‘Anything might be helpful. How long did he work for Coastline?’ Horton thought it best to lead up to putting the real questions he wanted answered.
‘He started here on the stall in April 2001 just after I did and became a delivery driver for the supplies side after about nine months.’ She looked uneasy or rather troubled. ‘And he was a delivery driver until last October when Mr Skelton suddenly promoted him to event-catering manager. Biggest leap in promotion I’ve ever seen.’
Horton eyed her keenly. ‘What do you mean?’
Iris hesitated. Horton had seen this before. It was the moment of mental struggle. Whatever Iris had to tell him had ramifications for her personally. He held his silence hoping her conscience would win out, feeling that at last he was on the edge of the truth. Harlow could have got that photograph to Woodley in Parkhurst before his promotion but Horton didn’t believe he had.
‘Mr Skelton is a shrewd businessman. And successful. He’s built this business up from one small coffee stall to a chain of them along the south coast and a big catering company. He makes a lot of money.’ She paused. Then lowering her voice still further she continued. ‘He’s got a big house over the Hamble somewhere, a flashy car – one of those big four-wheel-drive vehicles, looks like a tank – and he has a boat in a marina. Nothing wrong in that but he doesn’t like spending money on his staff. He pays the minimum wage and then not always. He has an eye for cheap labour,’ she added pointedly.
No wonder she had hesitated. Horton understood perfectly what she was talking about. ‘How cheap?’
‘Cheapest you can get away with if the people you employ have got nothing to start with.’
‘Here at the stall?’
‘No.’ Lowering her voice and looking out to sea she said, ‘Not enough space here.’
Horton followed her drift immediately. He thought of that tent of Skelton’s at the Isle of Wight Festival and of Dennings’ presence when he and Eames had arrived. Then there was Haseen Nader. He was probably legit, but it didn’t take too many brain cells to work out what Iris meant: illegal immigrant workers. Harlow had found out about it and kept silent in return for promotion, or perhaps he’d got his promotion because he agreed to be a party to it. Then his conscience had finally troubled him, especially after Sharon’s death when he and Eames had started asking questions. Or rather he’d got scared. He told Skelton he was going to the police, or perhaps Skelton saw he was getting jumpy and decided to silence him. And that made far more sense to him than Loman killing him.
In her normal voice Iris added, ‘And to think the poor soul didn’t live long enough to spend his bigger wage packet. And not long after his aunt’s death too.’
‘He mentioned that to you?’ Horton asked his pulse quickening.
‘No. I overheard that man talking about it. He said Gregory Harlow’s sister-in-law was coming home for her aunt’s funeral, and he had a photograph of her.’
And there it was. What he had conjectured. And the reason why Harlow hadn’t got that photograph into the prison, because this had been Woodley’s destination. This was where he had to show the photograph and pass on his message and it wasn’t to Kenneth Loman.
Trying to hide his excitement, Horton took out the photograph of Woodley. ‘Was this the man?’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
Horton wondered why she hadn’t come forward after all their appeals for sightings of Woodley, but maybe she didn’t buy the local newspaper or listen to the local news, or perhaps she’d been on holiday. ‘When did you see him?’
‘May, early evening it was. I was just going off shift at seven. Well, I’ve said my piece, it’s up to you lot now.’
But Horton had one more question to ask. He already knew the answer but he had to ask none the less. ‘Who did he give the message to?’ It wasn’t Gregory Harlow.
‘Didn’t I say? It was Mr Skelton. He wanted Mr Skelton to pass the message on to Greg, I guess, to tell him that he needed to know his sister-in-law was coming back for her aunt’s funeral.’
TWENTY-ONE
Horton headed for his Harley, calling Ross Skelton. There was no answer to his mobile. He then called Uckfield and this time got hold of him.
‘How did you get on with Loman?’
‘He denies meeting Sharon Piper at the boatyard and killing her. Claims he was at home with his wife on Tuesday night and again on Thursday night but says if we ask his wife she won’t be much use as an alibi. She can’t remember anything after Ellie disappeared.’
Horton knew that.
Uckfield added, ‘I don’t think he’s our killer.’
‘He isn’t. Ross Skelton is,’ and Horton rapidly relayed what he’d discovered from his interview with Iris. ‘I believe he’s the man Sharon Piper was with on the day of Ellie Loman’s death in 2001. Garvard knew this and Woodley’s job was to get a message to Skelton to say that Sharon would be coming back for her aunt’s funeral, whenever that was. There would be an announcement in the local newspaper and the Daily Telegraph – courtesy of Fiona Wright – and Garvard gambled on Skelton wanting to look out for it and wanting to see Sharon again because they’d had an affair. Woodley was probably instructed to tell Skelton that Sharon had been forced to leave the country in a hurry because of the police investigation surrounding Garvard. She would return with a new identity and a new name and would only be in the country for a short time. She wanted to see Skelton but they couldn’t be seen together. It was too dangerous for her. There were still some of Garvard’s associates who were after her.
‘Skelton’s the man Sharon met at the crematorium and spent the afternoon and evening with. His company supplies fish and frozen food to the prison on the Isle of Wight and elsewhere on the Island and here on the mainland, so having a lobster tucked away in his fridge at his home or on his boat, and I suspect it’s the latter, would have been quite natural. He could have followed her to the boatyard and killed her or he could have driven her there for her rendezvous, killed her and then driven her car somewhere and abandoned it.’
‘Motive?’
‘Perhaps she had something on him from back in 2001. He’s crooked now so he could have been crooked then. Skelton’s employing illegal immigrant labour but DI Dennings probably knows that already, or at least the Border Agency do, which is why they’re watching his tent at the festival. Garvard knew Skelton was a crook and he judged what Skelton’s response would be when he discovered that Sharon was returning. Skelton needed to find out what and how much Sharon knew, perhaps Woodley was even told to hint that she knew something about his current operations. He might not only be employing illegal immigrants, he could be trafficking in them, or drugs. Garvard could have picked something up on the prison grapevine, or from one of the Coastline delivery drivers. He’s a twisted bugger and a creative con man, he could easily have made up enough to convince Skelton. Skelton decided it was too risky to let Sharon live. Gregory Harlow saw Skelton kill her or suspected him of it and wanted more than another promotion out of him. Maybe he asked for a big fat pay rise or a bonus. He got killed instead.’
‘Right. I’ll get the Island police to bring him in and I’ll get a unit over to his house, have you got his address?’
‘No, but according to Iris it’s at Hamble and he has a boat in a marina. Could be Horsea Marina, nice and convenient for Tipner Quay. And he’s not answering his mobile.’
Horton relayed the number. It wouldn’t take them long to get Skelton’s address and locate the boat, and Skelton had no reason to suspect they were on to him and go into hiding. They would have their killer. But what if Skelton wasn’t at the festival and he wasn’t at home or on his boat?
Horton started the Harley and swung it in the direction of the church which had been robbed of its brass plaques. A short distance after it he indicated left and turned into one of the back streets, retracing on the bike the steps he and Eames had taken on Thursday. He came out by the Lord Horatio pub, which looked worse than normal in the gloomy wea
ther and rain.
His thoughts veered from Ross Skelton to Woodley and Garvard. There was something he’d seen or noted in a gesture from the sick man, or was that just his imagination? He considered what he knew of Garvard and what Geoff Kirby had told him. Where was Ross Skelton now? Skelton and Sharon Piper, he ran it over in his mind. Something was troubling him. It was one small niggling doubt and the image of Garvard on that hospital bed flashed before him.
Before he knew it he found himself heading for the north of the city and within twelve minutes was drawing up outside a terraced house. It took some time for the door to be opened and when it did it wasn’t Patricia Harlow who stood before him but a fair-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking man in his early twenties. For an instant Horton thought he was being haunted before Dr Clayton’s words at Sharon Piper’s autopsy flashed through his mind: she’s borne a child. My God, now he knew why Patricia hadn’t wanted Connor Harlow at the mortuary with her when she had identified her husband’s body. And he also knew why Gregory Harlow had stayed with Patricia all these years. Horton showed his ID.
‘I’d like to speak to your mother,’ he said, knowing that would be impossible.
‘She’s not here.’ Connor Harlow looked anxious and upset, not surprisingly thought Horton, eyeing him closely. ‘Is it true that my father was murdered?’
‘I’m sorry to say it is. Does your mother know this?’
‘Yes. A woman police officer came a couple of hours ago to tell us. Have you any idea who could have done such a thing? Why kill Dad? He never did anything to harm anyone.’
Horton was rapidly thinking. ‘What did your mother do after she was given the news?’
Connor looked confused.
‘It’s important,’ Horton pressed as gently as he could while trying to suppress his concern and impatience. He was beginning to get a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach about this.
‘She didn’t cry, if that’s what you mean. She never does.’ There was a touch of bitterness in his voice and Horton thought he saw a brief flicker of anger behind the eyes. ‘I tried to talk to her but she blanked me out. That’s not unusual. She’s not the type of person you can . . . she doesn’t show her emotions. She went into her surgery. She told me she needed to think and she couldn’t do that with me around.’ Now Horton heard the pain in the young man’s voice.
‘Did she telephone anyone?’
‘I don’t know. She might have done. She went out about ten minutes ago.’
Horton thanked him and hurried away. He felt a slight qualm for being so abrupt and for leaving the man bewildered and upset but time was critical. He told himself that Patricia Harlow could have gone to a friend who was consoling her in her grief, only he didn’t think Patricia had any friends. And from what he’d seen of her, and from his brief meeting with Connor Harlow, he doubted she needed consoling over her husband’s death. She might even be glad he was dead. From her reaction to the news Horton guessed she’d been working out who might have killed her husband and why. She wasn’t stupid, far from it. And there was only one place she could be.
The blue-and-white police tape on the cordon flapped in the wind as Horton drew the Harley to a stop just outside it. The sailing club was still closed, the road was deserted except for the two cars parked inside the boatyard, one belonged to Patricia Harlow and the other was as Iris had described it ‘like a tank’, a big four-wheel-drive cruiser: Ross Skelton’s.
Behind and above Horton the traffic swished and roared along the rain-soaked motorway. The day had drawn in early, the sky was a darkened hue making the sea of the harbour look a muddy grey, flecked with smudgy white foam. Horton tensed and hurried quietly forward through the empty boatyard. He hoped to God he wasn’t too late. He could see the two wrecks on the quayside but there was no sign of anyone and certainly not Patricia Harlow or Ross Skelton. Could they be inside the old boatshed?
Swiftly and silently he headed for the quayside, the rain running down his face, his ears straining for any sound. He eased his way around the wreck where Sharon Piper’s body had been found and drew up as the crane barge came into view. On it stood the bedraggled figure of Patricia Harlow, looking out across the rain-swept harbour. He reached it before she spun round, sensing his presence rather than hearing his approach, Horton thought.
In an instance he registered her ashen face, her blood-stained jacket and the bloody knife in her right hand before his eyes fell on the body that lay face down at her feet. It was Skelton. The back of his head was a mess of blood, flesh and bone but there was no knife wound. He rapidly theorized that she must have stood in front of him and stuck the knife into his guts taking him totally by surprise and then hit him over the head with a piece of metal piping he could see lying close by. And he didn’t think she’d acted in anger.
‘It’s over, Patricia. Put down the knife,’ he commanded with authority, while his heart was hammering fit to bust. Keeping his eyes on her he made to climb on the barge but she quickly stepped away from the body towards the edge and closer to the sea. The rain was drumming against it like a hundred stones being flung at the flat steel surface. Edged with a flimsy piece of wire strung out by poles not even knee high it wouldn’t take much for her to topple over.
‘I need to check if he’s still alive,’ Horton insisted, climbing onto the barge alert to the fact that at any moment she might step further back. But this time she remained still. She showed no signs of relinquishing the knife though. He didn’t like the fact that she was still holding a weapon which she could plunge into him while he was crouching over the body, but he assessed that he could dodge out of her way by the time she reached him and then he’d be able to easily disarm her.
He pressed his fingers against Skelton’s neck. There was no pulse. He tried again, his eyes flicking downwards for an instant. There was a movement to his right but she had edged further away from him rather than closer. Skelton was dead. Straightening up, Horton said, ‘Patricia, you need help. Let me get it for you.’
‘No!’ she shouted and seemed surprised that she could speak. It seemed to invigorate her. ‘No,’ she repeated now more self-assured. He saw something of the former Patricia Harlow reasserting itself. She pulled herself up and tossed back her head. ‘He killed Gregory. He was going to kill me. I had to do it. I had to get him before he killed me.’
There was no pleading in her voice. She had spoken as if it was a matter of fact and that anyone would understand why she had done what she had. Maybe Skelton had tried to kill her. Perhaps the knife had been his. But if so how had she got it from him? Horton couldn’t see him giving it up willingly and she could never have taken it from him by force. Skelton had looked to be a fit and agile man. Had he put it down for a moment while waiting for her to show and she seized the opportunity to grab it? Skelton had then spun round but too late she’d plunged it into his stomach.
‘Give me the knife, Patricia,’ he repeated firmly, stepping towards her and holding out his hand.
‘No. You’ll arrest me for murder.’ She snatched the knife behind her back as though afraid he would steal it from her and took another step towards the edge of the barge. If he moved again he might force her over the side and if he rushed at her she’d turn and either jump or fall in accidentally. And he didn’t want to go in after her with that knife she was wielding. He had to get her to give herself up and more importantly give up the knife.
Almost conversationally he said, ‘Why was he going to kill you?’
‘Because I knew about him employing illegal immigrants, of course,’ she scoffed as though he was stupid for not realizing it. ‘Gregory told me. When the police said Gregory’s death wasn’t suicide then I knew Ross Skelton must have killed him.’
But why would she have agreed to meet her husband’s killer? Rapidly he replayed what Connor had told him. It was probable she had made a call from her surgery, they could check that, and if she had made the call then it had to be to arrange this meeting with Skelton and not the other w
ay around. She had come here with the intention of killing him. Why? Revenge for her husband’s death? Somehow that didn’t ring true. So it must be because she suspected him of knowing something that could damage her, and there were only two things it could be.
He said, ‘If Skelton had planned to kill you then he’d need to make your death look like suicide, which means he didn’t come here with a knife. Perhaps he intended knocking you out, making it look like an accident and then pushing your body into the sea.’ He saw her eyes narrow and her mouth tighten. ‘But you came here with a knife. Is it the same knife you used to kill your sister, Sharon?’ He wanted to provoke a reaction.
‘I didn’t kill her. He did.’ She jerked her head at Skelton’s recumbent body.
Evenly Horton said, ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because Sharon was with him the day that Ellie Loman disappeared. He saw her kill Ellie. And he was with Sharon the day Aunt Amelia was buried. Gregory recognized his car parked just outside the crematorium as we were turning into it. She must have arranged to meet him there.’
No, that was Garvard’s doing. He’d had a long time to plan this.
‘If he saw Sharon kill Ellie Loman then she was more likely to kill him to silence him.’
‘Maybe she tried and it went wrong,’ Patricia Harlow leapt too readily at this.
There was one very big flaw in her story and at last he was beginning to see exactly what must have happened. He thought he caught a movement to his left behind the crane but dismissed it as the wind swinging the rigging. ‘Why didn’t you come to us when you suspected Ross Skelton of killing not only your sister but also your husband?’
‘I couldn’t. You wouldn’t believe me. You’d try and blame me like you did poor Rawly.’
‘And we’d be correct. Because you did kill your sister, Patricia, and Ross Skelton discovered that while he was killing your husband.’ He saw instantly that he’d got it wrong. There was a flicker of smug triumph in the back of her eyes. He eyed her steadily and closely, rapidly recalling all the interviews with her, the times she’d lied and twisted the truth. Then he knew.
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