‘Plenty of knives at a wholesale meat suppliers,’ Cantelli said, negotiating the busy roundabouts.
‘Not to mention freezers and facilities for cutting up and disposing of a body,’ added Horton. ‘And possibly containers like the one the hand was found in.’
Jamesons occupied a large site tucked away on the edge of the industrial estate not far from the Hilsea Lines, a nature reserve that faced on to the Creek that had once separated the island city from the mainland. In reception Cantelli asked to speak to Lesley Nugent. He didn’t say why and neither did he show his ID. The receptionist seemed remarkably lacking in curiosity. Perhaps Nugent had many visitors requesting to see him, thought Horton, wondering what his position here was.
While they waited for Nugent to appear, Horton gazed around at the pictures and information on the walls. Jamesons had been established in 1986 by Simon Jameson and his brother Kevin. Their father, Duncan, had owned a chain of butchers in the city but they had closed once the brothers had seen that wholesale rather than retail supply was the way forward. The company claimed to supply the best quality meat from farms in Hampshire, the Isle of Wight and the neighbouring county of Dorset to the catering and retail trade in Portsmouth, Southampton and the Isle of Wight. Judging by the photographs the Jameson brothers enjoyed their meat, both were very well built and ruddy-cheeked, and in their early fifties. And the company had prospered, winning a number of national awards over the years.
Nugent shuffled into reception looking pale and nervous. He showed no sign of surprise at their visit, which made Horton wonder if he’d seen them arrive from one of the windows that faced the front visitors’ car park, or perhaps he’d been expecting them to question him further at some stage.
‘We can talk outside,’ Nugent said pushing open the door, leaving them little option but to follow. Cantelli looked as though he was about to suggest the interview be held in the car because of the chill damp wind that seemed to delight in swirling around them but Nugent lit a cigarette, putting paid to that idea. At least it had stopped raining, Horton thought, as they walked to the rear of the building and across the yard to a ramshackle structure with a buckled roof, open on three sides. They had the place to themselves, apart from two cycles and a moped. It was well away from the rear entrance where Horton could see a refrigerated van being loaded.
As though reading his thoughts, Nugent said, ‘It’s a busy time of year so better make this quick before the boss notices I’m missing. There’s nothing I can add to the statement I made yesterday.’
Cantelli said, ‘Just a few points we’d like some clarification on, Mr Nugent. We won’t keep you long.’
Nugent sniffed and sucked on his cigarette. He hunched his shoulders into his dark blue anorak and shuffled his scruffy trainers as though cold, but Horton wondered if his body language was more on account of nervousness. That didn’t necessarily mean he had anything to hide, Horton knew a police presence could make even innocent people apprehensive.
Cantelli continued. ‘Have you seen or heard from Clive Westerbrook since you left him yesterday morning?’
‘No. Why? Should I have done?’ Nugent said defensively and warily.
‘I thought he might have been in touch to discuss your ordeal. Not a very pleasant thing to have fished up, a human hand,’ Cantelli said with concern.
Horton thought Nugent turned a little paler. ‘You can say that again. Turned my stomach over.’
Horton said, ‘I wouldn’t have thought a butcher would have worried about finding a severed hand.’ Or chopping one off. Could Nugent have done it? He looked nervous enough for it. And, as he and Cantelli had already speculated, the knife could easily have come from here.
‘You do when it’s human,’ Nugent retorted.
Was he lying?
‘Anyway I’m not a butcher,’ Nugent swiftly continued. ‘I work in order processing and despatch. I take the orders and organize the deliveries for the hotels, cafes and restaurants we supply. I haven’t told the boss about finding the hand.’
‘Why not?’ asked Horton.
That shifty look was there again. ‘Because he doesn’t know that I went fishing yesterday. I phoned in sick. Bloody well was after finding that thing. Will he have to know that I was skiving off?’
Perhaps that was the cause of his apprehension. Horton said, ‘We’ve identified the victim and it’s possible the press could pick up on it.’
‘Shit.’
So clearly Nugent wasn’t going to go running to them. ‘We might be able to keep your name out of the press reports but journalists have a way of unearthing things.’
Nugent frowned and drew heavily on his cigarette. The wind howled through the shed making Horton wish they’d insisted on conducting the interview inside, but Nugent’s explanation about taking an unauthorized day off sick, rather than his desire for a smoke, explained why they were here. The doors of the refrigerated van slammed shut and the engine started up.
Cantelli picked up the questioning. ‘How long have you known Clive Westerbrook?’
‘That’s just it, I don’t know him. I met him for the first time on Sunday at the angling club at Lee-on-the-Solent.’
Horton didn’t know the angling club but he did know Lee-on-the-Solent, a seaside town five miles to the west of Portsmouth.
‘He asked if I’d like to go out with him on Wednesday and I said OK.’
Although Cantelli showed no signs of being particularly interested in this new piece of information, Horton knew he was as equally intrigued as he was. Why had Westerbrook suddenly wanted company?
‘Is Mr Westerbrook a member of the angling club?’ Horton asked.
‘Must be I guess.’
‘You don’t know?’ Horton injected an air of incredulity in his tone.
Nugent shifted again and looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t get down there very often these days. But he must be a member to have got in. It’s only open to members.’
Unless someone signed him in, thought Horton and if that was the case then it would be in the visitors’ record book, assuming they kept one.
‘Why did Mr Westerbrook ask you to go fishing with him?’ Cantelli resumed the questioning.
‘Dunno. Maybe because we got talking at the bar and he just thought of it.’
‘What else did you talk about?’
Nugent frowned as though he didn’t understand the question, ‘Nothing, only fishing.’
Horton held Nugent’s shifting eyes. Did he know that Westerbrook had not returned home? Was there more to their relationship than Nugent claimed?
He said, ‘Tell us how you fished up the container.’ It was always worth going over the ground again because on the second, third or fourth time of telling witnesses could often recall something they’d earlier missed or forgotten.
‘It’s like I said in my statement,’ Nugent answered wearily, extinguishing his cigarette with his finger and thumb and putting the stub back in the cigarette packet. ‘I’d set up my line over the side of the boat—’
‘Who decided where to fish?’ broke in Horton.
‘Clive did. Well it was his boat. I’d set up the line and was just settling down when I felt a tug on it and saw that it had got caught up in this seaweed wrapped container. I reeled it in so I could untangle it and was about to throw the container away when I saw there was something inside. Well you’ve got to look, haven’t you? Wished I hadn’t.’ His brow furrowed as he recalled the gruesome moment.
‘Was Mr Westerbrook with you when you opened it?’
‘Yes. I called out to him and—’
‘He wasn’t beside you when your line got tangled up?’ Horton again interjected, disguising his keenness. He’d assumed they had been in the cockpit together.
‘No. He’d gone below. No, hold on, he was up the front of the boat.’
‘Doing what?’
‘No idea.’
‘Did you hear anything before you set up your line?’
‘Eh?’
‘Don’t think so,’ Nugent said, puckering his brow and stamping his feet. He looked longingly towards the warmth of the building.
‘Just a couple more questions, Mr Nugent. How did Mr Westerbrook act?’ Horton waited for Nugent to ask why all the questions? Why not ask Clive Westerbrook direct? But he didn’t.
‘Like me he was horrified, gob-smacked at first, then he went very pale. I thought he was going to faint. He grabbed the radio and called the coastguard who came out and accompanied us back to port. I took the helm. Clive was in no fit state. I used to have a small boat but got rid of it after my wife left.’
Horton withdrew his mobile phone from his jacket pocket. ‘Have you seen this man before?’ He showed Nugent the photograph of Graham Langham.
Nugent squinted at it. ‘No. I don’t think so.’
‘He drives a white transit van.’
‘So do a lot of people.’
‘His name is Graham Langham.’
Nugent looked blank. Then his eyes widened. ‘Hey, you’re not saying it was his hand?’ he cried. ‘Bloody hell. Is he dead?’
‘I would think so, wouldn’t you?’
He swallowed hard and left a moment’s silence before saying, ‘I’ve got to get back to work.’
Horton and Cantelli fell into step beside him. As they made their way to the front of the building a black Range Rover swept into the car park. Horton said, ‘We will need to speak to you again.’
Nugent looked agitated and quickly said, ‘Then make it at my flat at Lee-on-the-Solent. I don’t want to risk losing my job.’
Horton followed his fearful eyes as a well-built man with short grey hair, wearing dark-rimmed rectangular glasses, early fifties, climbed out of the Range Rover. Horton recognized him from the pictures he’d been studying earlier on the walls of the reception area. It was one of the owners, Kevin Jameson.
Horton didn’t promise anything. They would speak to Nugent when and where it suited them. Before Nugent could cross to the entrance Horton stalled him. Kevin Jameson glanced their way, frowned, and halted at the door. Horton said, ‘Do you know where Mr Westerbrook works?’
Nugent shook his head. ‘We didn’t talk about work, only fishing.’
‘Did he pick you up from your flat on Wednesday?’
‘No, I drove to Fareham Marina.’ Nugent’s eyes dashed towards Jameson, who was clearly waiting for his employee, and judging by Jameson’s deepening glower he wasn’t too pleased at being kept hanging about.
Cantelli chipped in. ‘How did you get back there yesterday after giving your statement at Portsmouth?’
‘Caught the train from Portsmouth to Fareham. It’s only a short walk from Fareham railway station to the marina.’
‘Why didn’t you return with Mr Westerbrook? You could have made your statement at Fareham police station.’
Nugent looked uncomfortable. ‘Look, to be honest, I didn’t trust him.’
Horton cocked an interrogative eyebrow.
Nugent flushed. ‘I met him once at the angling club, he persuaded me to spend the day fishing with him, we found that hand and then he was in a right state. I didn’t fancy going back up the harbour with him in his boat.’
‘Was Mr Westerbrook at the marina when you arrived there to collect your car?’ Horton knew he wasn’t but he was interested to hear what Nugent said. He saw Jameson dash another irritated look and pointedly glance at his watch.
‘I didn’t see him. His car was there though.’
Horton let him go. He watched him rush across the concourse and pull up as Jameson addressed him. He couldn’t hear what they said and neither could he lip read but judging by the body language it wasn’t a friendly greeting.
‘The boss,’ Horton said, climbing into Cantelli’s car.
‘Wonder if Nugent will tell him who we are.’ Cantelli started the engine and turned up the heating.
‘Not if it means he has to tell him why he skived off work. The fact that he met Westerbrook only once and went fishing with him is interesting.’
‘If you can believe it.’
Horton nodded and stretched the seatbelt across him. ‘I think more passed between them on the way back to Oyster Quays than Nugent is saying. And it’s possible that Westerbrook never intended returning to Fareham and maybe Nugent knew that. But if they are involved in Langham’s death then why kill him? How would they know him?’
‘Through the fishing club?’
‘It’s way off Langham’s patch. Why would he go all the way to Lee-on-the-Solent when there are angling clubs closer to where he lived?’
‘To flog some fishing gear he’d nicked. If he’d stolen it from a house in Portsmouth then maybe he thought the further away he went to offload it the safer it would be.’
Cantelli had a point and a good one but Horton said, ‘He wouldn’t have been admitted to the angling club, unless someone signed him in, so perhaps he was trying to sell the stuff outside, but that doesn’t explain why either Westerbrook or Nugent would want to hack off his hand, throw it in the sea and then fish it up and alert the coastguard.’ He thought for a moment then added, ‘Let’s take a look at Westerbrook’s car and talk to the marina manager.’
SIX
Cantelli pulled on to the Hard and parked the Ford between a blue van, belonging to a marine servicing company, and Westerbrook’s black Saab. It was high tide and several boats were bobbing about in the stiff cold wind. Across the small stretch of water to the north, Horton could see the crane on the wharf and beyond it the viaduct that spanned the road on the edge of the shopping centre. He climbed out and studied the Saab. There was a bag of boiled sweets and an opened packet of biscuits on the front passenger seat, along with an empty paper coffee cup in the cup holder between the driver and passenger seat, branded with the name of a popular chain of coffee shops. There was nothing on the rear seats or in the foot wells.
Horton turned away and surveyed the area. There were several pontoons that stretched out southwards, all of which dried out at low tide. The area behind them was densely populated with modern houses and commercial buildings but this small patch fronting the old Hard had managed to retain some properties from an earlier period, such as the resplendent three-storey Georgian house behind him and a handful of what once must have been fishermen’s cottages along with a brick warehouse. He wondered where Westerbrook’s berth was.
They located the marina manager in a small office nearby.
‘Nothing wrong I hope,’ Julian Tierney said, frowning with concern as Cantelli showed his warrant card and made the introductions. Tierney was a well-built man with short dark hair, a bronzed open face, about late thirties.
‘When did Clive Westerbrook go out on his boat?’ Cantelli asked.
‘Yesterday morning just after nine.’
It had been high tide at ten fourteen, so that tallied, and it also matched with the length of time that Westerbrook and Nugent had told Elkins they’d been fishing before discovering the hand. The tide would still have been high enough to allow Westerbrook to return to his mooring here after leaving Oyster Quays, only he hadn’t, so where had he gone?
‘Have you seen him since then?’ asked Cantelli.
‘No. He could have come in on the tide at twenty-two forty-seven and slipped out again but not even Clive is idiot enough to do that in last night’s weather.’
Horton caught a hint of dislike in the manager’s voice. He said, ‘You don’t get on with him?’
‘No one does. He’s always complaining about something. If it’s not the mooring fees, it’s the prices in the bar, the weather, the other berth holders, you name it Clive doesn’t like it. I know he’s not in the best of health, bad heart and all that, but I don’t think he helps himself by being so negative all the time, and getting so cross and uptight, but then some people are just made that w
ay.’ He paused and eyed them curiously, his expression changing to one of concern as the penny dropped. ‘Don’t tell me he’s had a heart attack on board his boat?’
Cantelli answered. ‘We’re very concerned to locate him.’
Tierney shifted and ran a hand over his hair. ‘Blimey.’
‘Is he married?’ asked Horton.
‘Divorced. And that’s another thing Clive complains about, having to pay maintenance to his wife and son.’
‘Do they live locally?’ asked Cantelli.
‘No idea. I’ve never seen the boy go out with him.’
‘How long has he kept his boat here?’ asked Horton.
‘A year, but he said he was at Horsea Marina before coming here.’
That was a large marina just outside Portsmouth where Uckfield kept his motor cruiser and Catherine’s father his large yacht.
‘Do you know what he does for a living?’
‘Some sort of financial consultant, self-employed.’
So no boss, or employees to ask where he might have gone, thought Horton.
Tierney was saying, ‘Clive said he wanted somewhere for his boat so that he could get in and out of the Solent without having to fanny around going through a lock but I think the real reason he came here was the cost. Our moorings are much cheaper.’
Perhaps being a financial consultant wasn’t as well paid as it once had been. Horton said, ‘Did you see anyone go out with him yesterday?’
‘Yes, a thin man, with a stoop, about fifty.’
Lesley Nugent. Horton asked where Westerbrook usually moored up and was given the location. He gave Tierney his card and asked him to contact him or Cantelli the moment Westerbrook showed up. They returned to the car park where only Cantelli’s Ford and Westerbrook’s Saab remained.
‘Expensive car,’ Cantelli said. ‘Westerbrook must be doing well if he can afford that and a boat, despite grumbling about the cost.’
‘Probably on finance.’
‘He’d still have to keep up with the payments.’
Horton again tried Westerbrook’s mobile with the same result, he got his automated voice mail. He didn’t see any point in viewing the empty space that had been Westerbrook’s mooring and besides Elkins had checked over the marina to make sure Westerbrook wasn’t moored up elsewhere.
Fatal Catch Page 7
