Death Lies Beneath (31 page)

A message on Horton’s desk and another on his voicemail from Sergeant Elkins had said that Ballard had left St Peter Port, they weren’t sure when. He must have slipped out. No one had seen him go.

Eames pulled up outside a shabby block of flats not far from the leisure centre in the north of the city, and close to where Woodley had lived. It also wasn’t far from the old boatyard. Eames pressed her well-manicured finger on the dirty intercom, while Horton noted the peeling and scuffed paintwork, the rubbish lying around in the forecourt and the rotten windows. She hadn’t asked why they were here and he could see that she had been rapidly trying to work it out. Perhaps she had by now.

A man’s wary and wavering voice answered. Eames quickly introduced them and added, ‘We are quite happy to wait here, Mr Sanderling, while you call the police station to verify who we are and to push our identity cards through your letter box or put them up against your window.’

‘No. Come in.’

The buzzer sounded and they stepped inside. Horton registered the dirty hallway, scratched paintwork and the smell of urine and rubbish.

A door to their right was opened by a grey-haired, well-built man in his late seventies dressed in a petrol-blue cardigan over a check shirt and grey trousers. Horton made to show his ID when the elderly man forestalled him. ‘I know who you are and why you’re here.’

They followed Lawrence Sanderling through the tiny vestibule into a small living room with old-fashioned furniture and a threadbare carpet. Seeing and interpreting his glance, Sanderling said, ‘Not much for a man who once used to run a company, live in a large house not far from Edgar and Amelia near the seafront, own a boat, privately educate his daughters, and was married to a lovely woman.’

‘Sharon Piper and Leo Garvard,’ said Horton sadly.

‘Yes.’ Sanderling waved Horton into an ancient chair with a sagging cushion in front of the electric fire. Sanderling drew up a hard-back chair and gestured Eames into it, before pulling up one for himself.

‘It was my own fault,’ Sanderling said, once settled. ‘I was stupid enough to believe them and greedy enough to fall for their lies, but I wasn’t the only one and I thought if it was good enough for Edgar then it was good enough for me. Sharon was his niece, for God’s sake.’

‘You saw her when you came out of the toilet at the crematorium.’ Because this was the man Horton had stepped aside for when he, Uckfield and Marsden had followed Woodley’s mourners to the front of the crematorium.

Sanderling nodded sadly before a spark of life and anger flashed in his grey eyes. ‘There she was dressed to the nines looking well and wealthy. Living off my money and other fools like me, laughing and tucking her hand under the arm of a man. I nodded at her and she blanked me. She didn’t even remember who she had once fleeced.’

‘Even if she had I don’t think she would have cared.’

‘No.’

‘You should have come to us.’

Sanderling lifted a shoulder. His body seemed to be curling up in itself. ‘I couldn’t stomach going into Amelia’s funeral after seeing her. I decided to follow them.’ He glanced up at Horton. ‘I had no idea why or what I was going to do. I was on some kind of autopilot and very, very angry, not a showy sort of violence but something deep inside me had snapped. It was eating away at me, driving me on. She got in a car parked in the overflow car park where I’d left mine. I always park there when I go to funerals at the crematorium, and there seem to be a lot of them at my age, it’s easier to slip away. He got into a big silver four-by-four, Toyota Land Cruiser. I didn’t know then where he went but I followed her to Gregory and Patricia Harlow’s house, where she sat in the car. When the funeral car arrived she climbed out and crossed to them. There was a brief exchange between them and then Sharon got back in her car and drove to Horsea Marina. I saw her get on this boat with the man she’d met at the funeral.’

Horton had been correct about that. Skelton’s motor boat had been impounded. On it was a RIB that Skelton used as a tender and Horton had been told that, like Foxbury’s, it had a powerful Suzuki 300hp engine on it, or rather twin engines, powerful enough to whip him across the Solent in fifteen minutes. Horton was betting that Skelton had returned to the mainland from the Island then used his RIB to cross back to the Solent, he’d moored up in Wootton Creek or at Fishbourne and walked to Firestone Copse, where he’d arranged to meet Harlow. There he’d killed him, walked back to the RIB and returned to the marina or moored up outside it and returned to the marina the next day or Saturday. All this they would painstakingly check.

Sanderling was saying, ‘I had no idea how long she intended to stay on the boat with this man. It might be all night. I wanted just one glimpse of recognition from her, or one sign of remorse.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘I certainly wasn’t going to get that. The longer I sat there the more I thought back over my life, remembering how it had once been. I thought too of Edgar and Amelia and poor Rawly and the anger grew. It was a cold, calm sort of rage, as though everything had suddenly became very clear. I knew what I had to do.’

He took a breath. In the silence Horton heard the rain start up again, thrashing against the window, and the solemn ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, where there was a photograph of a couple that was clearly Lawrence Sanderling and his late wife. In the flat above a dog began barking incessantly and a baby started crying.

‘Then just as I thought I’d be in the car all night she came down the boardwalk and got into her car.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Ten fifteen. She headed for Portsmouth. For a moment I thought she must know where I lived and was coming to see me. See how stupid I am,’ he said with a bitter laugh. ‘But she turned off and headed for the old boatyard at Tipner. I stayed well back because there are no street lights there and I didn’t want her to see me. I knew there was no other way out except that road, or by sea. So after a while I followed her, dimmed my lights and pulled up at the sailing club.’

Eames interjected. ‘Were there any cars there?

‘No. And it was in darkness. I had a torch in the car. I saw her waiting on the quayside. I headed for her. She must have heard me because she swung round. Perhaps if she hadn’t spoken I wouldn’t have killed her.’

Eames interrupted. ‘Sir, I should warn you that—’

‘Oh, don’t bother with all that now, you can caution me or whatever later. Besides even if she hadn’t spoken I guess I still would have killed her. After all, what have I got to lose? A prison cell has got to be better than this dump and I’ll be fed and kept warm.’

Eames flicked Horton a sad glance.

Sanderling continued. ‘Besides I didn’t only have a torch in my hand, as you well know. I also had the knife I use for gutting fish, which I keep in the car along with some other bits for fishing, when I get invited out. She said, “Who are you? What do you want?” I said something like, “You don’t remember your victims, then?” But why should a woman without a single shred of conscience, an evil wicked woman, remember the people she had destroyed? She told me to go away. And that if I didn’t she’d call the police and have me arrested for pestering her. I said, “Go on then call the police and I’ll tell them what you and that boyfriend of yours did to me, Edgar Willard and countless others.” That pulled her up sharpish for a moment then she said she didn’t know what I was talking about, and that obviously I was confused, suffering from some kind of dementia, and that people like me should be locked away in a home. She turned away. I grabbed her, caught the chain of her handbag on my arm, it broke and fell. She made to turn. I still had hold of her and I plunged the knife in her back and thrust her into the sea. I remember staring down at the water thinking, Good, now you won’t destroy anyone else’s life. I put the handbag in the boot of her car and drove it to the multi-storey car park at the ferry port. The car had a foreign number plate and I thought it was the natural place for it. It must still be there, unless you’ve found it.’

They hadn’t because they’d only recently got the registration number and no one had thought to check a legitimate car park for it. They’d been looking for it abandoned or flashed up somewhere.

Sanderling said, ‘I returned to the boatyard, got in my car and came home.’ He looked at both of them in turn. ‘I’ve been following the investigation on the news. I’ve been waiting for you to come. I didn’t know there was another body down there. Is it connected with that wicked woman?’

Horton answered, ‘We believe it to be the remains of Ellie Loman.’

Sanderling’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘Was she murdered?’

‘Yes.’ Horton knew he shouldn’t say anything about the case but Sanderling, although a killer – and Horton couldn’t condone what he had done – should know. ‘But not by Sharon Piper, although she knew about it. Patricia Harlow killed Ellie.’

‘My God!’ A veil of sadness touched his eyes.

Eames rose. ‘Would you fetch your coat, sir? Is there anyone you’d like to call? Your daughters perhaps?’

‘No. There’s no one.’ At the door he said, ‘When you’re old people stop noticing you.’

Yes, and that had been Horton’s mistake. He had thought nothing of the man going to the toilets in the crematorium until less than two hours ago. And if had recognized the significance of him earlier perhaps he could have saved two lives.

H
orton stepped out of the station and gazed up at the pale pink sky in the calm, fresh morning. The streets were silent. It had been a long night. They’d taken statements from Loman and Sanderling, both had refused to have a solicitor present, neither man seemed concerned about what would happen to him. Loman would probably receive a suspended sentence unless Patricia Harlow died but even then he would in all likelihood escape prison given the circumstances behind the attack, unless he was very unlucky with the Judge. And Sanderling? Horton simply didn’t know.

He took a breath. Uckfield had been bouncing around the station with a big grin on his craggy face, elated at clearing up one of Dean’s failed cases and disappointed that there was no one around to hear him crow about it. Monday though would be different. Horton thought they would hear about it on Ben Nevis. Uckfield would get his revenge on Dean for pulling in DCI Bliss to review one of his cases. He’d gone home about an hour ago along with an extremely tired Trueman and a weary and relieved Marsden because Uckfield in his joy had forgotten all about the press debacle. Only Eames remained inside the station. Horton thought he should call Mike Danby and tell him about Ellie Loman’s murder. Or perhaps he’d delegate that to Eames. Danby was staying in one of her family’s properties, after all.

He heard footsteps behind him. Eames.

‘Thought you’d like to know, sir. A call’s just come through from the hospital. Leo Garvard died this morning at three thirty-three.’ She looked as tired as he felt. Fatigued she appeared vulnerable, more approachable, and even more beautiful. He experienced a strong yearning to wrap his arms around her and hold her, which he quickly nipped in the bud, not without some difficulty. What was the point? She was out of his reach and she’d be returning to The Hague on Monday. He knew that wouldn’t have stopped other men from trying and might even have made seducing her more attractive but he wasn’t most men. He didn’t want a one-night stand. He wasn’t sure if Eames would want that either. God, he didn’t even know her first name.

‘Did they tell him what had happened?’

‘Yes, but whether he heard . . .’ She shrugged. ‘He was unconscious.’

Horton knew though that hearing was the last sense to leave a person. So perhaps Garvard did know, and knowing, he had finally let go.

Eames continued. ‘We might discover who left the photograph of Sharon in Woodley’s cell now that Garvard is dead. I’m assuming that Garvard had the photograph all the time.’

‘Probably, but I don’t think anyone’s going to admit to putting it in Woodley’s cell.’

Eames considered this for a moment before saying, ‘And Ross Skelton attacked Woodley and because he made a hash of it first time he picked Woodley up from the hospital and took him to the marshes where he left him to die.’

It was the conclusion that Uckfield had drawn and the timing of Woodley’s visit to the coffee stall seemed to match it, although they didn’t have the exact date for when Iris saw him. Uckfield’s reasoning behind it was that Skelton had been planning to join forces with Sharon. ‘He
was
a crook and a killer,’ Uckfield had reiterated. ‘Woodley must have told Skelton, under Garvard’s instructions, that Sharon had a scheme he’d be interested in that would make him a great deal of money but that no one should know about it. That would have been enough for Skelton to silence Woodley. He proved himself a killer with Gregory Harlow’s death. He followed Woodley to the pub, waited until he came out then attacked him but he botched it. Then he picked Woodley up and took him to the marshes.’

‘How did he know Woodley was going to leave the hospital?’ Horton had thrown in.

In exasperation Uckfield had answered, ‘Skelton telephoned him or visited him and spun him some yarn about someone being after him and that he’d help get him away.’

It was the theory that Uckfield was clearly going to stick to, and one which would never be disapproved. It meant the clearing up of another case, and a notch on Uckfield’s proverbial promotion belt, but Horton said to Eames, ‘Skelton didn’t attack Woodley.’

She frowned. ‘Lawrence Sanderling couldn’t have attacked Woodley and neither did Patricia or Gregory Harlow, so if Skelton didn’t, who did?’

‘When we catch our metal thieves we’ll ask them,’ Horton said.

She looked at him in surprise.

‘Whoever struck Woodley was disturbed doing it. Our metal thieves were in the area that night, not at the church, but the date matches that of when they stole that bronze statue from a garden in Old Portsmouth and a fountain from the wine bar. They cut through the back streets in their van and prevented Garvard’s instructions from being carried out. Woodley was expendable, a messenger boy. He’d delivered the message and needed to be eliminated.’ His words suddenly conjured up Edward Ballard. Several thoughts galloped through Horton’s mind but he was too tired to even grasp one of them as they flashed past.