'I haven't the faintest idea.'
Horton contrived to look surprised. 'Wouldn't he have made a will, diving being a dangerous pastime?' He saw, with satisfaction, Jackson flush at the word 'pastime'.
Clearly restraining himself with difficulty from rising to the insult, Jackson said, 'He might have done, but that doesn't mean to say he told me about it.'
No, thought Horton, perhaps he hadn't. He heard Jackson address Corinna, as he closed the door and turned to find Nathan Lester hovering nervously in the outer office. Leaving Cantelli taking an obsessive interest in a wall chart next to the door of the office, Horton asked, 'Where is everyone?'
'Oh, no one works here. This is just a resource centre for the divers registered on the Marine Archaeological Project.'
'And you're one of those divers?'
'Yes, so are Perry and Nick. How did Nick die, Inspector?'
Looking anxious and pale, Lester had asked the question that Jackson should have done. Horton wasn't yet prepared to divulge any information surrounding Farnsworth's death.
'How well did you know him?' he asked.
Lester sat down heavily. 'We've been diving together a few times. I can't believe he's dead.' He withdrew a handkerchief from the pocket of his casual trousers and blew his nose noisily.
'What is the Marine Archaeological Project?' Horton asked. He could still hear Jackson's
voice rumbling in the background.
'There's a group of us that dive in and around the Solent area. We register what we find on a central database.' He pointed to the computer. 'We're making a map of the underwater heritage in order to help preserve it. Nick was our patron. He'd managed to get some funding for it and get all this equipment donated. He was due to speak at an international conference in June about the project.'
He ran a hand through his hair. Horton thought his face seemed to have grown thinner in the last twenty minutes.
'Perhaps Mr Jackson will step in?'
Lester looked anxiously towards the door and dropped his voice. 'Perhaps he will, but it won't be the same.'
Horton thought there was something strangely akin to hero worship in Lester's voice. And, seeing how distressed he was over Farnsworth's death, Horton was beginning to wonder if it was more than that. On Lester's part at least. Horton had no doubts as to where Farnsworth's sexual proclivities lay.
He also wondered how Jackson felt about Nick being chosen to speak at such a prestigious conference. Horton had a couple more questions, but not about Farnsworth. He said, 'Did you know Daniel Collins?'
'Yes.' Lester looked surprised. 'He died in a car accident on Christmas Eve.'
'When was the last time you saw Daniel?'
'Just before Christmas. The twenty-first.'
'Did Mr Farnsworth know him?'
'I don't think so. Nick never said.'
'He didn't go diving with him?'
'No. If you want to know who Daniel went diving with, then you can check the sub aqua club's record book.'
Manners hadn't mentioned that. Horton looked blank and Lester elaborated. 'Every diver has to check his equipment, sign to say he or she has checked it and then log the time they leave, state their intended dive location and sign in again on their return. It's good diving practice.'
Cantelli was indicating that Jackson was coming off the phone. Horton thanked Mr Lester and took his leave.
Outside Cantelli said, 'Jackson didn't sound like he was comforting Corinna Denton from what I overheard. He was more worried about where this left him and the programme.'
And was Jackson glad to rid himself of Farnsworth? Horton's phone rang. It was Trueman.
'We've found Farnsworth's car. It's in the car park at Southsea Marina. The recovery unit's on its way.'
Horton stared north across the grass of Fort Cumberland. He could just see the masts of the boats in the marina. Had Farnsworth's killer dumped the car there or had Farnsworth driven it to the marina after being released? He could have met his killer and together they could have travelled by boat to Oldham's Wharf, even in the appalling weather of last night.
To Trueman he said, 'We'll be there in thirty seconds.'
TWELVE
'Anything?' Horton asked, as Cantelli peered inside the Range Rover.
'No sign of any missing fingers. If that's what you mean.'
'Pity.'
Cantelli smiled. 'And there's nothing lying about on the seats. It's locked,' he added, trying all the door handles.
'Call Elkins and ask him to check if Jackson's boat is at Hythe Marina and if it's been taken out over the last twenty-four hours. Then pop across to the sub-aqua club and check those diving records.' He hoped someone was there. 'Get copies of every dive Farnsworth made. And while you're there also get a copy of Daniel Collins's dives. I'm going to have a word with the marina staff.'
Horton found Eddie, a lithe 53-year-old with a weather-beaten wrinkled face in the marina office. Horton asked him if any boats had left the marina last night.
'No. Why? Something up?'
'You could say that.' Horton gave him the news about Farnsworth's death, leaving out the bit about the fingers and how the body had been found, although not where it was found. It would be in all the newspapers and on the radio and TV anyway. It was still troubling him that Jackson hadn't been curious about that.
Eddie said, 'It was silent as the grave here last night. Oh, except for a nice little yacht, which came in yesterday afternoon, and an even prettier party on board. A dark-haired girl with smouldering eyes and bit of a sharp tongue.'
Horton's interest picked up on that. Hundreds of girls could meet that description, but he could name one who matched it perfectly. 'Daisy Pemberton.'
'You know her?' Eddie asked, surprised.
'I've met her.' She hadn't said she'd arrived by boat, but then why should she? Had Farnsworth returned after being released to apologize or make it up with her? Or perhaps all that stuff about being dumped had been an act for his and Lee's benefit? Could Daisy Pemberton have motored to Oldham's Wharf and killed Farnsworth? But Eddie had said nothing had left the marina. And somehow Horton just couldn't see Daisy Pemberton as a murderer. He also didn't have Farnsworth down as the apologizing type.
'Where is she?'
'Pontoon J. It's called Sunrise.'
Horton quickly made his way there, wondering why Daisy had chosen to arrive yesterday. Was there anything sinister in that or had she just been hoping that Farnsworth would go sailing with her? How could a woman like Daisy have fallen for such a slimeball? he thought, punching in the security code to the pontoon. But then he didn't know how his estranged wife could go for an overweight, balding, puffed-up, pompous prat like Edward Shawford.
Thank God Shawford hadn't gone on holiday with her and Emma over Christmas to Cyprus. It was bad enough thinking of Emma being with him on ordinary days without imagining him spending Christmas with her. But why hadn't he? Horton wondered. Was the romance over? If so, how did he feel about that? Pleased, yes, but it was too late for him and Catherine to resurrect their marriage.
His thoughts had taken him to Sunrise. Eddie was right, she was a lovely yacht. Not brand new, but obviously well cared for. She was far bigger than Nutmeg and about five times more expensive. Psychologists must be well paid, he thought, if Daisy actually owned this yacht.
'Hello!' he called out.
'Hello yourself, Inspector,' a voice inside echoed back. 'Come on board.'
'How did you know it was me?' he asked, after sliding open the hatch and climbing down into the cabin. She was dressed in jeans and a large red sweatshirt, which seemed to accentuate her dark looks and make those smudgy blue eyes even more appealing. Or was that just the way she was studying him? He just couldn't see her killing Farnsworth, and as for chopping off his fingers . . . OK, so that was possible. There was something gritty behind the urchin face and determined chin and though the eyes were beguiling they were also intelligent, cool and assessing. In front of her, acros
s the table, were spread papers and a laptop computer, alongside which there was a mobile phone.
'I saw you by Nick's car. What's he done now? Forgotten to renew his licence?'
'Did you see him last night after he left the club?' he asked as casually as he could, yet to his ears he still sounded like PC Plod asking dumb questions.
'No. Close the hatch; it's freezing. I must have been mad to come here in January.'
'Why did you?' he asked, after doing as she requested.
'Why do you think?' She gave a wry smile.
'You could have stayed with him at the Queen's Hotel.'
'I could have done, but those kinds of places are not my style.'
Was that true? he wondered, eyeing her curiously. Perhaps Farnsworth had put her off because of his affair with Corinna Denton. He could see Daisy following his train of thought.
'It was my idea to come by boat. I happen to like sailing. Please sit down, Inspector. You make the cabin seem even more cramped than it usually is.'
'It's bigger than my boat Nutmeg,' he said, before he could stop himself.
'You have a yacht?'
Damn. He hadn't meant to reveal anything about himself. But what did a little thing like that matter. 'I had,' he added, sliding on to the bench seat and facing her across the narrow table in the centre of the cabin. He realized too late that he was already saying too much to a woman who was trained to hear nuances and interpret body language, just as he was.
'You sold her?'
His knees brushed against hers and he shifted his body so as to angle his legs to avoid contact. She appeared not to notice, but he had a feeling she had registered the gesture and thought it interesting as well as significant.
'Someone set fire to her.'
Suddenly he was back there, listening to the footsteps on the pontoon, knowing he had only seconds to escape his assailant, fear constricting his throat and sending his heart into overdrive. He recalled the heat of the fire on his back before he'd dived into the icy black water and couldn't prevent himself from shivering at the memory.
'How awful,' she said gently.
He pulled himself up, knowing he had given some hint of his fear and cursed silently for exposing himself so quickly and easily to someone who would instantly see his weakness. For a moment he had lost control. And control was everything. It was the way forward, the only option. Perhaps one day, because of it, he'd lose everything he valued – love, friendship, his daughter – until he was completely alone. The thought swam up in him, terrifying and isolating, reminding him of the pain of the loneliness of his childhood. The fire had consumed all he'd had left to remind him of his mother except his memories, and they weren't much except anger.
His mind flitted to Irene Ebury. He hadn't forgotten her and her son. Now, with Farnsworth dead, he considered whether Daniel Collins was the linking factor between them all. Common sense told him that he was looking at three different cases. First, the Ebury deaths were, as Gaye Clayton had pronounced, due to natural causes; secondly, Daniel's death was most probably an accident; and the thirdly, Farnsworth's had been murder and that case took priority.
'When did you notice Mr Farnsworth's car in the car park?' he asked, bringing himself sharply back to the case in hand. He had to keep his wits about him with Daisy Pemberton. The last thing he wanted was her peering into his soul.
She eyed him shrewdly. 'This sounds like an investigation.'
He remained silent, hearing the wind howling and drumming through the masts and seeking out vulnerable places in the cabin, where it sneaked through and sent blasts of chill air.
She raised her eyebrows. 'This morning. I thought Nick must have gone out in the Solent with someone. Why?'
'What time did you return to your boat last night?'
'Not long after you left. The man I thought might be interesting turned out to be a complete wally. I left the club at nine. I didn't leave the boat until this morning when I went to buy some groceries. That's when I saw Nick's car.'
He eyed her carefully. Was she telling the truth? He hoped so. 'Is there anyone here he would have gone out to sea with?'
'He didn't mention anyone to me. Why the questions, Inspector? Has something happened to Nick?' She held his gaze, but before he got the chance to reply, she added, 'I can see it has.'
'He was found dead this morning.' He knew that sounded blunt, but he wanted to see her reaction.
She widened her eyes so that they appeared like two huge magnetic saucers drawing him in. Then her brow furrowed. She took a breath and said in a curious, rather than shocked, tone, 'How?'
It's what Perry Jackson should have asked but didn't. 'I can't say, but we're treating his death as suspicious, Ms Pemberton.'
'Daisy. You mean that Nick was murdered.' It was expressed as a statement devoid of surprise. And she didn't look as if she was about to burst into tears; instead she seemed to be considering the facts calmly. Too calmly? he wondered. Had she not felt anything for him? He was puzzled by her reaction and very curious.
'We won't know for certain until the autopsy.'
'Poor Nick. He'll hate being cut up. He was so vain.' She paused for a moment and sadness touched her eyes. 'But you need to know who could have killed him.' He could see her mind racing to put together the facts. Or was she thinking about an alibi? No, she didn't look wary or nervous, and she certainly didn't look upset.
'Could it have been a random attack?' she asked enquiringly.
He considered her question, one that had already occurred to him. Farnsworth could have disturbed the intruder who Oldham claimed had entered the yard and been killed to prevent his identity from being exposed. And he supposed that Farnsworth's fingers could have been hacked off by accident, or to make it look like premeditated murder, but that still didn't explain what Farnsworth was doing there in the first place and what the intruder was after.
'It's possible—'
'But doubtful. And I'm a suspect. Well, I didn't kill Nick, and I didn't see him last night. What about lover girl, Corinna? Didn't she see him?'
There was no bitterness in her voice. She'd got over her romance very quickly.
Horton said, 'She claims she didn't and I'm inclined to believe her. Mr Farnsworth was brought in last night for drink driving, but his second breathalyser test proved negative and he was released.'
Daisy frowned, puzzled. 'So where did he go?'
'His car's here.'
She waved the suggestion away with a dismissive sweep of her hand. 'His killer could have driven it here.'
He'd thought of that himself. 'Why?'
She eyed him cunningly. 'Well, I don't think it would be to implicate me, but then who can tell?'
Horton couldn't help thinking that a psychologist would be a very good liar. 'Who knew you were here?'
'Apart from the marina staff, only Gary Manners and Nick, but they could have told anyone.'
It was a perfectly reasonable answer and yet he felt uncomfortable with it. 'Could Mr Farnsworth have been seeing another woman as well as Corinna?' he enquired.
'I wouldn't be at all surprised. In fact, he probably had a couple on the side even when he was whispering sweet nothings in my ear. Thank God I didn't love him. Sorry, that sounded heartless, especially now he's dead. I was furious at being dumped, yes, but I wasn't upset. It was my pride that was hurt rather than my emotions. You see, I thought that maybe I could help him.'
Horton's ears pricked up at that.
'Nick was suffering from NPD,' she added. 'Narcissistic Personality Disorder. He had a grandiose sense of self-importance and an unhealthy preoccupation with success, fame, and power. I see that surprises you.'
Horton was convinced he hadn't shown any reaction to her pronouncement and yet she had seen something in his expression that had betrayed him. This girl was sharp. Too bloody sharp! He shuddered at the thought of how easily she might be able to read him.
'NPD was only recognized in the UK in the 1990s,' she continued. 'And
then only because the government became concerned about the high number of attacks on people from those suffering from severe personality disorders. NPD seemed to be blamed for a great deal of them. It's been accepted in the States as a personality disorder since the 1980s. I expect you know all about it.'
He called to mind a conference he'd attended not long after the Brian Blackwell case in 2004. Blackwell, aged nineteen, had stabbed and bludgeoned his parents to death at their home in Merseyside and had then gone on a spending spree. He had been obsessed with fantasies of success, power and brilliance, claiming that he was a world-class tennis player when he wasn't. Horton put this with what he'd seen and heard of Nicholas Farnsworth.
Dead Man's Wharf Page 15
