Death Lies Beneath (32 page)

‘So who killed him, or rather left him at the marshes to die?’ Eames asked baffled.

‘Ask Marty Stapleton, although I don’t think he’ll tell you.’

‘Shit!’

He smiled. ‘That’s not a very nice word for a girl like you.’

‘I know a lot worse. So Stapleton
was
in on it.’

‘Yes, in letting himself be attacked by Woodley in prison, and in providing someone to take Woodley out after he’d delivered the message. Garvard probably didn’t know who Stapleton ordered to do it and didn’t care, just as long as Skelton was on the hook.’ And the person who had attacked Woodley could have been in the pub drinking, watching and waiting for Woodley to leave, knowing that he had finally delivered his message to Skelton. Either that or he had waited outside, and it wasn’t Reggie Thomas because Thomas like Woodley would finally blab. Garvard had wanted someone who had no connection with Woodley and who would never be traced. For a second Horton’s mind leapt back to Edward Ballard before he continued, ‘Garvard had no idea that Woodley’s funeral would coincide with Amelia’s Willard’s.’

‘Gambler’s luck.’

‘Bad luck for Gregory Harlow and Lawrence Sanderling.’ He should also say bad luck for Patricia Harlow and Sharon Piper but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. ‘Woodley had only the one message to deliver and that was to Skelton. For all Garvard’s planning he hadn’t foreseen Lawrence Sanderling.’ Or had he? He had known that by bringing Sharon back for the last of the Willards’ funeral, and assembling those still alive from the time of Ellie’s death, something would happen. And it had.

Eames, clearly following his train of thought, said, ‘So who did he plan to kill Sharon? Or is “plan” too ambitious?’

‘Maybe. He knew that Sharon would see Patricia and that they were both involved in Ellie’s death. Perhaps he thought that Patricia would kill Sharon. And he judged that Edgar and Amelia’s friends would be at her funeral; friends he and Sharon had conned, so one of them could do it for revenge.’

‘And they did,’ she said sadly and quietly.

‘Yes.’ There was a moment’s pause before he continued. ‘Or perhaps Garvard thought Skelton might be prompted into doing it because he thought Sharon knew too much about him employing illegal immigrants and perhaps even assisting in bringing them into the country. Maybe Woodley delivered more than the message Iris overheard.’ Horton shrugged.

‘And in return for organizing Woodley’s death, Stapleton gets whatever money Garvard has stashed away.’

‘Well, it’s no good to Garvard now.’

‘We might find it,’ she said optimistically.

Horton doubted it. ‘I don’t think that will be of much comfort to Lawrence Sanderling and Kenneth Loman.’

‘No.’ She sighed before adding more brightly, ‘Buy you a coffee, guv?’

It was the first time she’d called him guv. He looked at her clear-skinned face with its dark smudges under her intelligent blue eyes and his heart quickened. He’d like to have said yes. He’d liked to have talked to her and not about the case, but what did he have to say to a woman like Eames from a background so totally opposite to his? ‘Think I’ll give coffee a miss for a while.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

He thought she sounded disappointed but perhaps he was only hoping she was. He eyed her surprised. ‘I thought you’d be returning to Europol.’

‘I’m waiting instructions and there’s no one to give them to me at this ungodly hour or should I say godly hour seeing as it’s Sunday.’

He watched her climb into her car and drive away. Cantelli would be back tomorrow and he’d be very pleased to see him.

Despite what he’d said to Eames about not wanting a coffee he headed for the Hard not knowing if Coastline Coffee would be open. It wasn’t but the cafe serving the taxi drivers was.

He waited while the taxi driver in front of him ordered a big breakfast and chatted with the cafe proprietor. He was in no hurry. Mentally tuning out the radio music his thoughts turned to Edward Ballard and the idea which had occurred to him earlier. He knew that Ballard had had nothing to do with Sharon Piper. Ballard was a messenger boy, just like Woodley. He’d delivered the message and had left. But what message? And why? Even more importantly, whose message? Sawyer’s words came back to him:
We believe that someone connected with Zeus will try to make contact with you.

Had that been Ballard? Did Sawyer know that? Was that why he’d arrived at the marina before Horton, because he had been tracking Ballard’s movements? Had he known Ballard had arrived and would try to make contact with him? Had the gang member Europol apprehended in Stockholm, who had died of an allergic reaction to aspirin, told them about Ballard? Had Eames really come from the Netherlands? Even if she had, Horton wondered if she’d been in Stockholm before that. Maybe he should ask her.

We don’t believe you’re in imminent danger because Zeus needs to know who you are and how much you know first.
Had Ballard reported to Zeus, or someone connected with him, who was living in Guernsey and now that he had done so he was on his way back across the English Channel? To where, though? And what could Ballard have told Zeus about him? He’d said nothing worth relaying and there had been nothing on his yacht about Jennifer Horton, not even her photograph.

‘What can I get you, mate?’

Horton brought his weary, troubled mind back to the cafe proprietor and ordered a black coffee to take out. He was exhausted and his head was thumping. He was too tired to think, but snatches of Sawyer’s conversation continued to play in his head.

Do you remember Jennifer talking about any one man more than the others; or someone who called on her or she met or who took you out?

Could that have been Ballard? Maybe Sawyer had access to Jennifer’s history. Yes, that made sense. Sawyer could have discovered that Ballard had worked with or known Jennifer, perhaps even been her lover.

Horton paid for his coffee and took it along the Hard. He couldn’t get Ballard out of his mind. He thought of that can of Coke he’d sent for DNA and fingerprints. Ballard had hardly touched the drink and after accepting it he’d been keen to get away. Was that the message that Ballard had delivered to him? Ballard had wanted to leave his mark in order for him to investigate. To discover who he was. Perhaps fingerprints and DNA would tell him who Ballard was. But he had a suspicion neither would. He knew it wouldn’t be that simple. He again thought of Sawyer’s offer to go in with him; should he take that secondment to the Intelligence Directorate? It could be a short cut to the past and the truth, as well as a promotion albeit temporary.

He was convinced there had been a purpose to Ballard’s visit and he was equally convinced that the attack had been phoney designed so that Ballard could make contact with him. Then there had been that farewell gesture which niggled away at the back of his mind. He’d seen it before . . . Suddenly and sharply the picture snapped into focus. My God! Of course!

He’d come home from school early, he couldn’t remember why. He might even have bunked off. A man had been talking to Bernard, his last foster-father and a policeman. They’d been standing just outside the house. Horton had seen the man hand something to Bernard, a small tin. The man turned, walked towards his car where he’d turned, looked back and raised his hand in farewell. Bernard had nodded and gone inside the house. Then the man had looked around and his eyes had alighted on Horton where they had lingered for some moments before he’d climbed in his car and driven away.

Ballard! Horton saw him quite clearly now, fit, muscular, blond. Several questions jostled for space in Horton’s head as he stared out to sea. Did that mean Ballard was connected with Zeus? If so then had Bernard been? But no, he couldn’t believe that. But why not? Maybe Zeus had wanted to take care of his son, or Jennifer had made him finally promise to make sure that her boy was OK and that was why he’d been fostered with Bernard. But surely he couldn’t be corrupt?

Horton swallowed his coffee not tasting it and threw the paper cup in the bin. He knew very well that coppers could be bought or got at, or be basically unsound, but gentle, kindly Bernard? No. His chest felt tight with emotion and his brain whirled with questions. Why had he been fostered with Bernard and Eileen Lichfield? Who had placed him there? Where had Ballard come from? Who had he been working for? But two questions clamoured in his brain refusing to be silenced: why had Ballard given Bernard that tin – and Horton knew it was the one that had contained the photograph of his mother and her birth certificate, both of which had been destroyed in the fire on his previous yacht – and why had Ballard visited him now?

With sudden clarity Horton knew the answer to the latter question. Hastily he climbed on his Harley and raced to his yacht. There he hurried down into the main cabin and lifted up the seat cushion where Ballard had sat. He tensed. Staring at him was a black and white photograph. Holding his breath and with a thumping heart he picked it up. In the foreground was a group of six men; two were sporting beards and untidy long hair which touched the collar of patterned open-necked shirts while the other four were clean shaven with short hair that reminded Horton of the Beatles. All were sitting on the floor and had their arms around each other smiling into camera while behind them was a small crowd of mainly men with a few women. He turned it over. Written on the back in neat black ink was a date, 13 March 1967. Ballard had delivered his message, and although Horton had no idea what it meant yet, he’d find out. And whereas the photograph of the late Mrs Stanley wearing a brooch that might once have belonged to Jennifer had drawn a blank, he knew with absolute certainty that this one wouldn’t.