Death Lies Beneath (8 page)

‘No. There was no need. The dinghies are kept at the rear, near the club’s slipway.’

Horton knew that. ‘Did you see anyone on the quayside while you were sailing?’

‘No.’

Horton asked if she’d seen any other craft heading towards the club or the quayside.

‘Not that I can remember. There were several heading towards Horsea Marina, some large cruisers, a couple of yachts and a few motoring out into the harbour, but I didn’t really take much notice of them.’

Horton had two questions left to ask and he wasn’t hopeful that either would draw a positive response.

‘Do you know a Daryl Woodall?’

‘No.’

He showed her the photograph. ‘Have you seen this man before?’

She glanced at the picture and then back at Horton. ‘I’ve seen his photograph in the newspaper. He’s the man who discharged himself from hospital and was found dead. I didn’t come across him while he was here. I’m sorry I can’t help you, Inspector.’

Horton was too. He hadn’t really expected anything. In the car he told Eames to head for Tipner Quay, drawing a curious look from her. He called Uckfield as she threaded her way through the rapidly building rush-hour traffic. Uckfield’s phone was on voicemail. He must be in his press conference or with Dean. He rang Trueman and reported what they had discovered from Dr Clayton and requested him to get a revised photograph of the victim.

‘We’re on our way to the sailing club to get that list of members who were there last night and to interview Richard Bolton, the club secretary.’ It was a good enough reason to call in at the quay but Horton had another one. There was something he wanted to check out.

Forty minutes later, Bolton, a large, round-faced, bald-headed man in his mid-fifties, had equipped him with a dinghy and a life jacket and Horton was sailing in the harbour. There wasn’t much breeze, but enough. He wasn’t skiving, although Bliss would claim he was, this was research. From here he could see the large brick and corrugated-iron-roofed boatshed. Could the victim have parked her car in front of it? If she had then no one would have seen it from the club or the road leading to the boatyard. The crane barge was still in place and the remains of the wrecked boat had the canvas awning stretched over where the body had lain. But that area had been clear before the wreck had been raised so it was possible that she’d arrived before dark and waited there.

Taylor and his SOCO team had finished working on the wreck and surrounding area, and the police diving operation was now in progress. Horton wondered if they’d find the victim’s handbag, and the murder weapon. He’d asked Eames to relay a description of the latter to Marsden and the diving team.

He felt the little dinghy pick up speed as a sudden gust of wind filled the sails. It had been a long time since he’d sailed such a small vessel and, despite the seriousness of the occasion, he was enjoying it. He recalled the days spent on his former yacht,
Nutmeg
, with his daughter, Emma, with a tightening in his chest. He doubted he’d ever enjoy such moments again, and certainly not if Catherine had her way. He couldn’t let her. He had to find time to contact his solicitor, Frances Greywell, for advice on how to gain greater access to Emma without resorting taking it to the children’s court because he didn’t believe he’d get a favourable hearing. Tomorrow he’d make that call.

That decided he concentrated on sailing. Sergeant Elkins in the police launch could have done this trip much easier and quicker, which was what Bliss would say and Uckfield might agree with her, but it had occurred to him that perhaps their killer had used a dinghy or small sailing boat last night, and slipped in to the quay, silently, catching their victim unawares before thrusting that knife into her back and pushing her into the water. He needed to see if it was possible. And there was also the possibility that the victim had arrived with her killer by boat either before or after Richard Bolton had left, which he’d claimed had been at ten twenty-five. Bolton hadn’t seen the victim or her car.

But Horton was finding it difficult to navigate with precision on to the quay even in daylight, and in the dark it would have been extremely difficult, particularly as there hadn’t been a full moon last night to light the way. He was rapidly concluding that the killer would need to be an extremely skilled sailor to have arrived by this method, and that, as far as he was aware, didn’t fit the profile of any of Woodley’s associates. It wasn’t impossible, but as he saw Eames raise her hand to him, as he’d instructed, he thought it more probable that if the killer had come by sea he would have done so in a small motorized craft, such as a RIB, or a fishing boat equipped with lights. And that meant the victim would have been expecting it.

Steadily he brought the dinghy alongside the quay to the left of the diving operation.

Eames took up her role. ‘I’ve been waiting ages for you. I didn’t think you’d make it. We need to talk.’

‘Get on board.’

Eames looked uneasy. ‘I can’t, not in these shoes.’

No. The victim certainly hadn’t been dressed for sailing. ‘OK. I’ll come up.’ He swung nimbly onto the quayside and tied up.

‘What is it you want?’ Eames said, turning away as though to look out to sea.

Horton came round behind her. ‘You know.’

‘I don’t. I came here because you said it was urgent.’

Horton made as though he was carrying a knife. ‘It is. As urgent as this.’ And he thrust his hand into Eames’s back, where Dr Clayton had indicated the position of the stab wound, with his arm wrapped around Eames’s waist, trying not to think how nice she felt and smelt, and trying to ignore the stirring in his loins. He quickly released her. She staggered forward, then straightened up, with a slight smile.

‘That’s as far as I go, sir. Even I’m not keen enough to take a ducking in the line of duty.’

‘Pity. Marsden looks as though he’d like to have given you the kiss of life.’

Marsden flushed. Eames looked amused. Horton quickly continued. ‘She falls into the sea. The killer casts off and climbs back into the dinghy and sets off sailing again.’

Marsden said, ‘Wouldn’t it have taken him a while if he hasn’t got an engine?’

‘There was no one here and it’s dark, but yes it would have taken an age with the small amount of sea breeze there was last night.’ Even Gaye Clayton had commented on that. ‘But if he had a boat with an outboard engine and had agreed to meet the victim after ten twenty-five, then there was no one here to hear him, and as Eames has just highlighted, if the victim had agreed to meet her killer here then she could hardly have walked far in her high heels.’ Horton removed his life vest, adding, ‘And that means she must have been brought here by a taxi, or she drove here, and if she drove then her killer couldn’t have been alone,
if
he came by sea. There had to be two of them.’

Horton gazed out to sea, his mind working rapidly. He said, ‘They could have arrived in a bigger boat with an engine and a cabin where the accomplice remained out of sight. After she’s been killed the accomplice alights and drives the victim’s car away to dump it while the other person takes the boat back to where it’s usually moored, which could be anywhere along this stretch of water, or further afield even. But I can’t see any of Woodley’s crowd owning a boat.’

Eames said, ‘They could have stolen one.’

He’d get Elkins to check. To Marsden he said, ‘Make sure the dinghy gets back to the sailing club.’

‘How?’ Marsden asked surprised.

‘You’re a detective, figure it out. Did Marty Stapleton own a boat?’ he asked Eames as they headed for the car.

‘Not that we’re aware of.’

‘What about his associates?’

‘There’s no record or mention of boats, but it’s possible one or more of them could have one.’ She studied the area. ‘It must have been very dark waiting here. There are no street lights or security lights. I suppose she could have left her car lights on, which could have guided the boat in.’

It was a good point. And there was no one in this isolated position to have seen that, therefore making it an ideal location for a rendezvous. ‘She could have had a powerful torch, which she kept in her car, and that’s in the sea along with her handbag.’ If it was he hoped the divers would find it. After a moment he added, ‘I wish we had a name for her.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that. Salacia.’

‘What?’ He threw her a glance.

‘It’s the Roman name for the goddess of salt water.’

‘Seems very apt.’

‘Salacia was the wife and queen of Neptune, god of the sea. She was beautiful and crowned with seaweed.’

‘Spot on,’ Horton said, recalling the victim when alive and when her body had been lifted from the sea, covered with seaweed, dirt and sea creatures.

‘She bore Neptune three children.’

Horton recalled what Dr Clayton had said, that Salacia had certainly borne one child, so where was that son or daughter? Why hadn’t he or she reported their mother missing? Why hadn’t anyone? He said as much as Eames started the car and headed towards the outer cordon.

‘Perhaps the child has died, or she gave it up for adoption,’ she answered. ‘Or perhaps it’s living abroad and not in regular contact with its mother. There’s no record of Marty Stapleton having a child, legitimate or otherwise.’

‘Doesn’t mean to say he hasn’t any, though. Have you traced all his girlfriends?’

‘I doubt it. He was married once. She died in a car accident in 1996.’

‘Convenient.’

‘Yes.’

A car passed them heading for the boatyard. Horton recognized it instantly. ‘Quick, turn round. That’s Cliff Wesley.’

Eames expertly swung the vehicle around and they drew up alongside Wesley at the outer cordon where PC Allen had stopped him. Through the open passenger window Horton addressed the dishevelled dark-haired man.

‘We’ve been trying to get hold of you all day, Mr Wesley; is there something wrong with your phone?’

‘Not my phone, my editor.’ He looked hot and harassed. ‘He’s had me dashing about from job to job like a blue-arsed fly. If the newspaper put its hands deeper in its pockets and employed a couple more press photographers I might not have to re-do jobs that the so-called professional freelancers they engage cock up, which is why I’ve had to return here after all the fun is over,’ he grumbled.

‘I’d hardly call it that,’ Horton said acerbically.

‘Perhaps I could get a shot of the police divers.’ Wesley jerked his head in the direction of the quay.

‘Unlikely. A moment of your time, sir.’ It wasn’t a question. Horton climbed out and indicated he expected Wesley to do the same.

With a weary sigh he obliged. Eames followed suit.

‘What do you know about this woman?’ Horton nodded at Eames, who showed Wesley the photograph of Salacia.

‘Leanne told me about her. She was at Woodley’s funeral.’

‘Did you see her talk to any of Woodley’s mourners?’

‘Not while I was photographing them. And I didn’t take any pictures of her either. My life might be a lot easier if I had done,’ he complained, taking a packet of cigarettes from the top pocket of his short-sleeved white shirt. ‘If I’d have known she was going to get herself killed I’d have ignored Woodley’s sycophantic lot and concentrated on the poor cow.’ He removed a cigarette and offered the packet to Horton, who shook his head. Eames did likewise.

‘Did you see her arrive?’

‘Not exactly.’ He lit up and exhaled.

Horton wondered what the hell that meant. Before he could ask, Wesley continued. ‘Superintendent Uckfield and his boy arrived and walked to the rear of the crem. I was in the car having a fag and checking the images I’d just shot which, judging by the expressions of the mourners, would make you think that Woodley was not only a blessed saint but had been loved as much as Mother Teresa. I thought I might get some more interesting shots after the funeral when Woodley’s friends thought I’d gone.’

‘Did you?’ Horton recalled the photographs the picture editor had shown them.

‘Only the one of you with the fat detective looking baffled.’

Yeah, thanks, thought Horton, knowing that was the real reason why Wesley had stayed on. He’d seen Uckfield arrive, thought he might get an interesting shot, and Horton wouldn’t be surprised if he’d already sold the image to one of the tabloids. Tomorrow he, Uckfield and Marsden could be staring out of one of the national newspapers accompanied by indignant headlines that would make them look incompetent. It was par for the course but Dean was not going to be a happy man and Uckfield would go ballistic. Perhaps he’d better warn him.

Crisply he said, ‘So
when
did you first notice her?’

‘I’d checked the pictures, had a fag, and it was getting hot in the car so I got out and went to stand under the trees to watch for Woodley’s mob. I didn’t think they’d be long and they weren’t. I’d only just got there when I heard them. So I walked back to the front and she was there. I thought nice-looking woman, good figure, smart. The mourners for the next funeral were arriving. I turned, took some more shots of Woodley’s crowd and of you, then showed them to Leanne.’

Horton remembered seeing them in a huddle over the camera.

‘I went back to the car, lit a fag and left.’

‘And the woman?’

‘I didn’t see her again.’

Disappointing.
Horton studied the careworn sharp-featured face and the slightly bloodshot eyes. There was no reason for Wesley to lie.

‘Were the mourners for the next funeral still outside when you left?’

Wesley exhaled, and scratched his chin. ‘I think they were going into the chapel. I don’t remember noticing the woman with them, or I should say I don’t recall seeing that hat. She could have taken it off I suppose but I think I would have noticed that dress and her figure in amongst a lot of older people. Any idea who she is?’

‘Not yet.’ Horton wasn’t going to be drawn into commenting any further. There didn’t seem anything more Wesley could tell him but as a final shot he asked, ‘Have you ever seen her before?’

Wesley again studied the photograph, Horton wondered if he should ask him to imagine her as a blonde rather than dark-haired but he’d hold back on that for now.