Patricia Harlow. He took the lounge first.

‘Nothing so far, sir,’ PC Allen greeted him. They’d been told to look for any notes or correspondence from either of the dead women or from Gregory Harlow but Horton knew that if such existed it could be on the computer and there was one in the surgery, which they’d take away.

He surveyed the featureless room with its plain cream wallpaper, the same pale pink carpet that was in the hall, and a square cream sofa and two matching armchairs. There was an absence of cushions and rugs and only one picture of a bland country view above a tiled hearth with an electric fire. There was a modern television in one alcove, and a modern sideboard in the other one. He climbed the stairs to the Harlows’ bedroom, which reflected the lounge in its neatness. Along with a simple double divan covered by a plain lilac counterpane there was a fitted wardrobe on one side of the fireplace, the latter of which had been removed and boarded over, and a chest of drawers on the other side. A dressing table with a small mirror stood in the bay window but there was no full-length mirror, not even inside the wardrobe. And there was nothing that could provide them with any evidence of why Gregory Harlow had killed himself.

PC Johnson entered with a shake of his head. ‘Nothing in the bathroom or the other bedrooms, sir.’

In the hall Horton looked up.

Following Horton’s gaze, the officer said, ‘I’ll find a stepladder.’

‘No need, there’s a ring on that hatch, which means there’s a pole.’

‘It’s in one of the bedrooms.’ Johnson fetched it and as the hatch opened the ladder came down. Horton’s dread of confined spaces made him want to send Johnson up there but he wouldn’t duck out. Facing your fear was the only way he knew how to deal with it, which made him think fleetingly of Zeus.

With a rapidly beating heart he climbed the steps. The memories of being shut in as a form of punishment in one of the many and the worse of the children’s homes he’d been banished to following his mother’s desertion resurfaced and with an effort he pushed the terror he’d felt then away, determined not to let the bastards who had subjected him to such cruelty get the better of him. Gripping the rail he propelled himself upwards and was relieved to find a light switch to his right. The spacious attic was boarded and contained only one large cardboard box.

PC Johnson followed. ‘Wish my loft looked like this,’ he said enviously. ‘It’s full of stuff the missus says she can’t bear to throw away but hasn’t looked at for years. I said we should have a garage sale, only problem is we haven’t got a garage.’

Horton smiled. He peered inside the box. It contained a handful of ornaments, some silverware, an old heavy family Bible and a folder full of documents which, at a quick glance, belonged to the late Amelia Willard.

‘Bring it down,’ he instructed. They’d take it to the station and go through it but he didn’t think it would reveal anything. Too much time had elapsed since Ellie Loman’s death.

In the hall he met Uckfield, who shook his head, and together they entered the surgery. From Eames’s expression Horton could see that Patricia Harlow hadn’t spoken since they’d left her. She showed no signs of grief at her husband’s death but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel it. She could be holding it in. PC Allen began a methodical search. It didn’t take long. Horton said they would need to take her computer away for examination.

‘I can’t see how that will help you unless you think Gregory emailed me a suicide note. He didn’t.’

‘Could your husband have had an affair with this woman?’ Horton nodded at Eames, who again put the photographs of Salacia in front of Mrs Harlow. ‘She was originally a blonde,’ he added. ‘You might recognize her in this picture, which we’ve had computer-enhanced to show her natural colouring.’

Patricia Harlow didn’t even glance at the pictures. Flashing angry eyes at them she said, ‘You’ve just told me that my husband is dead, you’ve searched my house and now you want to badger me by asking questions. I refuse to say anything more and if you don’t leave me this instant I shall call my solicitor and make an official complaint at the highest level about your aggressive, uncaring and abusive manner.’

Uckfield looked as though he wanted to argue but Horton knew they were treading on thin ice by piling the pressure on her now. Gently he said, ‘Of course, Mrs Harlow. We understand you have a lot to do and are obviously upset. We’ll need you to formally identify your husband’s body tomorrow morning. A car will collect you at eight thirty.’

For the first time during their presence in her house she looked alarmed. He wondered if she was going to say she couldn’t cancel her appointments. He added, ‘Unless there is someone else who could do that, a son or daughter, perhaps?’ He hadn’t seen any family photographs or evidence that the Harlows had children.

‘No,’ she hastily answered. ‘I’ll do it. My son doesn’t live locally.’

So there was a child. He wondered what he was like and how he’d take the news of the death of his father. Blotting out Uckfield’s impatient manner beside him, Horton continued, ‘We are deeply sorry for your loss, Mrs Harlow, and apologize if you found our methods intrusive, but we only want to establish why this woman and Ellie Loman were killed and the reason for your husband’s death. In our job we have to ask questions at difficult times.’

She didn’t look mollified by his apology but then Horton guessed nothing would soften her.

‘We’ll see ourselves out.’

They made their way back to the station. Horton was the first to arrive in the incident suite. He had just finished updating Trueman when Uckfield arrived followed by Eames, who put the cardboard box found in the Harlow’s loft on a desk near Trueman.

‘No suicide note has been found in the caravan,’ reported Trueman. ‘And there’s no sign of Harlow’s mobile phone either. SOCO’s finished at the scene. Nothing significant found but Taylor will let us have a report tomorrow.’

Uckfield looked as though he was about to say that tomorrow wasn’t good enough when Horton quietly butted in, ‘It’s very late, Steve, we all need some rest, including you.’

For a moment Uckfield looked rebellious but then grudgingly acquiesced.

Before leaving, Horton told Eames he’d like her to accompany him to the mortuary in the morning, thinking it had become something of a habit. Dr Clayton would be giving him his own office next. He returned to his yacht, weary and disturbed by the case. He thought about Patricia and Gregory Harlow’s reaction to Salacia’s death when first questioned. Both had denied knowing her when shown the photograph but if Gregory Harlow had had an affair with Salacia, then why not turf her husband out? Because she loved him?

The images of Harlow’s body slumped in that whisky-filled van haunted Horton. How was Patricia Harlow feeling now? Was she alone in that house or had her son arrived to comfort her? Somehow he couldn’t see her weeping into anyone’s arms but how did he know that? Perhaps that brittle outer shell was hiding her real emotions because showing them would be construed as weakness, making her vulnerable. And perhaps Gregory Harlow had hurt her by betraying her with Ellie Loman and Salacia. Well, perhaps tomorrow, when she viewed the body of her husband, he’d find out. For now it was time for sleep, if it came, and he doubted that very much.