‘We go all out to locate him. DI Dennings will head the team with full resources while DCI Bliss will oversee the investigation into Langham’s suspected murder. And I want that kept firmly under wraps, no leaks to the media.’ Uckfield glowered at everyone. Bliss’s narrow mouth tightened. To Horton, Uckfield said, ‘Will the two men who fished it up talk to the press?’
‘I don’t think so.’ Horton didn’t think now was the best time to mention that they couldn’t find one of them to ask him. ‘But I’m not sure that Moira will keep quiet about it.’
‘Then tell her it will hinder us finding who killed her old man.’
Horton wasn’t convinced that would be enough of an incentive.
Uckfield continued. ‘If the media come sniffing around, refer them to me or DCI Bliss. Is that understood?’
Everyone solemnly and rapidly agreed.
Uckfield added, ‘We treat these as two separate investigations unless we obtain evidence that says otherwise. Well get to it.’ Uckfield stomped off to his office.
Bliss turned to Walters, crisply she said, ‘Check out the fights reported over the last few nights to see if any of them involved Langham. And get everything you can on him? I’ll tell Sergeant Trueman that you’ll contact the prison and obtain information on Langham’s sentence and inmates. I’ll contact Beverley Attworth at the Probation Office and find out who Langham’s offender manager is and the rules of his probation, when his last meeting was and when the next one was scheduled.’ Addressing Horton she continued. ‘Break the news to Moira Langham, find out when she last saw him and who his associates were and then report back.’
Horton refrained from saying that he knew how to do his job. The sooner he and Cantelli got out of the station the better. Any delay might make her ask to see Nugent and Westerbrook’s statements, and then he’d have to admit that Westerbrook hadn’t yet made one. As she turned to Trueman, Horton quickly made his escape with Cantelli and Walters.
In the corridor he asked Walters to contact Elkins. ‘Find out from him what time Westerbrook headed up Portsmouth Harbour from Oyster Quays and get him to check with the marina manager when he arrived. I’ve got an officer from Fareham checking if his car is in the marina car park, find out if they’ve reported back yet, if not ask Elkins if he can get that information from the marina manager. Brief him about Graham Langham. Ask if he knows where Westerbrook and Nugent work.’ To Cantelli he said, ‘I’ll call Stringer on the way to Moira’s and find out when he’s available. Have you got Moira Langham’s address?’
Cantelli nodded.
‘Then let’s go and break the bad news to her.’
FOUR
‘Well, don’t just stand there. Come in. Otherwise the nosy bugger neighbours will be wetting themselves with excitement, thinking you’re on a drugs bust,’ Moira greeted them twenty minutes later.
It had taken them longer than expected to reach the flat, which backed on to a busy road leading into the city centre. The chaos even the light smattering of snow earlier had caused on the roads had left its legacy of vehicle shunts. But Horton was pleased to see that the snow had vanished, the temperature had risen dramatically and the morning had turned damp, cloudy and clammy. On the way he’d called Stringer who said he would be in the CPS offices next to the law courts for the remainder of the morning. Horton hadn’t mentioned why he wanted to see him but it wouldn’t take much for Stringer to guess his purpose. He’d also received a call to say that Westerbrook’s car was not parked outside Spring Court or in any of the adjacent roads. Horton would wait until he heard back from Elkins before raising the alarm. He hoped he wouldn’t have to. But as he’d said to Cantelli, it was worrying that there was still no answer on his mobile phone.
As they had walked from the car to Moira’s flat Horton had wondered if Langham owned a vehicle. They hadn’t checked before coming out but even if they had Horton doubted it would show up on the vehicle licensing database because it was unlikely that Langham would have gone to the expense of insuring and taxing it. Cantelli agreed.
‘Should we be looking for drugs?’ Horton said mildly, following Moira’s sloppily dressed figure into the small hallway that was yellow with nicotine and smelt like a fishmongers on a bad day. Paradise Mews hardly lived up to its name, and while some of the occupants had made an effort to keep their flats presentable Moira was not one of them. Situated on the ground floor in the middle of the brick-built block, the inside was as filthy as the outside.
She flashed him a resentful glance and her thin lips tightened. Horton knew she was in her forties but she looked more like sixty. Faded tight jeans clung to her skinny legs and a shabby, dirty jumper hung off her flat chest.
‘What do you want?’ She eyed them with open hostility and suspicion before crossing to a worn sofa in the middle of the small, untidy, dirty room. Heaped upon it were clothes, magazines and some Christmas cards, there were no Christmas decorations. Toys were strewn over the filthy carpet, along with more clothes. There were the remnants of a meal on a plate on the floor by an electric fire set into the wall and two lager cans in front of the television set, which was on. Horton hadn’t smelt alcohol on her breath, but then she might have drunk the contents of the cans last night, or had a visitor while her old man was having his hand cut off somewhere.
‘Where are the children?’ Cantelli asked.
‘School, where do you think?’ she snapped. She picked up the remote control and punched down the volume on the television. Grabbing a packet of cigarettes from the arm of the sofa she added, ‘Thought they’d bum a day off school because of the snow but I don’t want the little bleeders hanging round here getting under my feet.’
Horton couldn’t imagine how they could possibly do that because housework didn’t seem to be high on Moira’s agenda. She lit up. Through the grimy windows Horton saw the small rear courtyard strewn with rubbish and some broken toys. He felt suffocated by the poverty and the hopelessness of Moira Langham’s life and that of her children.
As though picking up on his thoughts Cantelli asked how many children she had. His enquiry had been made pleasantly and with genuine interest but it drew the customary scowl of suspicion and her smart retort. ‘Three, why? What’s it to you?’ She inhaled as though it was her last cigarette on earth.
Cantelli shrugged indifference and gave a weary smile. He knew, just as Horton did, that polite expressions of interest without any ulterior motive were alien concepts to the likes of Moira who treated every copper and every official as the enemy.
‘OK, so what’s the bastard done now?’ she demanded. She didn’t invite them to sit. Horton wouldn’t have done so even if she had.
‘Moira, we have some bad news for you,’ he began but she interrupted.
‘Oh yeah? Bugger got nicked again, has he? Well bloody good riddance, that’s not bad news. I’ll put the bloody flags out.’ She puffed on her cigarette while scrutinizing their faces with an air of defiance and hostility. But then her brow knitted as she obviously saw something in their expressions. Her anaemic face paled. ‘Jesus! Don’t tell me he’s killed someone!’
‘No, Moira. I’m sorry to tell you that Graham is dead.’
‘Dead? Graham? You’re having me on.’ She smiled and shifted as her expression flicked between them. ‘You’re not, are you?’ she said slowly. ‘Bloody hell. He’s dead? Shit.’ She sank down on to the sofa.
Cantelli said, ‘Is there anyone we can call for you?’
‘Of course there isn’t,’ she snapped.
No, thought Horton with sadness recalling Moira’s background. A young life spent in care, no knowledge of who her parents were, two spells in a young offenders institute for thieving while under the influence of drugs, prostitution, another spell in prison for theft and assault and then life with Graham, sometimes with her kids and sometimes without them when they were periodically taken into care for their own good. Graham Langham hadn’t been much, but he’d been all she’d had, except for her kids.
‘Was it a fight?’ she asked.
Horton answered. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’ There was no easy way to say we’ve found your husband’s severed hand. But first he thought he’d ask some questions and see if he could get some straight answers before the shock and even deeper suspicion set in.
‘When did you last see him, Moira?’
She drew on her cigarette and then stubbed it out in the small tin ashtray on the arm of the sofa. Was that to give her time to concoct a lie or was she genuinely trying to remember and to come to terms with the news. ‘Monday.’
‘What time?’
‘Dunno. Afternoon. After the kids got home from school.’
‘So about half past three?’
‘If you say so, could have been later.’
‘Did he say where he was going?’
She eyed him as though he’d spoken in Arabic.
‘Has he contacted you since then?’ Horton persisted.
‘No.’
Cantelli looked up from his notebook. ‘Weren’t you worried?’
‘No.’
‘Why didn’t you report him missing?’
She snorted with derision. ‘If I did that every time he went off you lot would bang me up for wasting police time.’
Horton said, ‘Where do you think he went?’
‘No idea.’
But Horton thought she probably had. ‘Could he have gone to another woman?’ he asked, again thinking of Cantelli’s remarks about the hand being severed on adulterous grounds.
‘I’d cut his balls off if he did.’
And Horton wondered if those particular body parts would be found parcelled up. He didn’t think Moira was responsible for her husband’s death and certainly not on the grounds of adultery. She was as likely to be familiar with the Bible as he was of the Koran. He’d asked if Langham had had another woman, but perhaps he should ask if she had another man, or several come to that. Perhaps she’d resorted to her former profession. If she had then her clients weren’t choosy. Could one of these men have killed Langham? He’d save that question for another time. She was still talking about her husband in the present. That was understandable.
‘Has Graham ever mentioned a man called Alfie Wright?’ He watched her reaction closely.
‘No.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No.’
Cantelli handed across his phone showing a photograph of Alfie Wright, which Walters had sent over from their files.
‘Never seen him before.’
‘Where did Graham drink? Which pub?’ asked Cantelli.
She shrugged.
‘You didn’t go out with him?’
‘How the hell can I with three kids?’
Horton didn’t think that would have stopped her. She held his gaze, defying him to contradict her, but he didn’t. Instead he asked who Graham associated with.
‘No bleeding idea. He’s only just come out of the nick.’
It was clear they were going to get nothing from her on that score. Horton reverted to his original line of questioning. ‘How did Graham seem on Monday when he went out?’
‘OK,’ she said.
Horton eyed her closely, forcing her to add, a little reluctantly, ‘He was in a good mood.’
‘And he isn’t normally?’ asked Cantelli, pencil poised over his notebook.
‘Well who would be the state this fucking country’s in?’ She glared at them, her bony lined hands twirling the cigarette packet.
‘But there was something that made him happier than usual?’ Horton probed.
Again she shrugged her thin shoulders.
Cantelli said, ‘And he said nothing else to you?’
‘Like what?
‘Like where he was going, what he was doing?’
‘No and I didn’t ask because I knew he’d tell me to stop nagging and if I didn’t he’d lay one on me.’
Horton wasn’t sure he believed her but he let it go. She opened the cigarette packet and found it empty. She eyed Horton hopefully, but he shook his head and so did Cantelli. She sighed and tossed the packet on the sofa. The sound of a lorry grinding past on the main road rattled the windows.
Horton studied her carefully. Now was the time to break the news. ‘Moira, we believe Graham was killed. We’re investigating how he died. All that we have discovered of his body is his hand.’
‘His what?’ Her bloodshot eyes widened.
‘It is Graham’s hand,’ Horton swiftly continued. ‘The fingerprints match. There’s no doubt. He couldn’t have survived his hand being severed.’
‘Christ!’ She sprang up and ran a hand through her straggly brown hair and then turned feverish eyes on them. ‘Maybe he did survive? Maybe someone took him to hospital.’
‘We’ll give you a liaison officer,’ Horton said.
‘No!’ she cried, alarmed. ‘I don’t want no bloody policewoman in here poking her nose about. How the hell do I tell the kids their dad’s hand’s been found but not his body? Where was it found?’
‘In the sea?’
‘What the fuck was it doing there, and where’s his van?’ she added belligerently.
So Langham had had a vehicle. A car revved up outside, Horton could hear the deep bass of a stereo pounding. It faded as the car drove off. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Probably Bliss. Cantelli asked for details of the van.
‘White. I don’t know the registration number.’ But her gaze was shifty.
That meant it wasn’t registered, as he’d suspected. ‘Please, Moira we need to find it.’
After a moment she sighed and told them. Cantelli wrote it down. ‘Where does he keep it?’ he asked.
‘Eh?’
‘Does he park it in the street?’
‘Where else would he park it?’
‘He might have a garage or a lock-up.’
‘If he has he never told me about it.’
‘What about a mobile phone?’
‘He hasn’t got one. I have but he doesn’t use it.’
‘How about a computer or a laptop?’
She looked at him as if he were mad. ‘Do we look as though we can afford that?’ she said derisively.
Horton said, ‘We’ll need to see his things?’
She looked alarmed and then resigned. ‘Do what you bloody well want. I’m going out to get some fags.’ She moved into the kitchen and picked up a purse and set of keys. Returning she added, ‘That should give you time to search the flat but if you find anything, I’ll say you planted it or it was Graham’s.’
‘Of course,’ Horton acknowledged, as she strode out and slammed the door behind her.
Cantelli sighed and put away his notebook. ‘Not quite the grieving widow.’
‘Maybe she was fond of him in her own way. It might hit home later.’
‘Guess so.’
‘You take here, the kitchen and bathroom. I’ll do the bedrooms.’
Horton stepped into the children’s bedroom on his right off the hall. It looked as though a nuclear explosion had hit it. Toys and clothes were strewn around the grubby foetid smelling room. The sheets and duvets on the bunk bed and the single bed looked as though they’d never seen the inside of a washing machine, the same for the curtains half hanging off hooks at the filthy windows.
He checked his mobile phone and saw that the call he’d missed had been Dr Clayton. She’d left a message to say that she was examining the hand and would have some information for him if he’d like to call her or visit the mortuary in about an hour’s time.
He pulled on his latex gloves not because he was worried about leaving prints but because he was more concerned with catching something. It was raining heavily now, bashing against the window. Swiftly, he searched the cheap plywood wardrobe and broken and chipped chest of drawers and found nothing to give him any indication of what had happened to Langham. Neither did he find anything illegal stashed away.
He crossed to the Langham’s bedroom and found th
e same chaos. It smelt of sweat, sleep and dust. Again he checked the usual places: under the mattress, the inside and top of the broken down wardrobe, dressing table drawers and the space behind them and under them, but Langham hadn’t brought his work home and Moira didn’t have any drugs hidden away. It was a relief to be out of it. He joined Cantelli in the sitting room.
‘Nothing but dirt, used crockery and stale food in the kitchen,’ Cantelli reported, ‘I’m surprised they haven’t all contracted bubonic plague.’
‘Probably immune to it.’ Horton noted that like him Cantelli had put on his gloves.
Cantelli added, ‘I don’t think anyone’s taken a bath for weeks. That bathroom is enough to make you throw up. There are the usual medicines in the cabinet, no evidence of any illegal substances, unless Moira took them out with her.’
That was possible but Horton wasn’t concerned about that for the moment.
The front door opened and she swept in, her wet hair plastered around her bony face. She had a packet of cigarettes in her hand and a cigarette in her mouth. She didn’t bother removing her wet jacket or taking the cigarette from her mouth. ‘Well?’
Cantelli answered. ‘We didn’t find anything.’
‘Didn’t think you would.’ But Horton noted her relief.
He said, ‘We’ll need a photograph of Graham.’ She rolled her eyes at him, causing him to add, ‘I know we’ve got him on file but a recent picture might help when we make enquiries. We need to establish who saw him after you on Monday afternoon and where he went.’
She reached for her mobile phone, scrolled through it and then handed it to him. ‘I took that two months ago just after he came out.’
Langham was outside a pub holding a pint of beer in his hand. Horton swiftly studied the narrow face, hooded dark eyes, pitted complexion, wide mouth and weak chin. He’d last seen Langham five years ago. His hair had got thinner and greyer, his face was more lined and there was a feral look about his eyes. He handed Moira his business card and she sent the photograph to his mobile number.
On the doorstep he said, ‘We’ll do everything we can to find out what happened to Graham, but it would help if this was kept from the press for a while, so as not to warn whoever did this. Either I or Sergeant Cantelli will keep you informed of progress but if you think of anything that can help us call me.’
Fatal Catch Page 5