Marion Keynes on the other hand didn't. That much was clear from their first encounter, as she glared with open hostility at their warrant cards. When Cantelli asked if they could come in, she shrugged and padded off on fat, splayed feet, leaving them to follow her into a small open-plan room in the narrow terraced house. It stank of stale food, over-stewed tea and cigarettes and looked as though it had been turned over by junkies desperate for a fix. In the midst of the chaos sat two fat boys gazing open-mouthed at a large plasma television screen, where a hyperactive youth in torn clothes was doing an impersonation of someone in excruciating pain. Horton guessed the youth was attempting to sing because there was a microphone glued to his mouth, but he'd heard better sounds coming from a pneumatic drill.
She reached for a packet of cigarettes on the mantelpiece. 'Why are you interested in Irene? She's dead.'
'Could you turn the television down,' Horton said firmly but politely, not much caring for her hard mouth and sharp eyes.
She snatched up the remote control and stabbed at it with a frown. Instantly the two boys howled in protest.
'Upstairs.' She pointed at the ceiling as if her offspring had no idea where their bedrooms were.
Neither child moved. The younger one folded his plump arms across his chest and scowled for the Olympics, whereas the eldest glared at Horton as though he'd willingly stick a knife in him. Maybe a few years from now, Horton thought, he would try. He felt like hauling them up and telling them to do as they were told. Judging by Cantelli's unusually fierce expression and his rapid chewing of gum, Horton guessed he was thinking along the same lines.
Marion Keynes said, 'Take a packet of crisps with you.'
They shot up with a whoop and yell and like two mini tornados whizzed past Horton and into the kitchen.
'Kids!' she said, as the boys returned munching their crisps. 'You give them all these toys for Christmas and they're still bored. You've got to blackmail them into doing everything these days.'
Horton dashed a glance at Cantelli and read in his deep dark eyes, not mine you haven't. A run round the football pitch would do them more good than staring at a television screen, Horton thought, before the gyrating youth started howling above them, as if he'd just taken poison.
'Turn it down,' Marion Keynes yelled, making Cantelli jump. Nothing happened.
As she shook out a cigarette and lit it, Horton quickly glanced at the photographs on the mantelpiece. Marion Keynes was the complete opposite to her husband, who was dark haired with a keen face, and had the body of a cyclist or runner. There was a photograph of the couple on holiday abroad. He was wearing a scuba diving outfit whilst she was decked out in a swimming costume. The expression 'a beached whale' flitted into his head.
They weren't invited to sit, probably because every chair was covered with clothes, toys or magazines. And the room was stifling hot. The gas fire was belting out full blast, and Horton guessed the central heating was also turned up.
'What did Irene Ebury talk about?' he asked.
'How she was once Miss Southsea, but you had to take everything she said with a pinch of salt.'
Horton thought her voice held a trace of spite. And she didn't look to be suffering from any illness that he could see.
'She used to go on and on about the famous men she'd met and dated when she'd been working in the clubs and casinos. Roger Moore, Ronald Reagan, Dean Martin, you name them, she'd had them all. She even claimed her son was the illegitimate child of Frank Sinatra.' Marion Keynes laughed.
Neither he nor Cantelli joined in.
'You stop listening after a while,' Marion Keynes said sharply. 'I've had enough of it. That's why I'm off sick — stress. I'm handing in my notice. I'll probably go back to agency work. It pays more.' She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, but Horton wasn't going to take the hint. If Marion Keynes had stress, then he was Dr Freud. Here was a woman who had fancied a few days off and judging by the state of the room, it wasn't to do her housework.
'Why do you want to know about her anyway? She was just an old woman.'
With an unusual edge of steel to his voice, Cantelli said, 'What time did you discover her body?'
'So, that's it, is it? They're saying it's my fault,' she flashed. 'The bastards! They're covering their backsides. She was dead when I went into her room, and if anyone says any different then they're lying.'
'Who are they, Mrs Keynes?' Horton asked wearily. He'd had enough of Marion Keynes already.
'Mr Chrystal and his bloody brothers, that's who. They own the Rest Haven and half a dozen old people's homes on the coast. They're probably looking for someone to blame in case the family sue, not that Irene's son is in a position to. Did you know he's in prison?' she said with relish.
Horton disliked her considerably, and he didn't much care if it showed.
'What time did you discover Irene?' Cantelli persisted.
'Five thirty a.m.,' she snapped, glaring at him.
'Why did you go into her room at that time?' Horton asked.
'It's when I do the rounds.'
Horton didn't believe her.
'Did you hear or see anything unusual that night?' Cantelli spoke again.
She smiled with a smugness that looked as though it was going to drive Cantelli to violence. Usually the sergeant managed to keep a tight rein on his emotions, despite his half-Italian blood, but this time she'd really got to him.
She took another pull at her cigarette and said with heavy cynicism, 'It was New Year's Eve. The ships' hooters and fireworks were going like the clappers, and there was a party in the street.'
Which, Horton thought, would have served to cover up the noise of someone entering the building and killing Irene Ebury. If she had been killed. There was that half landing where the stairs turned. The window looked out on to the flat-roofed extension of the kitchen and the gardens beyond. It was, as far as he had seen, the only window which wasn't double glazed. It made a good entry point.
He said, 'When did you last see Mrs Ebury alive?'
'I gave her her medication at eight thirty and made sure she was in bed. Then I checked that she and Mrs Kingsway and our other residents were all asleep before…'
'Yes?' prompted Horton.
'Before we had a drink to see the New Year in,' she said defiantly.
'We?'
'The staff. We cracked open a couple of bottles of wine. Well, why not? It was New Year's Eve.'
'What time did you start drinking?'
For a moment she looked as though she might tell Horton it was none of his business. Then she said, 'Just before midnight.'
Horton doubted that. More like nine o'clock, he thought. Maybe Walters would get the truth from the other staff.
'Why all this interest in her?' she asked.
'What kind of things did she talk about, apart from being Miss Southsea and her movie star conquests?' Horton knew that the easiest way to avoid answering a question was to ask another one.
'Not much. I didn't really listen.'
'When you're on duty, do you use the same office as Mrs Northwood?'
'Yes, why?' She looked both surprised and suspicious.
'And do you always lock it when you leave it?'
'Of course.'
Horton didn't know whether to believe her. She held his stare defiantly, but there was that wariness in the back of her eyes.
'When was the last time you entered the basement?'
She looked startled. 'I'm in and out of there all the time.'
Cantelli looked up from his notebook. 'And when did you last check on Mrs Ebury's belongings?'
She looked at each of them in turn. Her face flushed. 'So that's it! They've been stolen and you think I did it. Who pointed the finger at me? I bet it was that cow Angela Northwood. She's never liked me. Well, they can poke their job.' She stubbed out her cigarette with such violence that Horton thought she'd go through the brick mantelpiece.
'The drawer was forced open. You didn't notice it wh
en you went down there?'
'No, I bloody didn't.'
'Did you show Dr Eastwood up to Mrs Ebury's room?'
She glared at him and folded her arms against her flabby bosoms. 'Yes,' she snapped. 'He arrived about half an hour after I called him.'
'And was Mrs Kingsway awake?'
'I woke her not long after I found Irene dead. I got one of the care assistants, Cheryl, to take her downstairs and make her a cup of tea. That's it. I'm not answering any more questions.' She picked her way through the debris and flung open the door. The wind and rain rushed inside, but she held her ground.
So, it couldn't have been the doctor that Mrs Kingsway had seen bending over Irene Ebury. Perhaps she had dreamt it. Either that or there really had been an intruder.
Turning on the threshold, Horton took a lingering look around the dishevelled room not bothering to hide his disgust. His eyes swivelled to Marion Keynes and she shifted uneasily under his hostile gaze.
'Where does your husband work, Mrs Keynes?'
'None of your fucking business,' she blazed, slamming the door on him.
Cantelli zapped open the car. 'Nice woman.'
'Yeah, pity we don't meet more like her.'
Cantelli smiled. 'What bloody awful kids. She's got no control over them. If they were mine.'
'They certainly wouldn't be spoilt brats like that.'
'Makes you tremble to think what they'll turn out like.'
'We'll probably be picking up the results of it in years to come.'
'Some of those toys were pretty expensive,' Cantelli added, pulling away. 'I know because Joe wanted one of those computer games that were lying around the floor. I couldn't afford one on a sergeant's pay, let alone three that I saw there. Makes you wonder where the Keynes got the money from.'
'Could be bought on credit.'
'Or perhaps she stole Irene's jewellery and flogged it.'
That was a possibility which Horton had already considered. 'I wouldn't put it past her. She's sloppy, uncaring, and unfeeling. The Rest Haven is well shot of her.'
'Why become a nurse?'
'To make herself feel superior, I expect.' Horton caught Cantelli's worried glance. 'It happens, Barney, you know that as well as I do. It's how some people get their kicks by bullying the elderly, frail and vulnerable.'
'But nurses are meant to care,' Cantelli protested.
'Most of them do, but you know as well I do that now and again you come across the odd callous bastard or bitch, who either believes they're put on this earth to rid it of those they consider inferior and weak, or they're evil and greedy.'
'Then I think we should investigate Marion Keynes more thoroughly,' declared Cantelli vehemently.
'Walters will tell us what time the staff really started drinking and if it was just before midnight like she says then I'll resign.' Then Horton had another thought and one he didn't much care for. He recalled the uniform that Mrs Northwood had been wearing: dark trousers and a white tunic type top. If Marion Keynes had pinned up her lank blonde hair, and had had her back to Mrs Kingsway could the old lady have mistaken her for a man?
Cantelli seemed to have been following the same train of thought.
'Do you think Marion Keynes could have killed Irene Ebury?' he said, easing the car into a queue of rush-hour traffic.
Horton considered it for a moment and found the answer disturbing. 'I think she could be capable of it. Perhaps she stole Irene's belongings before Christmas, and sold the jewellery to buy those presents. Then Irene asks to see her belongings, so while everyone was getting merry on New Year's Eve, Marion slips up to Irene's room and finishes her off. Mrs Kingsway wakes and sees the back of Marion Keynes leaning over Irene's bed and mistakes her for a man because of the uniform.'
He was glad he hadn't mentioned anything about an alleged intruder to Marion Keynes. If she decided to return to work, and she thought that Mrs Kingsway could identify her, then he could have put the elderly lady's life at risk. That was always supposing Marion Keynes was a killer.
'We'll see what Dr Clayton gets from the autopsy. In the meantime it won't do any harm to dig a bit deeper into Marion Keynes' financial background. Find out what her husband does, Barney, and how many other care homes she's worked in. Also get out a full description of the jewellery to all the usual fences and shops.'
'You going to tell Bliss?'
'What do you think?'
Cantelli dropped him off at the station and headed for home. Horton pushed back the door to the custody cell block and the heat hit him like a bomb blast. Along with it came the smell of sweat, dirt, shit and something indefinable to anyone but a police officer.
'Has someone died in here and no one's bothered to check?'
'Sorry, sir. Two junkies brought in this morning. Haven't had a chance to put them through the sheep dip yet.'
If only, Horton thought.
'Oh, and DCI Bliss was asking for you, sir. Wants to see you as soon as you come in.'
Now what? Who complained? Jackson or Farnsworth? Marion Keynes perhaps? No, he didn't think so. Probably more like Colin Anston or Geoffrey Welton from the prison.
Knocking first, then entering her office, he drew up startled. She was clearing her desk. Her usually pale skin was flushed, but it wasn't with anger because Horton could see that under her crisp exterior she was secretly very pleased with herself.
'I've been seconded to the Performance and Review Team,' she said without preamble. 'I shall be working out of headquarters for the next three months helping to review best investigative practices.'
God help us all, thought Horton, but took care not to let his feelings show. They say that every cloud has a silver lining and at least she'd be out of his hair.
'As from tomorrow you will resume command in my absence. Superintendent Reine's instructions.'
Ah, so not hers and clearly against her wishes. Well, good on Reine. Perhaps he wasn't such a stuffed prick after all. 'I'm being made up to acting DCI?'
She eyed him incredulously.
'So it's the job without the pay or the rank,' he added bitterly. He might have guessed.
Cramming the last of her files into her overcrowded briefcase, and straightening up, she said, 'Detective Constable Harriet Lee has been assigned to help you. She starts tomorrow and will be here on secondment for a while.'
He hadn't heard the name before. She wasn't from this station. 'How long is a while?'
'Until the permanent appointments are announced.'
Which would be at the end of January.
'Where's she from?'
'Headquarters. I'm told she's a highly respected officer.'
Yeah, but not operational, Horton thought, and did she have any experience in criminal investigations? He had been hoping for Seaton or Somerfield on secondment. It was just his luck to get a paper pusher.
He followed Bliss into the corridor where she paused. He couldn't mistake the triumphant gleam in her eyes. He guessed this was her dream come true. But why had she been plucked from here to be set down in HQ? She'd only been a DCI one month, and here for about the same length of time, so hardly long enough to make a name for herself. Perhaps it was that e-mail that had impressed the powers that be: C.A.S.E. = R. Well, Bliss had got a result all right.
He sat in his office and listened to the rain hurling itself with manic fury against the window. There was a great deal puzzling him and it didn't include those threatening phone calls received by the TV divers because that was one case that had got a result, for the divers anyway. They had had their publicity in the local press and no doubt the nationals would pick up on the story tomorrow. No, what he was puzzled by was far more serious. There was the death of Irene Ebury and her link with his mother, Jennifer. What could Irene have told him about Jennifer's disappearance? Probably little was the answer, but it still irked him that he might have missed out on learning some valuable information about her.
Then there was the death of Irene's son, Peter; the myste
rious intruder at the Rest Haven Nursing Home as seen by Mrs Kingsway; Irene's missing belongings and Marion Keynes' attitude and extravagant Christmas. But, after reviewing all these in a long and tiresome day, he was left with three key questions. Why had Bliss been unexpectedly sent away? Why was someone from outside the division being seconded to his team? And what did either of those things have to do with the deaths of Irene and Peter Ebury?
FIVE
Tuesday, 8.30 a.m.
The questions followed him into work the next morning. He still didn't have any answers, even after considering them at length on his run last night, and while he'd tossed and turned in his bunk listening to an avenging wind screech and howl through the masts. He'd reread the missing person's file on his mother, thanking God it hadn't been lost in the fire that had consumed Nutmeg, his previous boat. But there was nothing in Irene Ebury's statement that hinted why his mother had disappeared and no mention of her son, Peter. Horton hadn't really expected it, but it had been worth checking.
Carefully he had stowed it away under one of the bunks, thinking that he really ought to remove it to his office where it might be safer. And he should also think about getting another boat of his own, instead of living on this borrowed one. Maybe during his holiday he'd start looking for one. But that thought brought him back to his questions because he didn't much fancy sailing away without some answers to them.
He had just finished telling Cantelli about Bliss's sudden departure when there was a knock on his office door and he found himself looking into the deep brown eyes and oval face of an attractive, slender Chinese woman in her early thirties.
'DC Harriet Lee, sir,' she said crisply, dashing a smile at Cantelli.
Horton approved of her black tailored trousers and flat shoes. This was no job for stilettos and a skirt. But had she chosen to wear a red sailing jacket because she knew his passion for the pursuit or was that just him being a cynical, suspicious cop with an overactive imagination?
He waved her into the seat next to Cantelli, making the introduction, unable to shake off this uncomfortable feeling that she was here for a reason, which wasn't to help them out. She returned Cantelli's smile with, Horton thought, genuine warmth.
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