He said, 'Did Mrs Ebury have any visitors?'
'No.'
'Never?'
'Not one. I doubt if anyone will be at her funeral except me.'
Unless they let Peter out for it, accompanied by a couple of prison officers, thought Horton. He asked if she had put an announcement in the deaths' column of the local newspaper and got an incredulous look. His suggestion that she should do so earned him a deep frown and a heavy sigh of exasperation.
He excused her grumpiness on grounds of lack of sleep, noting at the same time that his
own disgruntled mood had slipped away.
'I would like you to lock the door to the basement and not let anyone down here until the fingerprint bureau has been, and...' Turning to Cantelli, he added, 'I also want someone from the photographic unit here.' Cantelli, reaching for his mobile phone, climbed the stairs.
'Surely there's a simple explanation for this,' Mrs Northwood cried in exasperation, locking the door behind her.
'Then we'll find it,' he answered, wondering if she was right, but feeling uneasy nevertheless. 'I'll take a look at Mrs Ebury's room again while you get me a list of her belongings.'
He wasn't sure what he would gain from seeing the room a second time, but on the first occasion it had simply been a bedroom where an anonymous elderly resident had died. Now he was looking at it with a very different set of eyes, though initially he couldn't see anything more revealing than on his first visit. Had Irene died of natural causes or was there something suspicious about her death? Maybe he was looking to complicate things unnecessarily.
Standing beside Mrs Kingsway's bed, he could see it would have been easy for her to have witnessed an intruder looming over Irene Ebury. Or, as Mrs Northwood had suggested, it could have been the doctor bending over to examine the body. But, no, that wouldn't wash. If it had been the doctor, then he or Marion Keynes, the night manager, would have switched on the light. The doctor could hardly examine the body in the dark. Marion Keynes had discovered Irene Ebury's body at 5.30 a.m. and even if the GP hadn't arrived until 6 or 7 a.m. it would still have been dark. And surely they would have taken Mrs Kingsway out of the room whilst the doctor was examining the body. As Horton had noted earlier, there were no curtains around these beds to give any degree of privacy. If Mrs Kingsway was right, and she had seen an intruder, perhaps that intruder had frightened Irene Ebury into having a heart attack and had then stolen her belongings. Mrs Northwood had said that dementia patients got the days and times muddled up. He felt a frisson of excitement that told him he could be on to something.
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, he turned.
'Someone from the fingerprinting and photographic bureaus will be over within the hour,' Cantelli announced, gazing round the room.
Horton could tell by his expression that he didn't approve of it.
'I want Seaton and Somerfield to take statements from all the staff. And if Walters has returned from Oldham's Wharf get him over here too. I want to know who had those keys to the basement, and when and what they were all doing on New Year's Eve. We'll talk to Marion Keynes later.'
Horton found Mrs Northwood in her office. She gave him Marion Keynes' address and then handed him a list of Irene Ebury's belongings. There was a small amount of jewellery listed: a wedding ring, a dress ring, a gold charm bracelet, some bead necklaces and earrings. There were also some letters and a small photograph album noted. No diary. The photograph album and letters might have been interesting though. It didn't seem much to show for a life or worth killing for. If she had been killed.
He asked, 'Do you know who the letters were from?'
'No. I never read them. She might have got one of the staff to read them to her though.'
That was a question Seaton, Somerfield and Walters could ask later. He guessed they
could have been from her son.
'Who told Peter about his mother's death?'
'Marion Keynes informed the governor.'
Was it worth a visit to Kingston Prison? Definitely. He'd like to know if Peter Ebury had ever written to his mother. He was also curious to know how he felt about his mother's death.
Mrs Northwood said, 'Irene's toiletries were given to the other ladies, and we kept some of her more decent clothes. We get through quite a lot here. The rest went to a charity shop. I've got her pension details, birth and death certificates, but I can't hand those over to you until I have permission from her next of kin.'
'You can at least give me her date and place of birth.' He would be able to get access to her pension details and previous employment records from the various government department computers.
She unlocked her filing cabinet and withdrew a folder. Flicking through it, she handed Horton the birth certificate. Irene Ebury had been born on 4 January 1939 in Portsmouth to Gladys and William Ebury. Had she never married? Unless she had reverted to her maiden name on divorce.
'Where's her marriage certificate?'
'I've never been given one.'
There was a wedding ring in her personal belongings and she had adopted the title of Mrs. Maybe it was just for show. He jotted down the details and then, handing back the certificate, asked, 'Are those her medical records?'
'Since she's been in our care, yes, but you can't see them,' Mrs Northwood said quickly, clutching them close to her as though he was going to steal them. 'They're confidential.'
'Irene Ebury is dead,' he said evenly.
A quick glimpse might be all he needed, though Horton didn't really know what they could tell him.
'She may be, but until her son says you can see them, or you have a warrant, they stay with me.'
Pity, but if that was how she wanted to play it, then so be it. He'd get Peter Ebury's permission to access those medical records. It would be quicker than getting a warrant.
He explained about his officers taking statements from the staff, which drew a scowl from her.
'Why all this interest, Inspector? I know there's the case of her missing belongings, but that hardly warrants so much police activity.'
'We'll try to be as quick and discreet as possible,' he answered evasively.
She wasn't happy with his answer. That was too bad, Horton thought. In the corridor, he asked Cantelli if Mr Kingsway was still on the premises.
'He's in the staffroom having a coffee. I asked him to hang around for a moment. I thought you'd like to talk to him.'
Kingsway looked up as they entered, and Horton felt some sympathy for him. The poor man seemed to be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Fatigue was etched on his weather roughened face. His grey eyes were red-rimmed, whether through crying or tiredness Horton didn't know. He was wiry, like Cantelli, but shorter than the sergeant and his close-cropped hair made it difficult to put an age on him. Horton would have said late forties possibly early fifties.
'I visit my mother every Monday,' he said in answer to Horton's question. 'So today was the first time I'd seen her since Mrs Ebury died. She knew who I was this morning, which is unusual, and she seemed more like her old self. She told me that she didn't like it here, there were things going on. When I pressed her, she said she'd seen a man standing over the bed next to her. She was scared. She pretended to be asleep. But he turned and saw her and grabbed hold of her.'
'Did she scream?' asked Horton.
'She says she was too scared to cry out. The man shook her and let her go.'
'Did she give a description?'
'Sorry, no. I don't even know if it is true. She seemed so certain this morning, but now it's like it never happened and Mrs Northwood explained how she can get dates and times muddled up. I'm sorry for putting you and your officers to so much trouble,' he said sheepishly, rising.
'It's no trouble, sir.' And it wasn't. Horton was glad the son had called them, because he might never have bothered to find Irene Ebury, or if he had done then he might never have known about her missing belongings. He had a feeling that Mrs Northwood wouldn't have reported it. He asked Mr Kingsway i
f he'd known Irene.
'I'd met her a couple of times, but I didn't really know her. Thanks for taking me seriously anyway.' He stretched out a hand. Horton took it, noting its firmness.
Horton watched him head down the corridor, where he entered the lounge, presumably to say goodbye to his mother.
'Must be tough,' Cantelli said, shaking his head.
Horton knew he was thinking of his own mother, who had been widowed just before Christmas. Fortunately, from what Horton had seen of Mrs Cantelli senior, her mind was still firing on all cylinders.
'Make sure Seaton and Somerfield know what questions to ask.'
Cantelli went off to brief them, while Horton stepped into the damp, windy morning and called the mortuary.
'Have you performed an autopsy on Irene Ebury?' he asked when Dr Clayton came on the line. 'She died on New Year's Eve.'
'You must be kidding – we've got them piled up. What with the holiday and this vomiting bug, I don't expect we'll get around to her until next Christmas. Is it urgent?'
Horton didn't much relish the vision of corpses piled sky-high. 'Possible suspicious death...'
'Hold on, did you say Ebury?'
'Yes, why?'
'I've just had another Ebury brought in for an urgent PM. Any relation?'
'Don't know yet. You haven't told me who it is.' Horton suddenly felt very cold. There had to be several Eburys in Portsmouth, but he'd wager a million pounds on who this dead one was. 'Is it Peter Ebury?'
'Yes! How did you know?'
He pulled up the collar of his sailing jacket as an icy blast of fear wrapped itself round his heart.
'How did he die?' He hoped his voice sounded normal.
'That's what the post-mortem will tell me,' she said pointedly.
'What did the doctor say?' he rephrased.
'Respiratory failure.'
Brought on how? Mother and son dead within five days of each other – wasn't that strange? OK, so it might not be unique and perhaps Peter Ebury, wracked with guilt, had given up and died. Or perhaps he'd suffered from asthma and had had an attack. It was pointless for him to read too much into this. But he did.
'When will you have the results?'
'The autopsy's scheduled for tomorrow morning. It's the earliest I can do it.'
Damn. He noted her unusually defensive and slightly aggressive tone and thought that someone must have been getting at her. The prison authorities probably. They'd want this sorted out, and a verdict of death by natural causes, as quickly as possible.
'Was there any mention of suicide?'
'You mean he killed himself because he couldn't face the guilt of being in prison when his mother died? No, and he wasn't on suicide watch. I suppose you want me to do Irene Ebury's autopsy tomorrow too?'
'Please. Call me as soon as you've got the results on them both.'
Cantelli joined him in the car. 'Walters is on his way over.'
'Good. How's your claustrophobia?'
Cantelli raised an enquiring eyebrow. 'Mine's fine, how's yours?'
'You know me and closed-in spaces. But when duty calls...'
'We're going to prison.'
'Got it in one.'
THREE
Geoff Welton was ill, Horton could see that instantly. The prison governor was a balding man in his mid-fifties with a gaunt face and an excess of ear and nostril hair. His suit hung off his scrawny body. And whilst he might have developed the sallow hue from having spent a lifetime working in prisons, the bags under his sunken eyes and the strain around his wide mouth told Horton a different story.
'What was Ebury like?' Horton asked. He'd told Welton that they were investigating some irregularities concerning Irene Ebury's death and had been surprised to learn that her son had now also died. He'd said nothing about Irene's missing belongings, and Cantelli had been dispatched to talk to Ken Staunton, Ebury's personal case officer.
On the way to the prison Cantelli had remembered the case and a quick phone call to the station had confirmed it by checking the computer. Peter Ebury had been convicted of an armed robbery carried out in 2001, when he'd been twenty-seven. That had been the year of Horton's promotion to inspector and a spell on secondment to Basingstoke, which was why he hadn't recalled the name.
Ebury had shot and killed a security guard called Arthur Buckland in a hold-up on an armoured van, which had just collected the weekend's takings from a superstore in Havant. Ebury and his accomplice Derrick Mayfield had been caught with the money on the A3 to London. Cantelli didn't remember Ebury's mother and Horton again said nothing about her connection with his own mother.
Welton said, 'Ebury was surly, arrogant, crude, bullying and manipulative. He never earned any privileges and was often in trouble.'
Clearly not a model prisoner then or one of Welton's favourites.
'Who was the last person to see Peter Ebury alive?' Horton asked.
'Ken Staunton. He was on duty on Ebury's wing. He unlocked the cell this morning and Ebury went about his usual routine before going to work in the kitchen. He was a cleaner. He returned to his cell at nine thirty a.m. when Staunton locked him in.
'When Colin Anston, my deputy, went to the cell half an hour later, he found Ebury dead. He never said he felt unwell.'
'Why was he locked in?'
Welton frowned and shifted a little uncomfortably. 'He attacked one of the men in the kitchen this morning; nothing came of it. He wasn't injured.'
'You had him medically examined?'
'Of course not,' Welton bristled. 'There was no physical sign of the attack on Ebury, or Ludlow, the other man. And the prison officers separated the two men before the fight even got started.'
'Do you know what it was about?'
'No. Neither man would say.'
Horton wondered if Ludlow would tell him. He doubted whether Welton would allow him to speak to the prisoner. Horton wasn't here in an official capacity to investigate Ebury's death. Ebury might not have been ill, but Welton was looking sicklier by the minute.
'Did Ebury have any visitors?'
'No.'
Peter Ebury had been too young to have known Jennifer Horton; he would only have been four when she disappeared. Yet his death and Irene's bugged Horton.
'Peter was very young to die of respiratory failure. Did he suffer from asthma?'
Horton could see the strain on Welton's face, but the man called up his reserves. 'A death in prison is always awkward, as you are no doubt aware, Inspector. Questions get asked. I shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but Ebury was an evil man and a troublemaker. I'm not that sorry to see the back of him.'
And, Horton thought, Welton looked ever keener to see the back of him. But Welton hadn't answered his question, which made Horton even more suspicious. 'Could I talk to Mr Anston?'
Welton hesitated. He seemed about to deny the request, then thought better of it. Or perhaps, Horton thought, he simply didn't have the energy to protest.
'I don't see how that will help you with your inquiries into Mrs Ebury's death, but, if you must, ask Richard to take you to Mr Anston's office.'
Dismissed, Horton found Richard, Welton's administration officer, in the outer office. As Richard led him down the corridor, Horton commented on Welton's health.
'I've told him to see the doctor,' Richard replied, with a worried look on his lean face, 'but he won't.'
'What's wrong with him?'
'Stress, I expect.'
It looked more than stress to Horton. He guessed a liver problem, judging by the man's colour. And would a sick governor have enough of a hold on a prison like this? Maybe, but Horton wondered nevertheless. He halted just outside Anston's office. 'Take a look at him when you return. Make sure he's all right.'
Richard nodded, knocked on the door and pushed it open after a loud and brisk, 'Come in.'
Horton found himself facing a broad, muscular man in his forties with bright, slightly protruding eyes, and a round cheerful face that Horton instinctively judged
to be honest.
'Ebury was a nasty piece of work. He was cocky and clever too.' Colin Anston confirmed his governor's opinion after Horton explained why he was there. He waved Horton into a seat across his desk, which, despite its size, in the small grey office still didn't seem large enough to cope with all the paperwork piled on it. The amount matched that on Horton's desk this morning, which was probably now even deeper. Cantelli would have to write a report on their interview with the TV divers, unless Bliss expected him to waste time on it, given their status. He didn't know what he was going to write up about this investigation, but then maybe there wasn't one here, and Dr Clayton would find both mother and son had died from natural causes.
Dead Man's Wharf Page 3