He crossed the road and headed east towards the entrance to the waterfront shopping centre, sparing time to cast a glance at the church which had recently been robbed of its brass plaques. That investigation looked like going nowhere at the moment unless the Environment Agency had something to report on illegal scrap-metal merchants or uniform came up with some new intelligence. But he noted that all the thefts on land at least had taken place in this area, which to his mind meant someone living locally. Not that that got him much further forward. It was densely populated and close-mouthed, as he’d already indicated to Eames.
He dived into the crowded malls, registering who was behind, ahead and beside him. No one looked remotely interested in what he was doing. Last night he had vowed he wouldn’t live in fear, and now he told himself that neither would he live his life looking over his shoulder for pursuers. He’d deal with it when it happened because he knew it wasn’t a case of if it happened.
He thought about the robbery in north Hampshire in 1977 that Sawyer had told him about. He was curious to know more about it and decided to look up the case notes when he had time. Perhaps there would be a description of the jewellery stolen. He wasn’t sure where that would get him but it was worth a try.
He came out onto the bustling waterfront and paused at the railings to stare across the narrow stretch of water to the marina and the tower blocks of Gosport opposite. Several yachts and small craft were making their way into the harbour and out to the Solent. If he decided to pitch in with Sawyer, Bliss would probably put the flags out and declare a public holiday. He’d miss working with Cantelli, but that needn’t stop him seeing the sergeant and confiding in him. Cantelli knew more about his past than anyone else, including Catherine, and Steve Uckfield, who had once been a close friend until ambition had got in the way. But he was reluctant to burden the sergeant with his personal problems. Cantelli had a large family to look after, and Horton certainly didn’t want to put him at risk.
He watched the Wightlink ferry begin to ease its way into its restricted berth to his left. To say he didn’t care for Sawyer was a massive understatement, but should he shelve his personal feelings for the sake of discovering the truth? And he would be helping to flush out a notorious criminal. Should he accept Sawyer’s offer?
He turned and headed for the car-ferry terminal. There would be time to consider it later. For now he had a ferry to catch and a blonde waiting for him and even across the distance of the busy car park, and up against some stiff competition from many of the young and pretty festival-goers, Eames shone out like a beacon on a dark night, attracting lustful and wishful glances from the men and admiring and resentful ones from the women, though clearly she wasn’t aware of it. She smiled at him as he headed towards the car. Again he wondered what on earth had made her join the police when she looked as though she ought to be running some posh art gallery in Mayfair.
Twenty minutes later they were sailing out of port and he’d fetched a coffee for himself and a bottle of water for Eames, thinking how Cantelli would have hated this. He got sick just looking at the sea, a decided drawback to living in a seaside city. She didn’t ask him where he’d been or what he’d been doing. That notched up a point in her favour.
‘I’ll call in,’ he said heading for the deck.
‘I’ll come with you. It’s too nice a day to waste sitting inside.’
He was tempted to retort that he didn’t need minding before telling himself he was being too touchy. That was Sawyer’s doing. On deck though he walked away from her without giving an explanation and found a quiet spot. He turned back to see her leaning on the rail, looking out to sea, the breeze ruffling her blonde hair. She lifted a hand to brush a few stray strands off her face. He couldn’t see her eyes because of the sunglasses but there was no denying she made a striking figure. He turned away.
It took a while for Trueman to answer.
‘Anything new?’ asked Horton, hopefully.
‘I got a PC to take Cliff Wesley’s statement without Uckfield knowing that he’d come in. I didn’t fancy mopping up the blood. The Super gave another media appeal after the briefing. It was the ACC’s suggestion.’
More like a command, thought Horton.
‘That, and the national newspaper coverage, means the phones haven’t stopped ringing. Walters has been roped in to answer them. DCI Bliss is interviewing Reggie Thomas.’
Lucky old Reggie. ‘Anything useful from the appeals?’
‘Salacia’s been seen in Milton Keynes, Market Harborough and all points west of Plymouth but nowhere within a twenty-mile radius of Portsmouth.’
Horton wasn’t surprised. Public appeals always resulted in speculative sightings and a great deal of wasted time. But sometimes, just occasionally, they got a result.
‘And Mrs Harlow’s been on the telephone to make a formal complaint about the press hounding her because we gave her name to them.’
‘We?’ There was a slight pause that told Horton that was not what Patricia Harlow had said. She’d obviously named him.
‘I’ve passed her over to Communications and I’ve told Marsden to stay at Tipner Quay until he finds something belonging to the victim, even if it’s a broken fingernail, otherwise he might have to apply for a transfer. I’m thinking of putting in for one myself.’
And that wasn’t like Trueman. He rarely got fazed by pressure. His exasperation was explained by his next words.
‘The ACC’s been in the incident suite and Uckfield’s office more times in the last two hours than in the last two years, demanding an update, asking if anything new has come in, poking about on my desk and tut-tutting at the crime board. I think there might be another murder by the end of the day and we’ll have to lock up the Super. Pity you didn’t take him to the Isle of Wight with you.’
And Uckfield was probably wishing he had come. Horton reported back on the interview with Victor Wainstone then asked if they had the results of stomach contents for Salacia.
‘Lobster.’
Not the Lord Horatio cuisine, then. ‘And that’s it?’
‘Except for traces of vegetables; mangetout and asparagus.’
‘No doubt washed down with champagne.’
‘Best with a Pouilly-Fuisse, preferably one about five years old.’
‘And I had you down for a beer man,’ Horton said surprised.
‘Only when the Super’s buying and I don’t think he’ll be doing that for some time unless we get a quick result.’
‘Better stick to water, then.’
‘We’re doing a check on all the restaurants in the area which served lobster on Tuesday, as well as asking around at the supermarkets, fishmongers and delicatessens.’
‘Check the fish market at the Camber. Either Salacia or the man she was with could have bought a lobster there.’ It was too much to hope that someone might have seen and recognized her. He rang off promising to update Trueman the moment he had anything worth reporting and told him not to hold his breath. Then he rang the marina and enquired after Ballard.
‘He says he’s feeling fine and he looks OK. We’ve been checking on him every couple of hours. He’s getting fed up with us,’ Eddie answered.
‘Better that than finding him unconscious. I’ll look in on him when I get back but I’ve no idea when that will be.’
‘You on that murder case,’ Eddie asked with relish, ‘the woman found in that old wreck? I read about it in the paper this morning and that boss of yours has been on the telly.’
Horton said he was on the case and rang off before Eddie could ask any more questions. Not that Horton would have answered them. He joined Eames, who was eyeing the wooded coastline of the Isle of Wight as it came closer. He thought she looked troubled.
‘My family have a house on the Island. It’s over there, behind those trees and around the point from Wootton. We use it in the summer and at Christmas, or rather my family use it.’
She looked solemn and sad for a moment and Horton wondered if she wa
s regretting her decision to join the force, or perhaps her family disapproved of her choice of career. They had to be wealthy to own a holiday home but he’d never doubted that. Despite his earlier promise not to take an interest in her background he found himself saying, ‘Why did you join the police?’
She eyed him closely for a moment, causing his pulse to beat a little quicker. Then she smiled and said brightly, ‘To find myself a nice husband, of course.’
Her reply took him aback for a moment before he returned her smile. It was clearly a subject she didn’t want to discuss. He understood that completely. He relayed what Trueman had said about the lobster and wine.
‘Good choice, but I’d probably go for a Chablis, Grand Cru 1997.’
‘I’ll pass your tip on to Trueman.’
‘It’s not the kind of meal any of Woodley’s associates would buy,’ she said.
‘No, even given Sholby and Hobbs’ sudden rise in income. But it could be the type of meal the man who brought her into the country would buy.’
‘If she lived abroad.’
‘OK, then, the man who drove her to the crematorium and away again.’ But Horton was convinced Salacia had been living abroad.
The announcement for passengers to return to their cars came over the loudspeaker and twenty-five minutes later Horton was showing his warrant card to the security officers at the backstage entrance to Seaclose Park. The festival kicked off tonight and the fields away from the main performance areas were packed with tents and people. He asked where they could find Gregory Harlow, the event-catering manager for Coastline.
‘The blue and white tent,’ came the answer. ‘It’s the one that’s kitted out like a beach cafe with deckchairs, sand and surfboards.’
Following directions, and leaving the car inside the gates, as instructed, they threaded their way through the hordes of workers and security officers across the bone-hard field towards a giant blue-and-white-striped tent emblazoned with the words, ‘Coastline Cool’. It was one of many they passed, along with several coffee stalls, ice-cream kiosks and fast-food outlets. The hot midday air resounded with the sounds of shouting, drilling, banging and a blast of music loud enough to be heard on the mainland six miles across the Solent.
‘I’m glad I don’t live round here,’ Horton said, with feeling, spotting the bulky figure of DI Dennings talking to a lean fair-haired man in his mid-to-late forties outside the Coastline Cool tent. Dennings was wearing the navy polo shirt and dark trousers of the official festival security officers.
‘Most of the residents move out for the festival,’ Eames said.
‘Can’t say I blame them.’
Dennings glanced across at them but gave no indication of recognition or hint of surprise, but Horton glimpsed the anger behind his eyes as they drew level. He guessed Dennings was thinking they were there to muscle in on his operation, or spoil it.
‘We’re looking for Mr Gregory Harlow,’ he said, politely.
‘You’ve just found him,’ answered the man beside Dennings.
Horton showed his ID and introduced Eames as a colleague. He caught Dennings’ baffled look as he obviously tried to place her.
‘We’d like a word, Mr Harlow.’
‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘This won’t take long. There are a few questions we’d like to ask you in connection with the death of a woman.’
His expression showed no surprise, only extreme agitation and fatigue. Horton thought he might be a few years younger than his wife.
‘Do you have to ask them now? We’re way behind. The first bands are due to play in less than six hours.’
‘Is there somewhere we can talk in private, sir?’ Eames said politely, ignoring his plea and eyeing Dennings pointedly. She didn’t know him.
‘I’ll leave you to it, Greg. Thanks for the coffee,’ Dennings said pleasantly enough but Horton could tell he was bursting with curiosity.
‘You’d better come inside,’ Harlow said grudgingly, leaving them to follow him through the tent. Horton cast an eye over it. It was decorated with fishermen’s nets, lobster pots, sand and shells. Several people were putting out metal folding chairs and tables, while soul music blared out. At the bar, workers were busily stocking the shelves.
‘In here.’ Harlow led them to a tented extension behind the bar which was clearly a storeroom and rest room. Turning to them he made no attempt to conceal his irritation. ‘I haven’t a clue who this woman is, my wife told me you’d been asking questions about her, and I didn’t speak to her at the funeral.’
‘You remember seeing her, then?’
Harlow ran a hand across his perspiring forehead and wiped it down the front of his T-shirt which was emblazoned with the company logo and ‘Coastline Cool’.
‘No.’
‘Can you take us through the events leading up to your aunt’s funeral, sir, when the hearse turned into the crematorium?’ asked Horton.
‘I’ve already told you I didn’t see her,’ Harlow snapped.
Horton held his hostile eye contact and said nothing. Eames remained silent. Eventually Harlow was forced to continue. In clipped tones, he said, ‘Pat and I were in the car behind the hearse; we arrived just before the service. We got out. I nodded at a couple of people, neighbours of Amelia’s. We followed the coffin into the chapel. That’s it. Now if you’ve-’
‘What the hell’s going on here?’
Horton swung round to find a slender man with keen features about mid-fifties glowering at them. He was dressed casually and expensively in beige trousers and a short-sleeved pale blue cotton shirt open at the neck. Harlow’s fair face flushed and he shifted uneasily. ‘It’s the police, Ross. It’s OK, it’s got nothing to do with the festival,’ he hastily added before addressing Horton. ‘This is my boss, Ross Skelton, he owns Coastline Catering.’
Skelton barely glanced at Horton. Levelling his still irate gaze on his employee he said, ‘If it’s nothing to do the festival then sort it out in your own time and not mine.’
With deliberate politeness Horton said, ‘We won’t keep Mr Harlow from his work for very long, sir.’
Skelton frowned before stomping off. Horton heard him shouting at someone in the main tent.
Harlow quickly addressed Horton, ‘I’ve told you I can’t help you. I have no idea who she is.’
He turned away but Eames, taking two photographs from her trouser pocket, said, ‘This is the victim at the funeral and another picture taken of her with her natural colouring. Do you recognize her?’
‘No.’
‘If you’d take a closer look, Mr Harlow.’
Reluctantly Harlow stared at the photographs. Watching him carefully, Horton thought he detected a ghost of a reaction but whether it was of recognition it was difficult to say.
Thrusting the photographs back at Eames, Harlow said, ‘I’ve never seen her before.’
‘How about this man?’ Eames passed across a photograph of Daryl Woodley.
‘Look, I’ve no idea who they are. Now I’ve got work to do.’
Horton let him go.
‘Very tetchy,’ said Eames when they were heading back towards the security entrance.
‘He’s clearly under pressure.’ Horton nodded towards Harlow’s bad-tempered boss, Skelton, who was now having a go at his staff at one of his coffee stalls. Horton could see Dennings waiting for him by the car. Despatching Eames to buy some sandwiches and a couple of bottles of water, Horton made for him.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Dennings hissed.
‘It’s too long and too complicated to explain.’
‘Not if it has something to do with my operation.’
‘Don’t you mean the Border Agency’s operation?’
‘I’m not having you mess things up, Horton.’
Horton swiftly told him about the murder at Tipner Quay and that the dead woman had been seen at the crematorium the same time as Patricia and Gregory Harlow, who had been there for their aunt�
��s funeral. ‘What are your views on Gregory Harlow?’
‘Seems OK.’
‘When did he arrive here?’
‘No idea.’
‘He must have logged in.’
Dennings entered the temporary security office. Horton followed.
‘His van was checked in Wednesday morning at seven thirty-five.’
So Harlow must have been at home the night of his aunt’s funeral. That didn’t mean he stayed home. He could have gone out to meet Salacia. But would he have eaten lobster and had sex with her? There was no evidence to suggest that Salacia had any connection with Gregory and Patricia Harlow and no evidence to say Gregory Harlow could have killed her. The Harlows’ reaction to Salacia’s deaths weren’t what he would call normal but in this line of work he’d long since learnt that there was no ‘normal’.
Another blast of ear-deafening music filled the air. This time it didn’t seem to want to stop. By the time it did Horton could see Eames heading for the car. He made a point of politely thanking Dennings for his help adding, ‘Enjoy the festival.’
Horton climbed in. ‘Just checking Harlow’s movements,’ he explained, taking his sandwich from her. He wasn’t going to tell her who Dennings was. It didn’t concern her or their investigation.
‘I did the same with Gregory Harlow’s boss. He said he hoped we weren’t going to come around bothering them every five minutes. And he wasn’t too happy that Gregory Harlow had taken Tuesday afternoon off to attend his aunt’s funeral. Skelton expected him back Tuesday night; the senior staff sleep on site in a caravan during the festival, but Harlow called in to say he wouldn’t be back until Wednesday morning.’
So why did Harlow change his plans? Or perhaps he hadn’t intended to return on Tuesday night but had just told Skelton that to pacify him. On the other hand he could have been emotionally drained after the funeral and didn’t feel up to returning to work. Or perhaps Patricia Harlow was upset and her husband had stayed home that night to comfort her.
A prolonged blast of music followed them into the town of Newport. With feeling, Horton said, ‘I never thought I’d be glad to visit the relative peace and quiet of a prison.’
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