‘I don’t remember seeing a woman of that description at my aunt’s funeral,’ Patricia Harlow announced brusquely, after Horton had made the introductions. They were standing in the scrupulously clean and methodically organized podiatry surgery in the front room of the 1930s bay and forecourt house. It smelt of disinfectant. The news of a brutal murder seemed to have had little effect on the squat, square-faced woman in front of Horton. Normally such news as he’d brought would have triggered a barrage of questions, or at least a muttering of concern and sympathy, but Patricia Harlow in the short white overall and dark trousers seemed more concerned about sweeping up her previous clients’ nail clippings with the long-handled dustpan and brush. He had difficulty putting an age to her. The deep lines either side of her discontented mouth and the two smaller ones etched between her eyebrows made her appear more early fifties than late forties but he could be widely off the mark.
She’d kept them waiting for ten minutes, while attending to a client, and her next one, an elderly lady with softly curled grey hair and lively eyes, was waiting in the hallway outside, no doubt straining her ears for any gossip after she’d heard him announce who they were. A fan whirred gently in the far corner by the window but it did little to dispel the heat and only seemed to waft the disinfectant around.
At a nod from Horton, Eames pulled out the photograph Trueman had given her. ‘Perhaps if you’d just take a look,’ she said politely.
With an irritable sigh Patricia Harlow relinquished the dustpan and brush and snatched at the photograph. Horton watched her closely. Her face showed no emotion and her small dark eyes no recognition. She thrust the picture back at Eames. ‘No. I’ve never see her before. Now if you-’ She made towards the door but Eames stalled her.
‘Could she have been a neighbour of Amelia’s?’
‘Her neighbours are over sixty and they were at the service.’
‘A friend then?’ persisted Eames.
‘Amelia was seventy-three and that woman is clearly a lot younger.’
‘It doesn’t mean they couldn’t have been friends.’
Pointedly consulting the clock on the wall above the client’s chair, Patricia Harlow said, ‘Amelia didn’t have many friends and before you ask she didn’t have any family either. Her son, Rawly, died in 2002 and Uncle Edgar died soon after. There is only me and my husband, Gregory.’
‘And where can we find him?’ asked Horton.
‘I don’t see why you need to bother him,’ she said sharply, frowning.
‘There’s always the chance he caught sight of her.’
‘He didn’t.’
Horton said nothing and was pleased that Eames kept silent too. After a moment Patricia Harlow was forced to add, ‘He’s event catering manager for Coastline Catering and he’s on the Isle of Wight for the Festival.’
Where DI Dennings and most of the drugs squad were. But that was only a ten-minute trip across the Solent on the hovercraft or thirty-five minutes on the car ferry, less on the police launch. Removing a photograph of Daryl Woodley from his jacket pocket, he said, ‘Do you recognize this man?’
She gave an exaggerated sigh and studied it briefly. Horton wondered if she might recognize it from the local newspapers. But she shook her head. ‘No.’
‘His name is Daryl Woodley.’
Clearly that meant nothing to her either. ‘His funeral was the one held before your aunt’s.’
‘Then that woman must have been at that.’ Her hand grasped the door handle. But Horton hadn’t finished yet.
‘We’ll need a list of all those who attended your aunt’s funeral with their contact details, please. How soon can you draw one up for us?’
‘Is that really necessary?’
Horton held her exasperated glance and remained silent even though he felt like shouting, yes it bloody well is. Eventually she had to capitulate. Grudgingly she said, ‘Call back after seven. I’ll have it for you then.’
Horton would have liked it sooner and no doubt so would Uckfield, but Patricia Harlow was already showing in her elderly client.
‘Charming woman,’ Eames said sarcastically, as they walked the short distance to the car. ‘I wouldn’t like to be one of her clients.’
‘She could be sweetness and light to them.’
‘It seems that the victim was there for Woodley’s funeral.’
But Horton would reserve judgement on that for a while at least. He told her to head for the newspaper offices, giving her directions. ‘Leanne Payne, the journalist who covered Woodley’s funeral, and the press photographer, Cliff Wesley, might remember seeing the victim.’
‘Won’t that alert them?’
‘They probably already know about it.’ He thought of Ethan Crombie on his mobile phone. ‘The newspaper won’t be able to run anything until tomorrow anyway.’ But that didn’t stop the news appearing on the Internet or on television and radio, and for all he knew Crombie, or one of the others, might already have informed them. Perhaps uniform were keeping reporters and camera crew at bay at the crime scene right now and Marsden was making with the ‘no comments’. The press were not Horton’s favourite people but there were many times when they needed their assistance and this might be one of them.
He called Uckfield, who was not overly optimistic about that. So far no one from the media had been on to him. Horton relayed the interview with Patricia Harlow and added that he and Eames would also call in on the funeral directors to see if any of the pall-bearers or drivers remembered seeing the woman in the black hat. There was no point contacting Woodley’s undertakers because they had left immediately after depositing the coffin in the chapel. There hadn’t been any need for them to stay. Woodley had no relatives, and no one had booked or paid for a car to take anyone to a wake, if there had been one.
He rang off and addressed Eames. ‘So what do Europol have on Marty Stapleton?’ He’d not had time to discuss the case with her on the way to Patricia Harlow’s because it had only taken them twelve minutes and most of that time had been taken up by Bliss’s call. She’d rung for an update while Eames had used her satellite navigation to locate the Harlows’ residence.
‘Nothing that you don’t already know, sir.’
Horton doubted that. ‘Try me.’
She flashed him a glance and obviously caught his dubious expression. ‘For the last two months I’ve been working on mapping and analysing major jewellery robberies that have taken place across Europe over the last fifteen years, liaising with officers across the Continent, trying to establish a connection between the robberies, apart from the jewellery that is, and if the proceeds are being used to fund criminal activity and if so what kind. Stapleton’s series of robberies along the south coast of England, committed between 1997 and 1999, targeting jewellers and jewellery reps, were included. I’m sorry to say I haven’t made any real progress. When DCS Sawyer reported that Daryl Woodley had been found dead and that he’d not only been in the same prison as Marty Stapleton but had attacked him, I was asked to fly over and liaise with the Intelligence Directorate to see if we could establish a new link or get further information. I only arrived yesterday. This morning I was with DCS Sawyer at police headquarters, when he took the call from ACC Dean about the dead woman. I was told to report to the ACC at the station and when I arrived I was given instructions to work with the Major Crime Team.’
So a desk Johnnie then and not operational, thought Horton. Eames might be better utilized working with Trueman in the incident suite rather than interviewing potential witnesses and suspects. He admitted she’d acquitted herself well with Patricia Harlow, but that had been basic stuff.
Eames was saying, ‘I know from the file that Stapleton netted millions of pounds, which have never been recovered, and neither has he named his confederates, although one of them was caught with him; Billy Baldwin. He was sent down with Stapleton in 2000 and died in prison.’
‘Of a massive blood clot on the brain, two months into his fifteen-year sentence.’
‘Yes. Baldwin was in a prison in another part of the country from Stapleton and his death was not considered suspicious but he had shown signs of wanting to do a deal and get his sentence reduced.’
‘And that would have been enough to bring Marty out in a rash and arrange to have Baldwin disposed of.’
‘The autopsy confirmed natural causes.’
‘It would.’
‘You think it was rigged?’
Horton shrugged to disguise his true answer, you bet it was.
She continued, ‘None of the stolen items have resurfaced either in their original or in any other form. And we haven’t been able to trace an account in Stapleton’s name either here or abroad despite running a number of combinations of his name and his background through all the major banks and investment houses across Europe and in various international tax havens.’
‘Right. No, I mean turn right here.’
‘Oh.’ She indicated and swung into the newspaper office car park.
He waited until she had silenced the engine before saying, ‘Does the description of the victim match anyone you’ve come across while mapping and analysing?’
‘No, not from memory, but I haven’t run her profile through the computer. Someone in the Intelligence Directorate or one of my colleagues at Europol is probably doing that now.’
‘Then let’s hope they come up with something. Meanwhile let’s see what the press remember about her.’
Cliff Wesley was out on a job but they were given directions to the newsroom on the third floor of the modern building, where they found Leanne Payne amongst a handful of reporters whose eyes were glued to their computer screens. Horton introduced Eames as a colleague without giving any reference to her working for Europol. That would have alerted Leanne Payne to the possibility of an international connection, which would have had her drooling with excitement. So far they had managed to keep any connection between Woodley’s death and Stapleton quiet, but for how much longer Horton wasn’t sure, especially as Leanne Payne had spoken to Reggie Thomas yesterday at the funeral.
Eyeing them both curiously she said, ‘I don’t expect you’ve come here voluntarily to give me a statement about Woodley’s murder. And if you had managed to catch his killer, then Detective Superintendent Uckfield would be crowing about it to a packed press room.’
Ignoring her sarcasm, Horton said, ‘What did you get from Woodley’s mourners?’
She cocked her head on one side and gave a sardonic smile. ‘That desperate, are we, Inspector? Hoping the local press will give you the lead you so badly need in this brutal murder?’
Horton didn’t rise to the bait. She was trying to goad him, and he could well imagine the headline, Police dismiss murder because victim was a criminal. Editorial would then pitch in and preach that no matter what the man had done he was still a human being and deserved the final dignity of his killer being found. Horton wanted that too even though Woodley had completely disregarded the dignity of his many victims, the last of whom had been a man in his eighties who Woodley had threatened with a knife, tied up and beaten, before stealing the small amount of cash the old man had. Woodley had got eleven years for that, double it wouldn’t have been long enough as far as Horton, his colleagues and the man’s relatives were concerned. The victim had died nine months after the attack, and in Horton’s mind, Woodley had as good as killed him. The victim’s daughter and her family had moved to New Zealand but no matter how far they went, Horton reckoned the pain and trauma of the incident would never leave them.
Stiffly, he said, ‘Withholding information is a serious offence, Miss Payne.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I got nothing out of them, which is what you’d expect. Oh, except that the police were corrupt and a bunch of wankers and worse.’
Horton said, ‘We’re used to such praise.’
She smiled, waved them into seats at the empty desk behind her and swivelled round to face them.
Horton said, ‘Do you remember seeing a slender woman in a tightly fitting black dress, wearing a large black hat, at the crematorium?’
She eyed him keenly. Horton could see her journalistic antenna quivering like an aerial in a hurricane. ‘High-heeled black court shoes, dark hair, nice sun tan. Yes, I noticed her. Is she connected with Daryl Woodley?’
He could see her fighting the urge to reach for her notepad and pen. His eyes scanned her desk but he couldn’t see a Dictaphone.
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish.’
‘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 go 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.’