All Quiet on Arrival (20 page)

‘I wonder if this humane killer came from Waimatutu Station in downtown Tamorah,' suggested Dave in a quiet aside.

Suddenly the likelihood of having to go to Australia had become more of a reality. That would definitely not please the commander.

‘If Metcalfe had never been to Waimatutu, it's possible that Gregory Horton had,' I said. ‘According to Kate Ebdon, Tamorah is only five miles from Blair, where Horton lives. But we'll have to wait and see what Steve Granger has to say. If Horton's still in Australia, and has been for the last month, that rules him out.'

‘What do these humane killers look like, Doctor?' asked Dave.

‘The one that was found in Somerset, Sergeant Poole,' said Mortlock, ‘was about ten inches long, with a bolt some two inches in length by half an inch in diameter. The bolt is discharged by either a large percussion cap or a blank cartridge. Look it up on the Internet, you'll find all you need to know about it there. As I said at the scene, I'm fairly certain that your victim was surprised by his murderer. He must've approached him, placed the humane killer against his temple and
bang
! Metcalfe wouldn't have seen it coming, and certainly wouldn't have known what hit him.'

‘It's likely, then, that Metcalfe knew his killer,' I suggested.

‘That's only my medical opinion, Harry,' said Mortlock with a cynical smirk. ‘You're the one who's faced with the problem of working it out.'

‘Miss Ebdon said that there are quite a lot of Australians in Earls Court,' put in Dave. ‘It's possible, I suppose, that one of them could have been a farmer in a past life.'

‘Haven't you been listening, Sergeant Poole? I told you that they're used in this country, too,' said Mortlock irritably, as he put on his jacket. ‘Try the local abattoirs.'

‘Well, that's given us something to think about, Dave,' I said, as we arrived back at Curtis Green. In the incident room, I told Colin Wilberforce of Dr Mortlock's suggestion that a humane killer was the murder weapon.

‘See what you can find out about abattoirs in the area, Colin. It's a long shot, but it's something we've got to pursue.'

‘I'll Google it, sir.'

‘Whatever it takes,' I said, once again failing to understand what Wilberforce was talking about. It didn't help that I thought he'd said ‘gargle' it.

He turned to his computer and played a tattoo on the keyboard. ‘There we are, sir,' he said a minute later, and turned the screen so that I could see it. ‘There are some in the East End of London, but the rest are in the Home Counties.'

‘Nothing anywhere near Earls Court?'

‘No, sir, not according to this.'

‘Thanks, Colin.' I turned to Dave. ‘I can't see anyone bothering to travel all the way from the East End to murder an Australian in Earls Court, Dave.'

‘From what Linda found at Talleyrand Street, guv, we're fairly certain that Metcalfe was a drug dealer, and drug dealers must have suppliers. Perhaps Metcalfe reneged on a deal, and the supplier turned nasty.' Dave paused. ‘And the supplier might just have worked in an abattoir,' he added, anxious to make his point.

‘Thanks for that,' I said, and shook my head. ‘I don't know, Dave. We start off with a nice domestic murder in fashionable Chelsea, and now we're looking for a murdering abattoir worker who sidelines as a drug supplier. I think we'll let that one sweat for the time being. Unless you can turn up something.'

Just before midday on Friday morning, I got a message from Steve Granger asking me to call on him at the Australian High Commission. Leaving Dave to puzzle over the abattoir problem, I took Kate Ebdon with me.

After a bit of amusing Australian backchat between Steve and Kate, we sat down in Granger's comfortable office, and accepted his secretary's offer of coffee.

Granger took a sheet of paper from his desk, and sat down in the armchair next to mine.

‘Gregory Horton,' he began.

‘Got something good, Steve?'

‘Depends which way you look at it, Harry. The AFP man in Darwin visited Horton's place in Tandy Street, the address in Blair you gave us. It's a bar, but it's closed, and has been shut since some time in early July.'

‘Was Horton still there?'

‘No. It looks as though he's gone walkabout. And his wife's disappeared too. HQ in Canberra checked with Immigration, but they've got no record of Horton leaving the country. Mind you, that's not foolproof. There are plenty of ways to get out of Australia without the authorities knowing.'

‘But he wouldn't have been recorded leaving anyway, would he, Steve, being an Australian?'

‘He's still a Brit, Harry. He never took out Australian citizenship.'

‘What's known about this bar of his?'

‘According to the local copper, Greg's Bar – that's what it was called – had been going downhill for a long time. Horton was apparently a miserable bastard, and the locals decided they weren't going to drink there anymore. Like everywhere else in Australia, there are plenty of bars in Blair.' Granger looked up and smiled. ‘Believe me, Harry, if you don't have an Australian's beer poured and on the counter the moment he walks in, you're in deep trouble.'

‘Anything about Beth Horton, Gregory's wife?'

Granger laughed. ‘In a manner of speaking. She was born Elizabeth McDonald in Sydney, and is twenty-three years old. According to the locals she's regarded as a bit of a charity moll.'

I glanced at Kate. ‘Translate, please.'

‘A part-time prostitute, guv. Usually does it for free.'

‘Rumour has it that quite a few of the locals have enjoyed her favours,' Granger went on, ‘and it seems that it was only her flaunting herself behind the bar that kept the business going. But eventually the clientele even got fed up with her. Or she got fed up with them. The Northern Territory's not exactly the place for a Sydney girl.'

‘Horton's father said that Gregory was a mining engineer, Steve.'

‘In his dreams,' said Granger. ‘The local NT copper learned that he'd worked as a labourer at a bauxite mine in Gove Peninsula for a short while. Before arriving in Blair, that is. I reckon he must've been spinning his old man a yarn. Probably so he didn't look like a drongo.'

‘An idiot,' interpreted Kate, before I'd even glanced in her direction. ‘A no-hoper.'

‘There's some suggestion that at one time Greg – he was known to everyone as Greg – got fed up with his wife hopping into other men's beds,' Granger continued, ‘and they split up for a while. But he realized that he couldn't manage without her, and took her back.'

‘And there's no indication where they might have gone,' I said.

‘None,' said Granger. ‘One day the bar was open, but in the early part of July the shutters went up, and it hasn't been open since. If, as you say, he's just inherited eighteen million pounds, he's probably made for Sydney or Melbourne. And that was very likely his wife's idea. Although I don't see that he would have shot through
before
he got news of his inheritance. That doesn't make sense.'

‘There's a lot about this job that doesn't make sense, Steve,' I said. ‘You mentioned earlier that the Patersons at Waimatutu Station in Tamorah didn't know Metcalfe, but was there anything to suggest that they might've known Greg Horton?'

‘No, Harry. Is there any reason for you to think that they did?'

‘Only that Bruce Metcalfe was killed with a humane killer, at least according to our pathologist. And they're used on farms.'

‘Well, that's original.'

‘I don't suppose Greg Horton had a record, had he, Steve?'

‘No chance. Whatever else he was, Horton wasn't a crim. He got involved in punch-ups with customers once or twice a week, but that's par for the course in Australia, and no one bothers about it. Our man did get a warrant, though, and searched his bar. He found a photograph hanging on the wall, and the locals identified the subjects as Greg and Beth Horton.' Granger handed over copies of a photograph of a smiling couple, their arms around each other's shoulders. ‘Might be some help in tracking down the guy if you think he's here in the UK now.'

When we got back to Curtis Green, I handed the photograph of Gregory and Elizabeth Horton to Colin Wilberforce, and gave him what details we knew of the couple.

‘Get that put on the Police National Computer, Colin, and I think we'll run them in the
Police Gazette
. The usual caveat: establish present location, but not to be questioned or alerted to our interest.'

‘What's next, guv?' asked Kate.

‘Next, Kate, is we pay the Hortons another visit at Pinner. They might have had recent contact with Gregory.'

The Hortons' two cars were parked side by side outside En Passant, their house in Pinner, indicating that the couple were at home. They didn't strike me as the sort who would ever have walked anywhere. Except, in Horton's case, around a golf course.

‘Ah, the policemen,' said Katya Kaczynski. She glanced briefly at Kate. ‘And woman,' she added, and opened the door wide.

Faye Horton was exactly as we had found her previously, watching television in the sitting room.

‘Oh, not again!' she exclaimed, when Katya showed us in. She cast a critical eye at Kate, now dressed in her usual white shirt and jeans, and clearly did not like what she saw.

‘Is your husband at home, Mrs Horton?' I asked.

‘Yes, of course. He's working in his study. I suppose you want to speak to him,' said Faye Horton. Without awaiting my reply, she somewhat wearily picked up the internal telephone, and told her husband that the police were here again.

A few moments later, Maurice Horton strode into the room, an expression of annoyance on his face.

‘What the hell is it now?' he demanded angrily. ‘You'd better sit down,' he added, suddenly remembering his manners.

‘Inspector Ebdon has obtained details of the Bartons' wills, Mr Horton. We thought you might be interested.'

‘Why should I be?'

‘I gather that you were anxious to obtain the shares in your property company that were held by Mrs Barton.'

‘It would have been useful,' said Horton. ‘And now that Diana's dead, I'm naturally curious to know what's happened to them.'

Kate took the file from her briefcase and opened it on her lap. ‘As I'd anticipated, Mr Horton, Diana Barton's will left her estate to James Barton, and his will reciprocated by leaving his estate to her. However, as he died within twenty-eight days of Diana, his estate automatically reverted to her, and the entire combined legacy went to your son Gregory. That estate, in stocks, shares, property and cash, amounts to approximately eighteen million pounds.'

‘That's outrageous!' exclaimed Horton, showing some emotion for the first time since we'd met him.

‘My God!' muttered Faye Horton, who until then had maintained an attentive silence, but had not missed a word of what Kate had been saying. ‘What on earth is that little waster going to do with all that money? It's a great shame you weren't able to find Diana before she died, Maurice.' There was a heavy note of censure in her last comment, tinged with a regret that so much money had eluded them. But I wasn't quite sure how finding Diana would've avoided the money going to Gregory.

‘You know I tried, Faye, but that enquiry agent was unable to find her.' Horton made a placating gesture with his hands.

That interested me greatly. Simkins had told me that not only had he traced Diana Barton, but had informed Horton where she could be found. He'd also discovered details of James Barton's directorship, and passed those on as well. I was not about to betray Simkins's confidence, but I found it rather curious that Horton should maintain this fiction.

I could only presume that, for some reason best known to himself, he didn't want his second wife to learn that he knew where Diana was living. That might all be nonsense, of course; Faye Horton could've seen Simkins's report. It was also possible that Maurice Horton had commissioned Bruce Metcalfe to murder Diana, but I couldn't see the point of that; he must've worked out, or guessed, that her estate would go to James Barton.

On the other hand, Horton might have hoped, in the event of James dying before Diana, a good chance given the age difference, that she would have been charitable enough to bequeath the all-important shares to her ex-husband. It was also possible that, despite his denial, Maurice
had
spoken to Diana, and that she'd promised that the shares would be his in the event of her death. If that were the case, she'd virtually signed her own death warrant.

But, all things considered, Diana Barton's murder might've had nothing to do with the shares. Maurice Horton was a rich man, and had perhaps been carrying on an affair with his ex-wife. I'm a pretty good judge of women, and to me Faye Horton looked a touch frigid. Diana, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.

‘You might be interested to know, Mr Horton,' I said, ‘that we've identified the man who we're fairly certain murdered Mr and Mrs Barton. He was an Australian named Bruce Metcalfe.' I wondered if that would produce a reaction confirming my somewhat doubtful theory that Horton had had something to do with Metcalfe's death.

Horton raised his eyebrows. ‘You have? Have you charged him?'

‘No, we—'

‘Why ever not?' demanded Horton.

‘Because he's dead,' said Kate bluntly. ‘Somebody murdered him.'

Horton shook his head. ‘Who would've done that?' It was a pointless question, and I wondered if Horton was thinking aloud. Or had he murdered Metcalfe, and was putting up a smokescreen?

‘We've no idea,' I said.

‘Have you been in contact with Maurice's son in Australia?' Faye Horton asked me suddenly. She'd obviously been fretting about the eighteen million pounds her nominal stepson had just inherited.