Fatal Catch

by Pauline Rowson

  ‘DCS Adams might have them.’

  ‘You’ll soon know if he has. But if he hasn’t study them for any sign of Langham’s white van, particularly if it turned into any of the roads where the lock-up garages are.’

  ‘Thought we weren’t on that investigation.’

  ‘We’re not.’

  Horton rang off and turned his attention to the list of burglaries that had occurred in Portsmouth last Saturday night. There had been five but none of the stolen items matched those Jago had mentioned which Langham had been trying to sell. Langham rarely went off his patch but Horton decided to look a bit further afield than the city for reported thefts. He ran through the list of robberies in the surrounding area of Waterlooville to the north of the city. There had been several opportunist burglaries, more than usual except for in the summer when people foolishly left their doors and windows open. This time of the year the thieves were after Christmas presents, all neatly gift wrapped and stashed under the Christmas tree. And with curtains open to show off the Christmas lights it was a welcome sight to many crooks and crackheads who viewed it as an invitation to help themselves. Langham’s theft of bicycles and a lawnmower though suggested that he had been engaged in his usual MO, stealing from garages and sheds. He was essentially an outdoor thief, he rarely broke in and entered properties unless the chance presented itself.

  He drew a blank in the outlying regions and turned to Fareham where he sat up keenly interested and devoured what was on his computer screen. Four properties had been burgled last Saturday. The stolen items included two boys’ bicycles, two lawnmowers, garden implements, a gas fire in a box, a case of toys and some fitness equipment, all stashed away in garages and sheds. This had Langham stamped all over it and what was more the properties targeted were all in Green Parade which faced the marina where Westerbrook moored his boat.

  Excited, Horton picked up his phone and rang Fareham police station hoping to get the duty CID officer. A weary-sounding DS Reynolds answered the phone to him.

  After announcing himself Horton said, ‘Gary, do you know anything about the robberies in Green Parade, last Saturday?’

  ‘Only what’s on file.’

  Horton had only read a summary of the stolen items. For now he was anxious to short-cut reading the full report. ‘Any reports of a white van seen in the vicinity?’

  ‘Yes. Why? Have you got the scumbag who did it and he’s owned up?’ Reynolds’ voice lifted.

  ‘If it’s who I think it is he won’t be owning up. He’s dead.’ Horton told him. ‘What was seen by your witnesses?’

  ‘Just a dirty white van parked outside a couple of the houses. No signage on it and no one got the registration number. They didn’t take much notice of it. They assumed it was a workman connected with someone living in the street.’

  ‘Have you got any video footage from the area?’

  ‘Some. There are cameras at the nearby wharf and on the approach road but I haven’t had the chance to run through them yet. There’s only me and DC Whittle and he went sick on Wednesday.’

  ‘We’ll do it. Can you send them over?’

  ‘With pleasure.’

  ‘Any fingerprints?’

  ‘A crime scene officer went out. I haven’t chased the fingerprint bureau yet and they haven’t got back to me.’

  ‘I’ll call them. I’ll let you know if a dirty white van shows up.’

  Horton immediately rang through to the fingerprint bureau. He quoted the crime numbers to Jane Astley and asked if she and her team had a match on any prints. Not yet was the answer.

  ‘Can you fast track them and if it helps they could match Graham Langham’s.’

  Horton doubted if Langham had bothered to wear gloves while committing his crime, or if he had, Horton was damn sure he’d have taken them off for some reason even if it was just to pick his nose or scratch his arse and then he’d forget to put them back on. Jane said she’d call him as soon as she had anything.

  Horton printed off the summaries of the reports on the burglaries and stuffed them in the pocket of his jacket. He grabbed his helmet and headed out of the station. Within twenty minutes he was pulling up in Green Parade, where the robberies had taken place. This area was to the south of the Hard where he and Cantelli had been on Thursday. A narrow alleyway led off to his left, northwards, past the old warehouse and into the small square that formed the Hard. Horton stared across the stretch of recreational green at the boats moored up on pontoons in Wallington River which fed into Salterns Lake and then into the upper reaches of Portsmouth Harbour, and out into the Solent. Across the narrow stretch of water he could see the greens and bunkers of Cams Hill Golf Club. There didn’t appear to be any golfers on it. Horton couldn’t say he blamed them in the damp chilly morning.

  From here he could see the empty space that was Westerbrook’s mooring. Two people were walking their dogs on the green and another was following the footpath that hugged the shore. He climbed off the Harley and turned to view the houses behind him, they were a mix of terraced and semi-detached properties. One of them had been badly affected by fire. The top floor had been severely damaged, which was where the fire must have started. Horton shivered as he recalled his own experiences of being trapped inside a burning building. The upstairs windows were boarded up, the brickwork blackened but the roof was intact which meant the firefighters had arrived before the fire had got too strong a hold. He hoped the occupants had got out safely.

  He pulled out the reports of the robberies and read that they had taken place between four thirty and eight thirty a week ago, on Saturday, when it had been dark. Two of the garage doors had been forced open, the third, the owner admitted, had been open to begin with. The lock had been faulty and he’d been too busy to have it fixed.

  Horton began walking along the road eyeing the houses that had been burgled. He was certain this was Langham’s work. He must have spent some time studying which garages and sheds to target, perhaps seeing the owners leave or noting the houses that were in darkness denoting that the occupants were out. Langham would have simply walked up the driveways and helped himself to the contents of the garages. Or he’d opened the rickety side gates, entered the gardens, forced the flimsy padlocks on the sheds and carried and wheeled out the stuff as though he was being paid to do so. Langham had been a cocky bastard with a quick enough mind and a ready tongue to wrangle his way out of many awkward situations, except the last, Horton thought sanguinely.

  But Horton couldn’t see that any of these houses belonged to the Mr Big that Adams was allegedly after and who Langham might have been informing on. He gazed up at the fire-damaged house. Something niggled at him. The fire could have no connection with Graham Langham, why should it, but he was curious to know when it had occurred. He found himself reaching for his phone and calling Maitland, the Fire Investigation Officer. Horton apologized for disturbing him at a weekend.

  ‘Have you got a moment to talk about the house fire in Fareham?’ Horton asked.

  ‘I’ve got several. You mean the fire in Green Parade and the fatality. Leonard Borland, aged sixty-six.’

  Horton felt sorry for the poor man and his family. ‘Anyone else inside at the time?’

  ‘No, he lived alone.’

  ‘When did it happen?’

  ‘It was reported at six fifty-three, Tuesday, by a couple who were returning from work and saw the smoke. The fire service arrived three minutes later. Mr Borland had fallen against an electric fire in one of the upstairs bedrooms. He could have stumbled on it or been taken ill and fell on it but whatever happened he made no attempt to fight off the flames or try and escape from them so he could have suffered a major stroke, aneurism or heart attack. I haven’t got the results of the post-mortem yet. The bedroom door was shut but a window was open, which fuelled the fire, that and Mr Borland himself lying on top of the electric fire.’

  Horton shuddered at the image Maitland had conjured up. The fire had been three days after Langham had been her
e on his robbing spree and the day before his hand had been fished up. The times for it having anything to do with Langham or with Westerbrook’s death were wrong but there was the common factor of the location, and that nagged away at him.

  Maitland said, ‘Do you think it was suspicious?’

  ‘Probably not.’ It couldn’t be.

  Maitland said, ‘Well, let me know if you want to take a look at it.’

  Horton said he would but that he doubted it would be necessary. Nevertheless he rang the mortuary and Dr Clayton.

  ‘I’m examining the bruises later this afternoon,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not ringing about that. I’m enquiring about another body. A Leonard Borland, he died in a house fire on Tuesday evening. His body might already have been released to the undertaker.’ There was a pause while she obviously looked up the record on the computer. He wasn’t sure why he was following this up. It was probably as Maitland had said a tragic accident. But that pricking sensation between his shoulder blades told him he couldn’t leave it unchecked.

  ‘No. He’s not been done yet,’ Gaye answered. ‘There’s a backlog. This latest flu epidemic and the cold weather are causing a log jam in the mortuary. Would you like me to take a look at him?’

  She was busy. It would be a waste of her time but he said, ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll make a preliminary examination but a full autopsy will have to wait until tomorrow if it’s urgent or Monday.’

  ‘Monday will be fine. Is there a next of kin noted on your records?’

  ‘A daughter. Sandra Trenchard. Lives in Boston. Massachusetts that is, not Boston Lincolnshire.’

  That could explain why she wasn’t jumping up and down demanding the autopsy to be held immediately and for her father’s body to be released. It would take her a while to get a flight. And for all he knew she might not care for her father, she might be ill or she could have decided to hold off her visit and the funeral until after Christmas. He’d doubt the undertakers could arrange a funeral before then even if the autopsy had been conducted.

  Gaye said she’d try and have something for him by the time he accompanied Aubrey Davidson for the formal identification of Westerbrook’s body.

  As Horton wasn’t far from Lee-on-the Solent he decided to go in search of Lesley Nugent. He wanted to probe Nugent to find out if Westerbrook had shared any confidences with him while out fishing, but there was no answer to Horton’s repeated knocks on his flat door. Horton peered through both the letter box and the window but could see no sign of life. As he was leaving a woman came out of the flat below.

  ‘If you’re after Les he went out about an hour ago.’

  ‘Any idea where I might find him?’

  She shrugged. ‘The pub or the betting shop I expect.’

  It was too early for the pub so Horton tried the local betting shop, mentally noting that Nugent was a gambler. He didn’t find him but he was told by the betting office clerk that Nugent enjoyed a flutter on a regular basis but not with very high stakes, and he rarely won.

  Horton made for the mortuary where he met Davidson in the small waiting area outside the viewing room. Davidson was grim-faced. He pulled himself up and nodded at Horton to indicate that he was ready for the ordeal ahead. Taking a deep breath he stepped inside the small chill room and a mortuary attendant lifted the cover on the corpse. There was a slight tensing of Davidson’s body, a moment’s stunned silence, then shakily, he said, ‘Yes, that’s Clive Westerbrook. Poor bugger.’

  They left the room. ‘Never thought I’d be doing that,’ Davidson said, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his perspiring brow. He was trying not to show that it had disturbed him more than he’d thought it would.

  Horton offered him refreshment but Davidson shook his head. He said he’d like some air though. They stepped outside. Horton said, ‘Did you service the engine on his boat?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he ever say who he had bought it from?’

  ‘No. He’d had it about a year.’

  Which tied in with what Tierney had told them.

  ‘So you go to Fareham Marina frequently.’

  ‘I go to a lot of marinas,’ Davidson said puzzled, clearly wondering what Horton was driving at.

  ‘Were you at Fareham Marina last Saturday, late afternoon early evening?’ Perhaps Davidson had seen Langham or his van.

  But he shook his head. ‘No. I was fishing during the day and then opened up the club for the evening.’

  ‘You own a boat?’

  ‘Yes, a motorboat. I keep it at Gosport Marina.’

  Horton thanked him and watched him leave before heading back into the mortuary.

  He found Gaye bending over what remained of Leonard Borland lying on the mortuary slab. Horton’s stomach churned and he steeled himself to study the charred remains. The body was lying face down. It was a gruesome sight. He only hoped the poor man had been unconscious or dead when he’d fallen on that electric fire.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve wasted your time,’ he began but she cut in.

  ‘You haven’t. See here,’ she pointed to the back of the skull. Horton couldn’t see much except blackened bone and flesh. ‘He’s been struck forcibly, more than once, there is a massive contusion.’

  Horton’s blood ran cold. His mind raced with thoughts, coincidence that Borland had been brutally attacked in the same area that Langham had burgled and Westerbrook had kept his boat? Maybe but until he knew more he wasn’t going to make a judgement.

  ‘Could he have struck his head against something when falling?’ Horton asked, wondering why it hadn’t been picked up before. But then the body had probably been removed from the room by the firefighters and shipped straight here by the undertakers. The back log in the mortuary, and it not being flagged up as suspicious, had delayed matters.

  ‘Not unless he staggered about, twisted and turned and then fell face down over that fire, and not by the pattern of that wound,’ she answered with conviction. ‘There is one forcible impact and then others around the area where the victim was repeatedly struck.’

  Horton tensed with anger. ‘Did he fall on the fire?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She looked up from the corpse and eyed him steadily and soberly. ‘Or maybe he was placed on it in the hope it would cover up the attack.’

  ‘It nearly did.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘I’ll do a full autopsy. I’ve called Tom, he’s on his way in.’

  There were other mortuary attendants but Horton knew that Gaye always liked to work with Tom who had a penchant for whistling songs from Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals. He asked if she had Borland’s personal effects or if they were at the station or with the undertaker.

  ‘They’re here.’

  While she went to retrieve them Horton called Maitland. ‘Can you meet me at Leonard Borland’s house in fifteen minutes?’

  ‘His death is suspicious?’

  ‘As hell.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘It’s safe to go in, but you’d better put this on anyway.’ Maitland handed Horton the hard hat he’d retrieved from the back of his fire investigation van parked outside the burnt house.

  They entered by the front door. The downstairs was smoke-damaged but not burnt. The house smelt of damp and death. Horton shivered as they climbed the stairs. His own fate could so easily have been the same as Leonard Borland’s. Twice he’d been caught in fire in the course of his investigations. It was unfortunately an all too common method used by villains to try and hide their crimes and confuse the scene, and its use was increasing, but it was usually ineffective, as Gaye Clayton had proved. As he came out on to the landing, Horton couldn’t help wondering if another pathologist might have missed that blow to Borland’s head or put it down to a fall. Gaye couldn’t give him precise details of the weapon used but she’d said it could have been a poker, a golf club, walking stick or a heavy duty torch. He didn’t expect to find whatever it had been in the hou
se but he’d look anyway.

  The charred remains of the door to the front bedroom lay around them on the floor. Reading Horton’s thoughts Maitland said, ‘The door had been burnt through and the fire had just started to get a hold on the landing when the firefighters arrived.’

  They stepped inside. Horton’s feet crunched on the plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. The room felt chill and clawing and there was the lingering stench of roast flesh. Even though it was only an hour after midday the room was dim because the windows were boarded up and there was only a limited amount of light coming through from the landing. It was enough to see by but Maitland switched on his powerful torch. In its beam Horton saw the twisted remains of the small three-bar electric fire that had claimed Borland’s life, unless Dr Clayton found the victim had died from those blows to his head. The electric fire was in front of what was left of a table and chair positioned in the bay window.

  Maitland said, ‘The house is centrally heated and there’s a radiator in this room.’ Horton could see its blackened metal underneath the bay window. ‘But when I checked the boiler clock in the kitchen it wasn’t set to come on until seven p.m. and the fire started at six fifty-three. It took hold quickly given the material in this room, wooden table, wooden chair, bookcase, carpet.’

  Horton eyed what was left of the bookcase and its contents, some of which had crumpled in a heap on the floor. The plaster from the walls and ceiling had fallen on some of them. The old fire place had been boarded up and there was no grate, iron or otherwise, and no mantelpiece for Borland to have fallen against and struck his head on, but then he hadn’t, someone had ruthlessly and cold-bloodedly killed him. Neither was there a bed, dressing table or chest of drawers.

  He said, ‘It looks as though Mr Borland used this room as a study. Strange having the window open when he was using an electric fire to heat the room and didn’t put the central heating on. Why not close the window and keep the heat contained.’

  Maitland shrugged. ‘Maybe he just liked a bit of fresh air.’