‘What is it now? Can’t you leave me alone? This is harassment. I won’t tolerate it.’
‘Shall we go inside, Mrs Harlow? No need for the neighbours to hear everything.’
She stared at him and each of them in turn before stepping back.
They entered the spotlessly clean hall with its pale pink carpet covered by plastic to protect it from the footsteps of her clients. The smell of antiseptic was as pungent as before. Horton continued, ‘We have a warrant to search these premises.’ He nodded at PC Johnson, who held out the warrant.
‘This is ridiculous—’ she began without looking at it.
But Horton interjected, ‘I’m afraid we also have some very upsetting news for you concerning your husband.’
‘Gregory’s on the Isle of Wight,’ she declared.
‘Shall we go in here?’ Horton gestured towards the front room, which he knew to be her surgery. It wasn’t the best of places to break the news but it was the nearest and it would allow the officers to search the house.
She entered it with ill grace. Horton nodded at the two officers to begin their search and for Eames to stay with him. Uckfield remained silent but entered the room behind Horton and stood by the door. Nothing seemed to have changed from Horton’s last visit.
He began. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your husband’s body was found late this afternoon.’
She eyed him with suspicion then her eyes flicked over the small group. ‘Dead? But he can’t be. You must have made a mistake,’ she said hesitantly.
‘No mistake, Mrs Harlow.’
Silence. What would she do now?
‘I don’t understand. If this is some kind of trick—’
‘No trick. This is Detective Superintendent Uckfield. He and I have just come from your husband’s body. He was found in his van in a wood on the Isle of Wight.’
Her skin paled. ‘How? An accident?’ She frowned as though she was trying to make sense of what he’d just told her.
‘It appears as though he took his own life; there was a bottle of whisky beside him in the van.’
‘Gregory hates whisky. He never touches the stuff.’ She said it as though it was conclusive proof that it couldn’t be her husband.
‘They’ll be a post-mortem, which will give us more information about how he died but not why; we thought you might be able to tell us that?’
‘Me? How should I know?’
But she knew something. She showed no sign of breaking down, though. That could be because she was in shock or in denial; the news hadn’t really sunk in yet. That could take some time. Her eyes shifted at the sound of the officers searching in the room next to them. She turned away to the cabinet where her sterilizer was and began to idly finger some instruments. Her tension filled the air.
Horton said, ‘We believe your husband’s death might have something to do with the deaths of Ellie Loman and the woman seen at the crematorium at the same time as your aunt’s funeral.’
Her hand froze. She stiffened but she didn’t turn to face them.
‘You know who she is, don’t you?’ Horton persisted gently.
‘No.’
‘Mrs Harlow. Your husband is dead. The time for lying is over.’
She spun round, her eyes filled with fury. ‘My husband’s death has nothing to do with that woman or Ellie Loman. Isn’t it bad enough that one person in my family has died because of police persecution? You just couldn’t leave Rawly alone and the poor weak soul killed himself, so now you’re looking for someone else. Me or my husband. We’ll do. Just as long as you get someone for it you’re happy. Well, Gregory had nothing to do with her disappearance and neither did I. Do your search and then leave me alone. I’ve got things to do.’ She pursed her lips together and stood erect.
Uckfield jerked his head towards the door. Horton said, ‘My colleague will stay with you in here while we conduct the search.’
She made no reply.
In the hall Uckfield raised his eyebrows and gestured for them to enter the kitchen. ‘God, she’s tough,’ he said quietly.
‘And capable of killing,’ Horton replied. ‘Perhaps Gregory Harlow didn’t meet and kill Salacia but she did when she discovered he’d had an affair with her. And perhaps she told her husband that and he killed himself, unable to live with it.’
‘Yeah, that’s possible. I’ll poke around in here and the garden. See what they’ve found in the lounge and upstairs.’
Horton was keen to see the house. He hoped it might give him a greater understanding and insight into Patricia Harlow. He took the lounge first.
‘Nothing so far, sir,’ PC Allen greeted him. They’d been told to look for any notes or correspondence from either of the dead women or from Gregory Harlow but Horton knew that if such existed it could be on the computer and there was one in the surgery, which they’d take away.
He surveyed the featureless room with its plain cream wallpaper, the same pale pink carpet that was in the hall, and a square cream sofa and two matching armchairs. There was an absence of cushions and rugs and only one picture of a bland country view above a tiled hearth with an electric fire. There was a modern television in one alcove, and a modern sideboard in the other one. He climbed the stairs to the Harlows’ bedroom, which reflected the lounge in its neatness. Along with a simple double divan covered by a plain lilac counterpane there was a fitted wardrobe on one side of the fireplace, the latter of which had been removed and boarded over, and a chest of drawers on the other side. A dressing table with a small mirror stood in the bay window but there was no full-length mirror, not even inside the wardrobe. And there was nothing that could provide them with any evidence of why Gregory Harlow had killed himself.
PC Johnson entered with a shake of his head. ‘Nothing in the bathroom or the other bedrooms, sir.’
In the hall Horton looked up.
Following Horton’s gaze, the officer said, ‘I’ll find a stepladder.’
‘No need, there’s a ring on that hatch, which means there’s a pole.’
‘It’s in one of the bedrooms.’ Johnson fetched it and as the hatch opened the ladder came down. Horton’s dread of confined spaces made him want to send Johnson up there but he wouldn’t duck out. Facing your fear was the only way he knew how to deal with it, which made him think fleetingly of Zeus.
With a rapidly beating heart he climbed the steps. The memories of being shut in as a form of punishment in one of the many and the worse of the children’s homes he’d been banished to following his mother’s desertion resurfaced and with an effort he pushed the terror he’d felt then away, determined not to let the bastards who had subjected him to such cruelty get the better of him. Gripping the rail he propelled himself upwards and was relieved to find a light switch to his right. The spacious attic was boarded and contained only one large cardboard box.
PC Johnson followed. ‘Wish my loft looked like this,’ he said enviously. ‘It’s full of stuff the missus says she can’t bear to throw away but hasn’t looked at for years. I said we should have a garage sale, only problem is we haven’t got a garage.’
Horton smiled. He peered inside the box. It contained a handful of ornaments, some silverware, an old heavy family Bible and a folder full of documents which, at a quick glance, belonged to the late Amelia Willard.
‘Bring it down,’ he instructed. They’d take it to the station and go through it but he didn’t think it would reveal anything. Too much time had elapsed since Ellie Loman’s death.
In the hall he met Uckfield, who shook his head, and together they entered the surgery. From Eames’s expression Horton could see that Patricia Harlow hadn’t spoken since they’d left her. She showed no signs of grief at her husband’s death but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel it. She could be holding it in. PC Allen began a methodical search. It didn’t take long. Horton said they would need to take her computer away for examination.
‘I can’t see how that will help you unless you think Gregory emailed me a suicide note. He didn’t
.’
‘Could your husband have had an affair with this woman?’ Horton nodded at Eames, who again put the photographs of Salacia in front of Mrs Harlow. ‘She was originally a blonde,’ he added. ‘You might recognize her in this picture, which we’ve had computer-enhanced to show her natural colouring.’
Patricia Harlow didn’t even glance at the pictures. Flashing angry eyes at them she said, ‘You’ve just told me that my husband is dead, you’ve searched my house and now you want to badger me by asking questions. I refuse to say anything more and if you don’t leave me this instant I shall call my solicitor and make an official complaint at the highest level about your aggressive, uncaring and abusive manner.’
Uckfield looked as though he wanted to argue but Horton knew they were treading on thin ice by piling the pressure on her now. Gently he said, ‘Of course, Mrs Harlow. We understand you have a lot to do and are obviously upset. We’ll need you to formally identify your husband’s body tomorrow morning. A car will collect you at eight thirty.’
For the first time during their presence in her house she looked alarmed. He wondered if she was going to say she couldn’t cancel her appointments. He added, ‘Unless there is someone else who could do that, a son or daughter, perhaps?’ He hadn’t seen any family photographs or evidence that the Harlows had children.
‘No,’ she hastily answered. ‘I’ll do it. My son doesn’t live locally.’
So there was a child. He wondered what he was like and how he’d take the news of the death of his father. Blotting out Uckfield’s impatient manner beside him, Horton continued, ‘We are deeply sorry for your loss, Mrs Harlow, and apologize if you found our methods intrusive, but we only want to establish why this woman and Ellie Loman were killed and the reason for your husband’s death. In our job we have to ask questions at difficult times.’
She didn’t look mollified by his apology but then Horton guessed nothing would soften her.
‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
They made their way back to the station. Horton was the first to arrive in the incident suite. He had just finished updating Trueman when Uckfield arrived followed by Eames, who put the cardboard box found in the Harlow’s loft on a desk near Trueman.
‘No suicide note has been found in the caravan,’ reported Trueman. ‘And there’s no sign of Harlow’s mobile phone either. SOCO’s finished at the scene. Nothing significant found but Taylor will let us have a report tomorrow.’
Uckfield looked as though he was about to say that tomorrow wasn’t good enough when Horton quietly butted in, ‘It’s very late, Steve, we all need some rest, including you.’
For a moment Uckfield looked rebellious but then grudgingly acquiesced.
Before leaving, Horton told Eames he’d like her to accompany him to the mortuary in the morning, thinking it had become something of a habit. Dr Clayton would be giving him his own office next. He returned to his yacht, weary and disturbed by the case. He thought about Patricia and Gregory Harlow’s reaction to Salacia’s death when first questioned. Both had denied knowing her when shown the photograph but if Gregory Harlow had had an affair with Salacia, then why not turf her husband out? Because she loved him?
The images of Harlow’s body slumped in that whisky-filled van haunted Horton. How was Patricia Harlow feeling now? Was she alone in that house or had her son arrived to comfort her? Somehow he couldn’t see her weeping into anyone’s arms but how did he know that? Perhaps that brittle outer shell was hiding her real emotions because showing them would be construed as weakness, making her vulnerable. And perhaps Gregory Harlow had hurt her by betraying her with Ellie Loman and Salacia. Well, perhaps tomorrow, when she viewed the body of her husband, he’d find out. For now it was time for sleep, if it came, and he doubted that very much.
SEVENTEEN
Saturday
‘Yes, that’s Gregory,’ Patricia Harlow said stiffly, before snatching her head away from the body. Horton saw a flicker of bewilderment in her eyes but that was the only emotion she betrayed and her posture never altered. The lines around her mouth and eyes had deepened, though, gouging tunnels into her pale skin. Her face was etched with fatigue showing she’d had a troubled night, like him, and Eames, he thought, because even her blue eyes weren’t as clear as they usually were. And in the briefing room earlier Uckfield had looked as though he’d been pacing the floor all night. His skin was grey and his manner agitated and sharp. Dean had appeared briefly with a worried frown on his pixie face, while Bliss looked as crisp and cool as usual and the glint in her eye was steelier than ever. Horton read it as determination to grasp victory on one case at least, the vehicle fraud. He’d heard from Walters that they were building a case against the garage proprietor and there was evidence that the van used to rob Mason’s Electricals store could have come from Mellings’ garage.
Horton led Patricia Harlow out of the room. He had hoped that her son would have accompanied her not just for her sake but so that they might glean some information from him about his parents and in particular his father. But Patricia Harlow had said without apology or guilt that she hadn’t told Connor about his father’s death, adding that she would tell him when it became necessary. Horton thought it was necessary now. He could only surmise that she had wanted to make absolutely certain that her husband really was dead before informing him. He wondered what Connor Harlow would say and how he’d feel when he discovered it had been over twelve hours since his mother had first been given the news. Perhaps they weren’t a very close family. Perhaps her son wouldn’t be that upset? Perhaps Gregory Harlow had been a distant father and Patricia a cold-hearted mother, which had made her son uncaring and detached. It was none of his business but the deaths of Salacia and Ellie were.
Eames offered her a drink but she refused with a shake of her head. Footsteps in the corridor came closer and passed them by. It was hot and humid, the air stifling and oppressive, in total contrast from the air-conditioned room they had just left. When Patricia Harlow spoke it came as something of a surprise because they seemed to have been standing in silence for so long, although in reality Horton knew it could only have been a minute at the most.
‘You said Gregory drank himself to death. Is that true?’ She spoke crisply but Horton noted the edge of hardness had gone from her voice.
‘We won’t know for certain until after the post-mortem. At the moment the manner of his death suggests it and that he took his own life.’
‘But why?’ she insisted, eyeing him keenly.
‘We were hoping you might tell us that.’ He held her stare, seeing the anguish in her eyes; should she tell what she knew or not? He felt a shiver of anticipation. Neither he nor Eames spoke. They both knew the fragility of the moment.
After a moment she squared her shoulders and said tersely, ‘Can we get away from here? But not the station. I don’t want to go to the police station.’
‘OK.’
She slipped into the rear of Eames’s car. Horton climbed into the front passenger seat and gave instructions to Eames to pull into one of the viewing spots along the top of the hill, which bordered the northern edge of the city. It was unorthodox and he’d get bollocked because anything she said would be off the record but Horton was backing his instinct. She needed to talk and she couldn’t do that, initially anyway, in the confines of the interview room. It happened like that sometimes. This was a big decision on her part. He didn’t think she would retract what she told them.
A few minutes later, Eames silenced the engine. Portsmouth lay spread out beneath them shrouded in the heat and smog while beyond it lay the pale silver of the Solent. The hills of the Isle of Wight were barely visible.
Horton said, ‘Let’s sit outside.’ He gestured at the wooden table with a bench seat either side of it. He guessed that Patricia Harlow needed air even though there seemed little of it about. He could do with some himself to rid his nostrils of the smell of the mortuary and death. Eames made to remove her notebook and pen but at a sign f
rom Horton left both in her jacket pocket. She slid onto the seat beside him and opposite Patricia Harlow. They waited. The drone of the cars on the road below them and the throbbing of a Chinook helicopter overhead filled the sultry air. Horton reckoned it must have been two minutes before she spoke.
‘She was evil. She deserved to die.’
Horton knew she meant Salacia. He sensed Eames’s excitement beside him and found his body responding to it in a way he’d rather not consider. Not now, not ever. She was strictly out of bounds with her rich and influential daddy. He shut out the smell of her light perfume and the knowledge that her thigh was only inches from his. One tiny movement would bring it into contact. He steeled himself to concentrate on the woman opposite.
‘She killed Rawly.’
‘He killed himself,’ Horton answered quietly, trying to follow her train of thought. Her head came up and he saw the anger in her eyes. ‘Only because the police hounded him. They thought he killed Ellie, but he didn’t, she did. My sister killed Ellie Loman.’
Horton quickly covered his surprise. He resisted throwing Eames a glance and studied Patricia Harlow’s face.
‘That’s who the woman in that photograph is,’ she hastily continued, scorn curling the edges of her lips. ‘She’s my sister.’
The truth at last! It came as something of a shock. The sisters were totally unalike.
‘Sharon Piper’s her real name, or it was. God knows what she calls herself now, called herself.’
‘How do you know she killed Ellie?’ he asked.
‘She hated her. She was jealous.’
Horton was rapidly trying to put this together. ‘Jealous that Rawly loved Ellie.’
‘No,’ Patricia Harlow said bitingly. ‘Although Ellie might have fallen for him eventually, but that was before he showed up.’
Who, for God’s sake? Gregory Harlow? No. Harry Foxbury? Possibly. He could see Eames was thinking the same. ‘He?’
‘Sharon introduced them. My God, if Sharon had known then that he’d fall for Ellie she’d have killed her on the spot.’ She paused then hurried on, the words coming quickly as though she was desperate to get them out before she lost them. ‘My aunt and uncle had a party in May 2001. It was their pearl wedding anniversary. Rawly invited Ellie, and Sharon came with Leo. Any fool could see that Leo and Ellie were instantly attracted and my sister was no fool. Although you already know that.’
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