Monday: 9.30 A.M.
Horton took PC Seaton and WPC Kate Somerfield out of uniform and set them to keep a watch on Ranson's house. He didn't want the bugger slipping out and killing anyone else, and he didn't want him doing a moonlight flit. Somerfield reported the next morning, that Ranson hadn't gone anywhere except to his office in Southsea at eight a.m.
'Is he there now?' Horton asked glancing at his watch, as Cantelli knocked and entered his office.
'No, sir. He left there fifteen minutes ago. He's at Nettleside High School. There's a board outside that says, 'Ranson and Rawlings are the architects of the new sports hall'.
Ranson seemed to specialize in schools. Another factor which slotted in with his choice of nursery rhyme. 'Right, we're on our way. Call me if he leaves. Glad to see you back, Sergeant. You're just in time for school.'
'The Sir Wilberforce Cutler?' 'No, the high school in Old Portsmouth. It's where we might find our killer. I'll brief you on our way there.'
Twenty minutes later Horton and Cantelli walked into reception. It wasn't half term in the private sector. After showing their ID, the receptionist paged the school caretaker and asked him to locate Leo Ranson. Horton knew that Ranson wouldn't run away, why should he if he thought he was in clear? If he were guilty then he would be curious to know how far the police had got with their inquiries. And if he were innocent? Then he'd be one very tetchy man.
He saw the receptionist pick up the phone and punch in a number that was clearly an internal extension. She spoke quietly into the receiver but her eyes kept glancing up at them. He guessed she was calling the bursar or the school business manager to say there were police officers on the premises. He stepped away from the desk to examine a large organization chart opposite. At the top was the head teacher, dressed in cap and gown, Dr Simon Thornecombe BD, DD, MBBS, BSc (Hons.), PGCE, MBA.
'Looks as though he's collecting the alphabet,' Cantelli said beside him. 'Wonder what they all stand for. I bet Jessica Langley didn't have as many initials after her name.'
No, thought Horton, recalling from memory, just BEd and MBA: Bachelor of Education and Master of Business Administration. How did anyone have time to take two degrees, let alone a whole batch of them like Dr Thornecombe? It was a wonder he ever found the time to hold down a proper job.
The door on their left opened and a stockily built man, with thinning brown hair swept back off a broad forehead, marched towards them with a slightly apprehensive smile and an outstretched hand. Horton recognized him instantly as the head teacher. So that's whom the receptionist had been calling, or probably his secretary.
Thornecombe introduced himself in a quiet but confident voice that had just a hint of an accent, Yorkshire, thought Horton. The head teacher's grey eyes coolly assessed them both before he said, 'I wonder if I might have a word, Inspector? It won't take a moment. Mrs Harris, my secretary, can show Mr Ranson into my office when he's located, and you can talk to him there, if you wish.'
'Of course,' Horton replied, raising his eyebrows slightly at Cantelli as they followed Thornecombe's purposeful steps down a short corridor and into a spacious, tidy office. It was furnished, Horton noted, with a deep pile burgundy carpet, expensive oak furniture and equipped with the latest in computer technology. Bit different from Edney's and Langley's offices, he thought dryly.
He watched Thornecombe cross to his wide desk and, unfastening the button of his double-breasted suit jacket, he waved them into comfortable seats opposite and then settled himself into his large leather chair with a concerned frown.
'I'm not sure whether this information is important, but I thought you ought to know that Ms Langley was here on the day she died.'
Horton hid his surprise. He had expected a lecture from Thornecombe on how important it was to keep the name of the school from the press if anything should come of their inquiries here.
'What time was this, sir?' Horton sensed Cantelli's interest beside him as he removed his notebook from his pocket and his pencil from behind his ear.
Thornecombe continued to address Horton. 'She arrived just after half twelve. I had sandwiches brought to my office and she left shortly before two.'
So, this was where she had been coming when she had been seen leaving the school at lunchtime, and Neil Cyrus had witnessed her return. One question answered and maybe a second one also: was this the reason why Langley had dressed more soberly on Thursday? Susan Pentlow had said that Langley wore black either when she had an important meeting to attend or when she was disciplining someone, and from the statements taken, she hadn't done the latter.
Horton wondered what Langley had been doing visiting a private school when hers was a state school.
'We were exploring how we could share our resources,' Thornecombe said, easing his squat figure back in the chair. 'I can see that you're sceptical.' He smiled knowingly. 'And I don't blame you but it's not improbable for private and state education to work together. Let me explain. I first met Ms Langley at a head teachers' conference in May. She struck me then as a forceful, vibrant personality who would be able to push through the changes that the Sir Wilberforce Cutler badly needed. Being popular wasn't important to her. Oh, it's nice to be liked, but leaders can't always be popular. One has to be thick-skinned.'
Horton thought of Uckfield. The superintendent was in the rhinoceros class when it came to the density of skin.
'We struck up a professional friendship almost immediately and began to explore how we could work together; especially once our new buildings are complete. The Wilberforce will have superb facilities for drama and media studies whilst we will have a swimming pool, gymnasium, tennis and squash courts. We both saw it as a pioneering project of co-operation between the state and private sector.'
'Wouldn't your parents have questioned that? I wouldn't have thought they'd like their children mixing with state school kids,' Horton said, raising his eyebrows.
'It's a good point, Inspector, and no doubt I would have had quite a job winning over some of the parents. But my reasoning is that our pupils will need to mix with all sorts of people in this world, and it is wise to prepare them for that.'
Horton thought he should have brought Jake Marsden with him. He'd been privately educated and now mixed with all sorts of low-lives — and that was just the coppers.
'Maybe you can start again with the new head?'
'I hope so. It would be a pity to lose that vision. Mr Edney's an excellent deputy, good at the detail. Just what you need in a deputy, I can assure you of that. I'm just not sure he will have Ms Langley's drive and energy. People like Jessica Langley are rare.'
So he hadn't heard the news, which was surprising when it had been reported on the radio and television this morning.
'I am sorry to have to tell you, sir, that Mr Edney is dead. We are also treating his death as suspicious.'
'Dead! Good God! When? How? I don't believe it.' Thornecombe looked genuinely shocked. He sprang forward in his chair and stared at each of them in turn. 'But this is dreadful. What is going on?'
'That's what we're trying to ascertain, sir.'
Horton saw from Thornecombe's expression that he was very rapidly making the connection between Langley's death and their request to see the architect.
Thornecombe, clearly horrified, cried, 'But you can't think that Mr Ranson has anything to do with it?'
'Mr Edney was killed on Saturday evening. You hadn't heard?'
The slight pucker of Thornecombe's eyebrows and a flicker in his grey eyes told Horton that the head teacher was not used to having his questions ignored. Nevertheless he said, evenly, 'My wife and I have been away for the weekend, and I had an early morning meeting with prospective parents. I am appalled at this.'
And worried, thought Horton, that his architect and therefore his school might be dragged into it. 'Do you know of anyone who might have had a vendetta against both Ms Langley and Mr Edney?'
'A vendetta?' Thornecombe stared, aghast, at him. 'That's a strong word.'
'Murder is a very nasty business, sir.'
'Murder! Yes, of course. I suppose it has to be that. Good grief! I can't imagine anyone doing such a dreadful thing.'
'Unfortunately we have to imagine, sir, and the worse case scenario too.'
'I-' Thornecombe was interrupted by a timid knock on the door. 'Come in,' he barked.
A harassed-looking woman poked her head into the room. 'Mr Ranson, sir,' she announced hesitantly.
'Show him in, Joan.' Thornecombe rose, made to say something, then thought better of it as Ranson swept in with a face like thunder. Thornecombe didn't even look at the architect as he left the room.
As soon as the door closed, Ranson rounded on Horton. 'Just what the hell do you think you're doing, coming here, demanding to see me when I'm in the middle of an important project, treating me like some kind of criminal?'
If it was an act then it was a good one. 'Sit down, Mr Ranson.'
'No, I damn well won't,' Ranson hotly declared, glaring at him with the vivid blue eyes that Horton recalled from their previous meeting, only this time instead of haughty indifference they were shooting daggers.
'Sit down,' repeated Horton, firmly, as he walked around Thornecombe's desk and took the seat vacated by the head teacher. On the desk was a silver-framed photograph of a young man in a dog-collar who looked very much like a younger version of Simon Thornecombe.
'You don't intimidate me, Inspector. I'll sit when you tell me why I've been hauled in here,' Ranson blazed.
Horton gave a small shrug and sat back in the slightly rocking swivel chair.
'We need to ask you some questions about Jessica Langley.'
'For goodness sake! I really don't see what-'
'How well did you know her, sir?' interjected Cantelli casually.
Ranson swivelled his eyes to meet Cantelli's. Ranson would have to do better than glaring at the sergeant to make Cantelli react, thought Horton. But Horton could see that Ranson was uneasy. He couldn't maintain the same air of righteous indignation because now Horton guessed his mind was racing with trying to weigh up how much they knew about his affair with Langley.
Stiffly, Ranson replied, 'She was the head teacher at a school where I was the architect responsible for designing and developing a new building. Even you could have gathered that from our first meeting.'
Horton thought Ranson a bit heavy-handed with the sarcasm. Was it a defence mechanism perhaps? His experience told him that Ranson was clearly uncomfortable about something: was that murder? He had also avoided answering the question. Behind those piercing blue eyes, the bow-tie and the supercilious manner, Horton saw a worried man, and if Daphne Edney was correct, a man who had known Jessica Langley a darn sight better than just professionally. Time to ease off and make him think they believed him.
'You seem to specialize in school buildings.'
'We handle a variety of projects,' Ranson replied curtly, 'and if that's all you want to talk to me about then I suggest you make an appointment with my secretary.'
He had reached the door when Horton, his voice as hard as steel, said, 'We know about your affair with Jessica Langley.'
Ranson froze. His body tensed. Slowly he turned back and scrutinized Horton's face. 'Who told you?'
Horton remained silent.
After a moment Ranson crossed the room and sat in the chair that Horton had earlier vacated. The hostility had vanished and Horton was now looking at a nervous and worried man.
'When did the affair begin?' Cantelli asked.
Ranson tried a last-ditch attempt to give Cantelli a withering look, but it didn't come off and only served to make him look sheepish. Seeing there was nothing for it, Ranson reluctantly capitulated.
'About a month ago. It wasn't really an affair though.'
'Then what was it?' asked Horton.
Ranson pulled out a handkerchief, which he proceeded to wipe his hands with. 'Just a bit of fun. It didn't mean anything.'
Horton could see that Ranson was beginning to rehearse in his mind what he might have to tell his wife. Horton didn't think 'a bit of fun' was going to win her over though.
'I finished it a week ago.'
'Then why did you visit her on the evening of her death?'
'I didn't.'
For Horton, the too swift denial confirmed Daphne Edney's story. He threw the pencil down and slapped his hand on the desk. 'Stop lying to me, Ranson. Two people are dead.'
'Two?'
Horton said sharply, 'Tom Edney was brutally murdered on Saturday night. Where were you between three and seven p.m.' Horton knew of course, but no harm in making Ranson sweat, and he was sweating now.
'You can't think…I didn't have…I didn't even know he was dead.'
Horton contrived to look incredulous. Ranson flushed and mopped his brow with the handkerchief. He was clearly no longer the supercilious architect, but a very anxious and frightened man.
'I went sailing for the weekend with my family to Guernsey. I have witnesses,' he cried with a note of desperation.
'And for Langley's murder,' rapped Horton.
'I was at home with my wife.'
Oh, yeah, thought Horton, pull the other one; it's got bells on.
He said, 'Not according to our witness you weren't. Did you kill her?'
'Of course I didn't,' Ranson declared vehemently.
Did Horton believe him? It didn't look like an act, and the man had gone quite pale, but then Horton had seen some Oscar-winning performances before from murderers. 'You asked Jessica Langley to meet you on your boat at Sparkes Yacht Harbour and once on it you killed her. Why?'
'I haven't killed anyone.' Ranson sat forward. 'Look, I did go to her apartment on Thursday evening, but I was only there a few minutes. I left her there, alive and well. I didn't ask her to meet me anywhere.'
'You had sex and then left her?'
From the post-mortem report Horton knew he hadn't, but he wanted to see Ranson's reaction. The man looked horrified.
'No. I arrived at her flat just after seven thirty. I had hardly been there a few minutes when the doorbell rang and Daphne Edney was hurling abuse at Jessica on the doorstep. Jessica slammed the door on her. She seemed to find it exciting and amusing. I thought things between us were going to be… well, all right. Then her mobile phone rang and everything changed. No, hang on. She had two calls. The first one made her cross.'
Horton was immediately aware that this new information was important, if the architect could be believed. He hoped to God it would give them a lead, because if Ranson wasn't Langley's killer then apart from that betting slip found in Langley's pocket he had sod all left.
'Who was it?' he asked sharply.
'I don't know. I just heard her say, 'You'll get nothing from me. Now piss off.' Then almost immediately her phone rang again. She must have thought it was the same caller but her expression changed.'
'How?'
'It sort of lit up. She rang off and told me something had come up. She couldn't get rid of me quick enough.'
Horton studied the architect. Ranson's eyes were pleading with him to be believed.
'Who was on the phone the second time?'
'I don't know and she didn't say.'
'Male or female voice?'
'I couldn't hear. Jessica moved away. I just heard her say, "Great."'
'So you were angry at being rejected. You lay in wait for her and then attacked and killed her.'
'No!' Ranson was out of his chair, shouting. 'I went home. Ask my wife, she'll tell you what time I got in.'
'And that was?' asked Cantelli.
'Just after eight thirty. I left Jessica alive and well at eight o'clock.'
Horton studied him closely. He believed him. Ranson hadn't killed Langley or Edney.
'Did you go out again?' asked Cantelli.
'No, why should I?'
Horton suddenly had an idea about Edney's death. Maybe he had been killed because he'd seen Langley's murderer. 'Did you see Tom Edney anywhere in that vicinity on Thursday evening?'
'No.'
Shame. 'You look surprised that he could have been there.'
'He was hardly her favourite person. She used to laugh at how she tormented him. She wasn't always a very nice woman. In fact she could be horrid, but she was kind of addictive and stimulating to be with.'
Horton didn't think Ranson's wife was going to be very pleased to hear that. But Ranson's words had finally unlocked that small niggling thing that had been in the back of his mind since he'd first set eyes on Jessica Langley on the mulberry and then again in the mortuary. It had been the way her hair had been curled on to her forehead on the mulberry. It hadn't been like that in any of the photographs he'd seen of her. 'The Owl and the Pussy-Cat', and 'Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush' weren't the only rhymes their killer had been having fun with — when she was bad she was horrid.
'Did you ever go sailing with her?' he asked.
Ranson looked surprised at the question. 'A couple of times. She was a very competent sailor.'
Horton took the photograph from his pocket. 'Did you take this of Jessica Langley?'
Ranson studied it. 'No.'
'Do you know if she owned a boat?'
'She never said.'
'Did she wear foul-weather sailing clothes when she was on your boat, like these in the photograph? Leggings, jacket…'
'A couple of times, when the weather was rough. They were my wife's,' he said. 'Please don't tell my wife about Jessica. She won't understand.'
'I bet she won't!' Cantelli said with feeling, when Ranson had left and they were in the car. Horton had asked Ranson to call into the station at two thirty that afternoon and make a statement. He had agreed with alacrity in the vain hope that they wouldn't check his movements with his wife. They would, of course.
'Our killer's a real joker, Barney, and it's not Leo Ranson. Langley's body had been arranged on the mulberry, with her dark hair curling on to her forehead. Picking up on our nursery rhyme theme, does anything strike you about that?'
'No.' Cantelli looked blank.
'Can't say I blame you for not getting it. It's taken me long enough.' And Horton chanted: '"There was a little girl/Who wore a little curl/Right in the middle of her forehead/When she was good, she was very, very good- "'
Cantelli finished, '"And when she was bad she was horrid." Our killer knew her well.'
'Yes. And a woman like Langley would have as many enemies as she would admirers.' But who could have killed her if Ranson was in the clear for murder? Horton had to go back to the beginning. Or did he? There was still that matter of the betting slip. Why had the killer left it in Langley's pocket? What did the message on it mean: Have you forgotten ME? Did it have any significance to the case? Perhaps Morville was telling the truth when he said it had been intended for Elaine Tolley. But what if he was lying, and Jessica Langley had been the intended recipient? That meant Morville knew her. Morville's alibi had checked out: he'd been drinking in the club. But there was something he wasn't telling them and with one trail cold it was time to follow another one.
He also hadn't forgotten about Mickey Johnson and those antiques thefts, and Johnson's missing accomplice, who hadn't yet been found. But that would have to wait just like the break-in at the ex-forces club and the school building site robbery, though he'd keep the latter in mind, in case he was back to his theory that Langley had surprised the robbers at her school and been killed because of it. After Leo Ranson had left her apartment perhaps she had returned to the school to collect something. Or perhaps this second caller had asked her to meet him there, though that was more unlikely. Her caller could have asked Langley to meet him on his boat.
But first Eric Morville. Horton glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was just after midday, and there were three places that Morville could be: the betting shop, the ex-forces club or at home.
'Drop me off on the corner of Corton Court, Barney. I'm going to see if I can get some sense out of Morville. You follow up Ranson's alibi.' If Morville wasn't there then Horton could easily walk to the other two destinations. But he was lucky. Morville was in.
Pauline Rowson
Deadly Waters
Fourteen
U nshaved, and bleary-eyed, Morville looked as though he'd had a heavy night on the tiles. Either that or he had started drinking early, which, judging by the smell on his breath, Horton thought more likely. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the almost empty whisky bottle on the small table beside Morville's armchair. Beside it was a plate with the remains of bacon rind on it and the yellow stain of what once must have been a fried egg if the smell in the flat was anything to go by.
'I suppose you've come about that bloody betting slip again.' Morville sank heavily into his armchair and began to roll himself a cigarette.
'Well, I haven't come to discuss how Portsmouth are doing in the Premiership.'
'Good. I know sod all about football.'
'But you do know about Jessica Langley?'
'Yeah, you told me you'd found a body.' Morville lit up and inhaled deeply. Horton felt like throwing open a window to let out the smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol and cooking.
Morville continued, 'I heard another schoolteacher's been bumped off. Not doing very well, are you, Inspector. Shouldn't you be out looking for the killer instead of bothering innocent ratepayers like me?'
Horton doubted Morville paid any council tax, being on benefit. He leaned forward, thrusting his face so close to Morville that he could see the fine blood vessels in the yellowing whites of his eyes and smell the nicotine and stale booze on his breath. He took the cigarette from Morville's thin lips and said very quietly, 'Oh, I am, Mr Morville, which is why I am here.'
Horton held his position for a few seconds, which was long enough to see the flicker of fear in Morville's eyes. Then, straightening up, he squashed the cigarette between his fingers, crumbling it over the plate.
Morville reached for the whisky bottle and poured the remaining liquid into a glass.
Horton stepped away. 'You've got a criminal record: assault on man in a pub, ten years ago.'
'I was drunk.'
'And you always get violent when drunk? Were you drunk when you hit Jessica Langley?'
'I didn't hit her!' Morville cried indignantly.
'You just slipped that note into her pocket. Why?'
'I told you; I dropped it.'
'Where?'
'How the hell do I know?'
'Were you blackmailing Jessica Langley?'
'I didn't know her. How could I blackmail her?'
Horton knew instantly that he'd struck the right chord. Years of interviewing suspects had given him a finely tuned antenna for the slightest nuance of tone that betrayed a man. What could Morville have had over the head teacher? Was there something in her past that connected her to Morville? Their paths had crossed, that much was clear, but was it here in Portsmouth or when Morville had been stationed elsewhere whilst in the navy, perhaps near Jessica Langley at a previous school? If so, they would be able to pinpoint it by viewing Morville's naval record and comparing it with Langley's career path. But all that would take time. And he didn't have time. On Friday morning, in four days' time, he would have to hand this case over to Dennings, as Uckfield had so bluntly reminded him.
Horton said sharply, 'Where were you Saturday between three and six p. m?'
'At the betting shop.'
'They close at five.'
'I came home, had something to eat and then went to the club about seven. Satisfied?' he challenged.
Far from it, Horton thought. He would check.
'You can't pin either murder on me,' Morville crowed defiantly.
More's the pity, thought Horton. He wasn't going to rule Morville out until he had checked and double-checked his alibis, and he'd found the reason why Langley had had the betting slip in her trouser pocket.
'I'd like to know what you're not telling me,' Horton said. Morville opened his mouth to reply, but Horton got there first, his voice low and threatening, 'And I will find out.' He had the satisfaction of seeing Morville worried before he swept out of the foul-smelling flat.
He needed that link between Morville and Langley. It sounded as though Langley could well have refused to give Morville money. Could he have killed her for that? Looks could be deceptive; perhaps Morville was more energetic than he appeared. But how could he have got the body on to the mulberry? Did he have an accomplice with a boat? Morville couldn't afford to keep and run one on benefit. He had been in the navy though, so maybe he could handle a boat. But a blackmailer would hardly kill the goose that lays the golden egg. Back to those bloody fairy stories again, Horton thought irritably. And would Morville have the intelligence to use the mulberry bush nursery rhyme? Why the honey and money? Questions, questions and no bloody answers.
Horton rounded the corner; a few hundred yards would take him to the front entrance of the ex-forces club, and now that he was here he might as well check out Morville's alibi for Saturday afternoon, and try and get at least one of those questions answered.
There was no sign of Barry Dunsley but the cleaner, Mrs Watrow, was there.
'Barry's gone to the cash and carry,' she said in answer to Horton's enquiry. 'Calls himself a steward, but if he's a steward then I'm the Queen of the May.'
Horton gave her an encouraging look; not that he needed to, as he could see that Mrs Watrow liked to talk.
'No doubt he's pulled a few pints of beer in his time, but he ain't no professional steward,' she snorted.
'Does he have to be?'
'Gives himself airs. He drinks more pints than he pulls. He's an idle bugger, not like Jim. I'll be glad when he's back.'
'Do you know Eric Morville?'
'He's another lazy blighter. Heart condition, my eye. Allergic to work more like. I-'
'Do you know if he was in here drinking on Saturday night at about seven o'clock?'
But she was shaking her head. 'Me and my husband didn't come down here until eight. He was here then.'
'Alone?'
'What sort of woman would want him?' she scoffed. 'Good for nothing idle beggar.'
'You don't seem to like him very much.'
'He's a nasty piece of work, like that so-called steward.'
Horton was curious. He hadn't taken to Barry Dunsley either, and had his suspicions about the break-in being an inside job, but he was curious to know why Mrs Watrow didn't like him apart, that was, from him not being a professional or competent steward. He asked her.
'He's always listening into people's conversations and making snide remarks. If you ask me they're two of a kind, Dunsley and Morville, and the pair of them have got their hands in the till.'
Now Horton's interest heightened. 'Do you have any evidence to back this up?'
'Stands to reason, don't it? They are always in a huddle. Up to no good, if you ask me. And he told you a lie when you were here before asking about the break-in.'
Horton's ears pricked up. He studied her closely. How much of this was spiteful gossip and how much the truth? 'How do you know what Mr Dunsley told me?'
She smiled. 'You can hear every word that's said in the bar when you're in those gents' toilets, especially if it's quiet like.'
Horton recalled that Dunsley had sent her to clean them.
She said, with a triumphant gleam in her watery grey eyes, 'He told you he was serving all Thursday night, only he wasn't. Doris was serving, and she locked up. He didn't show.'
'She told you this?' Horton's heart quickened. So Dunsley had lied when he said he'd seen Morville drinking in the bar the night of Langley's murder. Had Morville asked him to provide an alibi for him, whilst he'd been killing Langley?
'We go to the bingo together,' Mrs Watrow declared, as if this was the clinching argument as to why Doris should be believed.
'Do you know where Mr Dunsley had been?' Horton asked.
'Out with some tart, I expect.'
'And Eric Morville, do you remember if he was here last Thursday evening?'
'He was. Propping up the bar as always.'
Pity. Morville had a cast-iron alibi. He thought Mrs Watrow was reliable enough. If she said Morville was here, then he was. Nevertheless he wouldn't rule him out yet. Not until he got to the bottom of that message on that bloody betting slip.
'Was Mr Dunsley here on Saturday afternoon between three and six p. m?'
'I don't know, luv, I wasn't here.'
Horton thanked her and left, wanting to know a great deal more about Mr Barry Dunsley. Why had he lied about being in the bar on the night Langley was killed? Horton knew the break-in to be phoney. He could sense and smell it. Cantelli had sussed it out too. So what was Barry Dunsley up to? Had he been killing Langley? But why fake a break-in and draw attention to himself? Horton smiled as he gave himself the answer: to provide an alibi, of course.
At the station he asked Marsden to chase up Morville's navy record, and to match that information against Langley's background. To Walters he designated the task of finding out all he could about Barry Dunsley.
'Does Dunsley have a boat?' Horton asked Trueman, who checked on the computer against the lists they had received.
'Not according to this.'
Shame. But maybe Dunsley hadn't registered his boat with a harbour master. Or perhaps he had an accomplice. Morville? It was possible especially after what Mrs Watrow had told him.
Horton headed for the canteen, bought himself some sandwiches and a coffee and returned to his office with them. He closed his door and stared at the photograph on his desk of Emma. He could call a solicitor now while he had a moment yet he hesitated. It seemed so final. Damn it, it was final, hadn't Catherine made it quite clear their marriage was over.
He took a deep breath and reached for the telephone directory. One particular matrimonial lawyer had sprung to mind and as he punched in Frampton's number he recalled Frances Greywell's crisp efficiency during his last murder case, just after he had returned to duty from his suspension.
He made an appointment with her, via her secretary, for the following Monday; by that time he'd either have solved the case or be relieved of it. Perhaps then he would be able to focus on more personal matters. Last night he had steeled himself to open the three letters from Catherine's solicitor. Each had asked for the details of his own solicitor. The final one had given him a month in which to contact them before a Petition for divorce would be drawn up and issued. His guts churned at the thought of it and angrily he pushed it aside as he considered the case.
Dunsley had lied about his whereabouts on Thursday evening. What connection, if any, did he have with Jessica Langley? Dunsley had talked to them about Tom Edney when he and Cantelli had first called upon him, and had claimed it had been gossip he'd overheard across the bar. But was it? Maybe Dunsley had known Edney.
Where had Dunsley been on Saturday between three and six when Edney was having his throat slit?
There was knock on his door. Cantelli walked in. 'Mrs Ranson confirms her husband arrived home just before eight thirty on the night Langley was killed. She said he was fine, nothing untoward in his manner or appearance, and he didn't go out again. She seemed to be telling the truth. She wanted to know why we were asking. I gave her the usual bollocks about routine but she wasn't convinced. I don't think Leo Ranson's got a very pleasant evening in store when he gets home. I felt sorry for her. She was nice. You should see Ranson's house though. It looked like something out of one of those posh magazines, all glass and angles with wood floors and sleek furniture. You could fit my three-bed semi into two rooms of it.'
Horton's phone rang. It was the desk. He listened, then said to Cantelli, 'Ranson's arrived. Go take his statement, Barney, and let him know you've talked to his wife.' That will teach him to play away from home, Horton thought, though he was thinking of Catherine and her boyfriend.
Horton briefed Uckfield while Cantelli saw to Ranson and, with Uckfield's blessing, which Horton didn't really need, an hour later, he and Cantelli made their way to the ex-forces club. There was however no sign of the steward. Was he ever here? Horton was beginning to wonder.
Cantelli crossed to have a word with the barmaid, the inimitable Doris, whilst Horton made for Mrs Watrow who was sitting with a drink in front of her and a white haired man beside her. After she had introduced the small potbellied man beside her as her husband, Ernie, she said, 'It's bingo night and we like to get in early and grab a good seat.'
There were only about six elderly people in the dilapidated bar room. Maybe the rush came later.
'Mrs Watrow, you told me earlier today that Mr Dunsley wasn't here on the night of the break-in-'
'That weren't no break-in. He did it. Dunsley. He's on the fiddle.'
Those were Horton's sentiments exactly. 'How do you know?'
'Heard him talking to that friend of his lunchtime, just after you'd left.'
'What friend?' Horton's ears pricked up.
'Neil. Don't know his last name.'
Horton felt a warm glow of satisfaction deep inside him. There was one Neil in particular that sprang to mind: Cyrus, the assistant caretaker at the Sir Wilberforce Cutler School. And Horton wouldn't mind betting that he was the Neil in question. There had been something about the caretaker he hadn't liked or trusted. He reckoned his intuition was right, just as it was with Dunsley.
He said, 'What did Dunsley say? Can you remember?'
'That the police have been here asking questions — I told him you'd been round again — and Neil was to keep his nerve. You going to arrest him?' she asked with a gleam in her eyes. 'Serves him right if you do. Gives himself airs and graces, thinks he's better than-'
'Thank you. I think my sergeant wants me.' He hastily extracted himself, and went over to join Cantelli.
'Doris doesn't think Dunsley will be long. His flat's upstairs and she said help yourself when I asked if we could wait up there,' Cantelli said.
The stairs were covered with what once might have been beige cord carpet, but now it was threadbare and dirty. Mrs Watrow's duties obviously didn't extend this far, Horton thought, coming up on to the narrow landing. At the top of the stairs he told Cantelli what Mrs Watrow had said. Then taking out his mobile phone he called in and gave instructions for Neil Cyrus to be brought in for questioning.
'It's my guess they were at the school stealing the building material,' Horton said.
'So Langley could have returned and discovered them.'
She could indeed, thought Horton. And if Dunsley had visited Neil at the school in the past, then that could be how Edney had recognized him, which meant he must also have seen Dunsley with Langley at some stage. Or perhaps Edney had a suspicion that Cyrus was involved in her death, and Cyrus had killed Edney, hence the post-mortem findings that Langley and Edney could have been killed by different people: Dunsley and Cyrus. This was looking good.
Horton gave a cursory search of the bathroom — not much there. Then he entered the living room at the end of the corridor, while Cantelli took the kitchen and bedroom. From the living room Horton could see Morville's flat in Corton Court. He hadn't forgotten him.
He gazed around the room. It was comfortably furnished, though a little overcrowded, with a three-piece suite, a small computer desk in front of the window and a large TV and DVD. On the desk was a computer and beside it some bills from the club and a box file containing invoices and receipts. Horton had a quick flick through but there was nothing of interest. He opened some drawers and found a bank statement; it was a couple of months old and Dunsley was overdrawn. Horton knew that what they were doing here was irregular, and Dunsley could complain, but he wasn't concerned about that. Let the man bleat.
Horton joined Cantelli in Dunsley's bedroom. 'Anything?'
Cantelli shook his head. Horton heard footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later Dunsley appeared.
'What the hell are you doing here?' he exploded.
Horton unfazed, said, 'We'd like to ask you some questions, Mr Dunsley. At the station.'
'Why? I haven't done anything.' Suddenly Dunsley was on the defensive. Horton saw the faint telltale flush of nervousness on Dunsley's neck.
'For a start there's wasting police time by reporting a phoney break-in, not to mention attempting to fraud the insurers.'
Dunsley licked his lips and gave a hesitant smile. 'It was a joke.'
'You have a peculiar sense of humour, Mr Dunsley. Shall we discuss it down at the station?'
Horton gave an ushering movement, as Cantelli eased himself behind Dunsley.
Dunsley said, 'You can't really be taking me in just for that!'
'Shall we go?' Horton didn't leave Dunsley much choice.
The stairs were narrow but Cantelli still managed to squeeze himself beside Dunsley, and put a restraining arm on the steward. Horton brought up the rear.
'It's only a small matter of theft. The insurance company can afford it,' Dunsley said tetchily, after climbing into Cantelli's car. Horton got in beside him.
So Dunsley was going to bluff it out. Or rather he was going to admit to the lesser crime of theft in the hope they'd not discover he was a murderer.
At the station, Cantelli took Dunsley to an interview room, while Horton checked in with Sergeant Trueman.
'Did you get Cyrus?'
'He's in interview room three. Claims he hasn't done anything.'
'Don't they all? We'll let him stew for a while. Let's see what his mate comes up with first.'
Horton ran through the preliminaries with Dunsley. When he had finished Dunsley said, 'OK, so you've charged me and I admit faking the break-in. I'll make my statement and then can I go?'
Horton left a silence that was just beginning to get uncomfortable when he spoke. 'Where were you between nine and midnight on Thursday night?' He looked up from the file he had been studying to see Dunsley's wary expression.
'In the bar working and then in my flat.'
'We have a witness who says you were out all evening.'
'Who?' Dunsley declared cockily but Horton could smell a worried man.
'Do you want me to repeat the question?' he asked in an icy tone.
Dunsley pursued his lips together.
After a moment Horton continued, 'I think you were with Neil Cyrus at the Sir Wilberforce Cutler School, helping yourself to building material.'
Dunsley's eyes flickered minutely from side to side. His lips twitched but remained firmly shut. Horton went on in the same even tone, 'Did Jessica Langley discover you stealing and that's why you killed her?'
'What?' Dunsley was suddenly alert. He shot out of his seat.
Cantelli said, 'Sit down, Mr Dunsley.'
'You must be mad.' Dunsley eyed each of them in turn. Silence greeted him. After a moment he sat. His body was twitching nervously and he'd begun to sweat.
Horton said, 'What else can we think unless you start telling the truth?'
'I didn't kill her.'
'I think you did, Barry. She returned to the school when you and Neil were stealing the building material. She threatened to call the police. You hit her. Or perhaps it wasn't you, perhaps it was Neil.'
'Neither of us killed her.' Dunsley looked as if he was about to burst into tears.
Horton could see it wouldn't take long now to crack him and get to the truth. He left a silence into which dropped the sounds of the station beyond the closed door: a ringing telephone, raised voices, running feet. As he hoped, Dunsley obviously couldn't bear it.
'I wasn't anywhere near that school. I swear it.'
Horton laughed scornfully and was pleased to see Dunsley flush. 'Oh, come on, you can do better than that. At this moment Neil is probably telling one of my officers how you engineered a break-in at the Sir Wilberforce, and how you struck Jessica Langley-'
'Neil's here?' Dunsley looked horrified. 'I didn't kill her. You have to believe me.'
'Convince me,' and Horton needed convincing. If Dunsley wasn't their killer then it had to be Cyrus.
Dunsley licked his lips. Hs eyes darted about the room. Horton waited. The ticking clock and the rain drumming against the darkened windows seemed abnormally loud to him. Cantelli sat casually back in his seat, yet Horton could sense his tension.
Finally Dunsley exhaled and said, 'OK, so I was with Neil at the Sir Wilberforce Cutler School on Thursday night. He's got this builder friend who doesn't much care where he gets his materials from.'
'And you supplied him. Is that when Langley returned to the school and saw you, so you had to kill her?'
'She never came anywhere near us. I swear it,' Dunsley cried in exasperation.
Horton contrived to look sceptical. Dunsley hurriedly continued. 'I met Neil at the school just after ten o'clock. We loaded the gear into Neil's van and delivered it to the builder.'
'Name?' barked Horton, making Dunsley start.
'Sam. I don't know his last name or his address. I'm telling the truth,' he appealed to Horton. 'He's Neil's contact. Ask him.'
'We will. Go on.'
'When we were unloading, I tripped and fell. I gashed my head on a bit of piping, there was blood everywhere so I had to leave Neil and drive to the hospital clutching my head with a bit of rag. I didn't get out of there until just after three in the morning.'
'Which was why you were in the accident and emergency unit between midnight and three fifteen a.m.' Horton consulted the paperwork in front of him. An officer had checked with the hospital and Dunsley had been booked in at 12.15 a.m. and had left at 3.20 a.m. And although the times could put Dunsley in the clear of dumping Langley's body on the mulberry, he could still have killed her and left Neil Cyrus to take her body to Langstone Harbour. He put this to Dunsley, who vehemently denied it.
Horton said, 'So, where were you between eight and ten p. m?'
'Having a drink in the Three Crowns. You can ask the landlord, he served me.'
They would, and Horton guessed there would be enough witnesses to confirm it. He studied Dunsley a moment longer and didn't much like what he saw: a weak, stupid and idle man who thought he was clever and above the law. Horton was sick of him and his type. He was also growing rather sick of this bloody case. This wasn't his killer after all and he doubted Cyrus was either. They were just a pair of stupid, greedy crooks. Horton felt frustration well up inside him, but he restrained it. It was just a matter of tying up the loose ends of the club break-in and the theft at the school, and he wanted it over with as quickly as possible so that he could get back to the real case in hand: Langley and Edney's murders.
'When did the idea about the phoney break-in at the club come to you?' he asked, wishing fervently that Dunsley had been their man. Dunsley couldn't talk quickly enough, which only reinforced Horton's opinion of him.
'I should have got back to the club by eleven thirty in time to cash up and lock up. But I was stuck in the hospital. So I called Doris and told her to lock up and leave the money in the till but the silly cow forgot to lock the back door. It gave me an idea. I thought I could make some extra money if I said there had been a break-in, what with being in the hospital with a cut head. I loaded the car with some booze, cigarettes and crisps and drove it to Neil's place.'
'Time?' Horton snapped. He wanted out of here.
'About four a.m. Had to wake him up. Neil didn't mind. He can always find someone to sell stuff on to if only to the kids. I went back to the club, cut my finger so that there would be blood on the ground, and reported the break-in.'
'At four thirty a.m.' Horton's eyes flicked down to the report. 'And a unit responded at five a.m. You told them the break-in had happened just as you were about to lock up and you had been attacked and dazed, had gone to the hospital and hadn't thought to report it until you got back,' Horton read out.
Dunsley nodded. 'That's right. You can check it with Neil. We didn't kill anyone. I swear it.'
Horton scraped back his chair.
'What happens now?' Dunsley asked nervously.
'We talk to Cyrus, and we check out your story.' That would take the rest of the evening and night, and they would still be no nearer to catching this blasted killer.
Horton adopted the same tactics with Cyrus, who was ready to hold his hands up for the break-in at the school in order to be cleared of committing murder.
Later that night to Uckfield, Horton wearily said, 'The landlord of the Three Crowns has confirmed that Dunsley was in there drinking, and watching football on the big television screen, from seven until just before ten p.m. They each give the other as their alibi for after ten p.m., and Dr Clayton says that Langley was killed some time between nine and eleven p.m. Langley could have returned to the school after receiving that second telephone call and after ditching Ranson at eight p.m.' But Horton didn't really think so.
'Could Cyrus be her lover?'
'Not her type.' Still, Horton thought, there was no accounting for taste. Horton would hardly have said that Edward Shawford was Catherine's type. But he was almost sure that Cyrus couldn't be Langley's lover. 'Cyrus was on duty, alone, as assistant caretaker until ten p.m. He could have killed her between nine and ten p.m., but there's no motive and he denies it vehemently. He also says Langley never returned to the school. And if he did kill her how did he and Dunsley get the body on to a boat, which neither of them has, and take her to the mulberry? It doesn't add up. And both Cyrus and Dunsley have an alibi for Edney's death. They were at Fratton Park watching Pompey play Manchester United.'
'Which means we've still got a killer out there. Back to square bloody one. Are you sure this architect didn't do it?'
'His alibi checks out.'
'So who the fuck is it?' Uckfield stomped across to the crime board and picked up a felt pen. Horton didn't blame him for being frustrated. 'We can cross off Dunsley, Cyrus and Ranson.' He struck the names through with a large cross. 'Tom Edney gets himself killed, so he's already gone. What about his wife? Could she have returned and killed Langley?'
'I doubt it, and she couldn't have killed her husband, because she was with us at the time.' Horton stared at the board. 'There's still Eric Morville,' he pointed out. 'And that betting slip.'
'Yes, and there's still those callers. Are we any nearer to finding out who they were?'
'Marsden is waiting for the mobile phone company to get back to us. The second caller must be the person that Langley went to meet. It could be a lover who hasn't yet come forward, but there's nothing in her life, belongings or background to suggest one, and Ranson swears there wasn't anyone else. I'd also like to know who the first caller is and why she was so short with him or her.' Maybe tomorrow, he thought, those questions would be answered. They still hadn't found Langley's laptop or her mobile phone. 'Have Jessica Langley's medical records come in?'
'There's nothing of any interest in them. No dark secrets: abortions or illegitimate babies. She was very healthy, hardly ever saw a doctor, except to get her prescription for the Pill and her regular cervical smear and that's it.'
Horton hadn't really expected anything else. He left Uckfield stomping around the incident room grumbling and growling like a bear with a hangover, and returned to his office. He pushed open the window and let the wind tear in. It caught him in his chest and he leaned into it and let its chill damp edge cleanse him after the disappointment of yet another of his theories about Langley's killer being proved false.
Two cases cleared off the books, the club break-in and the school theft, but there was another case outstanding: that of double murder. Who could those callers have been? Did they have anything to do with Langley's death? Why the devil was she killed and dumped on the mulberry and what did the Lear poem have to do with it? What was he missing for Christ sake? A hell of a lot it seemed. His head was throbbing, and he was tired.
He closed the window, and turned back to his desk. Perhaps it would come to him if he tried to clear his mind of it for a while. Somerfield had put her latest report on the antiques thefts on his desk and he began to read through it. Damn Mickey Johnson, he should have cracked under questioning but he hadn't. Maybe if Horton had another go at him he'd get something, like the name of his accomplice — the boy seemed to have vanished into thin air — or who was masterminding these robberies, because Horton was damned sure Mickey or the boy wouldn't have the brains for it.
He pulled out the file containing all of Somerfield's reports and read them through again for what seemed like the hundredth time. Somerfield had been thorough. Horton took out a blank piece of paper and drew up four columns, each headed with the name of a victim and then reading through the reports he picked out the key factors that Somerfield had discovered, methodically listing them down the columns. His door opened and Horton looked up to see Cantelli enter.
'We've got the bloke who was receiving the stolen goods from Cyrus and Dunsley,' Cantelli said, easing himself into the seat opposite Horton with a yawn. 'What are you doing?'
Horton told him. 'So far I can't find a blessed thing that the robbery victims have in common, except they all live in Old Portsmouth, near or around the Town Camber…' His words trailed off and he glanced down at the list of addresses and then at Cantelli. He'd been trying to puzzle out the antique thefts but the connection with Langley, which had occurred to him on the day he'd seen her flat when he and Cantelli had stood on the quayside at the Town Camber, returned to him only this time stronger. Was it possible? Was this the missing piece of the jigsaw? He felt a thrill of excitement that told him it could be. He said, 'Langley's death could be connected with these robberies.'
'You mean our missing athletic youth?'
'No.' He didn't think it could be him. But maybe he'd been on the right lines about the location. Feeling his excitement increase, he said, 'The stolen antiques haven't shown up anywhere in the local area and neither have they been picked up elsewhere in the UK, so I reckon they are being taken out of the country pretty quickly, and that could be by boat, kept in or moved to the Town Camber for the purpose. Johnson took the stolen goods to a boat. I know that particular boat belonged to the victim but that wasn't usual because none of the other victims are boat owners. And I don't believe Johnson did those other robberies. The haul was different on this last one.'
Cantelli was still looking bemused. Horton continued, warming to his theme. 'What if Langley, either looking out from her apartment or going on to a friend or lover's boat in the Town Camber, saw our mastermind on one of the previous robberies, and was killed because of it?'
'But why take her to the mulberry? Why not kill her in the Town Camber and throw her into the harbour?'
Horton frowned. They had been over this ground before. But this time he knew he was on to something. He had to talk it through. It had to slot into place. He sat back in his chair and tapped his pencil against his mouth whilst thinking. Finally he said, 'We know that she was a strong-minded woman, so let's say she decided to blackmail him because he had something she wanted, though God alone knows what that was. Or perhaps she simply craved excitement. It would be in keeping with her character as we've been told it.'
Cantelli nodded. Horton could see he was becoming convinced.
Horton went on. 'Her car was found at Sparkes Yacht Harbour on Hayling Island. Her killer could have lured her there. He could have been the second caller agreeing to her blackmail demands, hence the word "great" that Ranson overheard her say. I know her accounts don't show she was receiving blackmail money, but perhaps she hadn't got that far. That meeting at Sparkes could have been the first.' Horton mentally juggled the information flooding into his brain. 'Which means she felt pretty confident he wouldn't kill her. She was a tough lady but not stupid. Why drive to Sparkes Yacht Harbour and meet her killer-?'
'Because she knew him.' They said together.
Horton continued with enthusiasm. 'Tom Edney was out that night drinking, which according to his wife, was unusual for him. Let's say he had a few drinks to give him courage to finally confront Langley over her treatment of him, but when he went to do so he saw her leaving her apartment and decided to follow her. He saw who she met at Sparkes and also recognized him, which meant he had to die. Our killer must be connected with the school which links in with the nursery rhyme about the mulberry.'
'Why point us in that direction? Does he want to be caught?'
Horton shrugged. 'I expect he's a clever Dick who believes that stupid old PC Plod can't possibly catch him. Think about our antiques mastermind, Barney,' Horton urged eagerly. 'He has keys to the victims' apartments, how does he get them?' Horton glanced down at the lists he had made and saw it staring out at him. 'They all have children. Which means…'
Cantelli caught his drift and sat up excitedly. 'They could all have grandchildren. Ellen and Marie have a key to my mum's so they can pop in there after school. That's it, Andy! We've cracked it.'
Almost. With his heart racing, Horton said, 'Our antiques mastermind gets the victims' keys from the grandchildren, copies them and lets himself into the properties after checking them out by posing as a bogus neighbour, priest, police officer or whatever.' Horton was convinced he'd struck gold. He glanced at his watch. Damn, it was too late to call the victims now to check out their theory. 'I wouldn't mind betting that all the victims' grandchildren attend the same school, but there's only one flaw.'
'What?'
Horton stared down puzzled and slightly despondently at his list, then looked up. 'Somehow I can't see any of the grandchildren of these fairly well-to-do pensioners attending the Sir Wilberforce Cutler.'