Gaye stripped off her jacket and quickly donned a scene suit and gloves while Horton studied the crumpled body of Clive Westerbrook lying face down at the helm between the pilot and passenger’s seat. He was wearing the same clothes as when Horton had seen him on the police launch at Oyster Quays – minus the jacket – casual dark navy trousers, trainers, and a thick navy blue jumper. The skin on the back of Westerbrook’s neck and the outstretched right hand was blueish and had already begun to decay. Horton could smell the stench of the corpse over the mud, seaweed and salt of the incoming tide. Beyond where Gaye was crouching over the body, Horton could see into the cabin below. The bed was made up with a blue and green patterned sleeping bag and on it was Westerbrook’s jacket. There were fishing rods in the lockers that ran along the side of the boat. On top of the work surface that covered the sink, next to the gas hob, was a plain white mug, an empty whisky glass, a bottle of whisky with only a third left in it and a bottle of tablets.
Horton’s phone rang. It was Walters.
‘Thought you might like to know, guv, I’ve just run a check on Clive Westerbrook. He’s got a criminal record.’
‘Has he indeed. For what?’ Horton asked, keenly interested.
‘Fraudulently obtaining money by deception. He applied for a mortgage advance of four hundred thousand pounds using a false name and he falsified information in order to obtain it to buy a house that he intended to resell. He got a two-year custodial sentence, served one year and was released two years ago. Nothing before then or since.’
Horton recalled that Julian Tierney, the marina manager, had said that Westerbrook was a financial consultant. And that he’d had his boat in the marina for a year, before which he’d kept a boat at Horsea Marina. Had that been before his prison sentence or since then? Westerbrook hadn’t exactly come out of prison destitute.
‘Contact Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs, find out what employment Westerbrook is registered for, when he last filed a tax return and whether or not he pays National Insurance. Also get on to the Financial Services Authority, find out if he’s registered as a financial consultant.’
Perhaps that was why Westerbrook had been so reluctant to enter a police station and make his statement. He might have had something to hide, not connected with Langham’s hand or his death, but perhaps he’d been worried they’d not only discover his criminal record but delve deeper to find he was again up to his old tricks.
Horton turned to Elkins. ‘When we’re finished here, drop into Horsea Marina, ask them if Westerbrook ever kept a boat there, what type and when.’
Gaye straightened up and stepped back to join them in the cockpit.
‘No blunt force trauma to the back of the skull. No bullet entry wound or stab wound. And no visible signs of strangulation,’ she said. ‘Judging by the colour of the skin, the temperature in the cabin and outside, the body temperature and the insect life visible in the body I’d say he’s been dead about thirty-five hours, possibly more. When I get him on the slab I’ll measure the potassium content of the fluid in his eyes to confirm that.’
‘Which means he died at approximately nine o’clock on Wednesday night.’
Elkins looked up. ‘Not long after finding that hand.’
Westerbrook had certainly not been at home on Wednesday night when Horton had paid a visit to his flat and he’d never returned to Fareham Marina.
Gaye continued. ‘The position of the body indicates he was returning from the cockpit, here, to the helm, possibly with the intention of descending into the cabin. He wasn’t sitting at the helm, otherwise he’d have fallen to the right. And if he’d been in the passenger seat he’d have fallen in the other direction or possibly just slumped forward.’
So perhaps he’d gone outside for a breath of fresh air. Bloody cold though, Horton thought, remembering that walk along the boardwalk with Carolyn to her car. It would have been freezing out here. There were no heaters and that sleeping bag was hardly enough to keep warm in this weather. But perhaps he’d been a hardy soul. He hadn’t looked it though and according to what little Horton had learnt about him he’d had a heart condition so perhaps the cold had precipitated a heart attack. A suggestion he made to Gaye which she agreed could be highly possible.
‘Cold air can be a trigger for a coronary. Someone with heart disease may not be able to compensate for their body’s higher demand for oxygen when inhaling, especially if undertaking extra physical activity. Even picking up a buoy, letting down the anchor or making up the bunk could have been enough to trigger it. And drinking whisky would certainly not have helped.’
Horton recalled what Carolyn had said about missing people under stress returning to an area where they had happier memories. Perhaps Westerbrook had come here to find some kind of mental relief from what he had seen but the distress caused by that, coupled with the cold and his pre-existing heart condition had all combined to kill him. It was looking less like a suspicious death. But he’d still call in Taylor and his Scene of Crime Officers.
‘Do you want me to go through his pockets?’
‘Please.’
While she did Horton called Taylor and gave instructions for him and the forensic photographer, Jim Clarke, to come out. He asked Elkins to liaise with Dowdswell over admitting them to the base.
Gaye handed Horton a wallet and a set of keys and returned to search the remaining pockets, easing the body slightly but without altering its position. The wallet contained about fifty pounds, and a driver’s licence, no credit cards, which wasn’t surprising given Westerbrook’s background, and no photographs. The keys looked like they were to Westerbrook’s car and his flat. The boat keys, Horton had already noted, were in the helm. Gaye straightened up and handed Horton a mobile phone. It would be interesting to see who he had called and who had called him.
Horton asked Elkins to put the items into evidence bags.
‘On the surface it doesn’t look like a suspicious death,’ Gaye said, stepping out of her scene suit and into her sailing jacket. ‘But I’ll schedule the autopsy for later today. And we’ll need toxicology tests to establish that it really is whisky he drank and not whisky mixed with something that sent him into the “other world”.’
Did she believe there was one? After dissecting and examining so many bodies he was curious to know her views. But that kind of conversation could wait until a more appropriate time, which he thought wouldn’t be over dinner, it wasn’t the kind of subject for that although it might be over a drink or two. The thought of which brought him back to Carolyn Grantham. He wondered what she was doing now and thinking. Was she recalling their night together and thinking about their next intimate dinner engagement? Or was she reporting to Lord Eames or DCS Sawyer? Well if she was it wasn’t about Jennifer, because they’d not discussed her. All she could report on was his sexual prowess and he wondered what she’d say about that. There had been no complaints last night. He didn’t like to think she had been faking it.
Climbing off the boat into Dowdswell’s RIB Gaye said, ‘Hope the headache’s better although I shouldn’t think this has helped.’
But it had, in fact he’d forgotten all about it. Perhaps the pills he’d taken earlier had kicked in. He watched her depart before calling Bliss. Succinctly and quickly he updated her on Westerbrook’s death. ‘I’ve got SOCO on their way.’
‘I’ll apprise Detective Superintendent Adams,’ she said abruptly.
‘Why? He said Nugent and Westerbrook had nothing to do with Langham’s death.’
‘He should still know, this could possibly change things,’ she curtly replied before ringing off. But he knew what she was really thinking. This would give her an excuse to raise her profile with Adams.
Horton waited for SOCO and Clarke to arrive and gave them instructions to sweep the area around Westerbrook’s body and the helm, and take pictures and a video of the body. The rest could be done once the boat was back in Portsmouth on the secure berth in the port. He climbed off Westerbrook’s b
oat on to the police launch while they got to work. Elkins had already called the undertakers, and Dowdswell said he’d organize a larger boat to collect them and bring them over when Horton was ready. He returned to shore to do so.
Ripley made coffee and Horton drank his while mulling over the fact of Westerbrook’s death. The air was chill with a salty icy drizzle. He didn’t get any further with his thoughts, but he was very interested to see what Walters came back with.
Taylor and Tremaine weren’t long. Taylor reported that they’d got several prints and hair samples from the helm and had taken scrapings from the deck, the seats and the helm.
‘Any signs of blood or flesh?’ asked Horton.
‘No.’
Horton asked Taylor and his team to return to Portsmouth and wait at the international port for him. He told Elkins that he’d take the boat back and asked him to follow in the police launch. Jeremy Dowdswell returned and said his piece over the body and the undertakers removed it. Bliss hadn’t called him back yet.
When they had all left Horton asked Elkins to check the lockers in the cockpit while he turned his attention to the helm. They’d leave the search of the cabin to SOCO. The key was already in the helm and stretching his fingers into latex gloves Horton turned it but didn’t switch on the engine.
He studied the instrumentation. There was a compass and a log which gave the boat’s speed and trip distance. There was also a GPS chart plotter and a Fishfinder as well as VHF radio, clock and barometer. There was half a tank of fuel in the boat, enough to get him back to Portsmouth.
Elkins appeared behind Horton. ‘Fenders, mooring warps, a boathook, boarding ladder, four life jackets and a fire extinguisher,’ he reported, peering over Horton’s shoulder, adding, ‘He’s got some expensive equipment. Latest state of the art GPS and Fishfinder. Looks as though this guy was a serious fisherman. He must have gone out further than the Solent with that lot.’
Horton thought so too. Westerbrook must have fished in the English Channel or if he was that keen maybe he took fishing holidays abroad. Had that been alone or with buddies? In Horton’s experience most fishermen went out with someone. But according to Nugent only once with him.
Horton called Cantelli and again left a message on his voicemail asking him to meet him at the quayside at the secure berth at the port in half an hour if he could. Then he lifted anchor and cast off from the buoy and, with Elkins following, took the boat out of the harbour.
NINE
Despite the circumstances, Horton enjoyed piloting the craft. The sea air helped to clear the residue of his muggy head as he motored across Hayling Bay. Within half an hour he was entering Portsmouth Harbour and another ten minutes saw him mooring up on the quayside where Cantelli was talking to Taylor, Beth Tremaine and Jim Clarke. Horton threw Cantelli the line and asked him to hold on to it, knowing that the sergeant wouldn’t know how to tie it off from his elbow. Horton stilled the engine and jumped nimbly off, taking the line from Cantelli and securing it to the cleat. He nodded Taylor on to the boat and then left him and the others to it, asking them to bag up the items in the bait box and get them over to the lab.
‘How did you get on with Lesley Nugent?’ Horton asked, climbing into Cantelli’s car.
‘He wasn’t at work. He phoned in sick. I spoke to Kevin Jameson. Nugent started there three months ago and has had several days off sick. I don’t think he’ll be working there for much longer. He doesn’t work in accounts and neither does he work in order processing, he’s a meat packer.’
‘He seems to have an aversion to telling the truth.’
‘And an aversion to meat so he told me when I finally caught up with him.’
‘Eh?’
‘He suffers from Carnophobia. The fear of meat.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘No. I looked it up. It exists all right but whether Nugent really suffers from it is another matter. I went to his flat. Had the devil of a job getting him to come to the door, but when I bellowed through the letterbox and asked him to look through the window he recognized me and let me in.’
‘Why so scared?’
‘He said finding the hand had given him nightmares. He chain-smoked so much that I must have had my passive smoking dose for a year. He insists that he only met Westerbrook twice, once at the angling club on Sunday lunchtime and then on Wednesday when they went fishing.’
‘A lie?’
Cantelli looked doubtful. ‘I’m not sure. It sounded like the truth. He says he was in the pub Wednesday night drinking to try and forget finding the hand and last night he was at home, alone. I checked with the landlord of the pub. Nugent was in there until closing time. I asked Nugent if he knew why Westerbrook would be in the Thorney Channel. He said he had no idea. He knew where I meant though, but said he’d never fished there, no point when there was the big wide Solent to choose from. When I told him that Westerbrook had been found dead I thought he was going to faint. I don’t think he was faking. He asked how Westerbrook had died and I gave him the stock answer, too soon to say and all that.’
‘It’s looking as though Westerbrook had a heart attack. But even if he did that doesn’t mean to say he’s not mixed up with Langham’s murder and the same applies to Nugent.’ Horton relayed the gist of what Gaye had told him about the knife including the fact that she’d mentioned a Victorinox Skinning Knife used by the majority of British butchers.
Cantelli said, ‘Perhaps Nugent pinched one of the refrigerated vehicles to drive the body somewhere to dump it or they used Langham’s own van. Yeah, I know, why keep hold of the hand, why draw attention to it by fishing it up, and why put it in a container?’
‘And what’s their motive for killing Langham?’ Horton frowned, perplexed. ‘He couldn’t have broken into either man’s property, and neither of them were worth informing on, and even if they were up to something Adams would have warned us off them.’
‘Not if he doesn’t know about them being involved with Langham.’
Cantelli was right. Even if they discovered meat scrapings on the container it didn’t mean it had come from Jamesons or that Nugent was involved.
As Cantelli made for Westerbrook’s flat Horton removed Westerbrook’s phone from the evidence bag and checked the address book. He found no one listed with the surname Westerbrook but there were some Christian names and one of those could be a relative. There were remarkably few people listed, about ten in total which didn’t include the angling club and Westerbrook’s call log was empty, which he thought unusual. Westerbrook was very efficient at deleting his messages and calls, both those he had made and received.
Soon Cantelli was pulling into a parking space opposite the flat. Horton replaced the mobile phone and retrieved the set of keys from another evidence bag. He inserted one in the outer door as Cantelli checked the post box.
‘Only circulars and most of them addressed to R. Mountjoy. Could be the previous owner or tenant.’
They climbed to the second floor where they found flat sixteen and entered. The place stank of stale food, sweat and cigarettes. It clearly hadn’t been aired for some time. Two doors gave off the hallway to the bathroom on the left and the bedroom on the right. Cantelli took the bedroom while Horton stepped through into the lounge. There was a small kitchenette off it.
It was very shabby. The paintwork was scuffed and dirty around the light switches. There were cobwebs in the corners and the carpet hadn’t seen a vacuum cleaner for some time. There were dull pictures of country scenes in non-descript colours bought from the usual chain stores on the magnolia painted walls. There was no fire surround, only a modern electric fire up against the wall. The room was littered with newspapers, magazines and clothes thrown on to an armchair, sofa, and coffee table. As Horton crossed to a round table in front of the window he glanced at the magazines. They were a mixture on fishing and money. The newspapers were the popular daily tabloids, the last one dated Tuesday. This flat had all the hallmarks of a slovenly man and not one, h
e thought, who would usually be so efficient at deleting his mobile phone messages and calls on a regular basis.
In amongst the debris there was a laptop computer. He could send it to the hi-tech unit if Westerbrook’s death proved suspicious and Horton thought even if he’d died from natural causes the prox-imity of his death to finding that hand was sufficient for him to say it was suspicious, but maybe not others. He’d take it back with them and let Walters play with it. He was good at that kind of thing, and it might provide them with some interesting background information and more contacts.
Horton picked over the paper-strewn desk. There were unpaid bills, a threatening letter from the letting agent about non-payment of rent, or rather the direct debit payment had been refused. And there were bank statements going back a couple of months.
‘He’s overdrawn by six hundred pounds,’ Horton said as Cantelli entered. ‘It could be more by now, this statement’s three months old. There doesn’t seem to be any personal letters or papers, and nothing that gives us his next of kin.’
‘Nothing in the bedroom either just the chaos of unwashed clothes. And the sheets don’t look as though they’ve been changed for a while. I see he kept his kitchen in the same inimitable style. Hope there are no maggots.’
Horton knew he was alluding to fishing ones rather than those that inhabited human cadavers. Cantelli began rummaging around in the drawers. He pulled a face as he opened the fridge. Horton could smell something going off from where he was standing a few paces away. He crossed to a sideboard. On it was a music system and beside that a handful of CDs. Westerbrook’s musical tastes ran to Elton John, Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey. Opening the cupboard he found a box containing some fishing paraphernalia, and one with some documentation, which included a passport, and a medical card. It gave Westerbrook’s GP as Dr Rostock at the North End Medical Centre. The practice would have his current next of kin listed. Perhaps he hadn’t changed it since his divorce. Horton flicked through the passport. The last time he’d gone abroad had been four years ago and that had been to Turkey before he’d gone to prison. Prison made him think of Langham. Maybe that was the connection.
Fatal Catch Page 11
