‘No. It was too painful for her.’
Horton hadn’t read the suicide note but it would be on the case file, if there was one. PC Johnson appeared in the doorway. Horton excused himself and slipped out into the hall. Allen was with him.
‘There are only a few bits of furniture left upstairs,’ Johnson relayed. ‘Everything’s been cleared out. There’s no correspondence or photographs.’
‘Have you checked the loft?’
‘Yes, nothing up there but dust and mice.’
Horton told them they could go and returned to the front room. ‘Where is your aunt’s correspondence?’
‘There isn’t any except the legal papers.’
Horton studied her closely. It was probably the truth. ‘Do you have your aunt’s photographs?’
‘No. I burnt them.’
‘All of them?’ Horton asked, incredulous. OK, so photographs of his childhood had been destroyed but his circumstances had been completely different. People usually kept some pictures of their relatives unless they hated them, and he’d had no indication that Patricia or Gregory Harlow had hated their aunt and her family. So why destroy them? Out of shame because of Rawly’s suicide? Doubtful. Or because Patricia Harlow was one of those women who hated clutter and wasn’t in the least bit sentimental? Probably.
‘Except that picture,’ she answered, gesturing at the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, ‘and that will go when the last of the furniture leaves. There’s no point in me keeping it. It’s the past. Nobody wants to look back.’
He didn’t but he felt compelled to. Again that shadowy memory connected with Edward Ballard nudged at him.
He said, ‘Do you know where your husband is?’
‘At work, of course.’
‘I’ve just come from the festival and he’s not there. No one has seen him since last night.’
‘Then they’re mistaken.’ She certainly didn’t seem worried or concerned.
‘When did you last speak to him?’
‘I really don’t see—’
‘When?’ barked Horton, making her jump.
Tight-lipped she said, ‘Nine thirty last night.’
That looked and sounded like the truth but it didn’t mean that she didn’t know where her husband was now. She made no further comment and neither did she ask any questions about her husband’s vanishing act, which made Horton think she knew where he’d gone and why. Perhaps he still had that boat, or another one.
Eames offered Patricia Harlow a lift home. She looked as though she wanted to refuse but that would mean either walking or catching a bus or taxi so she grudgingly accepted. When Patricia Harlow was in the car, Horton took Eames aside. ‘What did you get from Harry Foxbury?’
‘He was surprised when I told him about the human remains, but he didn’t look or sound worried. He remembers Ellie Loman as a pretty, friendly young girl. He also remembered her father but claims he hasn’t seen him for years. I asked him for details of the woman he’d been with on Tuesday but he denied being with one. I didn’t press him but he’s lying. And he again denied knowing Salacia.’
‘Did he own a boat in 2001?’
‘Yes. He had two. A small motorboat and a small sailing yacht. He gave me their names but said he sold both of them years ago and he doesn’t remember when or to whom. He was living at Cosham in 2001 and his house didn’t have a swimming pool. I’m still waiting to see if I can get any records on previous employees from 2001.’
He let her go and after she’d driven off he rang Elkins.
‘Ballard has made port in Guernsey,’ Elkins reported. ‘As far as the marina manager in St Peter Port is aware he hasn’t left his boat. He’s told them he’s staying for a couple of nights and the manager wants to know if anything’s wrong. I said we were just keeping a discreet eye on him because of an assault on him in Portsmouth and we wanted to make sure he was OK and not suffering any after-effects. I said he didn’t want any fuss. I didn’t think the manager would buy it but he did. What do you want us to do now, Andy, about Ballard I mean?’
‘Ask the manager to notify you if and when he leaves and if he says where he’s heading. Then let me know.’
Horton rang off. Heading for the station, he wondered if he should call Inspector John Guilbert, a friend of his in the States of Guernsey police, and ask him to keep a prudent eye on Ballard. But that would make it official, unless Guilbert did it on the quiet, and Horton knew he would if he asked him to, and if he had the time, and without asking the reason why. But perhaps he was mistaken and Ballard had nothing to do with DCS Sawyer or Zeus. But if he did, did Sawyer know where Ballard was? Perhaps he should ask him. His Mercedes was in the station car park next to Uckfield’s BMW.
Horton found the Super alone in the canteen tucking into pie and chips. Horton fetched the same and a coffee and sat opposite.
‘Waste of bloody time and petrol going to Wales,’ Uckfield said, forking the pie into his mouth. ‘Stapleton just repeated what he’d told Swansea CID, that he’d never seen Salacia before and he didn’t arrange for anyone to give Woodley a photograph of her. He said he wouldn’t so much as give that bastard a cold. Sawyer said he’d do a deal with him, information on Salacia or Woodley or both, and a hint of where he’d stashed his money and he’d put in a word to the parole board. Stapleton just laughed and said he’d do his time. Still, Sawyer seemed to enjoy the trip,’ he added sarcastically.
‘Where is he?’
‘With Wonder Boy. Don’t know why because I’ve already given Dean an update.’
‘What does he remember about the Ellie Loman case?’
‘Swears blind Rawly Willard killed her, only they couldn’t prove it. He believes that Willard’s suicide confirmed his guilt.’
‘Ellie went off with someone that day with two bikinis and no towel, which the original investigation didn’t pick up, neither did they discover that Kenneth Loman kept a boat and so too did Gregory Harlow, on the trots close to the boatyard and the sailing club. And he was out on it that afternoon.’
Uckfield was looking happier. Horton knew why. Because Dean had messed up.
‘Any sign of Harlow?’
Horton shook his head and told him about his interview with Ross Skelton and Geoff Kirby at the prison ending with the search of Amelia Willard’s house and his interview with Patricia Harlow. ‘I think she knows where her husband is.’
‘Then we’ll ask her less politely if he doesn’t show up soon. Were both the Harlows at their aunt’s wake?’
‘According to the statements of those who were there, yes.’ He’d checked with Trueman.
‘Pity. I was hoping Gregory Harlow slipped out and met Salacia that afternoon for sex, lobster and white wine.’
Horton had been hoping the same, but not so it seemed.
‘She must have met someone else before meeting Harlow at the quay later that night.’
And that brought them back to Harry Foxbury. He said, ‘Foxbury has had a woman on his boat but denies it. Both Eames and I smelt her perfume and he was with someone on Tuesday. It could have been Salacia. She might have arranged to meet him and he doesn’t want to admit it because of her body being found at his old boatyard.’
Uckfield pushed away his empty plate. Between mouthfuls, Horton continued, ‘Harlow could have taken Ellie out with him. She knew the sailing club and the old boatyard and agreed to meet him there. By the time he brought her back they’d rowed. Perhaps she’d refused to let him have what he considered to be payment for a day out. She threatened to tell his wife. He lost his temper, struck her a violent blow across the back of the head as she made to leave him. Then, seeing what he’d done, and that there was no way back, he pushed her body into the sea. Nobody knew they’d been together and the Harlows weren’t even questioned.’
Uckfield took up the theory. ‘Then Salacia shows up. She has to be connected with the Willards—’
‘Or Harry Foxbury,’ Horton interjected, suddenly seeing the link. ‘Salacia cou
ld have been at the boatyard to meet Foxbury that day. She saw something, kept quiet about it and now Harlow’s come into money via his aunt’s death, has returned to blackmail him.’
‘Sounds plausible.’ Uckfield picked at his teeth.
Horton finished his meal and sat back thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps she was blackmailing Gregory Harlow before she showed up at the funeral, which was why Woodley had her photograph. Harlow must have got it into the prison and somehow arranged for Woodley to get rid of Salacia, only he realizes he’s made a mistake and tries to silence Woodley. He makes a hash of it first time but second time around leaves his body on the marshes. And he decides to kill Salacia himself.’ At last he felt they were getting somewhere. There were holes in the theory but perhaps once they tracked Harlow down he’d be able to plug them.
Uckfield was looking more cheerful too. His eyes swivelled beyond Horton and he muttered, ‘Here comes her ladyship.’
So Uckfield knew her pedigree? Eames drew level and Horton could see instantly by her heightened colour that they’d got some new and vital information. She flicked him a solemn glance before addressing Uckfield. ‘We’ve just had a call from the Isle of Wight police, sir. They’ve found Gregory Harlow’s van in Firestone Copse.’
‘And Harlow?’ asked Uckfield.
But Horton knew what was coming. Eames’ expression had given that away.
‘In the driver’s seat. Dead,’ she answered.
Uckfield cursed. Horton felt like doing the same but didn’t. He felt cheated.
‘Suicide?’ he asked. Had his theory been correct and Harlow realizing he had gone too far had killed himself?
‘They’re not sure, sir.’
Scraping back his chair, Uckfield said, ‘Then let’s find out.’
SIXTEEN
Harlow’s body lay slumped over the steering wheel. Horton’s stomach recoiled at the sight of the bluey-pink face and the sign of nesting flies in the eye staring sightlessly at him. The vehicle reeked with the smell of whisky and Horton registered the empty bottle on the passenger seat, the keys in the ignition and that Harlow was dressed in a similar or the same T-shirt he’d seen him wearing when he’d interviewed him on Thursday.
DCI Birch from the local CID addressed Uckfield. ‘The doctor says he’s been dead for approximately twenty-four hours.’
Horton thought it less than that because Harlow had logged out of the festival at ten thirty-five p.m. the previous night. Driving here would have taken him about thirty minutes and then another hour or so to drink himself to death, less possibly, if he’d taken drugs with the alcohol and Horton was betting he had. He also wondered if those drugs had come courtesy of Haseen Nader.
He said as much. Birch was eyeing him as though he was a nasty smell from the shore of Wootton Creek a mile away but Horton could deal with that. He didn’t care for Birch either, a lean inflexibly hard man with sparse light-brown hair above a thin-lipped gaunt face. As far as Horton was concerned Birch had about as much imagination and feeling as the tree he was named after, though to be fair to the plant at least that blossomed once a year, which was more than could be said for Birch the detective. Their paths had crossed several times in the past and had always resulted in friction, mainly because Horton had resolved the cases they’d been forced to work together on and Birch resented that.
Uckfield waved Clarke forward. Taylor and Beth Tremaine waited patiently for the photographer to finish. They’d all travelled across on the police launch, which had moored up on one of the pontoons at Fishbourne a couple of miles away. Two patrol cars had brought them here. Arc lights were in the process of being erected and the undertaker’s van was waiting close by, along with the police vehicle-recovery truck. Although this had all the hallmarks of suicide they couldn’t take any chances.
Moving some distance away, Uckfield addressed Horton. ‘Pity there’s no suicide note.’
‘He might have left one in the caravan he shares with Haseen Nader. I’ll call Ross Skelton to give him the news and tell him that we’ll need to search the caravan and question his staff.’ And judging by what he’d seen of Skelton he didn’t think the quick-tempered boss of Coastline was going to be very pleased about that, or Harlow’s death, mainly because it would inconvenience him.
Uckfield turned to Birch. Crisply he ordered, ‘Get your officers at the festival to search the caravan and put out a picture and description of the van, asking for any sightings of it. I also want a fingertip search done of this area.’ Horton caught a glimpse of fury in Birch’s grey eyes at Uckfield’s curt dismissive manner. That was not how a detective chief inspector should be addressed. But Uckfield would never forget or forgive the fact that Birch had tried to get him thrown off a case recently because he’d had an affair with someone involved in a murder investigation.
Turning his back on Birch, Uckfield said to Horton, ‘We’ll break the news to Patricia Harlow.’ Reaching for his phone Uckfield added, ‘I’ll call Dean.’
Birch marched off, rigid and livid. Horton rang Skelton and, as he’d expected, his initial reaction was that of fury. ‘That’s all I need!’ Then he seemed to recollect that one of his employees had died. ‘Why the hell would he want to do a bloody stupid thing like that? Who’s going to tell his wife?’
‘We will.’ Horton thought he heard Skelton sigh with relief. ‘We’ll need to question your staff and search the caravan.’
‘Why? I thought you said it was suicide.’
‘Routine procedure, sir.’
Grudgingly Skelton said, ‘If you have to.’
‘Thank you, sir. We appreciate your cooperation.’ If Skelton detected his note of irony he didn’t comment on it. Horton rang off considering Harlow’s suicide. The autopsy would confirm how he’d died and if he’d taken drugs, also what kind, but it couldn’t answer why Harlow had killed Ellie Loman or Salacia. And neither could it tell them Salacia’s real identity and why she’d been at the crematorium. Perhaps Patricia Harlow would know. And perhaps she’d be able to confirm that her husband had had an affair with Ellie Loman and Salacia. It would explain why she was so harsh and embittered. He wondered how she’d take this news.
Clarke moved away, indicating to Taylor that he had all the photographs he needed. He’d also taken a video. Horton asked Beth Tremaine to empty the dead man’s trouser pockets. This she did carefully and without flinching but then she’d had plenty of practice, Horton thought, watching her slender small hands stretch inside the dark blue cotton trousers.
‘Wallet with some money, credit cards and a security pass for the festival,’ she said before dropping it into an evidence bag. It was brown leather, and well worn. Horton noted that Harlow didn’t carry a photograph of his wife around but that didn’t mean anything significant.
‘There’s nothing else in his side pockets, Inspector. Do you want me to check the back pockets?’
Horton did. The body was stiff with rigor. He stepped forward to help her, steeling himself for the ordeal, but Taylor waved him aside. ‘We’ll handle this, sir,’ he said. Horton was only too pleased to let them get on with it. After a moment Beth shook her head. ‘Empty.’
Taylor added, ‘There’s only the usual vehicle documentation in the car compartments.’ He handed the keys, which he’d placed in a plastic evidence bag, to Horton. ‘As well as the ignition key, and automated key fob, there’s a key for the rear door,’ he added, walking around to the rear of the vehicle where the two doors were wide open. ‘The other two keys look as though they are to his house.’
But Horton thought the smaller key might be to the caravan at the festival. He peered inside the rear of the van. It was empty, which was what he had expected. All the supplies were at the festival, which thankfully they couldn’t hear from here.
‘Any sign of a mobile phone?’ He knew there couldn’t be otherwise Taylor would have said. Taylor confirmed this with a shake of his head.
‘He could have got out of the van and dropped it, or chucked it away.’
&
nbsp; Or it could be in the caravan at the festival. That seemed unlikely, why would Harlow leave it behind? Equally why would he ditch it? The obvious reason was because it contained evidence linking him to Salacia. They would get the number and apply for the phone records.
Uckfield came off the phone. He left instructions with DCI Birch to keep the area cordoned off until they’d finished the search and told the undertakers to take the body to Portsmouth on one of the night-ferry crossings. ‘No point in dragging Mrs Harlow over here,’ Uckfield said to Horton while unzipping his scene suit. ‘She can make a formal ID tomorrow morning before Dr Clayton does the autopsy.’ Stepping out of the disposable suit and hitching up his trousers he added, ‘Let’s break the news to her.’
On their way back to Portsmouth, Horton wondered what Uckfield would make of Patricia Harlow. Perhaps this news would cause that brittle shell of hers to crack wide open.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time they pulled up outside the house, and dark. Horton had wondered if Patricia Harlow would still be up. There was no light shining from the front of the house. A marked police car was waiting for them further down the road. Inside were two PCs. Eames climbed out of her car and handed Horton the search warrant that Trueman had given her. ‘It seems a bit insensitive searching her house this late and at the same time we’re telling her that her husband’s dead,’ she said.
‘Not if Harlow murdered two women and she’s an accomplice,’ Horton brusquely replied, recalling Kenneth and Marie Loman. As he headed towards the house, he saw the net curtains twitching at a house across the car-lined street. He rang the bell while Uckfield stood impatiently beside him and Eames waited behind them with the two uniformed officers. He was beginning to think that she must have retired to bed when a light came on in the hall and a few seconds later the door was flung open. Patricia Harlow had discarded the white overall in favour of a lemon T-shirt that stretched across her well-developed chest. She eyed them first with surprise and then with anger.
Death Lies Beneath Page 18