Dead Man's Wharf (6 page)

  But it was the night staff that had been on duty so Horton knew they'd have to question them. And without Bliss knowing. He took a bite of his sandwich as Walters continued.

  'The fingerprint bureau found some prints on the cabinet in the basement and on the door. They took the staff's prints. Mrs Northwood nearly blew a gasket. But they haven't done the night staff.'

  'How many are there?'

  'Six, not counting the manager who's off sick.'

  Marion Keynes would be at home and hopefully not too sick to answer his questions, which he intended to put to her later.

  'Go back tonight, Walters, and talk to the night staff. Ask them to call into the station so we can take their prints.'

  'Do I have to?'

  'You got a date?'

  'No, but...'

  A glare from Horton stilled his protest. Polishing off his sandwich, Horton said, 'How did you get on at Oldham's Wharf this morning?' It seemed ages ago now.

  'Nothing was stolen. And there was no sign of a break-in.'

  'Then why report it?' Horton asked, puzzled.

  Walters shrugged his expansive shoulders and the flesh around his jowl wobbled. 'Ryan Oldham said one of his vehicles had been moved.'

  'And that's it?' Horton cried incredulously. 'The driver could have done that!'

  'That's what I said. He didn't go a bundle on it. Told me how to do my job. He wants fingerprints, forensics, the lot. I said I'd see what we could do.'

  'Which is precisely nothing unless you've got more than that.' He hoped he didn't sound like Bliss. But at least he did have a theft at the nursing home to investigate, not to mention a questionable death, two if you counted Peter Ebury. Scraping back his chair, he said, 'Make an appointment for me to see Dr Eastwood.'

  In his office Horton studied the notes he'd made on Irene. She'd been thirty-five when she'd given birth to Peter, which was quite old to have a first child in 1974 when women tended to have them younger. If indeed Peter was her first and only child. Her medical records would reveal this information, but Cantelli would also run a check with the Registrar and HM Revenue and Customs at the same time and get her employment record. He'd also see if could find any record of a marriage.

  He looked up as Cantelli and Walters walked into the CID office and settled at their

desks. Bliss's reprimand rang in his ears.
They're dementia patients, for heaven's sake.

  Irene Ebury had no one to fight her corner. She deserved more than just becoming another statistic. He'd like to find at least one relative or friend who would stand by her coffin and mourn her passing.

  And what about his own mother? There was no record to say she was dead, but perhaps her body had never been identified. Gaye Clayton's words about corpses stacked up in the mortuary made him shiver despite the heat from the radiator. Could his mother be lying in a mortuary somewhere, awaiting the day when someone would claim her? Or had she been buried in an unknown grave without anyone to mourn her death? The thought disturbed him, so hastily he pushed it away and began to shift some of the paper on his desk.

  There were three telephone messages waiting for him. He dealt swiftly with one by ringing the person, another by throwing it in the bin, and then paused over the third. It was Mrs Collins again, insisting they investigate her son's death. Daniel Collins had died in a road accident on Christmas Eve. He'd been drunk. No other vehicle had been involved. This was the third time she had rung. On the second occasion he had asked to see the incident report. It might have arrived by now and be buried on his desk somewhere.

  He found it and flicked it open. Daniel Collins had skidded off the dual carriage and over Salterns Wharf into the sea. It had been his bad luck the tide had been up. He'd drowned. The autopsy had revealed he had been over the legal drinking limit. End of story. Strange coincidence, though, that it was only about half a mile from Oldham's Wharf.

  Horton closed the file. There was nothing they could do, but he wasn't without sympathy for Mrs Collins in her grief. He'd get Walters to ring her back and arrange to visit her.

  Cantelli knocked and entered carrying the local newspaper. 'Walters has made an appointment with Dr Eastwood for tomorrow at eleven fifteen. And I thought you might like to see this. Page three.'

  Horton found himself staring at a photograph of the two TV divers: Nicholas Farnsworth and Perry Jackson. It had been taken on a location dive from one of the television episodes, though where he didn't know. There were some hills in the background that could have been Dorset, but equally it could have been Cornwall. Farnsworth was smiling into camera, his brow glistening with sea water, while beside him Perry Jackson looked as though he'd just swallowed it. Horton read the headline: TV Diver Shrugs off Death Threats.

  'What did I tell you?' Horton said with disgust. 'Those anonymous calls were a pack of lies staged by one of these prats for publicity. And they've got it. Bet one of them went running to the press as soon as we were out of sight. You'll have to buy your own lunches, Barney.' Horton threw the newspaper in his bin and rose, picking up the Daniel Collins file.

  'It still could be genuine,' Cantelli insisted, following Horton out of his office. 'I could get that list of contacts from Corinna Denton, just in case.'

  'Waste of time.' And there was no need to send an officer around to collect those staff and guest lists. Good, because they had better things to do.

  Horton dropped the Collins file on Walters' desk. 'Call Mrs Collins and arrange to see her. But read the file first. We're going to see if we can raise Marion Keynes from her sickbed. I only hope she hasn't got anything infectious. If DCI Bliss asks where we are you don't know.'

'What was all that about?' Cantelli asked, as they headed out of the station.

Horton told him.

  'Such a waste.' Cantelli shook his head and folded a fresh piece of chewing gum into his mouth. 'That stretch of road's a notorious black spot. Even sober it can be nasty.'

  Cantelli lived not far from Salterns Wharf.

  'Did you hear anything about the accident?'

  'No. Too busy making sure Santa got his mince pie and glass of sherry. It was tough facing all that stuff this Christmas with Dad going like that, but you can't let the kids down, can you? Poor woman.'

  Horton knew he was thinking of Daniel Collins's mother and what her Christmas must have been like. She deserved their sympathy.

  Marion Keynes on the other hand didn't. That much was clear from their first encounter, as she glared with open hostility at their warrant cards. When Cantelli asked if they could come in, she shrugged and padded off on fat, splayed feet, leaving them to follow her into a small open-plan room in the narrow terraced house. It stank of stale food, over-stewed tea and cigarettes and looked as though it had been turned over by junkies desperate for a fix. In the midst of the chaos sat two fat boys gazing open-mouthed at a large plasma television screen, where a hyperactive youth in torn clothes was doing an impersonation of someone in excruciating pain. Horton guessed the youth was attempting to sing because there was a microphone glued to his mouth, but he'd heard better sounds coming from a pneumatic drill.

  She reached for a packet of cigarettes on the mantelpiece. 'Why are you interested in Irene? She's dead.'

  'Could you turn the television down,' Horton said firmly but politely, not much caring for her hard mouth and sharp eyes.

  She snatched up the remote control and stabbed at it with a frown. Instantly the two boys howled in protest.

  'Upstairs.' She pointed at the ceiling as if her offspring had no idea where their bedrooms were.

  Neither child moved. The younger one folded his plump arms across his chest and scowled for the Olympics, whereas the eldest glared at Horton as though he'd willingly stick a knife in him. Maybe a few years from now, Horton thought, he would try. He felt like hauling them up and telling them to do as they were told. Judging by Cantelli's unusually fierce expression and his rapid chewing of gum, Horton guessed he was thinking along the same lines.

  Marion Keynes said, 'Take a packet of crisps with you.'

  They shot up with a whoop and yell and like two mini tornados whizzed past Horton and into the kitchen.

  'Kids!' she said, as the boys returned munching their crisps. 'You give them all these toys for Christmas and they're still bored. You've got to blackmail them into doing everything these days.'

  Horton dashed a glance at Cantelli and read in his deep dark eyes, not mine you haven't. A run round the football pitch would do them more good than staring at a television screen, Horton thought, before the gyrating youth started howling above them, as if he'd just taken poison.

  'Turn it down,' Marion Keynes yelled, making Cantelli jump. Nothing happened.

  As she shook out a cigarette and lit it, Horton quickly glanced at the photographs on the mantelpiece. Marion Keynes was the complete opposite to her husband, who was dark haired with a keen face, and had the body of a cyclist or runner. There was a photograph of the couple on holiday abroad. He was wearing a scuba diving outfit whilst she was decked out in a swimming costume. The expression 'a beached whale' flitted into his head.

  They weren't invited to sit, probably because every chair was covered with clothes, toys or magazines. And the room was stifling hot. The gas fire was belting out full blast, and Horton guessed the central heating was also turned up.

  'What did Irene Ebury talk about?' he asked.

  'How she was once Miss Southsea, but you had to take everything she said with a pinch of salt.'

  Horton thought her voice held a trace of spite. And she didn't look to be suffering from any illness that he could see.

  'She used to go on and on about the famous men she'd met and dated when she'd been working in the clubs and casinos. Roger Moore, Ronald Reagan, Dean Martin, you name them, she'd had them all. She even claimed her son was the illegitimate child of Frank Sinatra.' Marion Keynes laughed.

  Neither he nor Cantelli joined in.

  'You stop listening after a while,' Marion Keynes said sharply. 'I've had enough of it. That's why I'm off sick – stress. I'm handing in my notice. I'll probably go back to agency work. It pays more.' She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, but Horton wasn't going to take the hint. If Marion Keynes had stress, then he was Dr Freud. Here was a woman who had fancied a few days off and judging by the state of the room, it wasn't to do her housework.

  'Why do you want to know about her anyway? She was just an old woman.'

  With an unusual edge of steel to his voice, Cantelli said, 'What time did you discover her body?'

  'So, that's it, is it? They're saying it's my fault,' she flashed. 'The bastards! They're covering their backsides. She was dead when I went into her room, and if anyone says any different then they're lying.'

  'Who are
they
, Mrs Keynes?' Horton asked wearily. He'd had enough of Marion Keynes already.

  'Mr Chrystal and his bloody brothers, that's who. They own the Rest Haven and half a dozen old people's homes on the coast. They're probably looking for someone to blame in case the family sue, not that Irene's son is in a position to. Did you know he's in prison?' she said with relish.

  Horton disliked her considerably, and he didn't much care if it showed.

  'What time did you discover Irene?' Cantelli persisted.

  'Five thirty a.m.,' she snapped, glaring at him.

  'Why did you go into her room at that time?' Horton asked.

  'It's when I do the rounds.'

  Horton didn't believe her.

  'Did you hear or see anything unusual that night?' Cantelli spoke again.

  She smiled with a smugness that looked as though it was going to drive Cantelli to violence. Usually the sergeant managed to keep a tight rein on his emotions, despite his half-Italian blood, but this time she'd really got to him.

  She took another pull at her cigarette and said with heavy cynicism, 'It
was
New Year's Eve. The ships' hooters and fireworks were going like the clappers, and there was a party in the street.'

  Which, Horton thought, would have served to cover up the noise of someone entering the building and killing Irene Ebury.
If s
he had been killed. There was that half landing where the stairs turned. The window looked out on to the flat-roofed extension of the kitchen and the gardens beyond. It was, as far as he had seen, the only window which wasn't double glazed. It made a good entry point.

  He said, 'When did you last see Mrs Ebury alive?'

  'I gave her her medication at eight thirty and made sure she was in bed. Then I checked that she and Mrs Kingsway and our other residents were all asleep before . . .'

  'Yes?' prompted Horton.

  'Before we had a drink to see the New Year in,' she said defiantly.

  'We?'

  'The staff. We cracked open a couple of bottles of wine. Well, why not? It was New Year's Eve.'

  'What time did you start drinking?'

  For a moment she looked as though she might tell Horton it was none of his business. Then she said, 'Just before midnight.'

  Horton doubted that. More like nine o'clock, he thought. Maybe Walters would get the truth from the other staff.

  'Why all this interest in her?' she asked.

  'What kind of things did she talk about, apart from being Miss Southsea and her movie star conquests?' Horton knew that the easiest way to avoid answering a question was to ask another one.

  'Not much. I didn't really listen.'

  'When you're on duty, do you use the same office as Mrs Northwood?'