Death Lies Beneath dah-8

by Pauline Rowson

  Uckfield rang off after saying he’d be there within forty minutes. Horton called Trueman and quickly relayed what had happened, instructing him to notify the police doctor and mobilize the circus.

  ‘Is Walters in yet?’

  ‘He was in the canteen when I was there a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Tell him to skip breakfast. I know it will break his heart but I want him to check around the county for any reports of missing persons.’

  He hadn’t seen a ring on the third finger of her left hand, but that didn’t mean anything. Someone might have expected her back last night.

  He said, ‘Ask Walters to get the details of the funeral following Woodley’s and we’ll need photographs of the victim from Clarke’s video for circulating to all units.’ He hadn’t needed to tell Trueman that but he said it anyway.

  Uniform arrived within minutes and began to set up the outer cordon just beyond the motorway flyover and the inner cordon at the entrance to the boatyard. Horton instructed Seaton and Somerfield to take initial statements from the crane driver, boatman and Manley and his crew. While he waited for Dr Price and the scene of crime officers to arrive, he surveyed the boatyard.

  Its isolated position made it an ideal place to leave a body or to commit homicide. Except for the small sailing club next door there were no neighbours. The sea surrounded it on three sides. The fourth was the only road to it. This was the end of the line, which it certainly had been for their lady in black, and if she had driven here then where was her car? And why come here? It was several miles away from the crematorium, but not he had already noted from where most of Woodley’s associates lived.

  There were no gates at the entrance to the yard and Somerfield had told him no security patrols. But there must have been people in the sailing club last night; the weather had been too good for there not to have been. And if so then someone might have seen something. He recalled seeing a CCTV camera at the front of the small timber-clad building as he’d driven past it before pulling into the boatyard. There was also one over the dinghy park; perhaps they had recorded the victim’s car arriving, and the killer’s. He crossed to one of the PCs on the inner cordon and asked him to get the contact details of the sailing-club secretary and commodore. As Horton headed back to the body, Manley pigeonholed him. Somerfield threw Horton an apologetic glance.

  ‘When can my men get back to work?’ Manley demanded irritably.

  ‘Not for some time, sir.’

  ‘How long?’ he pressed.

  Horton explained they’d have to wait until the police divers had been down to retrieve any evidence and that could take a day or two.

  ‘I shouldn’t think they’ll find anything. We didn’t even see her when we went down this morning to attach the lines, and she certainly wasn’t there yesterday when we did a thorough check of the area, including that wreck and the others.’

  ‘Others?’ Horton asked surprised.

  ‘There’s another wreck on top of the munitions barge. And before you ask we didn’t find anything on that either, and only shells on the munitions barge, which we cleared with the help of the Royal Navy.’

  ‘What time did you leave last night?’

  ‘Just after seven thirty.’

  ‘Did you see anyone when you left?’

  ‘No. There were a few cars outside the sailing club, though: a Range Rover, a Mercedes, a Ford and a red Mini.’

  ‘Can you remember the registration numbers?’

  ‘My days of collecting car numbers are long gone,’ Manley said with disdain.

  No matter. They’d get them from the club.

  Horton managed to extricate himself from a disgruntled Manley, leaving Somerfield to soothe him, and headed back to the rotting hull. Had the killer hoped the body would sink and then float later and wash up miles away too late to help them track him down? But only if he hadn’t heard or read the local news. Either the killer was stupid, which Horton sincerely hoped because it would make their job easier (and that fitted the profile of many of Woodley’s so-called mates), or he wasn’t local and that would make it far more difficult to trace him. Or perhaps the killer simply didn’t care if the woman’s body was recovered.

  He thought of the propeller theft in a boatyard further up the harbour to the west. That had occurred on Monday night, and he wondered if the thieves had been out and about last night. They might have believed there was valuable metal lying around. The victim had arrived and surprised them and they’d killed her and made off in her car. But that didn’t answer why she was here, why she had been at the crematorium and why she was still dressed in her funeral clothes.

  Horton arrived at the hulk at the same time the SOCO van drew up inside the inner cordon with Dr Price in his battered Volvo behind it. It took Price a couple of minutes to wriggle his bony frame into a scene suit, a couple more to climb gingerly onto the wreck and one more to declare in his usual alcoholic fug that life was extinct, probably from the knife wound in the back that Horton could see.

  Horton had then called the pathologist, Dr Clayton. He wasn’t sure what she’d be able to tell them with the body in situ but he knew it would be a darn sight more than Price even sober could.

  ‘Fortunately you’ve caught me early, before I’m deep into a cadaver,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour, traffic permitting.’

  He rang off to see Uckfield’s car pull up.

  ‘So who the devil is she?’ Uckfield bellowed as he stormed across the boatyard towards Horton.

  No idea wasn’t the answer Uckfield wanted but it was the only one Horton had to give. He recalled she’d been carrying a small black handbag with a gold chain on the video and he hoped that it was lodged under her body and contained some ID. He said as much to Uckfield, adding, ‘Did you notice anything suspicious about her on Clarke’s video?’ He hadn’t except for that fact that when Clarke’s camera had surveyed the crematorium after the Woodley crowd had left there had been no sign of her.

  ‘I haven’t even seen the bloody video,’ Uckfield exploded. ‘Too busy wasting my time reporting to DCS Sawyer and Wonder Boy.’

  Horton interpreted that as Assistant Chief Constable Dean.

  Uckfield continued, ‘I haven’t told Sawyer yet and Dean’s going to roast my balls over a slow heat if this is connected with Woodley’s murder.’ He leaned over the wreck without touching it and peered at the body, frowning. Straightening up he said, ‘No woman is mentioned on the files I’ve seen connected with Stapleton?’

  ‘Perhaps that was why she was sent.’

  ‘If she was then why show up late? And why come at all?’

  Exactly. But Horton had been mulling both questions over and now expressed one of the two ideas that had occurred to him. ‘To pay off whoever attacked Woodley and took him to the marshes.’

  Uckfield brightened up at that. ‘Reggie Thomas.’

  ‘He doesn’t own a car, or have a driving licence, but we both know that wouldn’t stop him stealing a vehicle. But his alibi for then is rock-solid. When Woodley left the hospital, Reggie was with his probation officer. His alibi for when the assault occurred though is definitely suspect.’

  ‘Yeah, lying for the likes of Sholby and Hobbs is as natural as breathing.’

  ‘One of them could have attacked Woodley and one of them could have taken him to the marshes in his shiny new car. On the other hand,’ Horton swiftly continued, ‘there is the possibility that she was at the crematorium for the funeral following Woodley’s. Perhaps she recognized one of Woodley’s mourners as the person who left him for dead at the marshes.’ He recalled her slightly puzzled expression. ‘She might have been walking her dog in the area where Woodley was found.’

  ‘We interviewed all the dog walkers.’

  ‘Only those the mobile incident unit picked up over the following week,’ corrected Horton. ‘She might have been on holiday when you gave your appeal for witnesses. She was suntanned. Then seeing Woodley’s mourners something clicked with h
er. Woodley’s killer, or rather the person who left him for dead, recognized her and couldn’t take a chance that she might eventually be able to identify him.’

  ‘Bloody bad luck for her then to attend a funeral at the same time,’ scoffed Uckfield, leaving Horton in no doubt what he thought about that theory. OK, so it wasn’t brilliant but it was possible. Clearly though Uckfield favoured the Reggie Thomas version.

  ‘We’ll re-interview all Woodley’s mates and this time we won’t be so ruddy soft on them.’

  Horton didn’t think they had been the first time but he agreed they needed re-interviewing, whether they’d get anything out of them was another matter altogether. ‘They’d certainly know this boatyard,’ he said. ‘But if the victim was Marty’s paymaster then why agree to meet whoever killed Woodley here? Where’s her car? What did she do between the time she was at the crematorium and the time she was killed? Why is she still wearing her funeral clothes? And why kill her?’

  ‘How the bloody hell should I know? I’m not psychic,’ Uckfield exploded. Horton remained silent. After a moment Uckfield added more evenly, ‘We’ll ask the scumbags when we re-interview them. Get a unit over to the crematorium to check for any cars left in the car park overnight and ask them to collect a copy of their CCTV footage. About time,’ Uckfield declared as Clarke’s estate car pulled in through the inner cordon. The photographer unfurled his six foot four inches and crossed to them. Before he’d even drawn level Uckfield was on to him. ‘What time did she arrive at the crematorium?’

  Clarke peered across at the body, clearly confused. Horton quickly explained who it was while Uckfield waited impatiently. ‘Er, I don’t know, sir,’ Clarke replied.

  ‘Did you see her park a car?’

  ‘Cars were arriving just after Woodley’s service began but I wasn’t filming them or taking any notice of them.’

  ‘Pity,’ Uckfield sneered.

  With an injured tone, Clarke said, ‘I was looking at the chapel entrance for anyone who might have slipped in after the service had begun, and then I was waiting for Woodley’s mourners to emerge from the rear, as instructed, Superintendent.’

  ‘OK, no need to get your underpants in a twist. Do the business.’ Uckfield jerked his head in the direction of the body. He stepped away and reached for his phone, presumably to call Dean. Horton saw the uniformed officer he’d instructed to check out the sailing club return and crossed to him while Clarke slipped into a scene suit and began to film the body. His SOCO colleagues, Taylor and Beth Tremaine, waited patiently nearby.

  ‘The club secretary’s details were on the door; a Richard Bolton, sir.’

  Horton jotted them down. He rang Trueman and relayed Uckfield’s instructions and the club secretary’s details, then he called Walters. ‘Is DCI Bliss there?’

  ‘Just left, guv. She muttered something about seeing Superintendent Reine when I told her where you were.’

  And Horton could guess why she’d gone running to their boss; to complain about his total disregard for proper procedure. He should have reported the incident to her and not Uckfield. But that would only have prolonged matters and besides the victim was connected with one of Uckfield’s investigations. Reine wouldn’t see it like that, though. Both he and Bliss were sticklers for procedure.

  A red Mini pulled up and Dr Clayton climbed out. He returned her wave as she made for the wreck.

  ‘Did you find out whose funeral was after Woodley’s?’ he asked Walters.

  ‘Yes. The deceased is Amelia Willard, aged seventy-three. Her funeral was arranged by the Co-op in Fratton Road and it was the last funeral of the day at the crematorium. Want me to contact them for the address of her next of kin?’

  Walters was thinking for once. Horton wasn’t sure that was a good sign. ‘Call me when you’ve got it. Any reports of missing persons fitting the victim’s description?’

  ‘No.’

  It was early days yet. He rang off wondering if he should have asked Walters if there had been any further metal thefts, not because of Bliss’s meeting but because of Sergeant Elkins’ report of the propeller theft from the boatyard near Fareham. He looked across to the hulk where Dr Clayton, now in a scene suit, was climbing onto it. Uckfield was still on the phone. Clarke had finished taking his photographs and was talking to Taylor and Beth Tremaine. He called Elkins.

  ‘Sorry, Andy, I was just about to phone you. Do you need us at Tipner Quay? I heard about the body.’

  ‘No. What do you have on metal thefts from boatyards?’

  ‘That’s why I’m late getting back to you. I’m at Northney Marina, Hayling. Two alloy propellers were stolen from boats laid up in a small compound overlooking Chichester Harbour last night and a brass bell has been taken from an old clipper. It looks as though it’s the work of the same thieves who stole that brass propeller from the Fareham boatyard on Monday. No one in the marina office saw or heard anything, but the thieves didn’t need to drive that far because the compound is several hundred yards before you reach it. There are no CCTV cameras over this compound, and there’s no one in the office complex overlooking the boatyard at that time of night. Ripley’s asked at the nearby hotel but the night shift have gone off duty. If a vehicle was used then it would have driven past the hotel but I doubt anyone would have taken any notice of it going towards the boatyard. We’re putting out a notice to all marinas and boatyards.’

  ‘OK, keep me posted, especially if you hear anything about robberies or boats seen heading for Tipner quay last night.’

  He rang off, wondering if the boat thieves were the same culprits as those responsible for stealing the bronze statue and the plaques in Old Portsmouth. They were different methods, one set of thefts on land and the other on water, but maybe they’d extended their operational range. Perhaps he should call Bliss and update her for her meeting. But he didn’t.

  He made his way back to the body. The stench of the petrol fumes from the motorway seemed to be sinking lower over them in a smog as the morning grew hotter and more sultry.

  He arrived as Uckfield came off the phone. His mood hadn’t improved.

  ‘Dean’s informing Sawyer. I said it would help if he let me have DI Dennings back instead of allowing him to ponce about on the Isle of Wight at that ruddy music festival with the Border Agency trying to sniff out illegal immigrant workers, but he said that was impossible. Anyone would think I’d asked for Sherlock bloody Holmes.’

  Dr Clayton straightened up. ‘Do you want me to turn her over?’

  Uckfield nodded leaving Horton to instruct Taylor to assist her. Horton waited eagerly. It was difficult to see the victim’s face until Dr Clayton brushed away the seaweed. Beth Tremaine dropped it into an evidence bag. Horton didn’t think forensic would get anything from it but they couldn’t take any chances. He studied the dark lifeless eyes, the dirt-smeared face with its high cheekbones, the shoulder-length black hair now free of the hat, which Tremaine had also put into another evidence bag, and although death had stripped the personality from the victim, Horton got confirmation of what he already knew: that it was the woman he’d seen at the crematorium yesterday.

  Extricating herself from the wreckage, Dr Clayton said, ‘Stab wound to the lower back, but I can’t confirm that was the cause of death until I do the autopsy. There are no other obvious signs of physical assault, no marks visible to show that she turned and struggled with her attacker, but I need to examine her more closely on the slab to be certain of that. And there’s no identification on her or under her. No handbag I’m afraid, Superintendent, and there’s no sign of the missing shoe on the wreck.’

  Horton said, ‘Any signs that she was brought here under duress?’

  ‘Not on the surface. I’d say her killer came up behind her while she was standing on the quayside, thrust the knife into her back, then pushed her into the water. At a rough estimate she’s been dead between ten to thirteen hours; some time between nine thirty p.m. and twelve thirty a.m. I can be more precise when I do the au
topsy, which I’ll do as soon as she’s brought to the mortuary. But I was here last night.’

  Uckfield eyed her, surprised. The red Mini that Manley had mentioned, thought Horton. He knew that Gaye Clayton was a sailor like him but he hadn’t known she was a member of the Tipner Sailing Club. No reason why he should know, they’d hardly discussed it. Corpses were more their usual topic of conversation.

  Gaye added, ‘I certainly didn’t see her, although I was sailing in the harbour so I might have missed her arrival. But I didn’t see a car parked that I didn’t recognize when I left the sailing club just before ten.’

  ‘Who else was here?’ asked Uckfield sharply.

  ‘Your chief constable, for one; Paul Meredew.’

  Uckfield’s craggy features registered surprise. Horton hadn’t known Meredew was a sailor but then why should he; he’d barely spoken two words to the new chief on his recent tour of the troops. He’d only been in post five weeks.

  Gaye added, ‘Paul Meredew is a new member at the club. The commodore sponsored him; Councillor Dominic Levy.’

  ‘Christ, it gets worse,’ muttered Uckfield. ‘The chair of the Police Committee and the Chief Constable. Anyone else I should know about at this club last night? The local MP? The Home Secretary?’

  Gaye smiled. ‘No, just Paul Meredew, Dominic Levy, Fiona Wright, who’s a radiographer at the hospital, and me; and Richard Bolton, who owns Print Easy, he was behind the bar and he’s also club secretary. There were a few more people in the club earlier having a drink but I don’t know them. You’ll need to check the times with Richard, or look in the log book. We all sign in, and sign out, so that should help, and Richard can give you their contact details.’

  Horton said, ‘Did you see anyone sailing around these waters?’

  ‘There were several yachts and cruisers heading in and out of Horsea Marina to the north and some yachts further out towards Gosport and Fareham in the west. It was a beautiful evening although not much wind for sailing. Fiona and I were on dinghies.’