TEN
The divers had recovered a humerus, a femur, a pelvic bone and a skull. Clarke had been and gone and Horton, using his mobile phone, had taken a photograph of the bracelet before despatching it in an evidence bag to Joliffe for forensic examination. He showed the picture to a very hot and troubled Uckfield, who had arrived a few minutes ago. ‘It looks like an identity bracelet.’
‘Worn by a Second World War serviceman?’ Uckfield asked hopefully.
Hardly, thought Horton, but he knew why Uckfield had suggested it. He was thinking of the munitions barge and if the item and the bones were those of someone from the war it meant they could put this investigation on a slow burner and concentrate on the current one.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Steve, it’s modern, and the kind a woman would wear. As you can see it’s small, chain-linked with an oblong flat surface in the middle. Once Joliffe’s examined it we might get more.’ He didn’t dare say such as a name, because he didn’t want to push their luck. He hadn’t seen anything inscribed on it, but it had been filthy and he hadn’t wanted to tamper with it and destroy any evidence they might possibly get from it, which after being immersed for so long he guessed was unlikely.
‘It could have been washed up near the bones and have nothing to do with them,’ Uckfield suggested hopefully.
‘It was found entangled around the radius and ulna at the lower end, the wrist.’ Horton indicated one of the bones laid out on a black plastic sheet in front of them on the quay. ‘The bones weren’t displaced from the munitions barge either. They were on the second wreck.’
‘Doesn’t mean this is homicide, though.’ Uckfield was clearly determined to stick to his viewpoint. ‘Whoever it was could have been killed accidentally or committed suicide.’
‘But that still begs the question, why there are two deaths in this boatyard?’
‘All right, no need to rub it in and hang a bloody great neon sign on it.’ Uckfield exhaled and ran a hand through his short dark hair. ‘Is this linked with Marty Stapleton?’
It was a question Horton had discussed with Eames when they’d seen the first of the remains brought up by the divers. They were still diving for further bones.
‘Eames says there’s nothing on file that Stapleton was ever in Portsmouth or used this route to get his stolen goods out of the country but the Intelligence Directorate and Europol might not have discovered that.’
‘The rate we’re carrying on we might as well blame Marty for the sinking of the Mary Rose.’
Horton permitted himself a smile. ‘I don’t think he was around in Henry VIII’s day.’
‘Have you checked? Probably some scumbag relative of his opened the portholes or whatever they had in Tudor warships. You think Harry Foxbury, the previous boatyard owner, might have something to do with this?’
‘I can’t see why Foxbury would want to kill Salacia here and draw attention to another body unless he’s some kind of nut,’ and that was possible, although Horton had never heard of any trouble with Foxbury. Trueman had confirmed he was clean when he’d run Foxbury through the computer. ‘But he must know something about the wrecks. Eames is trying to contact Foxbury now.’ Horton glanced in her direction across the boatyard. She seemed to be having some success because she was speaking into her phone. Marsden stood a discreet distance away from them obviously still wary of Uckfield’s wrath, talking to the officer-in-charge of the diving operation.
Horton added, ‘Foxbury might be able to tell us how long the wreck has been submerged, which might give us some idea of when this person died, and Dr Clayton’s going to examine the remains in the morning. The divers will recover what they can tonight. We’ve got about two hours of daylight left. But the wreck won’t be raised until tomorrow.’ He’d instructed photographs and a video recording to be made using specialist underwater cameras and the position of the remainder of the bones to be mapped before being recovered. Tomorrow a forensic archaeologist from the university would examine the video footage for an in-depth analysis of the wreck.
Uckfield turned away. ‘How on earth did Manley and his crew miss it?’
‘They wouldn’t have been using the same equipment as us to explore the wrecks for evidence, and there was no need for them to search the middle wreck. They were more concerned with getting the live ammunition off the barge.’ Horton saw Eames come off the phone and cross to Marsden.
‘They seem to have missed a bloody lot,’ grumbled Uckfield. ‘One of them could be involved. Kevin Manley doesn’t have an alibi for the time of Salacia’s death and neither does Ethan Crombie. Either of them could have arranged to meet Salacia here and kill her.’
‘Were either at the crematorium?’
‘No. They were both here,’ Uckfield replied gloomily. Then he brightened up. ‘But they could have met her on a different day and elsewhere. There’s no evidence she flew into the country on Tuesday, either on a scheduled flight or a private plane. She could have been living locally, or anywhere in the UK for that matter. We’ve assumed an awful lot from that suntan. She might have been to Majorca, or the Isle of Wight, on holiday. I’m going to Swansea tomorrow to see if I can jog Stapleton’s memory about Salacia, and I’ll ask him about that photograph. Can Geoff Kirby be trusted? He’s not making it up, is he?’
‘I don’t see why he should.’
Uckfield began walking to his car, which was parked just inside the cordon. ‘DCS Sawyer’s coming with me and if Stapleton runs true to form we’ll get nothing out of our trip except a blast of wet Welsh air, it’s bound to be raining, always is in Wales. Bliss couldn’t break Maureen Sholby’s alibi but she’s convinced Maureen’s hiding something.’
‘When isn’t she?’
‘I’ve had to release Reggie Thomas. We’ve got nothing on him. Even the threat that Marty Stapleton might send one of his bad boys after him didn’t make him wet his pants and plead for witness protection. So either he’s developed nerves of steel, which is unlikely, or he has an even more powerful protector than Stapleton, or he has sod all to do with it.’
Which wouldn’t please Sawyer. It didn’t look as though it pleased Uckfield either. They drew level with Eames and Marsden.
Eames said, ‘Harry Foxbury lives in Langstone, that’s about five miles out of Portsmouth to the east.’
‘We know where it is, Agent Eames. We work here,’ Uckfield replied frostily.
‘Yes, sir,’ she replied unfazed, adding, ‘I’ve spoken to his wife, who told me that he’s on his boat at Horsea Marina-’
‘And we also know where that is.’
‘Sir. Debbie Foxbury read about the body being found and asked her husband whether he should contact the police but he said, “The yard has nothing to do with me any more.” I didn’t mention the fact that human remains had been recovered. I asked for the name of the boat, and said could Mr Foxbury call us when he returned home.’
Uckfield zapped open his car. To Horton he said, ‘See what you can get out of him. I’ll brief DCS Sawyer about this.’
Half an hour later Eames was keying the security number the marina office had given them into the keypad at the bridgehead. Horton realized that Foxbury’s boat was on the same pontoon as his father-in-law’s yacht. He only hoped Toby Kempton wasn’t on board. He didn’t relish an angry exchange in front of Eames, although Toby was more likely to give him the cold shoulder. With relief Horton saw that Toby’s yacht wasn’t in its berth. Foxbury’s gleaming motor cruiser was, though. It was far bigger and newer than Horton had anticipated and he estimated must have set Foxbury back at least a cool six hundred thousand pounds.
‘That old boatyard must have been worth a lot of money,’ he said quietly. And he’d like to know how much.
Eames hailed Foxbury and a few seconds later a bulky man in his mid-sixties appeared on deck wearing beige shorts and an oversized brightly patterned floral shirt open at the neck to reveal grey hair matching that on his round, suntanned and heavily lined face. Eames made the introduct
ions and asked if they could speak to him.
‘Come on board.’ Foxbury eyed Eames licentiously as she nimbly climbed on deck.
Horton followed suit, quickly surveying the boat and noting the tender on the rear with two powerful Suzuki outboard engines. ‘Nice craft, Mr Foxbury,’ he said admiringly, though it wasn’t to his taste. ‘How long have you had it?’
‘Bought it at the Southampton Boat Show September before last. I used to sail but the wife doesn’t like it. She doesn’t mind this, though, doesn’t mess her hair up.’ He smiled at Eames. She returned it with what seemed like genuine warmth tinged with a dash of coquettishness. Surely she couldn’t fancy the old devil? No, she’d quickly got the measure of Foxbury and was just softening him up. Perhaps there was a side to Eames he hadn’t noticed. Perhaps she was a better cop than he’d given her credit for. And perhaps she hadn’t been seconded to work with him to get close to him as he’d suspected after Sawyer’s visit because she’d not even given a hint that she fancied him. Probably didn’t.
Foxbury continued, ‘With a cruiser you can shoot across to France or the Channel Islands without it taking all day, although I’ve only been to the Hamble today. This is about the body you found at my old boatyard, I take it?’ Foxbury led them below deck. ‘Drink?’ They both refused. He poured himself a glass of white wine from a bottle that was half full before waving them into seats behind the table in the spacious cabin that smelt strongly of alcohol and perfume. He slid onto the seat nearest Eames and at right angles to her. Horton surmised by his heightened colour and slightly clumsy manner that it wasn’t his first bottle of the day. Horton hoped he wasn’t driving home.
‘So who is she?’ Foxbury asked.
Horton felt like asking the same question but his thoughts were on the owner of the perfume, because it wasn’t Mrs Foxbury; Eames had said Debbie Foxbury had been shopping all day and was now at home.
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish, sir.’ Eames reached for the photographs from the jacket resting on her lap and handed across two pictures, one of Salacia with dark hair taken at the crematorium and the other the computer-altered image showing Salacia with fair hair. Foxbury placed his wine glass on the table and took them from her making sure to touch her fingers. Eames didn’t recoil or react in any way. Foxbury sniffed and with a slight frown of concentration studied the photographs. Horton could hear a boat making its way into the marina. ‘Do you recognize her?’ Eames prompted after several seconds had passed.
‘Can’t say I do.’
He placed them on the table. Horton watched him closely. A lie or the truth? He couldn’t tell.
‘How about this man?’ She placed the photograph of Woodley on the table beside the pictures of Salacia.
‘I saw him in the newspapers and on the telly. He’s the one they found dead at the marshes.’ He eyed them curiously. Horton could see him trying to fathom out the connection, or perhaps trying to work out how much they knew.
‘Have you ever seen him before that?’ asked Eames.
‘No.’
Foxbury’s gaze was steady. Horton hadn’t expected him to say anything different. He said, ‘What about Marty Stapleton?’
‘What about him?’
‘You know him?’ Eames asked barely disguising her surprise.
‘Never heard of him. Should I have done?’
Horton swiftly continued, noting that Foxbury was enjoying playing with them. ‘What can you tell us about the three wrecks that are being salvaged?’
Foxbury picked up his glass and took a swallow before answering. ‘One is a Second World War ammunition barge. The navy paid my dad to take several off their hands after the war but that one sunk before he could tow it out into the Solent and he left it there because it would have cost too much to raise. That must have been about 1948.’
Foxbury paused to top up his wine glass. Horton wondered if the gesture was designed to give himself time to think of a lie before continuing. But he had no reason to suspect Foxbury of anything, except that two bodies had turned up in his old boatyard and that was too compelling a coincidence to overlook, especially if they took Woodley out of the equation. But there was no reason to do that. And, as Horton had said to Uckfield, he didn’t think Kirby was lying about the photograph found in Woodley’s cell. The boatyard was also close to Woodley’s home ground and that of his fellow mourners. He left the thought hanging and concentrated on what Foxbury was saying.
‘The wreck on top of the munitions barge was recovered from the harbour. I remember its engine failed and it was towed in. There was an old man on board. I expected him to come back for it but he never did. It was left just off the quayside, slowly rotting, and it broke its mooring in a storm and sank over the barge.’
‘When?’ asked Eames.
Foxbury shrugged. ‘Late eighties, early nineties.’
And was the elderly man their bones? If so then perhaps the bracelet they’d found had no connection with the human remains after all. Horton said, ‘Weren’t you curious why he didn’t return? Didn’t you contact him and ask him to move the yacht?’
Foxbury eyed him as though he were mad. ‘Why should I? I dealt in old boats, and wrecked boats. It didn’t bother me it being there. It was just one of many. If the owner wanted it he had only to return and take it away.’
And had he returned and accidentally drowned while trying to recover it? Or had he been killed because he’d returned and witnessed something illegal? And could that be linked to Stapleton or Foxbury? Foxbury didn’t look uneasy, though.
‘Do you have his contact details, sir?’ asked Eames.
Foxbury eyed her as though she’d just asked him to explain quantum theory. ‘You must be kidding, love.’
‘What was the boat called?’
‘No idea and before you ask we didn’t keep records, or rather we did but only those for the tax man,’ he added somewhat hastily, throwing a glance at Horton.
Yeah, I bet. ‘And the other wreck on top of that?’
‘That was towed around for scrap in 2002. We took off anything that we could sell and we were going to break up the hull when the next morning we found she’d sunk, so we just left her there. And don’t ask me who owned that either because I don’t remember. And I haven’t got any paperwork.’
‘You said “we”, who worked with you?’ asked Eames, her pen poised.
‘They came and went, love. I can’t remember their names.’
Convenient. ‘Didn’t you keep records of employees?’ Horton asked.
‘When I needed to but I wouldn’t have them from back then.’
The law didn’t require anyone to keep records beyond six years. And Horton was guessing that Foxbury employed casual labour and much of that was cash in hand avoiding paying tax and national insurance and all the hassle that went with employing staff. There didn’t seem much more they could learn from Foxbury, but Horton wasn’t ruling him out of the investigation yet. He slid along the seat so that he could stand at the opposite end of the table to where Foxbury was sitting. Eames could slide along after him. He decided not to mention the bones. They’d save that for another time. Taking the hint, Eames put away her notebook and followed suit.
‘Is that it?’ Foxbury asked, somewhat surprised. Horton wondered what he had expected.
‘If you remember the name of the yachts or the people who owned them would you let me know?’ Horton stretched out a business card. Foxbury took it.
‘We’ll find our own way off.’
Foxbury shrugged but at the bottom of the steps up to the deck Horton paused. ‘Can you tell us where you were on Tuesday night, Mr Foxbury, just a formality,’ he added smoothly at Foxbury’s frown.
‘Here.’
‘All night?’
‘No. I came back from the Isle of Wight late Tuesday evening.’
‘With your wife?’
There was a moment’s hesitation and an avoidance of eye contact before he answered. ‘No. Alone.’
&n
bsp; ‘So no one can confirm this,’ Horton asked lightly.
‘Do they have to?’ Foxbury’s expression hardened.
‘What time did you get into the marina?’
‘What’s this got to do with that woman’s death?’ he replied brusquely.
‘You might have seen something at the boatyard.’
‘Well I didn’t. It was dark. I got in about nine thirty and got home around eleven thirty.’
Horton thanked him. As he stepped off the boat he caught sight of a sleek yacht heading towards the pontoon. On it was the lean figure of his father-in-law. That had been a close thing.
Eames said, ‘There was a woman with him on that boat on Tuesday. It could have been Salacia.’
‘Not if it was the same woman who’s been on the boat with him today.’
‘You mean the perfume. He could have broken a bottle of Salacia’s perfume while trying to get rid of her things, which he could have thrown overboard while out on the boat today. Perhaps he took it out hoping to get rid of the smell before his wife goes on board.’
That was possible.
‘And he’s drinking white wine,’ Eames added. ‘A Grand Cru Chablis, I noticed.’
‘Hardly conclusive evidence.’
But Eames was not to be put off. ‘He met Salacia at the airport, took her to the crematorium where she arranged a meeting with Reggie Thomas, or another of Woodley’s mourners, for later. Then he took her back to his boat, where they were for the remainder of the afternoon and evening and where she left her things. He could easily have deposited Salacia at the quayside for her meeting, or alighted with her, stabbed her and tossed her into the sea, before returning here, and without anyone from the sailing club seeing or hearing him. He might be lying about the time he returned here.’
‘He probably is.’ And Horton had another variation on Eames’s theory, which tied in with what he’d said to Uckfield yesterday, that Salacia could have flown into a private airfield on the Isle of Wight, where Foxbury had met her and brought her across on his boat in time for the funeral, or rather in time to meet her contact after it. But theories weren’t hard facts. And he still wasn’t happy with the idea of Foxbury using his former boatyard to dispose of Salacia.
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