Death Lies Beneath (18 page)

Trueman continued. ‘Right, here we are.’ Horton returned and stood hovering by Trueman’s side, while Eames rose and moved close to him. Reading from the screen Trueman said, ‘Ellie Loman was last seen on Sunday 1 July 2001 or rather she was heard that morning by her father, Kenneth Loman. She called up to his bedroom to say goodbye at seven twenty-five. Loman knew the exact time because he looked at the clock, surprised that she was up and out of the house so early on a Sunday. He didn’t become concerned about his daughter until later that night. He called us at twelve ten p.m. The call was logged but Loman was told she’d probably decided to stay with friends overnight and had forgotten to get in touch. She wasn’t underage or vulnerable. There was no reason to call out the guards.’

‘Did Loman know where his daughter had gone?’ asked Horton.

‘He assumed out with friends. Loman was told that if he didn’t hear from her, or she didn’t show, by the morning, to let us know. He called again on Monday at eight seventeen a.m. and a unit was despatched at ten fifteen.’

‘Had she ever done anything like this before?’

‘No. She had never been in any trouble and her parents claimed she always told them where she was going.’

‘Not this time she didn’t,’ Horton said quietly, his brain whirling with possibilities.

Trueman followed his line of thought. ‘Initially her disappearance was put down to a young woman simply leaving home, wanting a bit of fun or running off with a man.’

His words were like barbed wire in Horton’s brain. It was what they said about Jennifer.

‘And it might have stayed that way but according to this, or rather reading between the lines, it seems her father insisted her disappearance be fully investigated and he took it to the Assistant Chief Constable. They were probably in the same Lodge.’

And Jennifer had had no such influential connections, or if she did have then they certainly didn’t create a fuss. Perhaps because they wanted it kept quiet.

Trueman gave a soft whistle. ‘The ACC passed it down to CID. The investigating officer was Dean, who was then the Detective Chief Superintendent in charge of CID. He and Mike Danby, who was the DI, worked on the case.’

Danby, who now ran a private security company protecting the rich and famous. Jennifer Horton got a PC while Ellie Loman had the full weight of the CID. ‘Do you remember the case?’ he asked Trueman, pushing aside his bitterness.

‘No. I was working in Gosport CID then.’

Twelve miles’ drive around the harbour and four miles if crossing by ferry. And even if Cantelli were here Horton didn’t think he’d be able to help because if his memory served him correctly Cantelli had been working in Vice.

Trueman continued reading from the computer screen. ‘Kenneth Loman said he was recovering from a hangover and stayed in all that day. His drinking chums verified that he’d drunk heavily the night before.’

Eames said, ‘I’m surprised he remembers her calling out goodbye to him, and the time.’

‘He’s still living at the same address.’ Trueman looked up. His expression rarely registered emotion but Horton could see the glint of triumph in the sergeant’s dark eyes. ‘There’s a connection between Ellie Loman and Salacia.’

Yes!
This was it at last, the breakthrough. He sensed Eames’s excitement beside him.

‘The main suspect in the disappearance and possible murder of Ellie Loman was the man she was believed to have been meeting that day: Rawly Willard.’

And there was only one Rawly Willard that Horton had come across recently, or rather heard of. He swiftly recalled what Patricia Harlow had told him; with disappointment he said, ‘If he’s the late Amelia Willard’s son then he can’t be Salacia’s killer because he’s dead. According to Patricia Harlow he died in
2002.’
But he had seen a flicker of something register on Gregory Harlow’s face when Eames had shown him the photograph of Salacia.

‘Check that Rawly Willard really is dead and how he died. And get everything on the Ellie Loman case,’ Horton commanded, picking up the phone. ‘Eames, you help Trueman.’ Horton punched in Uckfield’s number.

He quickly relayed the news to Uckfield, who confirmed he didn’t remember the case. He’d been working in the rape unit then. Horton said, ‘This means Salacia could have been at the crematorium for Amelia Willard’s funeral and not Woodley’s.’

‘But that doesn’t explain why Woodley had her photograph.’

It didn’t explain a great many things but Horton didn’t say that. Woodley and Reggie Thomas were both in prison in 2001 and so were Stapleton and Victor Riley.

Uckfield said, ‘I’ll call Dean and see what he remembers from the case.’ And Horton wondered if he heard a smug note in Uckfield’s voice at the thought that Dean might have cocked up, and that he might solve a case that Dean had failed to. But it was early days yet.

Horton said, ‘I’d like to re-interview Gregory Harlow. I’ll also talk to the Lomans.’ It wasn’t a job he relished but he was eager to learn as much as he could about their daughter, and probe the link between her death, Rawly Willard and his cousins Patricia and Gregory Harlow.

He tossed up whether to take Eames with him and because he wanted to and for the wrong reasons he decided to leave her assisting Trueman. He didn’t stay long enough to see whether or not she was disappointed. He doubted it. He asked Trueman to request a unit to meet him outside the Lomans’ house. He knew that it was going to be harrowing for the Lomans but better to know what had happened to your daughter than live in limbo for even more years than they had already, imagining, hoping, praying and speculating, trying to put it to the back of their mind and get on with their life while it ate away at them, turning them sour, bitter, disappointed, angry and bewildered. Or was he thinking of himself?

He pulled up outside the stone bay and forecourt terraced house, noting that it was only a few streets away from where Patricia Harlow lived. He hoped the Lomans were at home. There was a car outside but that didn’t necessarily belong to them.

The police car drew up behind it. PC Kate Somerfield climbed out.

‘Has Sergeant Trueman briefed you?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

He could see that she was mentally preparing herself for what lay ahead. Having been the bearer of bad news several times she knew the drill, although she, like him, could never predict the reaction. He knew that she was keen to get into CID. She was also slightly wary of him because she’d been one of many female officers who had actually believed that ridiculous rape charge before he’d been exonerated.

He caught sight of a woman in the downstairs window. Mrs Loman? Probably. He hoped she wasn’t alone. No, there was a man with her. But that could be anyone, a friend, relative or new husband, though Trueman had said the Lomans still lived here, or rather Kenneth Loman did. He caught the man’s eyes and watched his casual glance swivel to the uniformed Somerfield. Within a second Horton registered surprise, dread and finally a sadness that drained the blood from the man’s face and seemed to suck the very life out of him. It stabbed at Horton’s heart before he mentally pulled himself up. He saw that there was no need to tell Kenneth Loman why they were here. He already knew.

‘Y
ou’ve found her,’ Loman said in a voice so heavy with sorrow that it made Horton’s heart ache. He felt Somerfield’s tension beside him.

Gently he replied, ‘We’ve found some remains that we believe might be Ellie’s.’

‘Remains? Yes, yes I see. It would be after all this time.’

But Horton knew Loman didn’t see. How could he when the last mental image he had of his daughter was a living, laughing, feeling human being and a voice calling up a cheerful goodbye to her hung-over dad? They were standing in the narrow passageway. Before Horton could reply a woman’s voice rang out.

‘Who is it, Ken?’

Loman drew in a breath and pulled his sagging body up with an effort. He gestured them into the small front room where a smartly dressed, extremely thin woman was sitting in the bay window with a table in front of her frowning over a large puzzle. She looked up and smiled as they entered.

‘My wife, Marie,’ Loman introduced. He was holding himself together but Horton could see the strain of it etched in every pore of his face and every muscle of his lean and slightly hunched body. How old was he? Fifties? Sixties? He looked more like eighty.

‘This is Detective Inspector Horton and Police Constable Somerfield. They’ve come to talk to me about some robberies that have been happening near by.’

Somerfield looked confused. Horton didn’t blame her, he was too. He swiftly took in the photographs of the Lomans’ pretty daughter scattered around the room before his glance once again fell on Marie Loman.

‘How awful,’ she said. ‘I hope you catch whoever is doing them.’

Hastily, Loman said, ‘I’ll take them into the kitchen for a coffee, would you like one, dear?’ Loman’s voice resounded with false jollity, and to Horton’s ears of desperation, to both of which Marie Loman seemed oblivious. Loman was near breaking point. It wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge.

‘Please.’

Loman shuffled down the passage into a room at the rear of the house. ‘You must excuse Marie,’ he said once they were in the small modern kitchen. He made no attempt to put the kettle on. Horton thought he’d aged another five years in the last five minutes. ‘Shortly after Ellie disappeared Marie contracted a rare inflammatory brain disease. It’s left her memory disjointed. She can only remember faces, names and events from before Ellie disappeared, nothing since. She has an extremely short memory.’

Horton studied Loman as he tried to comprehend what that meant.

‘You get used to it,’ Loman said, but clearly he hadn’t. ‘If you go back into the room now she won’t remember you or what you said. She’s done that puzzle a million times but each time she comes back to it it’s fresh to her.’

Horton couldn’t even begin to imagine how exhausting life must be for Kenneth Loman. Marie Loman’s condition meant she would always believe Ellie was alive and about to walk through the door meaning Kenneth Loman would not only have to bear his grief alone, but also relive it again and again and again. No wonder the man looked worn out. Who wouldn’t? Horton didn’t say he was sorry because there was no point. Being sorry didn’t help Marie and Kenneth Loman.

He said, ‘Shall we sit down?’ Loman nodded and perched on the edge of a hard chair at the table. Horton took the seat opposite while Somerfield stood close by. ‘We won’t know for certain if the remains we’ve found are Ellie’s until further tests are carried out but we have strong indications that it is your daughter. We also found this.’ He placed on the table in front of Loman a photograph of the bracelet. ‘It contains the letters E, L and E and was silver.’

Loman picked up the photograph. ‘Ellie used to wear it every day. It was a Christmas present from us when she was . . .’ He took a sharp breath which turned into a gulp and then a sob. Somerfield swiftly crossed to the sink and poured him a glass of water.

Horton waited while Loman buried his face in his hands and sobbed. It came from deep within his chest and wrenched at Horton’s heart. Somerfield blinked rapidly and took several deep breaths before she placed the glass in front of Loman. Touching him lightly on the shoulder, she said, ‘Drink this, sir. It will help.’

No it won’t, thought Horton, with anger, nothing will ever help.

With a supreme effort Loman pulled himself together and took a gulp of water. He dashed a hand across his eyes, then rose and splashed his face with cold water before scrubbing it vigorously with a towel. It was as if he hoped to scrub away the pain, thought Horton.

‘Where did you find Ellie?’ Loman asked, returning to the table. He took the glass of water in his bony, trembling hands but he didn’t drink.

‘The old boatyard at Tipner.’

His head came up. ‘My God! I used to take her there when she was young.’

So a favourite place then and somewhere perhaps
she
had suggested as a meeting place with her killer. Or her killer knew she was familiar with it and suggested it.

‘How young?’ asked Horton.

‘When she was a little girl, right up to when she was about fifteen. I don’t mean the old boatyard exactly but to the shore by the sailing club. I used to keep a small day boat on the trots there and we’d go out into the Solent, fishing. Ellie loved fishing.’

‘What happened to your boat?’

‘I sold it not long after Ellie disappeared. I didn’t have the same enthusiasm for fishing any more.’

But he’d had the boat when Ellie had gone missing. Kenneth Loman had been questioned, but how extensively, wondered Horton, given that his buddy was the then Assistant Chief Constable? Had he seen his daughter return from being out with a man and in a fury had killed her? If he had though surely living with his wife’s condition would have been enough to make him confess. Even prison might be better than the life he’d been living. Unless he saw it as his punishment, said the small voice inside Horton.

He said, ‘Do you know Harry Foxbury, the boatyard owner?’

‘I saw him once or twice and nodded a greeting, but that’s all.’

And had Ellie been with her father then? Could Foxbury have tried it on with Ellie and ended up killing her when she threatened to tell some years later? He’d leave that line of questioning for later, when they had more information. ‘Did Ellie mention any boyfriends or special friends? Was she close to anyone?’

‘She didn’t talk about anyone except the people she worked with in the visitor centre at the Historic Dockyard. There was one man though who was sweet on her, Rawly Willard. He was a tour guide there but he claimed he was out walking on the day Ellie disappeared. He had a bit of a crush on Ellie, she was a beautiful girl . . .’ His voice faltered. Horton remained silent, letting him compose himself. After a few moments Loman continued. ‘Ellie told two of her work colleagues on the Friday before she disappeared that she was seeing this Rawly Willard on Sunday but she never mentioned it to us, and when the police searched her room there was no mention of him or the meeting either. Ellie didn’t keep a diary and there was nothing on her computer about him. The police questioned him but they couldn’t get anything out of him, though you know that. He killed himself. They thought it might be guilt over . . . over Ellie, do you still think that, Inspector?’ He looked hopeful.