Death Lies Beneath (22 page)

Horton said, ‘And now you inherit.’

Patricia Harlow eyed him with something akin to loathing. ‘Yes, though that’s none of your business.’

PC Johnson flushed the upstairs toilet. He was probably searching under the bath. Horton heard PC Allen climb the stairs. That meant he’d found nothing in the two rooms downstairs or in the cupboard under the stairs. Horton leaned back in his chair and kept his eyes on the stiff-backed woman beside him. ‘Where were you and your husband the day Ellie Loman disappeared?’ Horton noted that her hands, clasped together on the table, tightened.

‘I don’t remember.’

‘The day your cousin was accused of murder!’ Horton scoffed. ‘I’d have thought it would be imprinted on your mind. But let me remind you. It was Sunday 1 July 2001.’

‘Then I was at Mass in the morning.’

‘And in the afternoon?’ pressed Horton, knowing there was something she was uncomfortable about telling him.

She shifted position. One hand reached for a tissue from the pocket of her jacket. ‘I went to my aunt’s for tea.’

‘With your husband?’

‘No.’

‘Did your husband go to church with you?’

‘He’s not a Catholic.’

‘So where was your husband, Mrs Harlow?’

‘I don’t see why you should be asking now. No one was interested before.’

Horton said nothing.

After a moment she said, ‘If you really must know, he went fishing.’

‘On a boat?’ Horton asked sharply.

‘Where else would you go fishing?’ she sneered.

From the beach, on a river, beside a lake.
But he didn’t say. ‘On his
own
boat?’

‘Yes. We had a small day boat then.’

‘Then?’

‘Greg sold it a few years ago.’

Had he, though? ‘When exactly?’

‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.’

I will when I find him.
‘The name?’

‘
Tide’s Out
.’

‘Did he go fishing alone on that day?’

‘I think so. I don’t know. Why all this interest?’

‘Where did he keep the boat?’

‘On a mooring in Portsmouth Harbour,’ she said with a note of exasperation.

This was getting even more interesting. So Gregory Harlow must have been familiar with Foxbury’s boatyard, and he had no alibi for the day of Ellie’s death. Horton knew that his expression gave nothing away but Eames had caught on and even though she showed no emotion he could sense her excitement.

He said, ‘If it was on a mooring in the harbour your husband would have rowed out to it.’ And perhaps he had done that from the slipway at the Tipner Sailing Club. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it.

‘I suppose so.’ But her exasperation was tainted with an air of unease.

‘From where?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, come on, you never asked him or went with him?’

‘I certainly never went with him and what he did with his boat was his business. I wasn’t interested in it.’

Unfortunately that had a ring of truth about it.

Eames said, ‘What time did your husband return home that day?’

‘I can’t remember.’

But Horton wasn’t going to let her get away with that. ‘Let me rephrase my colleague’s question, how long was it after you returned from your aunt’s that your husband came home?’

‘A couple of hours,’ she shrugged, but avoided looking at him.

‘And that was when?’ persisted Horton.

She looked annoyed she fallen into the trap. ‘I left my aunt’s at six, Gregory got home around about eight. I can’t see why you want to know all this. We had nothing to do with that girl’s disappearance. We didn’t even know her.’

But she was edgy. ‘Was your uncle at home that day?’

‘No. He was playing golf on Hayling Island.’

Horton wondered if there was any way of corroborating that after all these years. He doubted it. ‘Did he return home while you were with your aunt?’

‘No. And before you ask I don’t know what time he came in. That surely must be in your files.’

Horton would ask Trueman. ‘Did Rawly return while you were with your aunt?’

‘No.’

‘So he still wasn’t back when you left at six?’

‘I’ve just said, haven’t I?’

‘Who arranged your aunt’s funeral?’

She looked surprised at the question. ‘I did, obviously.’

‘Why did you choose that date and time?’

‘It was the only one available,’ she said with irritation. Horton raised his eyebrows in surprise, forcing her to add, ‘And convenient. With Gregory at the Isle of Wight Festival it had to be then. His boss wasn’t very pleased when he asked for the time off.’

‘And neither of you asked this woman to your aunt’s funeral?’ He pushed the photograph of Salacia at her.

She didn’t look at it. ‘I’ve already told you, no.’

And the other mourners had confirmed they didn’t know her.

‘Did you know that Daryl Woodley’s funeral was being held just before your aunt’s?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘How should I have known that? I’ve no idea who he is. I’ve never seen him before or heard of him.’

Horton rose. She looked surprised then relieved. But if she thought she was off the hook she was mistaken. ‘Shall we go into the front room?’ PC Allen entered with a slight shake of his head. With a silent command Horton indicated for him to check outside.

With an explosive sigh of exasperation Patricia Harlow marched out of the kitchen. In the shabby front room she crossed to the window and stood frowning at the police car parked beyond the net curtains. Horton quickly checked his phone and saw the call had been from Sergeant Elkins.

‘I wish you hadn’t been so obvious. It’s most embarrassing,’ she said.

‘Is this your aunt and uncle?’ Horton asked, putting his phone back in his pocket and indicating the faded wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. It, along with a handful of cheap ornaments and a sofa and chair, was all that was left in the room.

She spun round and nodded curtly. Horton studied the young couple in their twenties. She was small with a jolly, pretty little face and looked a bit like a sparrow, while he was tall and slim with a slightly superior expression on his lean face. Losing his money and their son’s death must have hit them hard. He thought of the Lomans: a sad thin woman living in a world that didn’t really exist and her husband barely alive in one that did.

‘Did your aunt ever talk about her son’s death?’ he asked, putting the photograph back and staring around the faded, chilly room with its worn carpet.

‘No. It was too painful for her.’

Horton hadn’t read the suicide note but it would be on the case file, if there was one. PC Johnson appeared in the doorway. Horton excused himself and slipped out into the hall. Allen was with him.

‘There are only a few bits of furniture left upstairs,’ Johnson relayed. ‘Everything’s been cleared out. There’s no correspondence or photographs.’

‘Have you checked the loft?’

‘Yes, nothing up there but dust and mice.’

Horton told them they could go and returned to the front room. ‘Where is your aunt’s correspondence?’

‘There isn’t any except the legal papers.’

Horton studied her closely. It was probably the truth. ‘Do you have your aunt’s photographs?’

‘No. I burnt them.’

‘All of them?’ Horton asked, incredulous. OK, so photographs of his childhood had been destroyed but his circumstances had been completely different. People usually kept some pictures of their relatives unless they hated them, and he’d had no indication that Patricia or Gregory Harlow had hated their aunt and her family. So why destroy them? Out of shame because of Rawly’s suicide? Doubtful. Or because Patricia Harlow was one of those women who hated clutter and wasn’t in the least bit sentimental? Probably.

‘Except that picture,’ she answered, gesturing at the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, ‘and that will go when the last of the furniture leaves. There’s no point in me keeping it. It’s the past. Nobody wants to look back.’

He didn’t but he felt compelled to. Again that shadowy memory connected with Edward Ballard nudged at him.

He said, ‘Do you know where your husband is?’

‘At work, of course.’

‘I’ve just come from the festival and he’s not there. No one has seen him since last night.’

‘Then they’re mistaken.’ She certainly didn’t seem worried or concerned.

‘When did you last speak to him?’

‘I really don’t see—’

‘When?’ barked Horton, making her jump.

Tight-lipped she said, ‘Nine thirty last night.’

That looked and sounded like the truth but it didn’t mean that she didn’t know where her husband was now. She made no further comment and neither did she ask any questions about her husband’s vanishing act, which made Horton think she knew where he’d gone and why. Perhaps he still had that boat, or another one.

Eames offered Patricia Harlow a lift home. She looked as though she wanted to refuse but that would mean either walking or catching a bus or taxi so she grudgingly accepted. When Patricia Harlow was in the car, Horton took Eames aside. ‘What did you get from Harry Foxbury?’

‘He was surprised when I told him about the human remains, but he didn’t look or sound worried. He remembers Ellie Loman as a pretty, friendly young girl. He also remembered her father but claims he hasn’t seen him for years. I asked him for details of the woman he’d been with on Tuesday but he denied being with one. I didn’t press him but he’s lying. And he again denied knowing Salacia.’

‘Did he own a boat in 2001?’

‘Yes. He had two. A small motorboat and a small sailing yacht. He gave me their names but said he sold both of them years ago and he doesn’t remember when or to whom. He was living at Cosham in 2001 and his house didn’t have a swimming pool. I’m still waiting to see if I can get any records on previous employees from 2001.’

He let her go and after she’d driven off he rang Elkins.

‘Ballard has made port in Guernsey,’ Elkins reported. ‘As far as the marina manager in St Peter Port is aware he hasn’t left his boat. He’s told them he’s staying for a couple of nights and the manager wants to know if anything’s wrong. I said we were just keeping a discreet eye on him because of an assault on him in Portsmouth and we wanted to make sure he was OK and not suffering any after-effects. I said he didn’t want any fuss. I didn’t think the manager would buy it but he did. What do you want us to do now, Andy, about Ballard I mean?’

‘Ask the manager to notify you if and when he leaves and if he says where he’s heading. Then let me know.’

Horton rang off. Heading for the station, he wondered if he should call Inspector John Guilbert, a friend of his in the States of Guernsey police, and ask him to keep a prudent eye on Ballard. But that would make it official, unless Guilbert did it on the quiet, and Horton knew he would if he asked him to, and if he had the time, and without asking the reason why. But perhaps he was mistaken and Ballard had nothing to do with DCS Sawyer or Zeus. But if he did, did Sawyer know where Ballard was? Perhaps he should ask him. His Mercedes was in the station car park next to Uckfield’s BMW.

Horton found the Super alone in the canteen tucking into pie and chips. Horton fetched the same and a coffee and sat opposite.

‘Waste of bloody time and petrol going to Wales,’ Uckfield said, forking the pie into his mouth. ‘Stapleton just repeated what he’d told Swansea CID, that he’d never seen Salacia before and he didn’t arrange for anyone to give Woodley a photograph of her. He said he wouldn’t so much as give that bastard a cold. Sawyer said he’d do a deal with him, information on Salacia or Woodley or both, and a hint of where he’d stashed his money and he’d put in a word to the parole board. Stapleton just laughed and said he’d do his time. Still, Sawyer seemed to enjoy the trip,’ he added sarcastically.

‘Where is he?’

‘With Wonder Boy. Don’t know why because I’ve already given Dean an update.’

‘What does he remember about the Ellie Loman case?’

‘Swears blind Rawly Willard killed her, only they couldn’t prove it. He believes that Willard’s suicide confirmed his guilt.’

‘Ellie went off with someone that day with two bikinis and no towel, which the original investigation didn’t pick up, neither did they discover that Kenneth Loman kept a boat and so too did Gregory Harlow, on the trots close to the boatyard and the sailing club. And he was out on it that afternoon.’

Uckfield was looking happier. Horton knew why. Because Dean had messed up.

‘Any sign of Harlow?’

Horton shook his head and told him about his interview with Ross Skelton and Geoff Kirby at the prison ending with the search of Amelia Willard’s house and his interview with Patricia Harlow. ‘I think she knows where her husband is.’

‘Then we’ll ask her less politely if he doesn’t show up soon. Were both the Harlows at their aunt’s wake?’

‘According to the statements of those who were there, yes.’ He’d checked with Trueman.

‘Pity. I was hoping Gregory Harlow slipped out and met Salacia that afternoon for sex, lobster and white wine.’

Horton had been hoping the same, but not so it seemed.

‘She must have met someone else before meeting Harlow at the quay later that night.’

And that brought them back to Harry Foxbury. He said, ‘Foxbury has had a woman on his boat but denies it. Both Eames and I smelt her perfume and he was with someone on Tuesday. It could have been Salacia. She might have arranged to meet him and he doesn’t want to admit it because of her body being found at his old boatyard.’

Uckfield pushed away his empty plate. Between mouthfuls, Horton continued, ‘Harlow could have taken Ellie out with him. She knew the sailing club and the old boatyard and agreed to meet him there. By the time he brought her back they’d rowed. Perhaps she’d refused to let him have what he considered to be payment for a day out. She threatened to tell his wife. He lost his temper, struck her a violent blow across the back of the head as she made to leave him. Then, seeing what he’d done, and that there was no way back, he pushed her body into the sea. Nobody knew they’d been together and the Harlows weren’t even questioned.’

Uckfield took up the theory. ‘Then Salacia shows up. She has to be connected with the Willards—’