SEVENTEEN
Saturday
‘Yes, that’s Gregory,’ Patricia Harlow said stiffly, before snatching her head away from the body. Horton saw a flicker of bewilderment in her eyes but that was the only emotion she betrayed and her posture never altered. The lines around her mouth and eyes had deepened, though, gouging tunnels into her pale skin. Her face was etched with fatigue showing she’d had a troubled night, like him, and Eames, he thought, because even her blue eyes weren’t as clear as they usually were. And in the briefing room earlier Uckfield had looked as though he’d been pacing the floor all night. His skin was grey and his manner agitated and sharp. Dean had appeared briefly with a worried frown on his pixie face, while Bliss looked as crisp and cool as usual and the glint in her eye was steelier than ever. Horton read it as determination to grasp victory on one case at least, the vehicle fraud. He’d heard from Walters that they were building a case against the garage proprietor and there was evidence that the van used to rob Mason’s Electricals store could have come from Mellings’ garage.
Horton led Patricia Harlow out of the room. He had hoped that her son would have accompanied her not just for her sake but so that they might glean some information from him about his parents and in particular his father. But Patricia Harlow had said without apology or guilt that she hadn’t told Connor about his father’s death, adding that she would tell him when it became necessary. Horton thought it was necessary now. He could only surmise that she had wanted to make absolutely certain that her husband really was dead before informing him. He wondered what Connor Harlow would say and how he’d feel when he discovered it had been over twelve hours since his mother had first been given the news. Perhaps they weren’t a very close family. Perhaps her son wouldn’t be that upset? Perhaps Gregory Harlow had been a distant father and Patricia a cold-hearted mother, which had made her son uncaring and detached. It was none of his business but the deaths of Salacia and Ellie were.
Eames offered her a drink but she refused with a shake of her head. Footsteps in the corridor came closer and passed them by. It was hot and humid, the air stifling and oppressive, in total contrast from the air-conditioned room they had just left. When Patricia Harlow spoke it came as something of a surprise because they seemed to have been standing in silence for so long, although in reality Horton knew it could only have been a minute at the most.
‘You said Gregory drank himself to death. Is that true?’ She spoke crisply but Horton noted the edge of hardness had gone from her voice.
‘We won’t know for certain until after the post-mortem. At the moment the manner of his death suggests it and that he took his own life.’
‘But why?’ she insisted, eyeing him keenly.
‘We were hoping you might tell us that.’ He held her stare, seeing the anguish in her eyes; should she tell what she knew or not? He felt a shiver of anticipation. Neither he nor Eames spoke. They both knew the fragility of the moment.
After a moment she squared her shoulders and said tersely, ‘Can we get away from here? But not the station. I don’t want to go to the police station.’
‘OK.’
She slipped into the rear of Eames’s car. Horton climbed into the front passenger seat and gave instructions to Eames to pull into one of the viewing spots along the top of the hill, which bordered the northern edge of the city. It was unorthodox and he’d get bollocked because anything she said would be off the record but Horton was backing his instinct. She needed to talk and she couldn’t do that, initially anyway, in the confines of the interview room. It happened like that sometimes. This was a big decision on her part. He didn’t think she would retract what she told them.
A few minutes later, Eames silenced the engine. Portsmouth lay spread out beneath them shrouded in the heat and smog while beyond it lay the pale silver of the Solent. The hills of the Isle of Wight were barely visible.
Horton said, ‘Let’s sit outside.’ He gestured at the wooden table with a bench seat either side of it. He guessed that Patricia Harlow needed air even though there seemed little of it about. He could do with some himself to rid his nostrils of the smell of the mortuary and death. Eames made to remove her notebook and pen but at a sign from Horton left both in her jacket pocket. She slid onto the seat beside him and opposite Patricia Harlow. They waited. The drone of the cars on the road below them and the throbbing of a Chinook helicopter overhead filled the sultry air. Horton reckoned it must have been two minutes before she spoke.
‘She was evil. She deserved to die.’
Horton knew she meant Salacia. He sensed Eames’s excitement beside him and found his body responding to it in a way he’d rather not consider. Not now, not ever. She was strictly out of bounds with her rich and influential daddy. He shut out the smell of her light perfume and the knowledge that her thigh was only inches from his. One tiny movement would bring it into contact. He steeled himself to concentrate on the woman opposite.
‘She killed Rawly.’
‘He killed himself,’ Horton answered quietly, trying to follow her train of thought. Her head came up and he saw the anger in her eyes. ‘Only because the police hounded him. They thought he killed Ellie, but he didn’t, she did. My sister killed Ellie Loman.’
Horton quickly covered his surprise. He resisted throwing Eames a glance and studied Patricia Harlow’s face.
‘That’s who the woman in that photograph is,’ she hastily continued, scorn curling the edges of her lips. ‘She’s my sister.’
The truth at last! It came as something of a shock. The sisters were totally unalike.
‘Sharon Piper’s her real name, or it was. God knows what she calls herself now, called herself.’
‘How do you know she killed Ellie?’ he asked.
‘She hated her. She was jealous.’
Horton was rapidly trying to put this together. ‘Jealous that Rawly loved Ellie.’
‘No,’ Patricia Harlow said bitingly. ‘Although Ellie might have fallen for him eventually, but that was before he showed up.’
Who, for God’s sake? Gregory Harlow? No. Harry Foxbury? Possibly. He could see Eames was thinking the same. ‘He?’
‘Sharon introduced them. My God, if Sharon had known then that he’d fall for Ellie she’d have killed her on the spot.’ She paused then hurried on, the words coming quickly as though she was desperate to get them out before she lost them. ‘My aunt and uncle had a party in May 2001. It was their pearl wedding anniversary. Rawly invited Ellie, and Sharon came with Leo. Any fool could see that Leo and Ellie were instantly attracted and my sister was no fool. Although you already know that.’
Horton frowned. Leo, not Harry. Who the hell was Leo? No one by that name had featured in this case, and he was certain he hadn’t seen the name on the sailing-club list. And what did she mean about them knowing Salacia was no fool?
He said nothing. This had been a long time coming and he needed to hear it. Thank God Eames was experienced and attuned enough to keep quiet.
Patricia Harlow continued, ‘Gregory and I lied to you. We did see Sharon at my aunt’s funeral just as we were going into the chapel. I couldn’t believe it was her at first. I hadn’t seen or spoken to her for years. I didn’t even know where she went when she left Portsmouth but I wouldn’t have been told anyway and I didn’t care.’