Footsteps on the Shore (14 page)

‘Wait until Monday when someone in the major crime team can help with the calls.’ Horton quickly relayed the progress on the Venetia Trotman investigation, which didn’t take long, because there was so little to report. He told Cantelli about Uckfield now favouring Felton for Venetia Trotman’s murder and why – because it was all he had.

Cantelli said, ‘Kelly Masters was at Kempton’s. She claimed she had a lot of paperwork to catch up with but I think Toby Kempton ordered her there when he knew we were coming. I asked her if Luke had requested a sub on his wages. She said not.’

‘You believe her?’

There was a short silence while Cantelli considered this. ‘She sounded surprised at the question, but I don’t see why she should lie.’

And neither did Horton, which meant that Luke Felton had lied to his brother, Ashley.

Cantelli continued. ‘Walters says that Rookley’s sister claims she hasn’t heard from him for twenty years and doesn’t want to for another twenty. She also says they haven’t had any relatives buried in the cemetery for donkey’s years. Oh, and Luke’s prison medical file will be with us on Monday, unless Superintendent Uckfield can persuade the prison authorities to send it over quicker.’

So, Sunday was stalemate day. The shops might be open, the loonies and muggers might be out, but no one they needed to talk to would be working. Trueman would quietly and methodically dig away – metaphorically speaking – at gaining information on Felton and the Trotmans, while Dennings would physically dig away at Willow Bank, where hopefully he would be up to his knees in mud and soaking wet. But, knowing Dennings of old, he was probably inside the house supping tea, leaving the other poor plods outside. Dennings, like Uckfield, was of the view that there was no point in having rank and not using it.

Both Walters and Cantelli were meant to be off duty tomorrow and Horton could see no reason why they still shouldn’t be. He, on the other hand, wanted to be around in case Trueman discovered anything pertinent on Luke Felton or Venetia Trotman, and he had one or two things he wanted to follow up, such as talking to ex-Detective Superintendent Chawley about the Natalie Raymonds case, and viewing the CCTV tapes from the seafront in the hope he might spot his graffiti artist.

He headed back to the station, checking for anyone following him and wondering if he should move his boat on the high tide in case his stalker returned and wanted to do more than just draw pictures. The earliest he could do so would be around 11 p.m., but this weather might prevent him. And that would mean another sleepless night with half an eye and ear cocked for any sign of his nocturnal visitor.

Reaching his office, without incident or spotting his persecutor, he checked his messages. PC Seaton had left a note before going off duty to say that he’d drawn a blank with the bus drivers for sightings of Luke on the bus routes on Tuesday night. That didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t caught a bus, only that none of the drivers had observed him. And Felton could have reached Portchester on foot or hitched a lift.

Horton drafted a press statement about the body on the harbour and emailed it to someone in communications to issue it to the media, which would probably be done on Monday.

As he made his way to the third floor and the drug squad offices, he hoped that Hans Olewbo might be able to tell him more about Rookley’s whereabouts, but the drug squad, it appeared, was closed for the weekend. Fetching sandwiches from the canteen, Horton took them to the incident room. Uckfield was in his office on the phone.

‘Anything new?’ Horton asked Trueman, fetching a beaker of water from the cooler.

‘Nobody’s dug any bodies up yet, if that’s what you mean,’ Trueman answered. ‘But it’s early days. I’ve got the results from the few fingerprints taken at the house, which could be the victim’s, but I can’t check if they match yet because we’re still waiting on Dr Clayton.’

Stretching across his mobile phone Horton said, ‘Take a recording of my anonymous caller, Dave, and see what Forensic get on it.’ He should have remembered earlier but it had got overlooked with everything else happening. He was very keen to trace the foreigner, though he judged it was going to be impossible from that one call. Remembering the manner of the call and the man’s disappearance from the scene, Horton thought again that there must be a connection with the victim, or her late husband. Unless he happened to be a delivery driver, or someone calling to cut the trees or clean the windows, or something similar, which was possible, although the tone
had
conveyed urgency and menace. He said as much to Trueman, who nodded wisely and said they were already looking into that.

‘I’ve also got a list of Felton’s fellow inmates,’ Trueman said, ‘the ones who shared a cell with him, and those released over the last six months, but it’s going to take some time checking if they have any connection with the Trotmans because we don’t have any photographs of Joseph Trotman, and we don’t know his real name. It’s a bit like pissing in the wind.’

Horton agreed. To make any headway they needed to find out who the Trotmans really were, and he wasn’t sure they were going to do that unless Uckfield got a breakthrough from his media appeal.

‘Do you recall anything about the Natalie Raymonds murder?’ he asked, biting into his sandwich.

Trueman didn’t even blink at the change of subject, but then Horton hadn’t expected him to. He said, ‘I wasn’t involved in it but I remember Detective Superintendent Chawley was heading it. He was a clever copper, sharp as a razor, and popular too. It was a good result and quick, one of those cases that was over before it began. Wish I could say the same for this one.’

‘Could you get me his address? I’d like to see what he remembers about Luke Felton.’

‘Sure.’

Horton crossed to study the photographs on the crime board. There were several now of the garden, the house and the lane approaching it, and some of where the boat had been moored. Trueman had also managed to find photographs of a similar make of yacht to the Trotmans’. A thought flashed through Horton’s mind, but before he could express it Uckfield’s office door crashed open and the big man emerged, pulling on his camel coat.

‘Dr Clayton’s finished the autopsy on Venetia Trotman and she’s gone all coy, insists on seeing me. Says she’s got something interesting to show me. I told her I’ve seen a corpse before but she clammed up, won’t tell me on the telephone what she’s found. I reckon she fancies me.’

In your dreams, thought Horton.

‘You can chaperone me in case she wants my body.’

‘For medical science you mean?’ muttered Horton, looking at the remaining sandwich in its packet – he doubted he’d have much appetite for it after another visit to the mortuary. ‘Present for you, Dave,’ he tossed it to Trueman, who caught it, examined it and said, ‘Thanks.’

In the car, Horton asked if anyone had seen the yacht,
Shorena
, going through Portsmouth Harbour.

Uckfield shook his head. ‘The bloody thing’s vanished.’

‘Perhaps it’s had a change of identity,’ Horton said, voicing the idea that had occurred to him while studying the pictures on the crime board.

Uckfield threw him a glance. ‘You mean while we’ve been fannying around asking about
Shorena
the bugger’s renamed her. Isn’t it bad luck to change a boat’s name?’

Horton nodded.

‘Good,’ Uckfield replied fervently. ‘I hope our killer gets swept overboard in a ruddy great storm, and gets hypothermia, concussion and his bits chewed off by the sea life before the lifeboat rescues him. How would he have had time to change the name?’

‘Easy. He came prepared with a sticker already made up and simply stuck it over the yacht’s existing name.’

‘A planned job then?’ Uckfield asked, indicating off the motorway. ‘Would Felton have the brains for it?’

Yes, thought Horton, recalling that Ashley Felton had said his brother had won a place at Oxford. ‘It could still be boat thieves who’ve done it a hundred times before, only this time Venetia Trotman surprised them.’

‘I’ll get a picture of a similar yacht circulated, and coppers walking the pontoons, checking every bleeding yacht of that type, and its owner.’

‘It could be in France or the Channel Islands by now.’

‘Then I’ll alert the authorities and the police there.’

They passed the rest of the short journey in silence. Horton wanted to ask whether Uckfield was still keen to get Dennings off his team but didn’t. If he was, then he would have mentioned it.

They found Dr Clayton in her office looking tired. But then, Horton thought, who wouldn’t be after the two thorough autopsies.

She began by confirming the time of death. ‘Between one thirty a.m. and four thirty a.m. on Friday. There was no salt residue on her clothes but there was grass and mud, which is what you would expect to find. I’ve sent her clothes and shoes to the lab along with samples from her skin and hair. I understand you’re having problems confirming her identity, Superintendent, a bit like your body in the harbour, Inspector Horton.’ She flashed him a brief smile before turning her gaze back to Uckfield.

‘Brian will let you have copies of her fingerprints and dental records before you leave and he’ll email them to Sergeant Trueman. All I can tell you for now is that your victim was a petite woman, five foot two and small boned. She’s probably in her mid to late thirties, has never had children or a pregnancy that went to full term, and isn’t a virgin. There are no distinguishing marks or tattoos on her and neither has she had any surgery or suffered broken bones. In fact, she was remarkably healthy. Good muscle tone, particularly in the legs.’

‘A runner?’ Horton asked, interested, as his mind flashed to Natalie Raymonds. Not that that was relevant, except for the possible link of Luke Felton. But Venetia Trotman could hardly have been out jogging in the early hours of the morning wearing her clothes.

Gaye said, ‘Possibly. She certainly liked to keep fit.’

Uckfield removed his finger from his nose. ‘I can’t see her belonging to a gym.’

‘She could have been a dancer.’

‘Or a walker.’ Horton recalled the walking shoes in her house. Perhaps she had kept fit by going for long walks along the shore.

Moodily, Uckfield said, ‘OK, we’ve had the edited highlights, now tell us how she died?’

Gaye rose and beckoned them to follow her to the icy cold room just off the mortuary, where she slid open the drawer. Horton steeled himself once again to study the body.

Pointing, Gaye said, ‘You can see the lacerations where she was bludgeoned across the head, face and neck.’ She pointed to the discoloured and cut skin. ‘Those wounds were inflicted by a heavy round metal object. I’m getting the traces of it analysed. But although the trauma to the face and head could have killed her, they didn’t. They were inflicted
after
she was dead.’

‘To make us think that was the cause of death?’ asked Horton.

‘Perhaps, but it was a clumsy attempt to do so. It wasn’t a frenzied attack, it was calculated.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Horton sharply.

‘Because she was stabbed in the neck.’

Horton looked up in surprise. ‘Isn’t that unusual?’ He’d only come across a neck stabbing once in his career and that was when he’d been a constable in uniform on patrol on a hot summer night in the city centre, when soaring temperatures and alcohol had led to searing passions, jealousy and death.

‘It is.’ Gaye closed the drawer. ‘As you well know, stab wounds to the chest and back are far more common than those to the neck. But stab wounds to the neck can cause rapid death, as in this case, which could be why it was the method used. The weapon severed the vagus nerve and caused severe internal haemorrhage, hence no bleeding externally, except from the other lacerations inflicted with the yet unidentified blunt instrument after death, and they were minimal.’

‘Would the killer have blood on him as a result of bludgeoning her?’

‘Only splashes, because she was already dead. The stabbing was inflicted by a very sharp serrated knife about four inches long and two inches wide. And your killer also seems to have known exactly where to strike and how far to penetrate to kill almost instantly.’

Horton glanced at Uckfield. Did this mean their killer had killed before, and in the same manner? But Luke Felton hadn’t used a knife; he’d strangled Natalie Raymonds and then bludgeoned her, which accounted for the blood on his clothes. ‘Any idea what kind of knife?’

Gaye thought for a moment. ‘It could be a small, sharp vegetable knife, but as the victim’s yacht is also missing then it’s just as likely it could be a sailing knife taken from the boat, the kind you use for slicing rope in an emergency.’

Uckfield rounded on Horton. ‘Did you see one on board?’

‘Not that I remember, but I was hardly taking an inventory.’

Uckfield scowled. Gloomily he said, ‘It’s probably at the bottom of the sea.’

‘You never know, Dennings might find it in the garden.’

Uckfield snorted. To Dr Clayton he said, ‘Any chance of getting a decent photograph of her?’

Gaye walked towards the benches on the far side of the room. ‘I’ll pull something together with the aid of the computer and Inspector Horton’s description and email it across to you. But I haven’t finished yet.’

Horton caught the edge of excitement in her voice and felt a tremor of anticipation. Uckfield halted.

Gaye continued. ‘The victim was discovered with her right hand tightly clenched, which was the result of a cadaveric spasm. It’s very unusual and confirms my findings that she died almost the moment the weapon was plunged into her neck. When we unlocked her hand it wasn’t empty.’

Horton felt his pulse quicken. Uckfield eyed her keenly.

She reached across the bench for a small plastic evidence bag. ‘This was in it.’

Uckfield took the bag and Horton found himself staring at a small flat key. It clearly wasn’t a house key: the wrong size, shape and style. So where did it belong? And why had it been in her hand when she was killed?