Deadly Waters (18 page)

Horton remained silent, forcing Uckfield to continue in a calmer tone. ‘OK, so what would he have done with these overalls?’

Horton said, ‘Dumped them in a bin. Put them in his car to get rid of them later. Threw them into the sea along with the murder weapon. After all, he’d only have to run across this field,’ Horton gestured at the expanse of green behind the toilets. ‘Then it’s over that slope and he’d be on the promenade, and down on to the beach, and on a night like this there wouldn’t be many dog walkers or joggers about to see him.’

Uckfield groaned. ‘So he gets clean away.’

‘Unless the CCTV cameras along the seafront have picked him up.’

‘Right, get a team to search the field and all the bins along the seafront from Eastney to Old Portsmouth tomorrow. And get me the CCTV tapes now. We’ll view them in my office in . . .’ Uckfield consulted his watch, ‘half an hour’s time.’

‘The chief’s put a rocket up his backside,’ Cantelli said, watching Uckfield climb into his car and drive away.

‘Uckfield needs to prove himself to his daddy-in-law,’

Horton said without sympathy. ‘You get off home, Barney.

No, I insist, you’re no good to anyone like that, and Charlotte will kill me if I let you work half through the night in your state. I’ve got one death on my conscience already, I don’t need another one.’

‘Andy, you weren’t to know about this.’

‘Yeah. I’ll see you when you’re fit.’

Cantelli was too tired and too ill to protest. Horton phoned the instructions through regarding the CCTV tapes and stayed at the scene until Dr Clayton arrived. There was little she could add to Price’s information except to confirm that she believed Edney had been killed, rather than had taken his own life and that she would do the post-mortem tomorrow morning.

Taylor told him that there was no knife in the toilets.

A uniformed constable and a WPC had broken the news to Daphne Edney. They told Horton, back at the station, that she hadn’t exactly appeared heartbroken, but she had been very angry with her husband for being so stupid. Horton couldn’t blame her for that. Also he knew it was the shock. Later the full impact of her loss would hit her and then her grieving would start. She was a sharp-tongued, frustrated woman, and he didn’t much like her, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t sorry for her. An officer had volunteered to stay with her, but she wasn’t having it. Horton wasn’t surprised at that. He hoped her son would provide some comfort for her when he returned from America, where, she had said, he was a doctor.

It was the early hours of the morning when Horton at last went home. He had viewed the tapes with Uckfield and Trueman in Uckfield’s office. They told them little. There had been no sight of any blood-spattered individual climbing into a car. A few vehicles had been parked outside and near the public toilets during the afternoon. Trueman would get officers checking out the car owners tomorrow, or rather today Horton thought with a yawn as he climbed off his Harley at Southsea Marina. He was exhausted. It had been a long and emotionally charged day. For a moment Edney’s death had blotted out the anguish of seeing Emma again. He had been glad of the distraction. That seemed heartless, but he didn’t mean it to be. He hadn’t wanted Edney killed. Indeed he hadn’t expected it though he should have done after seeing the man in such a state at the school. Perhaps his personal problems had clouded his judgement?

He asked Eddie in the office if Ranson’s Island Packet yacht had moored up in the marina or on the pontoon outside and got the same answer that Elkins had received from Oyster Quays, Gosport Marina and the Town Camber. There had been no sign of him.

He showered and changed and lay on his bunk. Ranson could have caught a train to Portsmouth from wherever it was he was staying, for example Brighton, Southampton, the Hamble. There were so many marinas around the coast. He could have sailed into Cowes on the Isle of Wight and caught the ferry and train. Horton had asked Elkins to try and locate just where Ranson and his family were.

Horton had checked with Chichester marina and Ranson’s Range Rover was in the car park, and according to their security cameras had been there all day, which bore out the theory that he had driven there from his home, which was in Bosham, on Saturday morning, climbed on board his yacht and sailed away.

Horton rubbed his eyes; his head was thumping. Why should Ranson kill Edney? If it was just the matter of his affair with Langley then why hadn’t Ranson killed Daphne Edney to silence her? And why had Ranson chosen to kill Edney in those public toilets? He could have made it a hell of a lot easier by picking some toilets nearer to a marina. Was it because the mulberry was connected with the Second World War and the toilets were near the D-Day museum? It didn’t make much sense. Time to sleep on it. Perhaps some new evidence would come to light during Sunday.

Horton resigned himself to a sleepless night full of thoughts of Ranson; visions of Edney with his throat slit, and Emma smiling up at him, but he slept surprisingly well with only a few dreams to trouble him. He awoke charged up and determined to get the answers to this case, but the day dragged by with little to show for it and what did come in only served to frustrate him further.

There was no sign of Ranson and his boat in any local marina, so Horton widened the search, wondering if Ranson had already done a flit with his family.

Cantelli had called in sick. Horton guessed that Charlotte had put her foot down. Probably the sensible thing to do, given it was Sunday. Knowing Cantelli the way he did, Horton was certain he’d be back on the job tomorrow.

Checking into the incident room, Trueman told him that none of the cars seen outside the public toilets were registered in Ranson’s name and neither did they match up with the list of names gathered from the school.

Horton went through the list to see if any of the names rang any bells with him. They didn’t. He thought back to Langley dressed in her black trouser suit, her missing laptop computer, probably with her diary on it, and what Susan Pentlow had told him.

‘Does anyone mention in their statements being disciplined by Langley on Thursday, Dave?’

Trueman shook his head. ‘No. And no one, except those we already know about, had a meeting with her.’

And that was Leo Ranson, Susan Pentlow and Tom Edney.

‘Any ideas on where she went lunchtime?’

‘No.’

So, they had reached a dead-end. Horton telephoned the mortuary. Gaye Clayton must have completed the autopsy on Edney by now.

‘Your victim was immersed in water before having his throat cut,’ Gaye said. ‘I found some algae in the bloodstream. He swallowed some water, struggled, let more water in and was weakening when his head was pulled back by the hair, before his throat was slit from left to right.’

The poor sod. Horton shuddered. Someone had pushed his head into one of the washbasins while he’d been bending over it, perhaps washing his hand. Suddenly something clicked.

Horton sat upright. ‘
Here we go round the mulberry bush
.’

‘Huh?’

He didn’t realize he’d spoken aloud. Feeling the excitement of knowing he was on the right track he said eagerly, ‘The nursery rhyme. Langley was placed on the mulberry, ‘
Here
 
we go round the mulberry bush’
and the second verse is about washing hands.’ And aloud he quickly ran through it.

‘This is the way we wash our hands,
Wash our hands, wash our hands,
This is the way we wash our hands
On a cold and frosty morning.’

Gaye caught his meaning. ‘And the fourth and last verses are about school.’ It was her turn to chant:

‘This is the way we go to school,
Go to school, go to school,

This is the way we go to school
On a cold and frosty morning.

This is the way we come out of school,
Come out of school, come out of school,
This is the way we come out of school,
On a cold and frosty morning.’

It had nothing to do with the war. ‘The school is the link,’

Horton said.

‘I hope you’re not expecting another victim in a launderette.

The third verse is about the way we wash our clothes.’

Christ! He sincerely hoped not.

‘This doesn’t tie in with “The Owl and the Pussycat”

though,’ Gaye said.

‘Doesn’t it? We’ve got a killer whose got a thing about nursery rhymes and comic verse.’ And Horton recalled seeing some children’s books on the back seat of Ranson’s Range Rover.

Gaye said, ‘Your murderer is right-handed, and if you think it is the same person who killed Langley then remember she was struck on the right side of the head, most probably by a left-handed person, though that might not have been the person who suffocated and killed her.’

Did they have two killers at large? It was possible, but Ranson could have an accomplice. ‘What kind of knife was used, doctor?’

‘A single-bladed kitchen knife.’

‘Which are two a penny.’

‘Precisely.’

Horton immediately briefed Uckfield who groaned.

‘I can just see the headlines if this gets out.’

So could Horton and he didn’t go a bundle on it himself.

Being the investigating officer, he guessed he’d come in for a fair amount of stick from the tabloid writers who would eagerly be trawling their childhood memories and kiddies’

nursery-rhyme books to find witty headlines.

Uckfield continued, ‘Does this mean we have to put a watch on all the bloody launderettes in the city?’

‘Not if Ranson’s our killer. We’ll pick him up when he returns home. The marina manager is calling us as soon as his boat goes through the lock.’

‘Where the hell is he?’

Horton didn’t answer.

The minutes ticked into hours. Horton waited impatiently.

He had almost given up hearing anything that day when the call came through at ten past seven to say that Ranson had returned.

‘Right, get out there and arrest the bastard,’ declared Uckfield when Horton told him, but before Horton had gone two steps the big man’s phone rang and he waved at Horton to stay put.

Horton watched the expressions on Uckfield’s face turn from puzzlement to anger and then finally exasperation as he slammed down his phone.

‘The bugger’s got a watertight alibi,’ he roared, rising and pacing the room. ‘Is nothing straightforward with this bloody case?’

‘What alibi?’ Horton asked sharply, feeling disappointment well up in him.

‘That was Sergeant Elkins. Leo Ranson and his loving family have been safely tucked up in the Channel Islands, Guernsey. He moored up in St Peter Port at midday on Saturday and didn’t leave until lunchtime today. So he can’t be Edney’s killer.’

Horton’s heart sank. ‘Was Leo Ranson definitely on board?’

‘Oh, yes. The marina manager spoke to him when he came in. And the whole family attended a party last night on shore in the yacht club. The manager himself was there. So unless 
he’s
lying and in on these murders you can kiss good-bye to your theory.’

Damn! He’d been wrong. Then he recalled what Dr Clayton had said about Edney’s killer being right-handed and the person who struck Langley was left-handed.

‘Ranson might not have killed Edney, but that doesn’t mean to say he didn’t kill Langley.’ Horton saw a glimmer of hope dawn in Uckfield’s rather bloodshot eyes. Horton went on,

‘Ranson has given himself the perfect alibi for Edney’s death.

Why else take his wife and kids away sailing at the end of October?’

‘Why not? I do it, or I would if I didn’t have such incompetent and sick staff.’

Horton didn’t rise to the bait. ‘He could have got someone else to kill Edney.’

‘Like who?’

How the hell do I know? thought Horton with desperation.

He wasn’t going to give up on this one yet. ‘I’d like to catch Ranson off guard and I know what will really rile him.’

Disturbing him at work he thought, recalling the architect’s manner at that first meeting at the Sir Wilberforce Cutler School.

Uckfield sucked in his breath and then let out a heavy sigh.

‘OK, but remember if you don’t get this bugger by Friday I’ll be handing the case over to DI Dennings.’

‘Do you know, I’d almost forgotten that?’ Horton said with heavy sarcasm. As an exit line he thought, maybe it wasn’t half bad.

Monday: 9.30 a.m.

Horton took PC Seaton and WPC Kate Somerfield out of uniform and set them to keep a watch on Ranson’s house.

He didn’t want the bugger slipping out and killing anyone else, and he didn’t want him doing a moonlight flit. Somerfield reported the next morning, that Ranson hadn’t gone anywhere except to his office in Southsea at eight a.m.

‘Is he there now?’ Horton asked glancing at his watch, as Cantelli knocked and entered his office.

‘No, sir. He left there fifteen minutes ago. He’s at Nettleside High School. There’s a board outside that says, ‘Ranson and Rawlings are the architects of the new sports hall’.

Ranson seemed to specialize in schools. Another factor which slotted in with his choice of nursery rhyme. ‘Right, we’re on our way. Call me if he leaves. Glad to see you back, Sergeant. You’re just in time for school.’

‘The Sir Wilberforce Cutler?’

‘No, the high school in Old Portsmouth. It’s where we might find our killer. I’ll brief you on our way there.’

Twenty minutes later Horton and Cantelli walked into reception. It wasn’t half term in the private sector. After showing their ID, the receptionist paged the school caretaker and asked him to locate Leo Ranson. Horton knew that Ranson wouldn’t run away, why should he if he thought he was in clear? If he were guilty then he would be curious to know how far the police had got with their inquiries. And if he were innocent?

Then he’d be one very tetchy man.

He saw the receptionist pick up the phone and punch in a number that was clearly an internal extension. She spoke quietly into the receiver but her eyes kept glancing up at them.

He guessed she was calling the bursar or the school business manager to say there were police officers on the premises. He stepped away from the desk to examine a large organization chart opposite. At the top was the head teacher, dressed in cap and gown, Dr Simon Thornecombe BD, DD, MBBS, BSc (Hons.), PGCE, MBA.