‘It’s by Philip Treacy,’ Eames announced, looking up. ‘He’s one of the top milliners in the country, and probably in the world, and it’s a new creation, this season’s or rather I should say part of the spring collection rather than the summer one.’
Gaye raised her eyebrows in surprise. But why wasn’t he surprised? Somehow he expected Eames to know this kind of thing and he judged her knowledge wasn’t gained from working at Europol on an investigation involving counterfeit designer wear. Her voice, bearing, manner and looks screamed class to him. He wondered how she’d ended up becoming a police officer.
‘Expensive?’ he asked.
‘That depends on who you’re asking,’ she answered earnestly. ‘About a thousand pounds new.’
‘For a hat!’ he exclaimed.
‘A mere nothing, then,’ tossed Gaye Clayton lightly.
Eames smiled. ‘Even if she bought it second hand, which I doubt, it would have cost her about three hundred pounds.’ She picked up the bag containing the shoe. ‘This is a Jimmy Choo.’
‘A what?’ asked Horton.
By the way Eames eyed him he could see that she wasn’t sure if he was taking the rise. He wasn’t. Obviously seeing this she continued. ‘Since Choo launched his label in 1996 he’s built up a celebrity and wealthy client base. If we find the victim’s bag, I expect it will also be a Jimmy Choo. The soles are showing a little wear but the heel has never been repaired. I don’t think the victim would have gone to that much trouble.’
‘Cost?’
‘About four hundred, maybe five hundred pounds.’
‘And the dress?’
Eames went through the same ritual, studying it intently before answering. ‘Cotton blend with an exposed double-ended zip down the back, very provocative, and only someone with her kind of figure, shapely but slim and firm, would look good in it.’
Like you, thought Horton. He caught Gaye’s glance and shifted a little uncomfortably seeing she’d easily read his thoughts. Eames hadn’t, though. Still examining the dress she added, ‘It’s by Victoria Beckham, which means it cost somewhere in the region of two, maybe three thousand pounds.’
Horton eyed her disbelievingly.
‘It might even have cost more,’ Eames said. ‘Everything I’ve seen so far is genuine and I would say bought new.’
‘As I said,’ Gaye chipped in, ‘a high-maintenance lady.’
And clearly one who had money. Marty Stapleton’s money? he wondered. He could see that was what Eames was thinking. A thought occurred to him but it would keep.
Eames continued. ‘Her underwear is silk, sexy and again very expensive. We might be able to trace her through the top fashion houses, designer shops or Internet sites that sell these kind of clothes but that would take considerable time.’
And resources, Horton thought, which they didn’t have, unless Europol assisted. He looked at Gaye Clayton, hoping there might be a short cut.
Interpreting his silent plea she said, ‘OK, so much for the entrée. Let’s get down to the main course and see if that helps or hinders your investigations. There is no evidence that she was manhandled or subjected to any kind of physical abuse before being killed. She was also alive when she entered the water, but not for long. The stab wound is located on the right side of the back, twenty-one inches below the top of the head and five inches from the front of the body. The knife entered the skin, the subcutaneous tissue, and through the right seventh rib before penetrating the right pleural cavity. The estimated length of the total wound path is about four inches. A fatal wound causing perforation of the right lung and a haemothorax.’
‘And the weapon?’ asked Horton.
‘A very sharp single-bladed pointed knife, difficult to say the exact size but approximately seven inches in length. There are no signs she put up a struggle. The knife was thrust upwards with some strength.’
‘By a man?’ enquired Eames, looking up from her notes.
‘Not necessarily. A stab wound such as this can be made with minimal force. The important factor is the sharpness of the tip of the blade, and this one was very sharp. Once it has penetrated clothing and skin remarkably little force is required to follow through and create a deep knife wound. Also the faster the stabbing action, the easier it is to penetrate skin. However, the thrust of the knife was underhand, which suggests a man rather than a woman, who tend to favour overhand thrusts. She was killed some time between ten thirty and midnight.’
After everyone had left the sailing club, and by that time it was dark, thought Horton.
‘Thirdly and most interesting is this.’ Gaye pulled the cover further down until it reached the body’s knees. ‘As you can see from the pubic hair your victim was a natural blonde. The hair on her head was dyed black and her eyebrows and eyelashes were tinted black. And I discovered something else which is slightly unusual. She was wearing coloured contact lenses to make her eyes brown. Your victim was not naturally dark-haired and brown-eyed; she was a blue-eyed blonde, much like you, Agent Eames. Now why would she want to change her appearance?’
Why indeed? He glanced at Eames, whose brow puckered with thought as her posh pen hovered over her notebook.
Gaye added, ‘I’ll send her clothes for forensic examination unless you’d like to take them with you.’
Eames answered, ‘No, but we’d like photographs of them please and of the birthmark.’
‘Tom will email them to Sergeant Trueman. I’ve also sent fingerprints over to the fingerprint bureau and DNA for analysis. Oh, and two further things. She had sexual intercourse not long before death and it was consensual.’
With one of Woodley’s mates! Unlikely, thought Horton. He frowned as his mind grappled with this new information.
Gaye said, ‘She’d also eaten a meal five to six hours before she died, probably between five thirty and six thirty. Again there is no sign of her having been forcibly fed.’
‘What kind of meal?’ asked Horton.
‘I’ll let you know as soon as I can.’
Horton thanked her. He caught her quizzical glance before he left, which made him feel a little uncomfortable. Why, he didn’t know, or perhaps he did. He wondered if Dr Clayton was a mind-reader as well as a pathologist. He hoped not because she might have sensed that Agent Eames disturbed him, and not just mentally either.
Outside he said, ‘Does the fact she was really blonde strike any chords with you?’
‘Not immediately but I’ll circulate a revised description to Europol. I’ll also issue a new photograph of the victim with her natural colouring once the photographic unit give us a computer-generated image.’
‘It doesn’t sound as though she was held somewhere against her will. And I can’t see her having sex and eating a meal with any of Woodley’s associates.’
Eames considered this. ‘Perhaps she met someone before meeting her killer.’
That was entirely possible but why hadn’t this person come forward? Perhaps whoever it was didn’t know she’d been killed. He said, ‘While we’re here, let’s see if we can have a word with Fiona Wright.’
They made their way to the radiography department in the hospital. Horton was mulling over Dr Clayton’s revelations but he was still no nearer a conclusion by the time they located Fiona Wright. She’d finished with her patients for the day and waved them into seats in the small air-conditioned consulting room.
‘I had been hoping to go sailing tonight,’ she said, ‘but obviously because of the police investigation, that’s out of the question.’ She pushed back her shoulder-length brown hair and gave them both a nervous smile. Horton guessed she was in her late thirties. There was no ring on her left hand or indeed on any of her fingers but that didn’t mean she wasn’t married or living with someone, she probably removed her jewellery for work.
She said, ‘Gaye told me that you’d probably want to speak to me about that poor woman’s death. Do you know who she is yet?’
‘We’re still trying to establish that
.’ He nodded at Eames, who took the photograph from her jacket pocket. As she handed it across to Fiona Wright, Horton wondered how much more different the victim would look blonde-haired and blue-eyed.
‘Have you seen this woman before?’ Eames asked.
After studying the picture carefully, Fiona Wright said, ‘No. Gaye told me where her body had been found. I certainly didn’t see her last night. I arrived at the club just after seven and left just before ten with Gaye. There was no one outside then.’
‘Any cars parked that you didn’t recognize?’
‘Only a silver Range Rover.’
And Horton knew that belonged to the Chief Constable. ‘Did you leave the club by the front entrance at any time while you were there?’
‘No. There was no need. The dinghies are kept at the rear, near the club’s slipway.’
Horton knew that. ‘Did you see anyone on the quayside while you were sailing?’
‘No.’
Horton asked if she’d seen any other craft heading towards the club or the quayside.
‘Not that I can remember. There were several heading towards Horsea Marina, some large cruisers, a couple of yachts and a few motoring out into the harbour, but I didn’t really take much notice of them.’
Horton had two questions left to ask and he wasn’t hopeful that either would draw a positive response.
‘Do you know a Daryl Woodall?’
‘No.’
He showed her the photograph. ‘Have you seen this man before?’
She glanced at the picture and then back at Horton. ‘I’ve seen his photograph in the newspaper. He’s the man who discharged himself from hospital and was found dead. I didn’t come across him while he was here. I’m sorry I can’t help you, Inspector.’
Horton was too. He hadn’t really expected anything. In the car he told Eames to head for Tipner Quay, drawing a curious look from her. He called Uckfield as she threaded her way through the rapidly building rush-hour traffic. Uckfield’s phone was on voicemail. He must be in his press conference or with Dean. He rang Trueman and reported what they had discovered from Dr Clayton and requested him to get a revised photograph of the victim.
‘We’re on our way to the sailing club to get that list of members who were there last night and to interview Richard Bolton, the club secretary.’ It was a good enough reason to call in at the quay but Horton had another one. There was something he wanted to check out.
Forty minutes later, Bolton, a large, round-faced, bald-headed man in his mid-fifties, had equipped him with a dinghy and a life jacket and Horton was sailing in the harbour. There wasn’t much breeze, but enough. He wasn’t skiving, although Bliss would claim he was, this was research. From here he could see the large brick and corrugated-iron-roofed boatshed. Could the victim have parked her car in front of it? If she had then no one would have seen it from the club or the road leading to the boatyard. The crane barge was still in place and the remains of the wrecked boat had the canvas awning stretched over where the body had lain. But that area had been clear before the wreck had been raised so it was possible that she’d arrived before dark and waited there.
Taylor and his SOCO team had finished working on the wreck and surrounding area, and the police diving operation was now in progress. Horton wondered if they’d find the victim’s handbag, and the murder weapon. He’d asked Eames to relay a description of the latter to Marsden and the diving team.
He felt the little dinghy pick up speed as a sudden gust of wind filled the sails. It had been a long time since he’d sailed such a small vessel and, despite the seriousness of the occasion, he was enjoying it. He recalled the days spent on his former yacht, Nutmeg, with his daughter, Emma, with a tightening in his chest. He doubted he’d ever enjoy such moments again, and certainly not if Catherine had her way. He couldn’t let her. He had to find time to contact his solicitor, Frances Greywell, for advice on how to gain greater access to Emma without resorting taking it to the children’s court because he didn’t believe he’d get a favourable hearing. Tomorrow he’d make that call.
That decided he concentrated on sailing. Sergeant Elkins in the police launch could have done this trip much easier and quicker, which was what Bliss would say and Uckfield might agree with her, but it had occurred to him that perhaps their killer had used a dinghy or small sailing boat last night, and slipped in to the quay, silently, catching their victim unawares before thrusting that knife into her back and pushing her into the water. He needed to see if it was possible. And there was also the possibility that the victim had arrived with her killer by boat either before or after Richard Bolton had left, which he’d claimed had been at ten twenty-five. Bolton hadn’t seen the victim or her car.
But Horton was finding it difficult to navigate with precision on to the quay even in daylight, and in the dark it would have been extremely difficult, particularly as there hadn’t been a full moon last night to light the way. He was rapidly concluding that the killer would need to be an extremely skilled sailor to have arrived by this method, and that, as far as he was aware, didn’t fit the profile of any of Woodley’s associates. It wasn’t impossible, but as he saw Eames raise her hand to him, as he’d instructed, he thought it more probable that if the killer had come by sea he would have done so in a small motorized craft, such as a RIB, or a fishing boat equipped with lights. And that meant the victim would have been expecting it.
Steadily he brought the dinghy alongside the quay to the left of the diving operation.
Eames took up her role. ‘I’ve been waiting ages for you. I didn’t think you’d make it. We need to talk.’
‘Get on board.’
Eames looked uneasy. ‘I can’t, not in these shoes.’
No. The victim certainly hadn’t been dressed for sailing. ‘OK. I’ll come up.’ He swung nimbly onto the quayside and tied up.
‘What is it you want?’ Eames said, turning away as though to look out to sea.
Horton came round behind her. ‘You know.’
‘I don’t. I came here because you said it was urgent.’
Horton made as though he was carrying a knife. ‘It is. As urgent as this.’ And he thrust his hand into Eames’s back, where Dr Clayton had indicated the position of the stab wound, with his arm wrapped around Eames’s waist, trying not to think how nice she felt and smelt, and trying to ignore the stirring in his loins. He quickly released her. She staggered forward, then straightened up, with a slight smile.
‘That’s as far as I go, sir. Even I’m not keen enough to take a ducking in the line of duty.’
‘Pity. Marsden looks as though he’d like to have given you the kiss of life.’
Marsden flushed. Eames looked amused. Horton quickly continued. ‘She falls into the sea. The killer casts off and climbs back into the dinghy and sets off sailing again.’
Marsden said, ‘Wouldn’t it have taken him a while if he hasn’t got an engine?’
‘There was no one here and it’s dark, but yes it would have taken an age with the small amount of sea breeze there was last night.’ Even Gaye Clayton had commented on that. ‘But if he had a boat with an outboard engine and had agreed to meet the victim after ten twenty-five, then there was no one here to hear him, and as Eames has just highlighted, if the victim had agreed to meet her killer here then she could hardly have walked far in her high heels.’ Horton removed his life vest, adding, ‘And that means she must have been brought here by a taxi, or she drove here, and if she drove then her killer couldn’t have been alone, if he came by sea. There had to be two of them.’
Horton gazed out to sea, his mind working rapidly. He said, ‘They could have arrived in a bigger boat with an engine and a cabin where the accomplice remained out of sight. After she’s been killed the accomplice alights and drives the victim’s car away to dump it while the other person takes the boat back to where it’s usually moored, which could be anywhere along this stretch of water, or further afield even. But I can’t see any of Woodley’s crowd o
wning a boat.’
Eames said, ‘They could have stolen one.’
He’d get Elkins to check. To Marsden he said, ‘Make sure the dinghy gets back to the sailing club.’
‘How?’ Marsden asked surprised.
‘You’re a detective, figure it out. Did Marty Stapleton own a boat?’ he asked Eames as they headed for the car.
‘Not that we’re aware of.’
‘What about his associates?’
‘There’s no record or mention of boats, but it’s possible one or more of them could have one.’ She studied the area. ‘It must have been very dark waiting here. There are no street lights or security lights. I suppose she could have left her car lights on, which could have guided the boat in.’
It was a good point. And there was no one in this isolated position to have seen that, therefore making it an ideal location for a rendezvous. ‘She could have had a powerful torch, which she kept in her car, and that’s in the sea along with her handbag.’ If it was he hoped the divers would find it. After a moment he added, ‘I wish we had a name for her.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that. Salacia.’
‘What?’ He threw her a glance.
‘It’s the Roman name for the goddess of salt water.’
‘Seems very apt.’
‘Salacia was the wife and queen of Neptune, god of the sea. She was beautiful and crowned with seaweed.’
‘Spot on,’ Horton said, recalling the victim when alive and when her body had been lifted from the sea, covered with seaweed, dirt and sea creatures.
‘She bore Neptune three children.’
Horton recalled what Dr Clayton had said, that Salacia had certainly borne one child, so where was that son or daughter? Why hadn’t he or she reported their mother missing? Why hadn’t anyone? He said as much as Eames started the car and headed towards the outer cordon.
‘Perhaps the child has died, or she gave it up for adoption,’ she answered. ‘Or perhaps it’s living abroad and not in regular contact with its mother. There’s no record of Marty Stapleton having a child, legitimate or otherwise.’
Death Lies Beneath Page 6