He said, ‘There’s a lot of money sloshing around him and that bothers me. Find out how much he was paid for that land and see what else you can dig up on him. Tax and employment records, associates, property, cars. .’ His words tailed off as a car he recognized pulled up two rows behind theirs.
‘Anything wrong, sir?’
Only my estranged wife’s arrival. Horton said, ‘Find out if the lockmaster knows what time Foxbury left the marina on Tuesday morning and when he returned. Take the car. I’ll wait here.’
With a slight rise of those perfectly shaped eyebrows Eames did as she was told. Horton saw Catherine’s enquiring and slightly hostile gaze follow her before she headed for him.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said waspishly.
‘How is Emma?’ He didn’t see why he should explain anything to her.
‘She’s fine. I-’
‘When is the parents’ evening?’
‘What?’
‘At the school.’
She flicked back a strand of blonde hair. ‘I don’t know.’
Horton laughed lightly and without mirth. ‘You used to be better at lying than that, Catherine. I’ll call the school.’
‘It doesn’t concern you,’ Catherine snarled.
She was referring to the fact that he didn’t pay Emma’s school fees, because her father had insisted on doing so, most probably to cut him out of the family. That would have to be sorted. If anyone was paying for Emma’s education it was going to be him. But he knew what Catherine was doing. It had taken him a while but he’d finally got the measure of her. She was deliberately goading him so that he would lose his temper, and then she’d use that against him, to try and prevent him from seeing his daughter. He’d fallen for it before, he wasn’t going to again. And an idea had occurred to him about how he could get to see more of Emma, without putting her in too much danger from Zeus, or one of his henchmen. It wouldn’t be foolproof and he would need to be vigilant but if he attended the parents’ evenings and other activities his daughter was involved in where parents and guardians were admitted, then he’d at least get to see her.
He said, ‘I’ll see you at the parents’ evening.’ He marched towards the road before Catherine could reply. Only when there did he look back. Catherine was halfway down the pontoon. As though aware of his gaze she halted and turned round. Their eyes connected for a moment before he turned away and began walking towards the marina office to wait for Eames.
ELEVEN
The daytime lockmaster remembered Foxbury’s boat leaving the marina about mid-morning on Tuesday but he couldn’t be specific about the time or when it had returned. He also claimed he hadn’t seen a woman on board but Horton knew she could have been in the cabin below and well out of sight until they were through the lock.
In the incident suite, Eames called the night lockmaster at his home, while Horton updated a weary, hot and cross Uckfield, who was pacing the floor.
‘Anything from Joliffe?’ Horton asked hopefully, glancing at the photographs of the bracelet on the crime board, though judging by Uckfield’s grim expression he already knew the answer would be negative.
Trueman shook his head.
Uckfield said, ‘And the bugger’s gone home.’
Trueman rubbed a hand over his chin as if to say, Think we should too, but he said, ‘We’ve got some information on Victor Riley. He was convicted of armed robbery on a bank in London in 1994. A clerk was shot and paralysed. Riley got twenty years. The Met and the Serious Organised Crime Agency had been after him for years for extortion, robbery, violent assault but he’d been too well protected, until the bank job. He wasn’t on it but he was the organizer. One man grassed on him and gave the Met everything they needed to put him away.’
‘Bet he was popular,’ Horton replied.
‘He went under the witness protection scheme, and there’s no record of who he was and where he is now, or if there is they’re not telling us.’
Eames came off the phone. ‘The night lockmaster didn’t see Foxbury’s boat leave the marina or return. He says the lock was on free flow from between three forty-four a.m. and four thirty-four a.m. so any boat could have gone out or come in during that time without being noticed, but the timing’s wrong for Salacia’s death.’
‘Everything’s wrong in this investigation,’ grumbled Uckfield. He addressed Horton. ‘The divers have recovered all the remains, so see what Dr Clayton can give us tomorrow while I swan off to Swansea, and I won’t be singing in the valleys unless Stapleton decides to join the choir, which is about as likely as Wales winning the World Cup.’
Dismissed, Eames went home and Horton did the same after dropping by his office to find an email from Bliss saying that Walters would be working with her on the possible vehicle fraud operation and the Mason’s Electricals robbery, which she believed Sholby and Hobbs were responsible for. As if he hadn’t told her! There was no mention of the metal thefts, which clearly Bliss had shelved at the scent of a new and more high-profile investigation. If she could get some vital information out of Sholby and Hobbs that could assist in an arrest in the Woodley investigation she’d be ACC Dean’s pet and the Chief’s blue-eyed girl, despite her eyes being green. And that would really hack Uckfield off.
Horton turned to his voicemail, where he found a message from Sergeant Elkins.
‘There’s no sign of any of Woodley’s known associates owning a boat. They still might though because that lot would rather risk a fine if they were caught in the harbour than bother to register it. Nothing new to report on assaults on boat owners or anyone acting suspiciously in Langstone Harbour and no new metal thefts.’
Tomorrow, Horton would ask Elkins to see if he could find any sightings of Foxbury’s boat at any of the marinas on the Isle of Wight for Tuesday.
There was, thankfully, no sign of Sawyer or his car in the marina when Horton reached it, or any unexpected visitor sitting in the cockpit of his yacht, but he’d only been on board a couple of minutes when someone hailed him and he looked out to find Edward Ballard on the pontoon.
‘I wanted to thank you for your help last night,’ Ballard said.
Was that only last night? It seemed like ages ago. Ballard was sporting a clean plaster on his forehead and seemed to have fully recovered from his ordeal. He looked tanned and relaxed in shorts and a polo shirt, and Horton again noted the tautness of his muscles.
‘Think nothing of it. Would you like a drink?’ he asked surprising himself. He rarely went in for company and although he was tired, he suddenly thought that talking to Ballard might free his mind from thoughts of Zeus, the case and Catherine. He didn’t expect Ballard to accept, but he did with alacrity.
‘I won’t stop long, though,’ Ballard added, climbing on board. ‘It’s late and you must be tired. I saw on the news about the murder of that woman at the boatyard and Eddie in the marina office said you were working on the investigation.’
Ballard’s words brought him up sharply. Ballard, like Foxbury, had a powerful motor cruiser, with a tender on it. Where had Ballard sprung from last night? Did he know Salacia? Had he really come here to thank him or was it to pump him for information? But if he was involved then why hang around after killing Salacia, and if he had come into this marina to pump him for information then how had he known that he was on the case and where he lived? No, he was way off beam with that one. He was beginning to feel the effects of the long day and the heat. His brain felt ragged. He, like Uckfield, was simply desperate for some answers and he’d seized on this poor man as hopefully being able to give them a lead on the case. Next he’d be suspecting every passing yachtsman of murder.
Horton offered him a choice of drinks and handed over a Coke before grabbing one himself. He found himself saying, ‘What we don’t understand is why she was at the old boatyard at Tipner. Do you know it?’
‘No. I’ve seen it on the charts though when sailing into the harbour. Do you know why she was killed?’
Horton
gave his stock policeman’s answer, ‘We’re following up a couple of possible lines of inquiry.’ He gestured Ballard into a seat and sank down heavily opposite, across the table.
‘On the news that police officer said you’re trying to establish her identity. You’d think someone would have missed her, a mother, husband, lover, father?’
‘Perhaps there isn’t anyone.’
‘Not even children? A daughter or son?’
There had been one according to Dr Clayton, but as Eames had suggested the child could have been given up for adoption, or died. ‘Perhaps they don’t know that she’s missing.’
Ballard looked thoughtful. ‘I guess she could have told them she was going to be away for a few days.’
‘Or perhaps they’re not a close family and only keep in touch infrequently. Once a year at Christmas is sometimes all some families manage, if that, and, as you say, if she had friends then she might have told them she was going away on business or on holiday.’
‘She appeared to be a nice-looking woman. Her picture was on the news.’
‘Have you ever seen her before?’
Ballard’s head came up with surprise. ‘Me? No. Why do you ask?’
‘I’ve asked so many people it’s become a kind of habit,’ Horton joked, wearily.
Ballard gave a smile. ‘And here’s me making you talk about it when that’s the last thing you probably want to do. I came to say thank you and to tell you that I’m heading off early tomorrow morning.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘France, I think, for a while.’ He took a pull at his drink and surveyed the cabin. ‘Do you live on board?’
‘Most of the time,’ Horton replied, not wanting to be drawn.
‘It’s nice.’
‘Bit smaller than yours, and not as fast,’ Horton answered, taking a swallow of his drink and adding, ‘How long have you had your boat?’
‘Not long.’
‘Been around much in it?’
‘The Channel Islands, Spain, France, here.’
‘Wish I had the time. Are you retired?’
‘Sort of. I have some investments. I dabble a bit here and there.’
Evasive thought Horton but then there was no reason why Ballard should tell him his life story, just as he wouldn’t relay his.
Ballard rose and consulted his watch. A Rolex, Horton noted, and genuine. ‘I’d better be going. Thanks again for your help.’ He had hardly touched his drink. He stretched out a hand and Horton took it noting the firm dry grip and the steady confident eye contact. He thought he detected something behind the eyes in that brief glimpse but he couldn’t define what exactly.
Ballard turned away and climbed on deck. Horton followed him.
‘I’ve asked for any further incidents like the one that happened to you last night to be reported to me. I’ll let you know if we catch whoever attacked you. How do I get in contact?’
‘Forget it. I don’t want any fuss,’ Ballard said, smoothly and pleasantly.
‘It would help us to secure a conviction if you’d press charges.’
‘Sorry, but I’d rather not.’
Horton let him go. He watched him strike out down the pontoon. Before he reached the security gate Ballard turned and raised his hand. There was something in the gesture that tugged at the back of Horton’s mind. It had the smack of a farewell in it. And why shouldn’t it? Horton was hardly likely to see Ballard again.
He stayed on deck long after Ballard had disappeared from view, scouring the marina and the car park. There was no one about and he recognized all the cars in the car park. Why wouldn’t Ballard give him his contact details? OK, so the man was entitled to his privacy but Horton wasn’t just anyone. He replayed their conversation, mentally dissecting it. Had he missed something? Had Ballard merely been thanking him for being a Good Samaritan and making chit-chat about the murder case, or had there been something more to his visit? He recalled that brief eye contact. What had he seen? There was something, he was sure of it but what, he couldn’t define.
He thought back to what he had seen on Ballard’s boat. One cabin door had been ajar but there had been nothing on the ruffled double bed. He hadn’t seen into the other cabin. In the shower room, where he had washed his hands before attending to Ballard’s cut, there had been men’s toiletries: toothpaste, toothbrush, electric razor, aftershave, expensive brand. No women’s toiletries but then Ballard would have cleared them out if they had belonged to Salacia. Could he be involved? Could he be her killer? But why not clear out after her death? Why come into Southsea Marina? Had he wanted to tell him something but couldn’t bring himself to? No, he must be wrong. Then what was it that bothered him so much about Edward Ballard? It was there, at the back of his mind, nagging at him, tormenting him.
He returned to the cabin, and stood just inside it. First Sawyer had shown up here and then Ballard, but had they arrived at the marina in that order? Had Sawyer got here before Ballard? He’d certainly arrived before Horton, which he’d already considered surprising. Had Sawyer known that Ballard was here? Was that why Sawyer had been at the marina? Ballard was connected with Sawyer. Or could he be connected with one of Sawyer’s investigations. And was that investigation to do with Marty Stapleton and Salacia? Or. . Horton stiffened. Was Ballard connected with Zeus? Was that why Sawyer had been here and had warned him?
His eyes swept the cabin. Ballard’s can of Coke was on the table. Reaching into his jacket pocket Horton pulled out a pair of latex gloves, stretched his fingers inside them, and poured the almost full can of drink down the sink. Then taking out an evidence bag he dropped the can inside it, sealed the bag and labelled it: Assault, Edward Ballard, and wrote the date, estimated time and place. Tomorrow morning he’d allocate a crime number and send the can for fingerprints and DNA. It was highly irregular because he hadn’t obtained Ballard’s permission, and whatever he discovered wouldn’t be admissible, but he didn’t think Ballard was connected with Salacia anyway. No, unless he was very much mistaken Ballard was connected with DCS Sawyer and that meant Zeus. And he suspected that when he ran Ballard through the computer tomorrow morning he would find precisely nothing.
TWELVE
Friday
‘There’s not a lot I can tell you about her,’ Dr Clayton announced when Horton arrived at the mortuary early the next morning. He’d already been into work, entered the assault on Edward Ballard on the computer and sent the can off for fingerprints and DNA testing. He’d also spoken to Simon, the marina manager, and discovered that Ballard had paid for his mooring by cash and hadn’t given an address or left a telephone number. There was nothing wrong in that but Horton gave instructions that he was to be informed when Ballard left the marina.
‘Anything wrong, Andy?’ Simon had asked, concerned. Horton had told him he just wanted to make sure that Ballard didn’t suffer any after-effects from the attack. He wasn’t sure if Simon had swallowed it but he’d asked no further questions. Simon had called him on his mobile at eight twenty-five, as he’d been leaving for the mortuary, to say that Ballard had left the marina. Horton had then rung Elkins and asked him to contact the Border Agency to track Ballard’s boat but not to stop it, and to find out if it had been berthed at Horsea Marina on Tuesday night. As he’d predicted, Ballard hadn’t shown up on the computer.
There was nothing more he could do on that score but there was plenty on the matter of the bones laid out in front of him, and he brought his full attention back to them and Dr Clayton. She’d said the remains were those of a woman, which ruled out Foxbury’s elderly man, but the fact that it was a woman made it even more likely there was a link with Salacia’s death. He hesitated to even silently frame the words ‘serial killer’ which the newspapers had emblazoned across their pages. But this serial killer, if it was one, had left a long gap before killing again and the divers had said there were no further bodies lying in the deep.
‘The sacrum is short and wide, not long and narrow as it would be
with a male,’ Gaye Clayton was explaining, ‘and amongst other indicators the sacroiliac joint is small not large. She’s also Caucasian, and from the measurements of the femur and humerus, and consulting the tables we use to determine height, she was five foot one inches. The pattern of fusion of bone ends to bone shaft, plus the general condition of the bones, indicates she was in her early twenties.’
It was a start but he needed more. ‘Any idea when she died?’ Foxbury had said the wreck she’d been found on had been there from the late 1980s and the one above it from 2002, but Horton wasn’t sure he could rely on his evidence.
‘No, sorry. We need to conduct further laboratory tests to determine that, but if blood pigments are present in the bones then it will be less than ten years. We should be able to get DNA from the teeth, which are in good condition.’
But whether it would match with anyone they had on the DNA database was another matter.
Reading his mind Gaye said, ‘I know, you want more. But there’s not much I can tell you. We can compare the degradation rate of DNA extracted from the recovered rib bones to determine the time interval since the death of the victim. And if you don’t get a DNA match from the database we can do a three-dimensional facial reconstruction to give you an idea of what the victim looked like based on the size and shape of the skull.’
All that was helpful but it would also take time and Horton, like Uckfield, was impatient for a speedier result. ‘What about cause of death?’ he asked hopefully while preparing himself for disappointment. But Dr Clayton surprised him there.
She picked up the skull and swivelled it round. Horton found himself staring at a gaping hole. ‘I don’t think such extensive damage was done by it washing up against an underwater obstruction. Of course,’ she added, replacing the skull on the slab, ‘that might not have been the actual cause of death but it does indicate she was struck violently on the back of the head.’
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