Death Lies Beneath

by Pauline Rowson

  There was nothing more he could do on that score but there was plenty on the matter of the bones laid out in front of him, and he brought his full attention back to them and Dr Clayton. She’d said the remains were those of a woman, which ruled out Foxbury’s elderly man, but the fact that it was a woman made it even more likely there was a link with Salacia’s death. He hesitated to even silently frame the words ‘serial killer’ which the newspapers had emblazoned across their pages. But this serial killer, if it was one, had left a long gap before killing again and the divers had said there were no further bodies lying in the deep.

  ‘The sacrum is short and wide, not long and narrow as it would be with a male,’ Gaye Clayton was explaining, ‘and amongst other indicators the sacroiliac joint is small not large. She’s also Caucasian, and from the measurements of the femur and humerus, and consulting the tables we use to determine height, she was five foot one inches. The pattern of fusion of bone ends to bone shaft, plus the general condition of the bones, indicates she was in her early twenties.’

  It was a start but he needed more. ‘Any idea when she died?’ Foxbury had said the wreck she’d been found on had been there from the late 1980s and the one above it from 2002, but Horton wasn’t sure he could rely on his evidence.

  ‘No, sorry. We need to conduct further laboratory tests to determine that, but if blood pigments are present in the bones then it will be less than ten years. We should be able to get DNA from the teeth, which are in good condition.’

  But whether it would match with anyone they had on the DNA database was another matter.

  Reading his mind Gaye said, ‘I know, you want more. But there’s not much I can tell you. We can compare the degradation rate of DNA extracted from the recovered rib bones to determine the time interval since the death of the victim. And if you don’t get a DNA match from the database we can do a three-dimensional facial reconstruction to give you an idea of what the victim looked like based on the size and shape of the skull.’

  All that was helpful but it would also take time and Horton, like Uckfield, was impatient for a speedier result. ‘What about cause of death?’ he asked hopefully while preparing himself for disappointment. But Dr Clayton surprised him there.

  She picked up the skull and swivelled it round. Horton found himself staring at a gaping hole. ‘I don’t think such extensive damage was done by it washing up against an underwater obstruction. Of course,’ she added, replacing the skull on the slab, ‘that might not have been the actual cause of death but it does indicate she was struck violently on the back of the head.’

  ‘Could she have fallen?’

  ‘Accidental death, you mean?’

  Horton nodded.

  ‘If she did accidentally strike her head against something on land, someone then pushed her body into the sea instead of calling for help. And if she accidentally fell into the sea and landed on that wreck then she would have struck her forehead not the back of her head. I can’t be a hundred per cent certain, of course, it is possible she could have stumbled and slipped over the quay backwards, but the size and type of wound doesn’t look consistent with that. It looks to me as though you’ve got yourself another homicide, Inspector.’

  And that wouldn’t please Uckfield or the ACC. He wasn’t too happy about it himself, and the newspapers would go to town on it. He thanked Dr Clayton and headed for the station, mulling over what she had said. Was it linked with Salacia’s death?

  At the station, he called Uckfield on his mobile and relayed Dr Clayton’s findings. As predicted they didn’t improve the Super’s mood. Horton had no idea what Sawyer’s reaction was as the two men headed for Wales. Uckfield’s phone was on speaker but Sawyer made no comment.

  Horton rang off feeling irritated and frustrated and wondering where the hell they went next with this inquiry. He hoped that Uckfield might get something from Stapleton and that Eames, who was working away at one of the computer terminals in the incident suite, might dig up something on Foxbury that would throw a light into the dark corner of this investigation. They had a body and bones, both without an ID, and no idea why either woman had been killed or by whom, or even if they were connected. It couldn’t get much worse. Or could it?

  Trueman hailed him. Holding out the phone he said, ‘It’s Joliffe.’

  Horton took the receiver expecting the worst. Joliffe’s Scottish tones reverberated down the line. ‘There are three letters engraved on the bracelet, Inspector. The initial E followed by the letter L then a gap and then the last letter, E.’

  ‘How many letters altogether?’ asked Horton. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.

  ‘Six at the most, probably five.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘It’s silver and it fits a small wrist.’

  Horton thanked him and quickly relayed the information to Trueman, adding, ‘OK, a girl’s name beginning with EL, five letters, ending in E, any ideas?’ Horton thought of Cantelli’s daughter Ellen but that didn’t end with E.

  Trueman quickly logged on to the Internet and a web site of girls’ names. ‘Could be Elaine.’

  ‘Any with five letters?’

  ‘Elise. Ellie. No others but it could be a pet name, a surname or even a foreign name.’

  ‘Let’s hope not. Start with those three.’

  Trueman called up the missing-persons database while Horton crossed to the crime board hardly daring to hope they might strike lucky. They needed something. His eyes caught Eames’s as she glanced up. She gave him a brief smile but he saw nothing more than general friendliness in it. He told himself he was relieved. Who was he kidding?

  He crossed to her. ‘Anything?’

  ‘Harry Foxbury was investigated by the tax office in 1998. No irregularities were discovered. He’s got two spent convictions for driving offences; one for driving without due care and attention in 1995 and the other for speeding in 2004. He sold the boatyard for re-development to the council and a private investment firm four years ago for two million pounds.’

  Very nice, thought Horton but before he could answer Trueman cried out.

  ‘Andy, we’ve got a match.’

  Horton spun round surprised. ‘That was quick.’

  ‘Came up almost immediately. Nothing under Elaine or Elise but there’s an Ellie Loman from Portsmouth, reported missing July 2001.’

  He didn’t recall the name but in 2001 he’d been seconded to Basingstoke. He flashed Eames a glance. She said, ‘According to Foxbury the second wreck was there but not the one on top of it where Salacia was found.’

  Horton’s pulse quickened. ‘The timing sounds right. Go on,’ he said eagerly to Trueman.

  ‘Ellie Loman, aged twenty-one, auburn haired, five foot one inches, slim. Lived in Portsmouth with her parents. Hold on, there’s more. I’ll print off her picture while I access the file.’

  It fitted with Dr Clayton’s original findings. They had to be on the right track. With rising excitement he collected the photograph from the printer and studied the small oval face, the green eyes looking shyly into camera and the long shiny auburn hair. She’d certainly been an attractive young woman, feminine and delicate. He tried not to think of her as the collection of rotting bones on Dr Clayton’s mortuary slab. There was still a chance that they weren’t Ellie Loman’s and the bracelet had been lost or discarded, but Horton knew in his gut it was her. But was her death connected with Salacia’s?

  Trueman continued. ‘Right, here we are.’ Horton returned and stood hovering by Trueman’s side, while Eames rose and moved close to him. Reading from the screen Trueman said, ‘Ellie Loman was last seen on Sunday 1 July 2001 or rather she was heard that morning by her father, Kenneth Loman. She called up to his bedroom to say goodbye at seven twenty-five. Loman knew the exact time because he looked at the clock, surprised that she was up and out of the house so early on a Sunday. He didn’t become concerned about his daughter until later that night. He called us at twelve ten p.m. The call was logged but
Loman was told she’d probably decided to stay with friends overnight and had forgotten to get in touch. She wasn’t underage or vulnerable. There was no reason to call out the guards.’

  ‘Did Loman know where his daughter had gone?’ asked Horton.

  ‘He assumed out with friends. Loman was told that if he didn’t hear from her, or she didn’t show, by the morning, to let us know. He called again on Monday at eight seventeen a.m. and a unit was despatched at ten fifteen.’

  ‘Had she ever done anything like this before?’

  ‘No. She had never been in any trouble and her parents claimed she always told them where she was going.’

  ‘Not this time she didn’t,’ Horton said quietly, his brain whirling with possibilities.

  Trueman followed his line of thought. ‘Initially her disappearance was put down to a young woman simply leaving home, wanting a bit of fun or running off with a man.’

  His words were like barbed wire in Horton’s brain. It was what they said about Jennifer.

  ‘And it might have stayed that way but according to this, or rather reading between the lines, it seems her father insisted her disappearance be fully investigated and he took it to the Assistant Chief Constable. They were probably in the same Lodge.’

  And Jennifer had had no such influential connections, or if she did have then they certainly didn’t create a fuss. Perhaps because they wanted it kept quiet.

  Trueman gave a soft whistle. ‘The ACC passed it down to CID. The investigating officer was Dean, who was then the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID. He and Mike Danby, who was the DI, worked on the case.’

  Danby, who now ran a private security company protecting the rich and famous. Jennifer Horton got a PC while Ellie Loman had the full weight of the CID. ‘Do you remember the case?’ he asked Trueman, pushing aside his bitterness.

  ‘No. I was working in Gosport CID then.’

  Twelve miles’ drive around the harbour and four miles if crossing by ferry. And even if Cantelli were here Horton didn’t think he’d be able to help because if his memory served him correctly Cantelli had been working in Vice.

  Trueman continued reading from the computer screen. ‘Kenneth Loman said he was recovering from a hangover and stayed in all that day. His drinking chums verified that he’d drunk heavily the night before.’

  Eames said, ‘I’m surprised he remembers her calling out goodbye to him, and the time.’

  ‘He’s still living at the same address.’ Trueman looked up. His expression rarely registered emotion but Horton could see the glint of triumph in the sergeant’s dark eyes. ‘There’s a connection between Ellie Loman and Salacia.’

  Yes! This was it at last, the breakthrough. He sensed Eames’s excitement beside him.

  ‘The main suspect in the disappearance and possible murder of Ellie Loman was the man she was believed to have been meeting that day: Rawly Willard.’

  And there was only one Rawly Willard that Horton had come across recently, or rather heard of. He swiftly recalled what Patricia Harlow had told him; with disappointment he said, ‘If he’s the late Amelia Willard’s son then he can’t be Salacia’s killer because he’s dead. According to Patricia Harlow he died in 2002.’ But he had seen a flicker of something register on Gregory Harlow’s face when Eames had shown him the photograph of Salacia.

  ‘Check that Rawly Willard really is dead and how he died. And get everything on the Ellie Loman case,’ Horton commanded, picking up the phone. ‘Eames, you help Trueman.’ Horton punched in Uckfield’s number.

  He quickly relayed the news to Uckfield, who confirmed he didn’t remember the case. He’d been working in the rape unit then. Horton said, ‘This means Salacia could have been at the crematorium for Amelia Willard’s funeral and not Woodley’s.’

  ‘But that doesn’t explain why Woodley had her photograph.’

  It didn’t explain a great many things but Horton didn’t say that. Woodley and Reggie Thomas were both in prison in 2001 and so were Stapleton and Victor Riley.

  Uckfield said, ‘I’ll call Dean and see what he remembers from the case.’ And Horton wondered if he heard a smug note in Uckfield’s voice at the thought that Dean might have cocked up, and that he might solve a case that Dean had failed to. But it was early days yet.

  Horton said, ‘I’d like to re-interview Gregory Harlow. I’ll also talk to the Lomans.’ It wasn’t a job he relished but he was eager to learn as much as he could about their daughter, and probe the link between her death, Rawly Willard and his cousins Patricia and Gregory Harlow.

  He tossed up whether to take Eames with him and because he wanted to and for the wrong reasons he decided to leave her assisting Trueman. He didn’t stay long enough to see whether or not she was disappointed. He doubted it. He asked Trueman to request a unit to meet him outside the Lomans’ house. He knew that it was going to be harrowing for the Lomans but better to know what had happened to your daughter than live in limbo for even more years than they had already, imagining, hoping, praying and speculating, trying to put it to the back of their mind and get on with their life while it ate away at them, turning them sour, bitter, disappointed, angry and bewildered. Or was he thinking of himself?

  He pulled up outside the stone bay and forecourt terraced house, noting that it was only a few streets away from where Patricia Harlow lived. He hoped the Lomans were at home. There was a car outside but that didn’t necessarily belong to them.

  The police car drew up behind it. PC Kate Somerfield climbed out.

  ‘Has Sergeant Trueman briefed you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  He could see that she was mentally preparing herself for what lay ahead. Having been the bearer of bad news several times she knew the drill, although she, like him, could never predict the reaction. He knew that she was keen to get into CID. She was also slightly wary of him because she’d been one of many female officers who had actually believed that ridiculous rape charge before he’d been exonerated.

  He caught sight of a woman in the downstairs window. Mrs Loman? Probably. He hoped she wasn’t alone. No, there was a man with her. But that could be anyone, a friend, relative or new husband, though Trueman had said the Lomans still lived here, or rather Kenneth Loman did. He caught the man’s eyes and watched his casual glance swivel to the uniformed Somerfield. Within a second Horton registered surprise, dread and finally a sadness that drained the blood from the man’s face and seemed to suck the very life out of him. It stabbed at Horton’s heart before he mentally pulled himself up. He saw that there was no need to tell Kenneth Loman why they were here. He already knew.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘You’ve found her,’ Loman said in a voice so heavy with sorrow that it made Horton’s heart ache. He felt Somerfield’s tension beside him.

  Gently he replied, ‘We’ve found some remains that we believe might be Ellie’s.’

  ‘Remains? Yes, yes I see. It would be after all this time.’

  But Horton knew Loman didn’t see. How could he when the last mental image he had of his daughter was a living, laughing, feeling human being and a voice calling up a cheerful goodbye to her hung-over dad? They were standing in the narrow passageway. Before Horton could reply a woman’s voice rang out.

  ‘Who is it, Ken?’

  Loman drew in a breath and pulled his sagging body up with an effort. He gestured them into the small front room where a smartly dressed, extremely thin woman was sitting in the bay window with a table in front of her frowning over a large puzzle. She looked up and smiled as they entered.

  ‘My wife, Marie,’ Loman introduced. He was holding himself together but Horton could see the strain of it etched in every pore of his face and every muscle of his lean and slightly hunched body. How old was he? Fifties? Sixties? He looked more like eighty.

  ‘This is Detective Inspector Horton and Police Constable Somerfield. They’ve come to talk to me about some robberies that have been happening near by.’

  Somerfield
looked confused. Horton didn’t blame her, he was too. He swiftly took in the photographs of the Lomans’ pretty daughter scattered around the room before his glance once again fell on Marie Loman.

  ‘How awful,’ she said. ‘I hope you catch whoever is doing them.’

  Hastily, Loman said, ‘I’ll take them into the kitchen for a coffee, would you like one, dear?’ Loman’s voice resounded with false jollity, and to Horton’s ears of desperation, to both of which Marie Loman seemed oblivious. Loman was near breaking point. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.

  ‘Please.’

  Loman shuffled down the passage into a room at the rear of the house. ‘You must excuse Marie,’ he said once they were in the small modern kitchen. He made no attempt to put the kettle on. Horton thought he’d aged another five years in the last five minutes. ‘Shortly after Ellie disappeared Marie contracted a rare inflammatory brain disease. It’s left her memory disjointed. She can only remember faces, names and events from before Ellie disappeared, nothing since. She has an extremely short memory.’

  Horton studied Loman as he tried to comprehend what that meant.

  ‘You get used to it,’ Loman said, but clearly he hadn’t. ‘If you go back into the room now she won’t remember you or what you said. She’s done that puzzle a million times but each time she comes back to it it’s fresh to her.’

  Horton couldn’t even begin to imagine how exhausting life must be for Kenneth Loman. Marie Loman’s condition meant she would always believe Ellie was alive and about to walk through the door meaning Kenneth Loman would not only have to bear his grief alone, but also relive it again and again and again. No wonder the man looked worn out. Who wouldn’t? Horton didn’t say he was sorry because there was no point. Being sorry didn’t help Marie and Kenneth Loman.