Death Lies Beneath (15 page)

‘Convenient. Anything turn up from the interviews of Amelia Willard’s mourners?’ He hoped that at least one of them might have seen Salacia exchange a word or glance with someone.

‘No. And we’ve run them through the computer, they’re all clean, not so much as a driving conviction amongst them. And the six sailing-club members who were in the club the night Salacia was killed don’t remember seeing her or a car.’

Horton relayed what had happened at the prison and asked Trueman to pull everything they had on Victor Riley and to tell Uckfield that he’d need to check with the Intelligence Directorate.

On the ferry, Eames went up on deck to call her boss at Europol. Horton took the opportunity to call his solicitor but his fingers froze over the phone as Sawyer’s warning flashed through his mind:
We don’t believe you’re in imminent danger because Zeus needs to know who you are and how much you know first.
Would Zeus use Emma to find out how much he knew? His blood turned to ice and he shuddered despite the heat. With sick bastards like Zeus was reputed to be, threatening to hurt someone you loved was a way of getting you to cooperate. And perhaps Zeus would want a tame copper in his pay. Rigid with fear for Emma and furious with Sawyer for letting his words influence him Horton made to ram the phone back in his pocket when it rang.

‘What?’ he bellowed at it.

‘You all right, Andy?’ came Trueman’s surprised voice.

‘Yeah, fine, what is it?’ Horton grunted, trying to control his fear and anger.

‘Can you get over to Tipner Quay. Marsden says the divers have found something and I’d like you to check it out before we tell the Super.’

‘Salacia’s handbag?’ asked Horton, eagerly. Or it could be the murder weapon.

‘No, a bracelet, and it’s still attached to what’s left of an arm.’

‘Shit! Whose arm?’

‘No idea. But it isn’t Salacia’s, both were accounted for,’ Trueman said somewhat facetiously.

Horton rang off after saying they’d be there in about twenty minutes. He gave Eames the news. She looked surprised and then thoughtful, and as they sailed past the ancient walls of Old Portsmouth he knew she was thinking the same as him. How on earth did this link with Woodley and Marty Stapleton?

T
he divers had recovered a humerus, a femur, a pelvic bone and a skull. Clarke had been and gone and Horton, using his mobile phone, had taken a photograph of the bracelet before despatching it in an evidence bag to Joliffe for forensic examination. He showed the picture to a very hot and troubled Uckfield, who had arrived a few minutes ago. ‘It looks like an identity bracelet.’

‘Worn by a Second World War serviceman?’ Uckfield asked hopefully.

Hardly, thought Horton, but he knew why Uckfield had suggested it. He was thinking of the munitions barge and if the item and the bones were those of someone from the war it meant they could put this investigation on a slow burner and concentrate on the current one.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Steve, it’s modern, and the kind a woman would wear. As you can see it’s small, chain-linked with an oblong flat surface in the middle. Once Joliffe’s examined it we might get more.’ He didn’t dare say such as a name, because he didn’t want to push their luck. He hadn’t seen anything inscribed on it, but it had been filthy and he hadn’t wanted to tamper with it and destroy any evidence they might possibly get from it, which after being immersed for so long he guessed was unlikely.

‘It could have been washed up near the bones and have nothing to do with them,’ Uckfield suggested hopefully.

‘It was found entangled around the radius and ulna at the lower end, the wrist.’ Horton indicated one of the bones laid out on a black plastic sheet in front of them on the quay. ‘The bones weren’t displaced from the munitions barge either. They were on the second wreck.’

‘Doesn’t mean this is homicide, though.’ Uckfield was clearly determined to stick to his viewpoint. ‘Whoever it was could have been killed accidentally or committed suicide.’

‘But that still begs the question, why there are two deaths in this boatyard?’

‘All right, no need to rub it in and hang a bloody great neon sign on it.’ Uckfield exhaled and ran a hand through his short dark hair. ‘Is this linked with Marty Stapleton?’

It was a question Horton had discussed with Eames when they’d seen the first of the remains brought up by the divers. They were still diving for further bones.

‘Eames says there’s nothing on file that Stapleton was ever in Portsmouth or used this route to get his stolen goods out of the country but the Intelligence Directorate and Europol might not have discovered that.’

‘The rate we’re carrying on we might as well blame Marty for the sinking of the
Mary Rose
.’

Horton permitted himself a smile. ‘I don’t think he was around in Henry VIII’s day.’

‘Have you checked? Probably some scumbag relative of his opened the portholes or whatever they had in Tudor warships. You think Harry Foxbury, the previous boatyard owner, might have something to do with this?’

‘I can’t see why Foxbury would want to kill Salacia here and draw attention to another body unless he’s some kind of nut,’ and that was possible, although Horton had never heard of any trouble with Foxbury. Trueman had confirmed he was clean when he’d run Foxbury through the computer. ‘But he must know something about the wrecks. Eames is trying to contact Foxbury now.’ Horton glanced in her direction across the boatyard. She seemed to be having some success because she was speaking into her phone. Marsden stood a discreet distance away from them obviously still wary of Uckfield’s wrath, talking to the officer-in-charge of the diving operation.

Horton added, ‘Foxbury might be able to tell us how long the wreck has been submerged, which might give us some idea of when this person died, and Dr Clayton’s going to examine the remains in the morning. The divers will recover what they can tonight. We’ve got about two hours of daylight left. But the wreck won’t be raised until tomorrow.’ He’d instructed photographs and a video recording to be made using specialist underwater cameras and the position of the remainder of the bones to be mapped before being recovered. Tomorrow a forensic archaeologist from the university would examine the video footage for an in-depth analysis of the wreck.

Uckfield turned away. ‘How on earth did Manley and his crew miss it?’

‘They wouldn’t have been using the same equipment as us to explore the wrecks for evidence, and there was no need for them to search the middle wreck. They were more concerned with getting the live ammunition off the barge.’ Horton saw Eames come off the phone and cross to Marsden.

‘They seem to have missed a bloody lot,’ grumbled Uckfield. ‘One of them could be involved. Kevin Manley doesn’t have an alibi for the time of Salacia’s death and neither does Ethan Crombie. Either of them could have arranged to meet Salacia here and kill her.’

‘Were either at the crematorium?’

‘No. They were both here,’ Uckfield replied gloomily. Then he brightened up. ‘But they could have met her on a different day and elsewhere. There’s no evidence she flew into the country on Tuesday, either on a scheduled flight or a private plane. She could have been living locally, or anywhere in the UK for that matter. We’ve assumed an awful lot from that suntan. She might have been to Majorca, or the Isle of Wight, on holiday. I’m going to Swansea tomorrow to see if I can jog Stapleton’s memory about Salacia, and I’ll ask him about that photograph. Can Geoff Kirby be trusted? He’s not making it up, is he?’

‘I don’t see why he should.’

Uckfield began walking to his car, which was parked just inside the cordon. ‘DCS Sawyer’s coming with me and if Stapleton runs true to form we’ll get nothing out of our trip except a blast of wet Welsh air, it’s bound to be raining, always is in Wales. Bliss couldn’t break Maureen Sholby’s alibi but she’s convinced Maureen’s hiding something.’

‘When isn’t she?’

‘I’ve had to release Reggie Thomas. We’ve got nothing on him. Even the threat that Marty Stapleton might send one of his bad boys after him didn’t make him wet his pants and plead for witness protection. So either he’s developed nerves of steel, which is unlikely, or he has an even more powerful protector than Stapleton, or he has sod all to do with it.’

Which wouldn’t please Sawyer. It didn’t look as though it pleased Uckfield either. They drew level with Eames and Marsden.

Eames said, ‘Harry Foxbury lives in Langstone, that’s about five miles out of Portsmouth to the east.’

‘We know where it is, Agent Eames. We work here,’ Uckfield replied frostily.

‘Yes, sir,’ she replied unfazed, adding, ‘I’ve spoken to his wife, who told me that he’s on his boat at Horsea Marina—’

‘And we also know where that is.’

‘Sir. Debbie Foxbury read about the body being found and asked her husband whether he should contact the police but he said, “The yard has nothing to do with me any more.” I didn’t mention the fact that human remains had been recovered. I asked for the name of the boat, and said could Mr Foxbury call us when he returned home.’

Uckfield zapped open his car. To Horton he said, ‘See what you can get out of him. I’ll brief DCS Sawyer about this.’

Half an hour later Eames was keying the security number the marina office had given them into the keypad at the bridgehead. Horton realized that Foxbury’s boat was on the same pontoon as his father-in-law’s yacht. He only hoped Toby Kempton wasn’t on board. He didn’t relish an angry exchange in front of Eames, although Toby was more likely to give him the cold shoulder. With relief Horton saw that Toby’s yacht wasn’t in its berth. Foxbury’s gleaming motor cruiser was, though. It was far bigger and newer than Horton had anticipated and he estimated must have set Foxbury back at least a cool six hundred thousand pounds.

‘That old boatyard must have been worth a lot of money,’ he said quietly. And he’d like to know how much.

Eames hailed Foxbury and a few seconds later a bulky man in his mid-sixties appeared on deck wearing beige shorts and an oversized brightly patterned floral shirt open at the neck to reveal grey hair matching that on his round, suntanned and heavily lined face. Eames made the introductions and asked if they could speak to him.

‘Come on board.’ Foxbury eyed Eames licentiously as she nimbly climbed on deck.

Horton followed suit, quickly surveying the boat and noting the tender on the rear with two powerful Suzuki outboard engines. ‘Nice craft, Mr Foxbury,’ he said admiringly, though it wasn’t to his taste. ‘How long have you had it?’

‘Bought it at the Southampton Boat Show September before last. I used to sail but the wife doesn’t like it. She doesn’t mind this, though, doesn’t mess her hair up.’ He smiled at Eames. She returned it with what seemed like genuine warmth tinged with a dash of coquettishness. Surely she couldn’t fancy the old devil? No, she’d quickly got the measure of Foxbury and was just softening him up. Perhaps there was a side to Eames he hadn’t noticed. Perhaps she was a better cop than he’d given her credit for. And perhaps she hadn’t been seconded to work with him to get close to him as he’d suspected after Sawyer’s visit because she’d not even given a hint that she fancied him. Probably didn’t.

Foxbury continued, ‘With a cruiser you can shoot across to France or the Channel Islands without it taking all day, although I’ve only been to the Hamble today. This is about the body you found at my old boatyard, I take it?’ Foxbury led them below deck. ‘Drink?’ They both refused. He poured himself a glass of white wine from a bottle that was half full before waving them into seats behind the table in the spacious cabin that smelt strongly of alcohol and perfume. He slid onto the seat nearest Eames and at right angles to her. Horton surmised by his heightened colour and slightly clumsy manner that it wasn’t his first bottle of the day. Horton hoped he wasn’t driving home.

‘So who is she?’ Foxbury asked.

Horton felt like asking the same question but his thoughts were on the owner of the perfume, because it wasn’t Mrs Foxbury; Eames had said Debbie Foxbury had been shopping all day and was now at home.

‘That’s what we’re trying to establish, sir.’ Eames reached for the photographs from the jacket resting on her lap and handed across two pictures, one of Salacia with dark hair taken at the crematorium and the other the computer-altered image showing Salacia with fair hair. Foxbury placed his wine glass on the table and took them from her making sure to touch her fingers. Eames didn’t recoil or react in any way. Foxbury sniffed and with a slight frown of concentration studied the photographs. Horton could hear a boat making its way into the marina. ‘Do you recognize her?’ Eames prompted after several seconds had passed.

‘Can’t say I do.’

He placed them on the table. Horton watched him closely. A lie or the truth? He couldn’t tell.

‘How about this man?’ She placed the photograph of Woodley on the table beside the pictures of Salacia.

‘I saw him in the newspapers and on the telly. He’s the one they found dead at the marshes.’ He eyed them curiously. Horton could see him trying to fathom out the connection, or perhaps trying to work out how much they knew.

‘Have you ever seen him before that?’ asked Eames.

‘No.’

Foxbury’s gaze was steady. Horton hadn’t expected him to say anything different. He said, ‘What about Marty Stapleton?’

‘What about him?’

‘You know him?’ Eames asked barely disguising her surprise.

‘Never heard of him. Should I have done?’

Horton swiftly continued, noting that Foxbury was enjoying playing with them. ‘What can you tell us about the three wrecks that are being salvaged?’

Foxbury picked up his glass and took a swallow before answering. ‘One is a Second World War ammunition barge. The navy paid my dad to take several off their hands after the war but that one sunk before he could tow it out into the Solent and he left it there because it would have cost too much to raise. That must have been about 1948.’

Foxbury paused to top up his wine glass. Horton wondered if the gesture was designed to give himself time to think of a lie before continuing. But he had no reason to suspect Foxbury of anything, except that two bodies had turned up in his old boatyard and that was too compelling a coincidence to overlook, especially if they took Woodley out of the equation. But there was no reason to do that. And, as Horton had said to Uckfield, he didn’t think Kirby was lying about the photograph found in Woodley’s cell. The boatyard was also close to Woodley’s home ground and that of his fellow mourners. He left the thought hanging and concentrated on what Foxbury was saying.