‘Coastline Catering Supplies deliver fish and frozen food to the prison. They have a branch on the Island and another in Portsmouth. Although Gregory Harlow used to deliver from the Portsmouth office, I called Skelton and he says that Harlow did occasionally work for the Island branch when they were short staffed. Kirby is sending over a list of all the delivery drivers for the period three months before the attack on Stapleton. It’s possible either Gregory Harlow or one of his work colleagues, under Harlow’s instructions, got that photograph of Salacia to an inmate who then made sure it got to Woodley. But I’m not sure how Stapleton fits in with the Harlows and Ellie Loman.’
‘There’s no record of Harlow’s van having been booked on any of the car ferries.’
That didn’t mean that Harlow hadn’t crossed to the mainland, he could have abandoned the van close to the ferry terminals, or elsewhere on the Island, and returned as a foot passenger. But where would he have gone after that? Horton asked Trueman to put out a call for Harlow and his van both on the Island and the mainland.
‘Has the search warrant come through for Amelia Willard’s house?’
‘Yes. It’s a different address to the one on the Ellie Loman case file. Amelia Willard moved to the new address in 2004, two years after Rawly died and a year after her husband’s death.’
‘Which means there’s probably nothing left of her son’s belongings.’
‘And if there had been then the Harlows could already have cleared it out following their aunt’s death.’
‘Apply for a search warrant for the Harlows’ house, Dave,’ Horton instructed. He didn’t expect any revelations but they needed to be certain, especially in the light of Harlow’s vanishing act. ‘I’ll go straight to Amelia Willard’s house.’ Trueman relayed the address. Horton said, ‘Has Eames returned from her interview with Foxbury?’
‘On her way back now.’
‘Ask her to collect Patricia Harlow and take her to Amelia Willard’s house, but to say nothing about Gregory Harlow being missing. I’ll meet them and a unit outside in an hour.’
Horton grabbed some food and had just taken a bite into his sandwich when Elkins rang.
‘Edward Ballard’s making for Guernsey,’ Elkins reported.
Not France then as he’d said. But a man had the right to change his mind.
‘I’ve asked the Port to alert me when he arrives. His boat’s not registered at any of the marinas there. I’ve checked.’
That was good thinking and Horton said so. ‘Any joy with Horsea Marina?’
‘Yes. Ballard arrived there on Monday and paid cash for two nights’ berthing. He left late on Wednesday evening.’
Which coincided with his arrival at Southsea Marina.
Elkins continued. ‘The lock master says he doesn’t remember Lazy Days going out of the marina during that time but it is possible that a small dinghy or RIB could easily have slipped in and out alongside or behind a larger boat in the dark.’
And the same could be said for Foxbury’s tender, which Horton had seen on his motor cruiser. But Gregory Harlow’s disappearance made it look increasingly unlikely that either Foxbury or Ballard were involved in Salacia’s death.
He rang off after asking Elkins to notify him when Ballard reached Guernsey. He spent the remainder of the ferry crossing speculating on the reaction he’d get from the abrasive Patricia Harlow. Did she know her husband had gone walkabout? Maybe? Did she know why? Had she lied about not knowing Salacia? It seemed that her husband had, and if Salacia hadn’t been at the crematorium for Woodley’s funeral then perhaps she had been there to see Gregory Harlow. Could Harlow have been the man Ellie Loman had spent her last day with and Salacia, whoever she was, had discovered this and had threatened to tell? But why wait all these years? Had she only just found out? If so how? Had Harlow confessed it to her in a post-coital daze after drinking wine and eating lobster, then realizing what he’d done he’d killed her?
As Trueman had said they’d get little, if anything, from the search of Amelia Willard’s house but it would be interesting to see Patricia Harlow’s reaction when he told her about Ellie Loman. According to Danby this would be the first time she’d been questioned about her.
When he arrived outside the house, not far from Southsea Common, some thirty minutes later, he was surprised to find it much smaller and shabbier than he’d expected. The tiny terraced house fronted straight onto the pavement in a road of similar houses sporting satellite dishes on the front elevation on one side of the road and wheelie bins on both. A patrol unit was parked outside number fourteen and Eames was waiting for him in her hired car with a cross-looking Patricia Harlow.
‘I’ve got better things to do than watch you tear my aunt’s house to pieces,’ Patricia Harlow snapped, as she unlocked the door and they entered the musty smelling narrow passageway. Horton nodded at the two uniformed officers to begin their search. ‘I’ve had to cancel several appointments,’ she continued. ‘This is most inconvenient for me and my clients. I shall be making a formal complaint to your Chief Constable regarding this harassment over the death of a woman I know nothing about. And I shall demand financial compensation for loss of earnings.’
‘Of course,’ Eames answered politely but wearily. By her tone, Horton guessed she’d already heard this several times on the journey here. With a slight nod he gestured Eames towards the rear of the house and remained in the hall with Patricia Harlow. From the glimpse into the small front room Horton didn’t think there was much to ‘tear to pieces’. She’d said nothing about her husband being missing, so Horton surmised Ross Skelton hadn’t called her to ask her if she’d seen him, probably too busy at the Festival.
‘I don’t know what you expect to find,’ Patricia Harlow added, her expression stern as the sound of drawers opening came from upstairs.
Nothing significant clearly, Horton thought. ‘Shall we go into the kitchen.’ It wasn’t a question but a command. He stood back and gestured her forward. After a moment she marched towards it, annoyance in every short step.
It was larger than the Lomans’ kitchen but not much. It was also dated, with cupboards in a shiny sickly grey and a worn dark grey Formica worktop. Eames, who had been searching it, gave a slight shake of her head. She’d left the cupboards open and Horton could see they were empty. There was also a gap where the fridge must have been and another where a washing machine had once stood. It was spotlessly clean, though. Through the window, devoid of curtains or blinds, Horton could see a small concrete-covered yard with a rotary washing line, and beyond that a high wall, which backed on to the houses in the next street.
‘Let’s sit down.’ He waited for Patricia Harlow to sit, which she did primly on the edge of one of three wooden chairs at a small table pushed up against the wall, before sitting himself. Eames took up position next to him and opposite Patricia Harlow, who sat tight-lipped and frowning.
Eames removed her notebook from her jacket pocket. Danby’s words flashed through Horton’s head. This tiny kitchen in this tiny house was probably smaller than one of Eames’s daddy’s horse boxes. The sound of PC Allen searching the front room brought his thoughts back to the job in hand. He could hear Johnson clomping about upstairs. Despite the heat outside the house was cold.
‘Tell me about your aunt?’ Horton began.
‘There’s nothing to tell. I don’t know why you’re here. She was old and ill and she died.’
‘Of cancer you said, what kind?’
‘Is that relevant?’ she replied tartly.
‘Anything could be in a murder inquiry.’
‘Murder? Oh, you mean that woman at the crematorium. You must be mad if you think my aunt—’
‘Another body’s been found. We believe it to be that of Ellie Loman.’
Clearly that was a surprise. For a moment she was speechless then her eyes widened as she made the connection and scornfully she said, ‘So that’s what this is all about, you’re still persecuting Rawly after all these years, eve
n though the poor man is dead, driven to his death, may I add, by the police harassing him. He never met her. He never saw her the day she disappeared and he never dated her. And if you think there’s anything left of my aunt’s belongings that will incriminate him then you are completely insane, not to mention the fact that you are wasting taxpayers’ money, and my time.’
Evenly Horton said, ‘Is that what he told you, that he had never dated her?’
‘He worked with her, he liked her, but he never asked her out.’
Eames looked up. ‘Why not?’
Patricia Harlow eyed Eames with something that bordered on contempt. Unaffected by it, Eames added, ‘Ellie Loman was an attractive young woman.’
‘That doesn’t mean Rawly went out with her.’
‘But he’d like to have done,’ insisted Horton.
Patricia Harlow’s eyes swivelled to Horton. ‘Rawly was a quiet man, sensitive. He didn’t have a great deal of confidence or experience when it came to women.’
And did that mean that when he finally plucked up the courage to ask her out he’d been rejected and hurt enough to kill her? Or perhaps he’d seen her with another man and in a jealous rage had killed her and pushed her body in the sea? But there had been no evidence to corroborate that. Could he have obliterated it so completely? And whatever the circumstances, Rawly Willard certainly hadn’t killed Salacia.
‘Your aunt’s cancer? What kind was it? We can find out from her medical records but it would be quicker if you told us.’
‘I don’t see why you want to know.’
‘And I don’t see why you are being so evasive,’ retorted Horton, sharply. He knew it wasn’t relevant to the inquiry but he wasn’t going to let her get away without answering. And her carping was beginning to get on his nerves.
‘Rectal cancer,’ she grouchily replied.
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s no need—’
‘Did you know Ellie Loman?’
‘No.’
It was said too quickly and her eye contact was evasive. ‘Let me rephrase the question, Mrs Harlow. Did you ever meet Ellie Loman?’
‘No.’
Another lie.
‘Did your husband?’
‘No.’
Horton left a few seconds silence before saying, ‘What were your aunt and uncle like?’ She looked disconcerted by the sudden change of conversation, as Horton had intended.
‘They were decent law-abiding people. My uncle was a very principled man.’
‘Harsh?’ asked Eames.
‘No. Fair. Upright. He tended to see things in black and white. He worked for the Inland Revenue, rose to be a senior officer there. He was clever with money. He had investments.’ Her voice trailed off. Horton sensed a ‘but’.
‘He played the stock market?’
‘No. But he made one or two unsound investments and lost some money that he was hoping would see him and my aunt through their retirement. When Rawly killed himself my uncle went downhill rapidly. He died within a year. My aunt got the life insurance and half his pension but it wasn’t much and the house was too big and had too many unhappy memories for her. She lived in one of those large rambling Edwardian houses off the seafront. She sold up and moved here a year after Uncle Edgar died.’
Horton said, ‘And now you inherit.’
Patricia Harlow eyed him with something akin to loathing. ‘Yes, though that’s none of your business.’
PC Johnson flushed the upstairs toilet. He was probably searching under the bath. Horton heard PC Allen climb the stairs. That meant he’d found nothing in the two rooms downstairs or in the cupboard under the stairs. Horton leaned back in his chair and kept his eyes on the stiff-backed woman beside him. ‘Where were you and your husband the day Ellie Loman disappeared?’ Horton noted that her hands, clasped together on the table, tightened.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘The day your cousin was accused of murder!’ Horton scoffed. ‘I’d have thought it would be imprinted on your mind. But let me remind you. It was Sunday 1 July 2001.’
‘Then I was at Mass in the morning.’
‘And in the afternoon?’ pressed Horton, knowing there was something she was uncomfortable about telling him.
She shifted position. One hand reached for a tissue from the pocket of her jacket. ‘I went to my aunt’s for tea.’
‘With your husband?’
‘No.’
‘Did your husband go to church with you?’
‘He’s not a Catholic.’
‘So where was your husband, Mrs Harlow?’
‘I don’t see why you should be asking now. No one was interested before.’
Horton said nothing.
After a moment she said, ‘If you really must know, he went fishing.’
‘On a boat?’ Horton asked sharply.
‘Where else would you go fishing?’ she sneered.
From the beach, on a river, beside a lake. But he didn’t say. ‘On his own boat?’
‘Yes. We had a small day boat then.’
‘Then?’
‘Greg sold it a few years ago.’
Had he, though? ‘When exactly?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.’
I will when I find him. ‘The name?’
‘Tide’s Out.’
‘Did he go fishing alone on that day?’
‘I think so. I don’t know. Why all this interest?’
‘Where did he keep the boat?’
‘On a mooring in Portsmouth Harbour,’ she said with a note of exasperation.
This was getting even more interesting. So Gregory Harlow must have been familiar with Foxbury’s boatyard, and he had no alibi for the day of Ellie’s death. Horton knew that his expression gave nothing away but Eames had caught on and even though she showed no emotion he could sense her excitement.
He said, ‘If it was on a mooring in the harbour your husband would have rowed out to it.’ And perhaps he had done that from the slipway at the Tipner Sailing Club. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it.
‘I suppose so.’ But her exasperation was tainted with an air of unease.
‘From where?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, come on, you never asked him or went with him?’
‘I certainly never went with him and what he did with his boat was his business. I wasn’t interested in it.’
Unfortunately that had a ring of truth about it.
Eames said, ‘What time did your husband return home that day?’
‘I can’t remember.’
But Horton wasn’t going to let her get away with that. ‘Let me rephrase my colleague’s question, how long was it after you returned from your aunt’s that your husband came home?’
‘A couple of hours,’ she shrugged, but avoided looking at him.
‘And that was when?’ persisted Horton.
She looked annoyed she fallen into the trap. ‘I left my aunt’s at six, Gregory got home around about eight. I can’t see why you want to know all this. We had nothing to do with that girl’s disappearance. We didn’t even know her.’
But she was edgy. ‘Was your uncle at home that day?’
‘No. He was playing golf on Hayling Island.’
Horton wondered if there was any way of corroborating that after all these years. He doubted it. ‘Did he return home while you were with your aunt?’
‘No. And before you ask I don’t know what time he came in. That surely must be in your files.’
Horton would ask Trueman. ‘Did Rawly return while you were with your aunt?’
‘No.’
‘So he still wasn’t back when you left at six?’
‘I’ve just said, haven’t I?’
‘Who arranged your aunt’s funeral?’
She looked surprised at the question. ‘I did, obviously.’
‘Why did you choose that date and time?’
‘It was the only one available,�
� she said with irritation. Horton raised his eyebrows in surprise, forcing her to add, ‘And convenient. With Gregory at the Isle of Wight Festival it had to be then. His boss wasn’t very pleased when he asked for the time off.’
‘And neither of you asked this woman to your aunt’s funeral?’ He pushed the photograph of Salacia at her.
She didn’t look at it. ‘I’ve already told you, no.’
And the other mourners had confirmed they didn’t know her.
‘Did you know that Daryl Woodley’s funeral was being held just before your aunt’s?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘How should I have known that? I’ve no idea who he is. I’ve never seen him before or heard of him.’
Horton rose. She looked surprised then relieved. But if she thought she was off the hook she was mistaken. ‘Shall we go into the front room?’ PC Allen entered with a slight shake of his head. With a silent command Horton indicated for him to check outside.
With an explosive sigh of exasperation Patricia Harlow marched out of the kitchen. In the shabby front room she crossed to the window and stood frowning at the police car parked beyond the net curtains. Horton quickly checked his phone and saw the call had been from Sergeant Elkins.
‘I wish you hadn’t been so obvious. It’s most embarrassing,’ she said.
‘Is this your aunt and uncle?’ Horton asked, putting his phone back in his pocket and indicating the faded wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. It, along with a handful of cheap ornaments and a sofa and chair, was all that was left in the room.
She spun round and nodded curtly. Horton studied the young couple in their twenties. She was small with a jolly, pretty little face and looked a bit like a sparrow, while he was tall and slim with a slightly superior expression on his lean face. Losing his money and their son’s death must have hit them hard. He thought of the Lomans: a sad thin woman living in a world that didn’t really exist and her husband barely alive in one that did.
‘Did your aunt ever talk about her son’s death?’ he asked, putting the photograph back and staring around the faded, chilly room with its worn carpet.
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