Death Lies Beneath (11 page)

‘I was drifting in and out of sleep when I felt the boat rock a little. I knew it wasn’t the tide or wind, different movement. Someone had come on board.’

Horton knew exactly what he meant. He returned and removed the bloody cloth from Ballard’s forehead. Reaching for some antiseptic in the first-aid box he warned that it might sting.

‘I got up quietly and grabbed the torch. I heard a voice. By the time I reached here there was a man over there by the galley.’ Where Ian was standing, watching them while waiting for the kettle to boil. ‘I shouted something, then got the blow on the head, must have spun round and fell, striking the corner of the table.’

‘Can you give me a description of the one you saw?’

‘He was wearing black trousers and a hoodie, but that’s all I caught a glimpse of, slim, young, I think, but I didn’t see his face clearly. It all happened so quickly. I hadn’t locked the hatch, bloody stupid of me I know but I simply thought it would be OK. I went down, the torch went out and that’s all I remember until I came round and staggered up on deck and saw the secur-ity officer.’

Ian placed the mug in front of Ballard. Addressing him, Horton said, ‘Did you see or hear anything?’

‘Nothing. They’d gone by the time I got here and I didn’t hear a motor. They must have rowed here or come by canoe. They could easily have come around by sea from the car park at the end of the road, or from a boat out in the harbour.’

‘Have a word with the harbour master tomorrow, ask him if he heard or saw anything suspicious.’ Horton fixed a large plaster to Ballard’s cut saying, ‘Has anything been stolen?’

‘About two hundred pounds in my wallet, but my credit cards are still there. I’ve come away without a computer and mobile phone. I don’t want to be contacted for a few days.’

Horton didn’t ask why. It was none of his business and a man was entitled to his privacy. He finished dressing the wound. ‘That should do for now, but you should see a doctor tomorrow morning.’

‘I don’t want a fuss.’

‘Fuss or not, you could suffer concussion from that blow to the back of your head,’ Horton said sternly.

Ballard frowned then winced as the gesture tugged at the wound. ‘I’m fine. I’ll be off tomorrow.’

‘Better make it the day after, give yourself a rest day,’ Horton said firmly.

After a moment Ballard gave a weary smile.

‘And perhaps it would be better if you came into the marina on a berth.’

Ian said, ‘I’ll find a suitable vacant berth and help you move the boat first thing in the morning, Mr Ballard.’

‘Good. If you feel sick, Ian will call a doctor.’

Ballard smiled his thanks. ‘I don’t want to make a formal report, Inspector,’ he added. ‘It’s only money. It could have been much worse.’

‘It would help us to apprehend them, someone else might not be as lucky as you.’

‘I’ll feel fine in the morning.’ Ballard sounded and looked determined. And judging by the steely gaze in his intelligent grey eyes in the suntanned, rugged face, Horton saw he had no option but to agree. For now. He might be able to persuade Ballard to change his mind tomorrow, but he doubted it. Ballard said he’d take some painkillers and lie down. Horton asked Ian to keep a very close eye on the boat for the rest of the night and check on him in the morning.

He returned to his yacht, made a coffee and took it up on deck. It was almost three and he was wide awake. The night was sticky, hot and silent. He stared around the marina. All was quiet. He turned his mind to the attack on Ballard. Were Ballard’s assailants the same villains who had stolen that brass propeller from the boatyard in Fareham and from the compound at Northney Marina just across Langstone Harbour? Did they approach the boatyards from the sea? Had they been looking to strip Ballard’s boat of any brass on board? There was usually some on most boats. And had they gone to Tipner Quay on Tuesday night believing there might be metal there, and found Salacia instead? But that didn’t fit with the theory he’d espoused to Uckfield. And after what Sawyer had said Horton thought he could discount the metal theft idea as far as Salacia was concerned. There clearly seemed a link with Stapleton.

He swallowed his coffee, went below and lay on his bunk. Light slowly crept into the sky. The seagulls started squealing. It was four fifty-five. In another hour he’d get up for work. He closed his eyes. When fatigue finally overcame him he dreamt of Salacia, who turned out to be his mother, and Ballard became his father.

‘X
certainly doesn’t mark the spot,’ Horton said, looking at the pavement where Woodley had fallen. He’d asked Eames to park two streets away from the Lord Horatio pub where Woodley had been drinking before the attack. His head was aching from lack of sleep and too many thoughts swirling around it, which had been made worse by the heat in the crowded incident suite and Uckfield’s bad-tempered briefing. The reason for the latter had been made clear as soon as Horton arrived, when Trueman had put in front of him the local newspaper and one of the nation’s most popular daily tabloids. Uckfield was clearly no pin-up. Cliff Wesley had chosen a photograph that showed Uckfield at his fattest and his frowning worst.

‘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 was 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.