Perhaps, thought Horton, but he didn't believe it. 'Parnham reminds me of someone, an actor, can place who though.' His telephone rang. It was Marsden. 'You're sure?' Horton said, surprised. He rang off. 'Well that's a turn-up for the books.'
'What is?' Horton strode to the door and opened it. 'Wait and see,' he said, tauntingly over his shoulder. 'Mrs Stephens, could you spare us a moment?' She entered looking wary and perched herself on the edge of the seat opposite Horton poised as if for sudden flight. Her small, dark brown eyes were still puffy.
Cantelli pulled up a chair and sat to the right of Horton.
Horton began gently, smiling sympathetically, trying to put her at ease. 'How long have you worked for Roger?'
She stared nervously at them. 'Twenty-two years.'
'That's a long time. You must have seen many changes.'
She must have changed in that time too he thought, looking at her. In her early fifties she was short, stout, very plain and motherly. He wondered what she had looked like when she had first started working for Thurlow.
She said, 'To begin with it was just Roger and me in a small office in Old Portsmouth but Roger was so clever that the business simply grew and grew and then we moved here, three years ago.' She faltered and blew her nose.
Horton gave her a moment. Then, 'What was Mr Thurlow like as a boss?'
'Wonderful. He was wonderful,' she stammered and stuffed her handkerchief to her mouth to stop herself from crying. 'Not that everyone appreciated his talents.'
'What do you mean?'
'Roger had such high standards that not everyone could meet them. He was very strict with staff, and you know what young people are like today…'
'Was there anyone in particular he upset?' She looked at him surprised. 'No. Not really.'
Horton let it go for now but a list of staff that had been sacked, or had resigned, over the last year might be helpful. Parnham could give them that. He said, 'I understand this must be very painful for you, Mrs Stephens, but we need all the help we can get to try and find out who killed Roger.'
She turned a sob into a gulp and drew in her breath. Twisting her handkerchief in her podgy hands she stammered, 'I can't believe that someone could do such a dreadful thing.'
'How well do you know Melissa Thurlow?' She looked surprised and tensed at the sudden change of subject. 'Not that well. She never came to the office.'
'You didn't go to Briarly House?'
'Oh no.'
'Why not?' he asked quietly
'Mrs Thurlow doesn't like visitors. She's an invalid.'
Horton sensed Cantelli's surprise and stifled his own excitement.
Mrs Stephen's explained, 'She suffers from agoraphobia, you see. That's why she never came to the office, or to any of our functions. Poor Roger.'
Poor bloody Mrs Stephens, Horton thought as Cantelli cleared his throat. Thurlow had spun her a pack of lies for years. He didn't like being the one to disillusion her but if he didn't someone else would and that would probably be the media. Horton knew he was going to be cruel but he had no option. 'I think you'll find that Roger has lied to you, Mrs Stephens.'
Again that shake of her head and the fierce twisting of her handkerchief in her lap. 'He wouldn't.'
'Mrs Thurlow does not suffer from agoraphobia. In fact, she spends most of her time outside the house cultivating fuchsias. She travels the country showing them.'
'I don't believe you. Roger wouldn't…' Her voice trailed off as she looked at each of them in turn.
'Why did he feel it necessary to lie to you?' Horton persisted, his voice harsher now.
'I don't know.' But her face was gaining its colour and now she was squirming in her seat.
'I think you do know. Why do husbands lie about their wives? Why would Roger want to impress his secretary, Mrs Stephens?'
She stared at her hands. He felt sorry for her.
'And why,' he added, 'would a man leave his secretary his entire estate?'
Her head shot up and she looked blank in amazement. Genuine? Perhaps, he thought.
'You are named as sole beneficiary in Mr Thurlow's will. Was that for services rendered beyond and above the call of duty as a secretary?' he said, to provoke a response.
She flushed angrily. 'It wasn't like that. You don't understand. How can any of you understand? I loved Roger.'
Relentlessly Horton pursued his course. 'And I suppose he told you he loved you?'
'He did.' She stared at him with hatred. 'He did love me. He loved us both.'
'Both?'
'Me and Susan. My daughter. Our daughter.'
CHAPTER 13
Wednesday
'We found Roger Thurlow's cheque books, passport and financial papers at Mary Stephens's flat in Western Parade,' Cantelli said at the briefing the following morning. 'He'd been dividing his time between there and Briarly House for years.'
'But not his affections according to Melissa Thurlow,' Uckfield said.
Horton shifted position. The incident room was unbearably hot. Two large fans whirred in opposite corners and every now and then as they swept the room they lifted the papers on the desk like a sigh.
Horton said, 'Roger liked the best of both worlds, Melissa and Briarly House for money and status, and Mary Stephens for sex and comfort.'
'Where's the daughter?' asked Uckfield.
'Travelling Australia,' Cantelli said. 'We've checked she is there.'
'Does she know about her father's death?'
'She does now. We let her mother break the news to her first.'
Horton thought that Cantelli looked haggard. He'd heard him earlier on the telephone to Charlotte. Whatever Charlotte had told him it hadn't helped. Horton had spent a restless night himself; churning over the case and the fact that Lucy was back in town. After his visit to Alpha One he'd been half expecting something to happen but he'd arrived at his boat without any mishap.
Horton said, 'He's given her a good education and not seen her go without.'
'So not a complete bastard,' Uckfield muttered, turning towards the fan.
'Rather arrogant was how some of the staff described him,' Cantelli chipped in. 'Flashy and mean were the other two words that kept cropping up.'
Yesterday afternoon and again this morning a team were in Thurlow's taking statements and going through the files.
'How deeply in debt was he?' Uckfield snapped.
Marsden piped up. 'There's a mortgage on Mrs Stephens' flat and a marine mortgage on the boat. Briarly House is in Mrs Thurlow's name and there's no mortgage. The directors have been taking heavy dividends from the company over the last four years and it went into loss last year for the first time. Once Roger Thurlow's debts are paid off I don't think Mrs Stephens will get much, although there is some life insurance.'
'Enough to kill for?' asked Uckfield.
Horton said, 'Not really. Mary Stephens has an alibi for the time of both murders. A friend stayed with her on the Friday night of Thurlow's death and on the night Culven was killed she was at a pottery evening class and went for a drink with a friend after it. She worshipped the ground Thurlow walked on.'
'Which is more than his wife did.' Horton knew the meaning behind Uckfield's comment. He said, 'There is no sign of Culven's fingerprints in Briarly House. If he and Melissa were having an affair then they didn't conduct it in either of their homes. We're still looking for the tender from the Free Spirit and Culven's Mercedes, but Thurlow's car has been found abandoned on the Paulsgrove estate.'
Walters said, 'Melissa Thurlow's alibi partly checks out. She was at the South West Fuchsia Show in Swindon on Friday but she didn't stay overnight. She left at 20.30.'
Uckfield said, 'Time enough to get back and collect her lover after he had disposed of Thurlow's body.'
The briefing ended. Uckfield stormed out. Horton followed. He could see that the pressure was getting to the DCI. He didn't blame him. This was one of those frustrating cases.
'Are you going to release Mel
issa Thurlow?' he asked. The thirty-six hours was up at 11am this morning, after that Uckfield would have to take the case before the magistrates' court who could authorise further detention for up to ninety-six hours. 'I'm still not convinced she's our murderer, Steve.'
Uckfield stopped. He turned and began to count off on his fingers. 'One, she has motive, especially if she knew about Mary Stephens; two, she has no alibi for the time of either deaths; three, she has confessed to drugging her husband; four she was having an affair with Culven, the handwriting on the letters check out, and five a car like hers was seen on the promenade the night Culven was killed. In my book that adds up to a satisfying arrest, certainly enough for me to take it to the magistrates' court.'
Horton could see there was no shifting Uckfield from that view, and he did have a point, several in fact. He could charge Melissa for the murder of her husband but Culven? 'It's all a bit circumstantial. I can't see the CPS going for it.'
'Then you'd better pull your finger out, inspector and get me some bloody evidence.' Uckfield glared at him.
'And where does the great man suggest we get it from?' Cantelli said, after Horton had relayed an edited version of the conversation to him.
'We're missing something, Barney.'
Maybe if he confided his theories about Jarrett to Uckfield they might be able to fill in some of the pieces, or at least legitimately question the man. But Horton wasn't yet ready to tell Uckfield.
'Let's assume that Melissa is telling the truth, even about those letters.' Horton pushed away a pile of papers on Cantelli's untidy desk. 'We'll also assume that Roger Thurlow was the intended victim and that Culven's death was secondary. Culven was laid out as if on a crucifix to make a point. He was killed as some kind of sacrifice.'
'For what?'
'To frame Melissa, just as those letters were forged, to point the finger at her.'
'Why?'
'Jealousy?'
'Mary Stephens wasn't jealous of Melissa: the poor cow pitied her. Someone from the fuchsia club?'
Despite his weariness Horton smiled. 'I can't see anyone going to those lengths just because she pipped them to first prize.'
His eyes flickered to the wall behind Cantelli. Pinned on his notice board were photographs of his five children with Charlotte; they were all smiling. The twins had drawn Cantelli a picture each: Joe a fire engine and Molly a house, and they had written their names carefully underneath their artistic endeavours. Where were all the pictures Emma had drawn for him? He'd left the house in a hurry and didn't even have one. Did she still draw them for him and did Catherine rip them up? Or had Catherine told her that nasty daddy didn't deserve to have any pictures?
Cantelli broke through his thoughts. 'Why would someone be jealous of Melissa Thurlow? Ok so she's got a nice house and loads of money, not that you'd think it looking at the state of Briarly House, but Marsden's checked out her bank and savings account and she's rolling in it.'
'Which she inherited from her adoptive father.' Horton suddenly felt better as his ideas crystallised. The weariness sloughed off him. 'That's it Barney. It has to be. Someone is jealous of her inheriting his fortune. I want Randall Simpson's background checked out. I want to know everything about him and his relatives. Is there someone out there who doesn't think she should have inherited all of Simpson's wealth?'
'If there is he's taken a long time to get even; must be a very patient man.'
'What was it John Dryden said? Beware the fury of the patient man.'
'Was Dryden a cop then?'
Horton smiled.
'So why not try before?'
'Perhaps he's been abroad and has just found out she inherited a pile? Or he might have been ill, in hospital or in prison. He wants revenge for Melissa stealing what he thinks should have been his.'
'Randall Simpson couldn't have any children.'
'A brother, sister, cousin, great aunt, who cares, just see if you can find any relatives, Barney. It won't be too difficult; he was a prominent businessman. Meanwhile I'm going to have a word with Melissa.'
There was hope in her eyes when she entered the interview room, which Horton had to quickly dash by telling her that it was likely she would be detained for further questioning.
'You can't still think I killed Roger and Michael!'
'I'd like to ask you some questions about Randall Simpson. Do you want your lawyer present?'
She looked surprised then with a wave of her arm and irritation on her tired face said, 'No.'
'Did he have any relatives?'
'No.'
'None?'
'I don't know what Randall has to do with all this, inspector, but if you really must know he was an orphan. He was brought up in a Barnados Home.'
Dead end then? No, not yet. There must be someone. 'Did he ever try to trace his family?'
'He might have done. He never said.'
'What about his birth certificate? Do you have a copy?'
'It's in a Bluebird toffee tin in my wardrobe.'
'Can you remember what's on it?' They'd check anyway.
'You mean his mother and father's name? There's nothing or rather it says 'unknown'. He was found abandoned outside a hospital in Guildford in 1908.'
Damn. This wasn't going to be easy, Horton thought, with annoyance. But someone must have traced Randall's past. Someone who had good cause to think they should have been entitled to Randall's fortune.
'Have you ever been approached by anyone claiming to be a relative of Randall?'
She looked surprised. 'No. Why this interest, inspector?'
'I think it's possible someone might have framed you.'
'Then you believe I'm innocent?' Her face brightened.
'Has there ever been anyone enquiring about your late father's background?'
She ran a hand through her hair and thought for a moment. Then he saw her eyes light up. She sat forward with a faint flush on her face. 'Of course. How could I have forgotten? There was someone. He was writing a book about Randall, a biography. He examined my father's papers and asked me questions.'
His heart missed a beat. 'Who was he?'
She frowned. 'I can't recall his name.'
'No matter we can look it up. Did he give you a copy of the book?' He didn't remember seeing one in the bookshelves.
'No.' She looked puzzled. 'I'd forgotten all about it. It must be at least eight years ago.'
'Can you describe him?'
She let out a breath, shaking her head. 'He was sort of ordinary.' She closed her eyes for a moment trying to visualise him. Horton silently urged her to remember something, anything. She said, 'He was about my age, possibly a bit younger, like I said just ordinary. I am sorry, inspector. Perhaps if I'd had a copy of the book I might have remembered him but when he didn't send me one and I didn't hear from him again I just assumed he'd not bothered to write it.'
'You didn't check to see if it had been published?'
'No.'
He thought that a little odd.
She said, as if interpreting his silence, 'If it had been published Roger would have told me. He would have capitalised on it.'
'And that's why you never mentioned it to him?'
'I thought if it comes to something then so be it. But I hoped it wouldn't. Every time there was an article in the newspapers or magazines about Randall, Roger would call the journalists and try and get some publicity for himself out of it.' And you just wanted to be left alone with your memories and your fuchsias, Horton thought. He told her that if anything else occurred to her to let the custody clerk know. He relayed the information to Cantelli, instigated the search for the book and the biographer, whom he believed was bogus, and sent Marsden out to collect Randall Simpson's birth certificate from Briarly House.
It was just after five when Cantelli put his head round the door of his office. 'You hungry?'
'No. I'm hot, tired, irritated, dirty and frustrated. I know I'm right, Barney, but who is this biographer?'
'W
hat you need is a nice cup of tea and a breath of fresh sea air. I know just the place.'
It took a moment for Horton to follow Cantelli's train of thought. When it clicked he felt a shiver of anticipation that quickened his pulse and set the hairs pricking at the back of his neck. He hardly dared to hope. 'Isabella's seen Lucy?'
'And there's more. She knows where Lucy lives.'
The journey from the station to the seafront seemed to take forever. Horton could barely conceal his impatience. He couldn't speak. He didn't even want to think. He'd had too many hopes dashed to raise them too high. Perhaps Isabella was mistaken and the girl she had discovered was some other blonde? Please God, let it be her. Just give him the chance to talk to her once that was all he asked. It wasn't much, surely?
Isabella Cantelli greeted them warmly as they stepped into the seafront cafe, a smile lighting her dark, finely-boned face.
'Didn't expect to find you behind the counter,' Cantelli said.
'Short staffed. Either I muck in or we lose custom. Let me get you a drink and then I'll get Adrienne to cover for me.'
Cantelli ordered his usual double espresso. Horton didn't want a drink, he wanted Lucy's address but he could hardly blurt that out. Curbing his irritation with great difficulty he ordered a coffee and stared at the colourful and numerous handwritten signs stuck in a seemingly haphazard manner on the wall behind Isabella, offering him amongst many other things the choice of an all-day breakfast, sausage and chips, toasted teacake and coffee special. He watched Isabella as the coffee machine went through its noisy routine to the accompaniment of the burbling DJ on the local radio station, praying she hadn't got this wrong. Hoping that this wasn't a wild goose chase.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Horton, they took their drinks to one of the aluminium tables. The cafe was deserted inside but outside, the veranda, which gave onto the beach, was crowded.
A minute later Isabella joined them. She sat down opposite Horton and leaning forward said quietly, 'She came into the cafe today. She'd been on the beach and wanted a drink. She's a pretty girl and bright too, I'd say.'
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