Shroud of Evil (23 page)

He tried the gates. They were firmly locked but Horton eyed them up. Calling back to Cantelli he said, ‘I promise I won’t make a dent,’ and swung nimbly on to the bonnet of the car. There was a bar in the gates near the top between the upright wrought-iron prongs. Horton placed his foot on it, tested it, grabbed one of the prongs on the top of the gate, and brought his other foot over, balanced for a spilt second on the top and then jumped over, dropping with both feet on to the ground the other side in a crouched position.

‘Hope you don’t expect me to do that!’ Cantelli exclaimed in horror. ‘I’m an ageing police sergeant, not a paratrooper. I’d like to get my thirty years’ service in and draw my pension.’

Horton smiled, found a pad to the right of the gate and punched it. The gates began to open. Cantelli drove forward.

‘What’s this about ageing?’ Horton teased, climbing in. ‘You’re only a few years older than me.’

‘Yes, and I’d like it to stay that way.’

But Cantelli’s words had triggered something at the back of Horton’s mind that Harry Kimber had said about Bernard joining the police force. How old would Bernard have been when he joined the police? Horton made some quick calculations as Cantelli pulled up in front of the Veermans’ house. Forty-two? But the age limit then for officers joining must have been younger because the earliest retirement age for coppers had been fifty-five and the oldest sixty-five. If he remembered correctly the oldest eligible age for joining the force had been thirty-five so that an officer could get thirty years’ service in order to get a full pension. But perhaps Bernard’s time in the RAF Police had counted. There was more tugging at the back of Horton’s mind but there wasn’t time to think that through now.

‘What about the dogs?’ Cantelli asked warily, climbing out of the car.

‘They’re Springer Spaniels, not Dobermanns or Bull Mastiffs.’

Cantelli didn’t look convinced that the breed made any difference to the fact that he might still be attacked. They set off towards the shore at a brisk pace, which was made difficult because the wind was barrelling off the sea and the thin slanting rain driving into them. Surely Thelma Veerman wouldn’t be playing with her dogs on the shore in this weather, Horton thought. He threw Cantelli a puzzled and concerned look.

‘They don’t sound very friendly,’ Cantelli said uneasily, picking up something of Horton’s concern.

Horton agreed. The barking grew louder as they got closer and it seemed to Horton more frantic. His pulse seemed to skip several beats.

‘She could have had an accident.’ Or worse, he thought, breaking into a run. Through his mind flashed the awful thought that, distraught at her husband’s affair and possible involvement in Jasper Kenton’s murder, she’d taken her own life. Had Veerman confessed to her, taunted her with it, knowing she would never betray him? What had Gaye just told him?
‘He seems to have attracted a kind of hero worship.’
Did Veerman have the same power over his wife who now, discarded by the hero, had thought her life not worth living? God, he hoped not.

He reached the shore ahead of Cantelli. The two dogs looked up. They rushed towards him, barking furiously, then raced back along the beach past the boathouse to something lying on the shore. Horton’s heart stalled. He threw Cantelli a worried glance before rushing towards it. The dogs, seeing him coming, stopped barking but didn’t move away from the bundle. As Horton drew nearer they watched him with soulful deep-brown eyes, panting, their tails wagging furiously. Horton’s heart was pounding as his feet struck the shingle. The breath caught in his throat as he drew to a halt. He stared down at the figure of Thelma Veerman on the stones. With a sinking heart and a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach he tested for a pulse in her neck, knowing he wouldn’t find it. He didn’t. He was too late. There was no need to call the paramedics. He called Uckfield instead.

‘H
ow long?’ Uckfield asked Dr Clayton as she stepped away from the body, which was now covered by a large canvas tent. Brett Veerman had yet to be informed of his wife’s death.
Unless he already knew because he’d killed her
, thought Horton, although he had no evidence of that.

‘Difficult to say in these conditions and with that kind of wound.’ Gaye indicated the crossbow bolt in the chest.

Horton studied it again for the hundredth time since discovering the body and although his anger had lessened his revulsion was still as strong. There was remarkably little blood around the small wound on the grey T-shirt. She was dressed in casual dark grey trousers, grey socks, sturdy walking shoes and a navy blue zip-up fleece, which was open. There had been nothing in her hands and no sign of the dog lead. The bolt hardly looked powerful or deep enough to have killed and yet of the six and a half inches that Dr Clayton had said was the size of the bolt that had killed Jasper Kenton there was only about two and a half inches protruding from Thelma Veerman’s chest. Kenton had been shot at close range and the same applied to Thelma Veerman. The theory that she might have shot herself had been quickly quashed by the absence of the weapon. Cantelli had made a search of the area but hadn’t found it. It surely had to be the one that had been used to kill Jasper Kenton, and therefore the same killer. Was that the beachcomber? Should he say something now? But he told himself that Thelma Veerman being killed and being found here must mean there was no connection with Lord Eames, except for Brett Veerman. Could he have killed his wife in such a cruel and callous way, letting her bleed to death? Or was his lover the driving force in these murders? Horton only hoped Thelma Veerman’s death had been quicker than Jasper Kenton’s.

Gaye added, ‘All I can say before I do the autopsy is that rigor mortis appears to be complete. Lividity, as you can see from the blueish colour of the skin, is permanent. I won’t be able to tell if it is all over the body until we get her in the mortuary but if it is then that puts her death approximately sometime between four a.m. and six a.m. But it could be a lot earlier than that. No longer than twenty-four hours certainly.’

Horton rapidly calculated. Twenty-four hours took them back to yesterday afternoon, sometime between two-thirty and four-thirty. He’d been here then and there had been no sign of Thelma Veerman. Had she been lying on the shore bleeding to death when he’d pressed the intercom and walked away? Could he have saved her life instead of heading to the abbey? But there had been no sound of dogs barking, he recalled, so she must have been alive and elsewhere.

He brought his full attention back to Gaye. ‘Because she is lying on her back it indicates that she fell the moment she was shot, but with this method of killing, as I explained before, the exact timing of actual death is difficult to ascertain. There is the possibility that she could have staggered about and then fallen, although she would most probably have done so face down.’ She eyed the corpse and frowned as she thought. ‘I suppose she could have turned in a final effort to get up and fetch help. However with dwindling strength I would have said it was more likely she would have got as far as to her knees and then fallen forward.’

Horton said, ‘Which means if she didn’t die instantly then her body could have been brought here and laid out on the shore.’

‘Just like Kenton,’ Uckfield said, scratching the inside of his thigh.

‘Yes, only this time without the sail as a shroud,’ Horton answered. He and Cantelli had walked along the shore and it became impassable after several yards in both directions because of rocks and dense woods. So unless she had admitted her killer through the gates of her house she must have met him or her coming ashore by boat. And if the person piloting that boat had been Brett Veerman then the dogs wouldn’t have barked. He said as much, drawing a deep scowl of unease from Uckfield.

‘Maybe they were locked up and only managed to get out a few hours ago.’

‘But someone must have locked them up.’

‘Thelma Veerman might have done.’

‘We need to check Veerman’s movements from about two-thirty yesterday afternoon until ten o’clock this morning.’

But Gaye interjected. ‘He was conducting his out-patients’ clinic this morning and was still there when I got the call to come over. I checked. I thought you might want to know.’ She threw a glance at Horton. He saw Uckfield note it and eye him curiously.

Horton said, ‘But we don’t know where he was yesterday afternoon, evening and night.’

Uckfield nodded and asked if they could move the body. Gaye said they could and that she’d conduct the autopsy as soon as it arrived at the mortuary in Newport. With a resigned shrug at Horton she stepped outside. He knew that their dinner date for that night was off. Uckfield followed Gaye out.

Horton stared down at the body with sorrow. Her face was discoloured and her body drenched from the rain rather than the sea. She’d fallen or had been placed just above the high-water mark so there was no seaweed or sea life attached to it. Had she wanted to tell them her husband was a killer and been silenced because of it? Or had Brett Veerman and his lover conspired to kill her? Had Veerman’s lover alone called at the house and drawn her down to the shore to administer the fatal shot in order to secure the love of Brett Veerman?

The canvas tent flap opened and Cantelli entered. ‘Is it OK for the undertakers to come in?’

Horton nodded. Clarke had already taken all the photographs and videos he needed and Taylor had mapped the lie of the land and the location and position of the body. He and his SOCO team would come back inside the tent after the body was removed.

Horton stepped outside, thankful the rain had finally stopped although he and Cantelli were already wet through. Uckfield had returned to his car where Horton could see him on the phone. Gaye broke off talking to Clarke and crossed to him as the undertakers stepped forward.

‘Sorry about tonight. I might finish by eight but you might not. Some other time?’

‘Yes.’

He watched her walk away to a waiting police car then turned and stared across the rough muddy grey sea. At least this location, like that of where Kenton’s body had been found, was private property with no nosy neighbours or sightseers to come gawping. And yet maybe if there had been neighbours they might have got a clue as to who had done this. He made for Uckfield who had come off his phone and was climbing out of his car.

‘The hospital says that Veerman left there two hours ago. Trueman’s checked; he’s on the car ferry. He’ll be here soon.’

And would this be a shock to him or had he timed it so that he could find his wife’s body?

‘And the investigation?’ asked Horton.

Uckfield pointedly eyed Cantelli, who moved away.

‘We wait until after we interview Veerman. Then I’m to report back to Dean.’

‘Steve, we’ve got to do more.’

‘Like what?’ cried Uckfield. ‘Seal off the bloody island?’

‘We can find out if Brett Veerman came here yesterday.’

‘Not by car ferry he didn’t. Trueman’s already checked.’

‘By private boat.’

‘That piddling dinghy in this weather?’ Uckfield cried incredulously, pointing to where it lay beside the boathouse on the grass.

‘No, on someone else’s boat. Elkins’ unit is checking to see if they can find a boat owned by Veerman, or any sightings of him around the marinas, on Thursday night. I’ll get them to extend that to yesterday.’

‘OK.’

‘And we need a search warrant for here.’

‘I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job,’ Uckfield snapped, turning away as his phone rang. ‘Yes, sir,’ Horton heard him say before he moved out of earshot.

Horton returned to Cantelli and relayed the gist of his conversation with Uckfield and asked him to contact Elkins. Horton looked up at the sound of a car approaching and saw Veerman’s Volvo sweep to a sharp halt in a flurry of gravel in front of the house. Uckfield hastily terminated his call and jerked his head at Horton in a sign to accompany him as he headed towards the car. To Cantelli, Horton said, ‘Here we go. Should be interesting.’

‘What the devil is going on here?’ Veerman demanded. The police officer at the gate wouldn’t have told him. ‘Are you in charge?’ He addressed Uckfield.

‘Can we go inside, sir?’

‘No, we damn well can’t, not unless you’ve got a search warrant. Where’s my wife?’

Was he too angry, thought Horton? Was this role playing?

‘What’s going on down there?’ He pointed to the activity on the shore and then seemed to take in the surroundings: the other cars parked on the driveway, the canvas tent. His skin paled. It didn’t look like an act. He seemed to sway. ‘Thelma. Is she …? Is she …?’ His keen eyes widened as he scrutinized them.

Evenly and quietly Horton said, ‘I’m sorry to say your wife is dead, Mr Veerman. We’re treating her death as suspicious.’

‘There must be some mistake. Are you sure?’ He peered closely at Horton and must have seen confirmation in his eyes because he drew in a deep breath. ‘I’d like to see her.’

‘I’m sorry, sir, that’s not possible.’

‘I am a doctor, for God’s sake!’

‘It’s a crime scene,’ Horton said firmly.

‘She’s been killed! But who? How?’

‘Shall we go inside?’ Uckfield repeated firmly and held out his hand towards the front door, clearly indicating that the matter was not up for debate.

Veerman threw a look at the tent and seemed to be deciding whether to disobey Uckfield’s instructions. This was a man clearly used to having his own way and
his
instructions followed without question. But then so was Uckfield. Veerman inhaled, ran a hand over his dark hair and threw Horton a slightly hostile look before marching swiftly to the front door. Withdrawing his keys from his overcoat pocket he opened it. No alarm sounded. But Horton could see the house was fitted with one.

‘Did Mrs Veerman usually set the alarm before leaving the house?’

‘Sometimes. Not always. Half the time she left the door open.’ He looked around. ‘Where are the dogs?’

‘The Dog Support Unit has them, sir. They can be returned to you as soon as you wish.’