‘There’s a better picture of him with you and Marsden in this one,’ Trueman said, reaching for a third. ‘But you only made page five.’
Horton winced. The article accompanying the photograph was written by Leanne Payne, who had obviously sold the story to the national newspapers, earning herself a by-line. It referred to two brutal murders with the headline screaming, ‘Is there a serial killer on the loose in Portsmouth?’ There was a quote from DC Marsden and more information about the dead woman than should have been released including the fact that her handbag was missing, and that her death could possibly be linked to Daryl Woodley’s and have international implications. At least Marsden hadn’t mentioned Marty Stapleton. That was little comfort, though. ACC Dean had hauled Uckfield in and the Super was beside himself with rage. Marsden had been only too pleased to take refuge at the quay, overseeing the commencement of the diving operation after Uckfield had threatened to cut off his, and anyone else’s, private parts and boil them if anyone so much as breathed in front of a member of the press. They all got the message loud and clear. Bliss remained tight-lipped throughout the briefing but Horton thought he sensed her secret pleasure at seeing Uckfield in trouble. Reggie Thomas had been brought in protesting loudly and abusively about police harassment. Nothing had been discovered from the search of his bedsit except, Uckfield reported, dirty underpants, congealed food and fag ends.
Now, turning and surveying the litter-strewn road with low-rise council flats on one side and a boarded-up garage smothered with graffiti on the other, Horton said, ‘OK, take me through it, Eames.’ He knew the case by heart but a fresh eye over it might throw up something they’d overlooked.
With some notes in front of her from the case file, she said, ‘The landlord of the Lord Horatio, Victor Wainstone, can’t confirm what time Woodley left the pub and neither can anyone else who was interviewed and drinking there, but Wainstone says Woodley wasn’t there when he was clearing away after last orders at eleven. The exact time of the attack on Woodley is not known, but he was found by a couple in their twenties, students from the University, returning home from a nightclub in Oyster Quays, at just after one in the morning.’
‘There’s student accommodation a couple of streets away from here; this would have been a short cut from the Hard,’ Horton explained.
Eames nodded. ‘They rang for an ambulance and the hospital called us.’ She gazed around at the low-rise flats. ‘Surely someone must have seen him or walked past him before one a.m.’
‘If they did they would probably have stepped over him.’
Eames looked doubtful.
‘It’s a tough area.’
‘But to leave him to possibly bleed to death.’
‘They’d leave their grandmother haemorrhaging if it meant calling in the cops.’
She eyed him steadily and he was relieved when she shrugged and turned her attention back to the file. Last night he’d told himself she was off limits, but was she? Perhaps the way to discover how much she knew about Zeus and Jennifer was to get close to her. And that certainly wouldn’t be a chore.
‘This doesn’t look like the sort of place Salacia would visit,’ she said gazing around the street. ‘She’d stand out a mile in her expensive clothes and jewellery. In fact she’d probably be the one to be attacked, not Woodley.’
‘I don’t think she was ever here.’
‘Then why are we asking the landlord about her?’ She flashed him a curious glance.
‘Why not?’ Horton replied, heading in the direction of the pub. He diverted his thoughts from Eames by considering again the attack on Ballard. Before the briefing he’d checked for any similar incidents and any reports of further metal thefts but nothing had been logged. He’d also asked Elkins to check with the Langstone harbour master for any boat movements in the early hours of the morning. Elkins had already reported back that no boats had been reported stolen on Tuesday night. He was going to see if he could find evidence of any of Woodley’s associates owning a boat.
Eames was again consulting the notes as she marched beside him. ‘Woodley didn’t get a taxi here and none of the bus drivers questioned remembers seeing him. Nothing showed up on the CCTV cameras on the Hard. I suppose one of his associates could have brought him here. Or perhaps he walked.’
‘Unlikely, knowing Woodley.’
‘But if he was under instructions to do so and was paid for it.’
‘Then he’d probably walk to John O’Groats.’ Horton drew up outside the rundown pub. ‘But if he was told to walk to prevent anyone being able to testify he was here then he’d hardly be drinking in a public place.’
‘Perhaps he was thirsty and stupid.’
‘He was certainly the latter,’ Horton replied, banging his fist on the flaky and scratched brown paintwork. There was no answer. He tried again with the same result.
‘Perhaps Mr Wainstone is out.’
‘Or avoiding us.’ Horton stepped back and hollered, ‘Open up, Wainstone, or do you want everyone around here to know you’re helping the police with their inquiries into the-’
A big bald head shot out of the first-floor window. ‘For fuck’s sake, shut up. I’m coming down.’
Horton turned to Eames. ‘See, all we had to do was ask nicely.’
She smiled and his heart missed a beat. Damn.
The sound of bolts slamming back brought him back to the job in hand. It was followed by the door creaking open. A man with a prominent nose and bleary bloodshot eyes peered out. ‘What the hell do you want now?’ he hissed.
‘A word.’
The bald landlord looked as though he was about to give them several and none of them very polite then changed his mind. He opened the door just wide enough to admit them. Walters would never have squeezed through but Eames had no trouble. He followed her, admiring her figure and the way she moved, not showily but with the grace of a dancer.
Wainstone slammed the door behind them. ‘I’ve already told you everything I know about Daryl Woodley. I wish the bugger had never set foot in here.’
‘I expect he does too.’
The smell of stale beer and dust hung about the shabby pub with its threadbare carpet, the original colour and pattern of which was a mystery to be solved only by the person who had laid it, if he was still alive, which Horton doubted. It looked as though it had been down since the pub had been built in the 1920s. This was the pub the brewery had clearly forgotten, which was probably a wise move on their part. Why spend money refurbishing something they hoped would be demolished by the council if the area was scheduled for some upmarket development? But the council knew that would mean re-housing hundreds of tenants and there was nowhere to put them in an island city that was fast becoming standing room only.
‘I don’t know why you’re bothering me again. Haven’t you got anything better to do?’ He crossed splay-footed to the bar.
‘Tell us about Daryl Woodley,’ Horton said.
‘For fuck’s sake, I’ve already told you lot hundreds of bloody times.’
Eames stood poised with her notebook and posh-looking pen. Horton had no difficulty placing her in the Netherlands analysing data, but he did have difficulty with her being here. She looked too neat, too healthy, too attractive. Not that she showed any reaction to Wainstone’s manner or language. On the contrary she looked as though this was an everyday occurrence for her.
‘There’s nothing to tell,’ Wainstone snarled. He turned and poured a whisky from the optic behind the bar. Horton didn’t bother looking pointedly at his watch; the gesture would have been wasted on the alcoholic landlord. Wainstone didn’t offer either of them a drink and even if he had neither would have accepted. After swallowing a mouthful Wainstone gruffly continued, ‘He came in about nine-’
‘How do you know that?’ Horton interjected sharply.
‘Because I looked at the clock.’
‘Why?’
‘What do mean, why? I can look at the clock, can’t I? I saw that it w
as about nine. He ordered a pint and took it to that seat over there.’ Wainstone jerked his head at a table to the right of the door and not far from the gents’ toilets. Horton knew this already. If he’d been hoping that Wainstone would deviate from his story it looked as though he would be disappointed.
Eames looked up. ‘And he stayed there all night?’
‘It was busy.’ Wainstone tossed back his whisky and wiped his mouth with the back of his tattooed hand. ‘He might have gone out or to the toilet. I wasn’t watching him every minute of the bleeding night.’
Horton eyed the landlord closely, there was something he wasn’t telling them, but then that was nothing new. Nearly everyone they’d spoken to was keeping quiet about something. Was it drugs? Hans Olewbo of the drugs squad had claimed there was nothing going down here. Vice could throw no light on the matter either. That didn’t mean though that it wasn’t drugs, porn, prostitution or all three, just that they had no intelligence on it being that.
Wainstone was saying, ‘He came in, ordered a drink and sat drinking it. I didn’t see him talk to anyone and I didn’t see him leave. He was still there when I called time at eleven so he must have left just afterwards and before I threw out the regulars.’
‘Who were?’
‘I’ve already told you. You’ve got a list of their names.’
Eames said brightly, ‘Maybe there are a couple you forgot to mention, sir, easily done when you’re busy. For example, this man.’
She thrust across a photograph of Reggie Thomas.
‘No. He wasn’t here.’
‘Have you seen him before?’
‘No.’
‘Or any of these people?’ Eames showed him a photograph of Woodley’s mourners taken from Clarke’s video.
‘No.’
‘If you could just take a closer look, sir, to make absolutely certain, then we won’t ask the health and safety inspectorate to pay you a visit, or the vice or drugs squad, and neither will we alert the RSPCA or the endangered species crime team about the parrot you have in the back room.’
Wainstone looked alarmed. ‘I’ve had Percy for years.’
‘I’m sure you have, sir. And I’m sure that he is kept nowhere near food. Food and Hygiene Act, sir. It could affect the renewal of your licence.’
Horton was impressed.
Wainstone’s eyes were shifting between them. Then he studied the photograph. ‘I’ve never seen any of them before. OK?’ He stormed around to their side of the bar, making sure to close the door that led into the back room and his living quarters and swiftly crossed the pub where he threw open the door. ‘Now bugger off. I’ve got work to do before I open up.’
Horton stayed put for a while and watched Wainstone shift uncomfortably. Then crossing to the door he nodded at Eames, who retrieved the photographs of Salacia from the pocket of her jacket and put them in front of Wainstone’s bleary eyes.
‘Have you seen her before, sir?’
‘No I bloody well haven’t.’
‘Or you might recognize her in this picture with fair hair.’
Wainstone dashed a glance at it. Angrily he said, ‘I wouldn’t recognize her if she was stark bollock naked, because I’ve never seen her before.’
Horton said, ‘Her body was found at Tipner Quay yesterday morning.’
‘So? That’s nothing to do with me.’
‘I never said it was,’ Horton answered smoothly. He held Wainstone’s eye contact. Then said brightly, ‘Do you have a menu?’
Wainstone started with surprise. ‘Yeah, why? Want to book a table?’ he sneered.
‘If I wanted a colonic irrigation. Menu. I’d like a copy.’ He held out his hand.
Wainstone gave an exaggerated sigh and whipped one from the table nearest him.
Horton took the greasy piece of laminated card. ‘We might have to return to ask you further questions. This is a double murder investigation.’
‘I’ve told you. I’ve never seen him or her.’
Horton looked him steadily in the eye. ‘For once, Mr Wainstone, I’m inclined to believe you.’ He turned on the threshold, unable to resist an exit line. ‘After all, what would a nice woman like her be doing in a shit hole like this?’
EIGHT
‘Burger and chips; sausage and chips; egg and chips; cod and chips. It’s not exactly gourmet food,’ said Eames, reading the menu Horton had handed her.
‘And you’d know all about that,’ he quipped.
‘It was one of the subjects taught on my Higher Certificate in Finishing in Switzerland.’
He threw her a surprised look. Was she joking? Maybe not. ‘Didn’t think there were any finishing schools left in these emancipated times.’
‘Oh, yes, and places are in great demand, more so than ever. But I am partial to cod and chips.’
Perhaps she expected him to buy her some. ‘I’ll send Walters next time. It’s his kind of food but it doesn’t sound like the type of last meal Salacia would have eaten.’ They were still waiting on the analysis of stomach contents from Dr Clayton. ‘What was all that about parrots and endangered species?’
‘The tattoo on his hand extending up his arm was of a parrot and I saw the cage through the open door. Last year I worked on a case on trafficking in endangered species. We managed to identify and apprehend a group of criminals illicitly trading exotic birds from South America. It might not sound much but there’s big money to be made and sadly it’s a growing area with the involvement of organized crime groups. Many of the routes used for smuggling illegal immigrants and drug trafficking are also used for smuggling rare animals, corals and valuable plants. Maybe Victor Wainstone does more than keep a parrot for himself, and it’s always good to throw in the line about endangered species, gets them nervous.’
‘I’ll remember that.’ It was a good piece of observation but he had no need to tell her that. ‘I think he’s telling the truth when he says he’s never seen Salacia or any of Woodley’s chums. I want a quick look around the area before we return to the car.’
They crossed the road and instead of turning right into a tree-lined road of council flats that would bring them back onto the main road where the car was parked they headed south in the direction of the Hard and the waterfront. After about twenty yards the road curved left, eastwards, the flats giving way to the rear gardens of those in an adjoining street and a small park on the opposite side of the road. Horton stopped at the bend and looked back at the Lord Horatio. Then he crossed the road, with Eames following. He wondered what she was thinking. Clearly this wasn’t what she had been raised to. But this area had been home for him for three years in a children’s home and then with a couple of foster parents he’d rather forget, until his last and loving foster parents, Bernard and Eileen Lichfield, had moved from here after he’d been with them a while, he couldn’t remember how long, to a better area on the eastern edge of the city, not far from where Cantelli lived. There he’d changed schools for the third and final time since the age of eleven. He’d still had his rebellious moments but Bernard and Eileen had been patient and loving and had understood. And he wished he could thank them for that.
He drew a breath, pushing aside the memories that seemed determined to haunt and torment him, and stopped under the shelter of the trees bordering a small space of green and a play area where two young women wearing hijabs were pushing toddlers on swings. There were shrubs to his right and two elderly men eyed them from their viewpoint of a park bench. He could see the entrance to the Lord Horatio. Woodley’s assailant could have waited here until Woodley left and then followed him. But he could also have waited outside the pub. If it was Reggie Thomas he couldn’t have been inside the pub because Woodley would have seen him, unless they had left together with Woodley completely unsuspecting that Reggie would try to kill him. But that would mean not only was the landlord lying, but so too were those they had managed to find and question who had been drinking in the pub that night. Still, that wouldn’t be surprising. Lying w
as a way of life for Wainstone and most of his regulars.
He gazed around; there were no security cameras. One of the occupants in the flats opposite might have seen someone lingering but if they had they’d not said during the house-to-house. But as he’d said to Eames, silence was the common currency in these parts. Most viewed the police as vermin.
He continued walking. Eames fell into step beside him. The road once again swung south past a derelict boarded-up building displaying graffiti. After another twenty yards they came out onto the busy main road. The pavement opposite was packed with young people in their twenties spilling out of coaches, and from the nearby railway station, many wearing brightly coloured Wellington boots even though the day was hot and sunny, and nearly all of them carrying heavy rucksacks or bags.
‘I know where they’re headed,’ Eames said.
It didn’t need great detective powers to work out it was the same place as they were going and where half the local police seemed to be, including DI Dennings: the Isle of Wight Festival.
Turning to Eames, he said, ‘Take the car to the ferry. I’ll meet you there.’
He caught a glimpse of curiosity before she turned and headed back to the car. Horton stood and surveyed the area. Across the road were the public toilets and then a cafe in front of which was a taxi rank. Then came the road which led to the railway and bus station, where Woodley could have alighted. Next was a coffee stall doing a brisk trade with tourists and festival-goers, and on the Hard was the Net Fishermen’s Association hut and the small tourism office in front of the iron-clad historic ship HMS Warrior and the entrance to the Historic Dockyard and visitor attractions, where hordes of foreign students and more tourists were congregated. Recalling what Sawyer had said last night about Zeus sending someone to suss him out, Horton scanned the crowds. There didn’t appear to be anyone following him and neither had he spotted anyone at the marina earlier that morning. No car had followed them from the station. But that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone.
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