Death Lies Beneath dah-8

by Pauline Rowson

‘Who is she?’

  ‘We don’t know.’

  For a moment she looked as though she didn’t believe him then saw he was telling the truth. ‘You’re trying to trace her.’

  Rather formally he said, ‘A woman fitting that description was found dead at Tipner Quay this morning. We’re treating her death as suspicious and trying to establish her identity.’

  Her grey eyes widened. ‘Can I use this?’ She reached across her desk and grabbed her notepad. Even if Horton said no he knew she’d ignore him. She was probably already calculating how soon she could sell the story to the nationals.

  At a sign from Horton, Eames handed across the photograph. ‘Have you ever seen her before, apart from at the crematorium yesterday?’ she asked.

  Leanne Payne studied it carefully then shook her head. ‘No. Can I keep this?’

  ‘No,’ answered Horton.

  Reluctantly she handed it back. ‘Who discovered her? How did she die?’

  Horton answered. ‘Detective Superintendent Uckfield is in charge of the investigation, he’ll be giving a press briefing in due course.’ When, though, Horton had no idea.

  Leanne Payne eyed him pleadingly. ‘Can’t you give me more than that?’

  ‘It’s too early in the investigation yet.’

  ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

  Eames said, ‘When did you first notice the woman?’

  ‘After Woodley’s funeral when I was talking to Cliff. I thought she was there for the next funeral.’

  Horton wondered if she’d call the crematorium to get the details of the funeral party following Woodley’s to help her flesh out her story. Even if the crematorium staff wouldn’t give her that information, she’d easily be able to get it from the name on the aisles where the flowers were laid out or possibly from the announcement of deaths in her employer’s newspaper. From what he’d seen of Patricia Harlow he didn’t think she’d be very pleased at being contacted by the press but he didn’t doubt that she’d be able to handle it in her own imitable way.

  He said, ‘Did Cliff Wesley mention this woman to you?’

  ‘No, but he might have taken pictures of her.’ She leapt up. ‘The picture editor will have them.’ She set off at a pace, assuming they would follow. They did, along a short corridor to the next smaller room littered with photographs, newspapers, computer screens, keyboards and cables. Swiftly she explained the situation to a man in his mid-fifties with wild grey hair, who she introduced as Peter Kelvin. He called up the photographs on his computer and Horton quickly scanned Woodley’s mourners doing their best to look heartbroken both before and after the service. When pictures of him, Uckfield and Marsden came up on the screen he groaned inwardly. He had a feeling one of them was going to feature very large in tomorrow’s newspaper along with a headline that contained the words ‘police’ and ‘baffled’. There were no photographs of the woman in the black hat.

  Disappointed, Leanne Payne said, ‘Are you sure you can’t let me have that picture of her? It might help speed up your inquiries.’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ Horton said firmly. He knew that she’d be on to Uckfield the moment they left. He asked the picture editor when Wesley might return.

  ‘He’s out on jobs for most of the day. You can have his mobile number, though.’

  Eames took it down. Leanne Payne scurried off to write her copy and make her phone calls. In the car Eames called Wesley but there was no answer. She left a message for him to call her urgently. Horton gave her directions to the undertakers who had handled Amelia Willard’s funeral. They were fortunate to find the director in his office rather than conducting a funeral. His response to their questions was disappointing, though. After studying the photograph the large man with a thick greying walrus moustache said, ‘I didn’t see her either before or after the service. I’ll ask the two drivers if they saw her.’

  Horton left his number but he wasn’t optimistic about gaining new information.

  Heading back to the station, Eames said, ‘He confirms what Patricia Harlow told us, which means the victim must have been there for Daryl Woodley’s funeral.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Horton had been giving the matter consideration. ‘She could have been there to visit a floral tribute left from a recent funeral, or a memorial written in the Book of Remembrance. She could have arranged to meet someone there, and was looking for them when Woodley’s crowd emerged.’

  ‘Wearing funeral clothes?’ Eames said, making it clear she thought that unlikely.

  ‘Why not? She might be in mourning herself, she might have worn them out of respect for her friend or the deceased, or perhaps she simply liked wearing black.’

  Eames considered this but Horton could tell by her expression it was a theory she didn’t much care for and Uckfield would probably be of the same opinion. He said, ‘Have you seen the video?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then I suggest you review it when we get back. Let me know what you think.’

  After fetching sandwiches from the canteen Horton headed for CID and an update from Walters on the garage proprietor who had sold the cars to Sholby and Hobbs.

  ‘It’s owned by a Craig Mellings, aged late thirties. No previous,’ Walters reported.

  Horton noted the empty burger container on Walters’s desk and the smell of it lingering in the office, but at least this time Walters had had the sense to open a window.

  ‘Sholby bought the Mercedes on the twenty-seventh of May and Hobbs the Audi on the first of June.’

  Horton rapidly calculated. That was three days and eight days respectively after Woodley’s body had been found. And the robbery at Mason’s had been on the day after the attack on Woodley, which had taken place on Friday twentieth of May. He said, ‘Dig deeper on Mellings and his business. Tell the local cops to keep a discreet eye and ear open but not to do anything. Any news on the metal thefts?’

  Walters shook his head. Horton made for the incident suite with his sandwiches, noting on the way that Bliss was in her office with her engaged sign on the door, no doubt poring over the Woodley interview notes looking for a cock-up on Uckfield’s part. Eames was sitting at a desk in the far corner viewing Clarke’s video. Horton exchanged a brief word with Trueman before knocking and entering Uckfield’s office. It was sweltering hot and Uckfield looked as though he was auditioning for a hog roast.

  ‘Any sign of the victim on the crematorium CCTV?’ Horton asked after reporting back and biting into his sandwich.

  ‘The cameras cover the front of the chapel, the waiting room and the entrance gate and she only shows up outside the waiting room. There’s no sign of her arriving by car, or any sign of her walking into the crematorium.’

  Horton wondered if she’d entered the crematorium from the memorial gardens at the other end to the main entrance, where there were no CCTV cameras.

  Uckfield continued. ‘Trueman’s got an officer checking out all the vehicle registrations we can get off the crematorium video in case one of the cars belongs to her, but there was no car left in the overflow car park outside the crematorium overnight. Dean’s spoken to the Chief, who didn’t see the victim at the boatyard, and the only cars he noted were the ones Dr Clayton told us about. He confirms he left the sailing club at ten fifteen with Dominic Levy and Dean’s also spoken to him.’

  ‘He has been busy,’ muttered Horton.

  ‘Yeah, busy annoying me by ringing me every five minutes to see if we’ve made any progress,’ Uckfield snarled. ‘Councillor Levy doesn’t recall seeing a woman or a vehicle he didn’t recognize and Dean emailed him her photograph. He claims not to recognize her. Trueman’s contacted Richard Bolton on his mobile. He’s in London. He says the CCTV camera outside the sailing club hasn’t been working for two weeks. He was going to raise it at the next committee meeting.’

  Horton cursed.

  ‘That’s what I said. Bolton can give us a list of who was in the club last night, though. He’ll be back about five thirty and says he’ll g
o straight to the club and pick it up. He confirms he was the last to leave the sailing club, at ten twenty-five.’ Uckfield gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I’ve been through Clarke’s video so many times my eyeballs ache. She glances at Woodley’s mourners, in fact she more than glances, she stares at the buggers, but whether her expression is one of surprise, bewilderment or annoyance I can’t make out. Maybe video enhancement will give us more.’

  ‘Is she wearing a watch?’

  ‘No, but as you said she is carrying a handbag. I’ve applied for a warrant to search Reggie Thomas’s lousy bedsit in case the bastard’s got it stashed away somewhere.’ Uckfield hauled himself up. He turned to the window and pushed at it but it was already open as wide as it would go. ‘Why doesn’t someone fix this bloody air conditioning?’ He turned back grumbling. ‘All winter we freeze and when we damn well need it the bloody thing packs up.’

  Horton was inclined to agree. His shirt and trousers were sticking to him and he could feel the sweat on his forehead.

  Resuming his seat Uckfield continued. ‘There are no reports of abandoned or burnt-out cars. Trueman’s checked Hampshire and surrounding counties.’

  They both knew that didn’t mean the victim’s car hadn’t been abandoned or torched; just that no one had found it yet or had reported it. If she’d had a car. Horton thought of that sun tan. Was it possible she’d come from abroad? He suggested it to Uckfield, adding, ‘She could have flown into Southampton Airport and caught a taxi to the crematorium.’

  Uckfield’s grey eyes narrowed as he considered this. Rising, he swiftly crossed to the door, threw it open and bellowed, ‘Trueman.’ A few seconds later the sergeant appeared.

  ‘Get the victim’s photograph circulated to Southampton Airport.’

  Horton quickly added, ‘And Bournemouth, Heathrow, Gatwick and Stansted.’

  ‘Circulate her picture to all airports in the south,’ commanded Uckfield. ‘One of the aircrew might remember her, a good-looking woman like that can’t have gone unnoticed.’

  Horton refrained from saying that she could easily have been overlooked in such busy airport terminals.

  Trueman nodded and disappeared as Eames appeared on the threshold. Horton saw Uckfield give her the once-over but this time there was no leer, and not even the hint of a lustful thought in his bloodshot eyes. Instead his glance was decidedly cool. Maybe his libido was suffering from the heat and overwork and his temper was certainly frayed. Usually the big man fancied anything in a skirt, or trousers come to that, if it was female, breathing and halfway passable. Although Uckfield had admitted to Horton that he drew the line at DCI Lorraine Bliss, adding with a sneer that she aimed her sights higher than a mere detective superintendent. But Horton dismissed Uckfield’s claims that Bliss was having an affair with Dean. He just couldn’t see it.

  ‘Any thoughts on the video?’ Horton asked Eames, hoping his own expression didn’t betray any lustful thoughts. He had to admit Eames was very attractive.

  ‘Not one of Woodley’s mourners slips out of sight for a second,’ she answered. ‘The victim doesn’t appear to acknowledge them and she certainly doesn’t speak to them. Neither does she talk to anyone in the Willard funeral party. Could she have known you were filming her? Perhaps she saw the van with the darkened windows and she’d been warned about a possible police presence.’ Clearly by Uckfield’s frown he didn’t like the sound of that. Detecting it, Eames quickly added, ‘I called Cliff Wesley again but he’s still not answering his mobile.’

  Uckfield’s phone rang. Eames slipped out but with a wave of his hand, Uckfield indicated for Horton to stay. Into the receiver Uckfield said, ‘Sixty minutes. Yeah, in the conference room.’ Replacing the phone he addressed Horton. ‘I’m arranging a press briefing and if Cliff Wesley shows up I’ll make sure he’s asked if he remembers seeing the victim.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Get over to the mortuary and see what Dr Clayton’s got. If she can give us something that will help identify the victim in the next hour tell her I’ll buy her the most expensive drink on the bloody planet.’

  Horton didn’t think that would be much of an incentive. He’d reached the door before Uckfield called out, ‘And take the blonde beauty with you.’

  FOUR

  ‘A few minutes earlier, Inspector, and you could have watched Tom sew her back together,’ Dr Clayton greeted them cheerfully as they stepped into the chilly mortuary. Pulling off the unflattering but practical green plastic cap and running a hand through her spiky auburn hair, she eyed Eames curiously.

  Horton swiftly made the introductions while trying to ignore the smell and his churning stomach. If he’d known he was going to come here he might have postponed eating the ham, salad and pickle sandwich in Uckfield’s office. He saw Gaye’s quizzical look when he mentioned where Eames had come from but he furnished no explanation and Gaye didn’t ask for one. He thought how tiny she looked beside Eames, who had to be a good five feet eight inches while Gaye was barely five two. In the green loose mortuary garb she looked rather like a child wearing clothes that were too big for her, he thought, while Eames had a transparent plastic overall tied firmly around her slim waist over her trousers and shirt. She, like him, was also wearing the flat white mortuary wellington boots. And she looked as though she was born to wear them. The ‘blonde beauty’ with notebook and pen in hand was coolly studying the corpse with its ugly great stitches down the chest and across the upper forehead as though it was a specimen in the laboratory, without any sign of revulsion.

  ‘What’s that?’ she said, pointing to a mark just above the victim’s right breast. ‘A tattoo?’

  ‘No, a birthmark in the shape of a butterfly I rather think,’ Gaye answered. ‘And it’s the only distinguishing mark on her.’

  Horton peered at it. He didn’t think it was enough to make Uckfield happy.

  Gaye continued, ‘She has borne children, or a child certainly.’

  So someone must miss her. Or had she also walked out on her child like his mother had walked out on him? He bet Eames had never experienced the pain of rejection. But this wasn’t about him or Eames, he scolded himself. It was about a woman who had been brutally murdered. He put his full attention on what Dr Clayton was saying.

  ‘She was very healthy: no deteriorating organs, no evidence of alcoholism or drugs, about forty-three give or take a couple of years and as I said at the scene, a woman who took good care of herself. She was well-groomed: eyebrows are beautifully shaped, fingernails and toenails are manicured and varnished.’ Gaye pulled down the cover to the waist and lifted out the victim’s right hand to show Horton the neatly shaped pink nails on the end of long slender fingers. ‘She’s certainly never done any manual work and I doubt she did much washing up, unless she wore rubber gloves, but I think household chores would be well down this lady’s list of priorities. She looks to me to be a very high-maintenance woman.’

  Eames said, ‘Can I see her clothes?’

  Dr Clayton pulled the trolley containing the evidence bags towards her and handed over the hat. Eames studied it for some moments. Horton caught Gaye’s inquisitive glance. He shrugged a response.

  ‘It’s by Philip Treacy,’ Eames announced, looking up. ‘He’s one of the top milliners in the country, and probably in the world, and it’s a new creation, this season’s or rather I should say part of the spring collection rather than the summer one.’

  Gaye raised her eyebrows in surprise. But why wasn’t he surprised? Somehow he expected Eames to know this kind of thing and he judged her knowledge wasn’t gained from working at Europol on an investigation involving counterfeit designer wear. Her voice, bearing, manner and looks screamed class to him. He wondered how she’d ended up becoming a police officer.

  ‘Expensive?’ he asked.

  ‘That depends on who you’re asking,’ she answered earnestly. ‘About a thousand pounds new.’

  ‘For a hat!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘A mere nothing, then,’ tossed Gaye Clayton lightly.
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br />   Eames smiled. ‘Even if she bought it second hand, which I doubt, it would have cost her about three hundred pounds.’ She picked up the bag containing the shoe. ‘This is a Jimmy Choo.’

  ‘A what?’ asked Horton.

  By the way Eames eyed him he could see that she wasn’t sure if he was taking the rise. He wasn’t. Obviously seeing this she continued. ‘Since Choo launched his label in 1996 he’s built up a celebrity and wealthy client base. If we find the victim’s bag, I expect it will also be a Jimmy Choo. The soles are showing a little wear but the heel has never been repaired. I don’t think the victim would have gone to that much trouble.’

  ‘Cost?’

  ‘About four hundred, maybe five hundred pounds.’

  ‘And the dress?’

  Eames went through the same ritual, studying it intently before answering. ‘Cotton blend with an exposed double-ended zip down the back, very provocative, and only someone with her kind of figure, shapely but slim and firm, would look good in it.’

  Like you, thought Horton. He caught Gaye’s glance and shifted a little uncomfortably seeing she’d easily read his thoughts. Eames hadn’t, though. Still examining the dress she added, ‘It’s by Victoria Beckham, which means it cost somewhere in the region of two, maybe three thousand pounds.’

  Horton eyed her disbelievingly.

  ‘It might even have cost more,’ Eames said. ‘Everything I’ve seen so far is genuine and I would say bought new.’

  ‘As I said,’ Gaye chipped in, ‘a high-maintenance lady.’

  And clearly one who had money. Marty Stapleton’s money? he wondered. He could see that was what Eames was thinking. A thought occurred to him but it would keep.

  Eames continued. ‘Her underwear is silk, sexy and again very expensive. We might be able to trace her through the top fashion houses, designer shops or Internet sites that sell these kind of clothes but that would take considerable time.’

  And resources, Horton thought, which they didn’t have, unless Europol assisted. He looked at Gaye Clayton, hoping there might be a short cut.