Deadly Waters (19 page)

‘Looks as though he’s collecting the alphabet,’ Cantelli said beside him. ‘Wonder what they all stand for. I bet Jessica Langley didn’t have as many initials after her name.’

No, thought Horton, recalling from memory, just BEd and MBA: Bachelor of Education and Master of Business Administration. How did anyone have time to take two degrees, let alone a whole batch of them like Dr Thornecombe? It was a wonder he ever found the time to hold down a proper job.

The door on their left opened and a stockily built man, with thinning brown hair swept back off a broad forehead, marched towards them with a slightly apprehensive smile and an outstretched hand. Horton recognized him instantly as the head teacher. So that’s whom the receptionist had been calling, or probably his secretary.

Thornecombe introduced himself in a quiet but confident voice that had just a hint of an accent, Yorkshire, thought Horton. The head teacher’s grey eyes coolly assessed them both before he said, ‘I wonder if I might have a word, Inspector? It won’t take a moment. Mrs Harris, my secretary, can show Mr Ranson into my office when he’s located, and you can talk to him there, if you wish.’

‘Of course,’ Horton replied, raising his eyebrows slightly at Cantelli as they followed Thornecombe’s purposeful steps down a short corridor and into a spacious, tidy office. It was furnished, Horton noted, with a deep pile burgundy carpet, expensive oak furniture and equipped with the latest in computer technology. Bit different from Edney’s and Langley’s offices, he thought dryly.

He watched Thornecombe cross to his wide desk and, unfas-tening the button of his double-breasted suit jacket, he waved them into comfortable seats opposite and then settled himself into his large leather chair with a concerned frown.

‘I’m not sure whether this information is important, but I thought you ought to know that Ms Langley was here on the day she died.’

Horton hid his surprise. He had expected a lecture from Thornecombe on how important it was to keep the name of the school from the press if anything should come of their inquiries here.

‘What time was this, sir?’ Horton sensed Cantelli’s interest beside him as he removed his notebook from his pocket and his pencil from behind his ear.

Thornecombe continued to address Horton. ‘She arrived just after half twelve. I had sandwiches brought to my office and she left shortly before two.’

So, this was where she had been coming when she had been seen leaving the school at lunchtime, and Neil Cyrus had witnessed her return. One question answered and maybe a second one also: was this the reason why Langley had dressed more soberly on Thursday? Susan Pentlow had said that Langley wore black either when she had an important meeting to attend or when she was disciplining someone, and from the statements taken, she hadn’t done the latter.

Horton wondered what Langley had been doing visiting a private school when hers was a state school.

‘We were exploring how we could share our resources,’

Thornecombe said, easing his squat figure back in the chair. ‘I can see that you’re sceptical.’ He smiled knowingly. ‘And I don’t blame you but it’s not improbable for private and state education to work together. Let me explain. I first met Ms Langley at a head teachers’ conference in May. She struck me then as a forceful, vibrant personality who would be able to push through the changes that the Sir Wilberforce Cutler badly needed. Being popular wasn’t important to her. Oh, it’s nice to be liked, but leaders can’t always be popular. One has to be thick-skinned.’

Horton thought of Uckfield. The superintendent was in the rhinoceros class when it came to the density of skin.

‘We struck up a professional friendship almost immediately and began to explore how we could work together; especially once our new buildings are complete. The Wilberforce will have superb facilities for drama and media studies whilst we will have a swimming pool, gymnasium, tennis and squash courts. We both saw it as a pioneering project of co-operation between the state and private sector.’

‘Wouldn’t your parents have questioned that? I wouldn’t have thought they’d like their children mixing with state school kids,’ Horton said, raising his eyebrows.

‘It’s a good point, Inspector, and no doubt I would have had quite a job winning over some of the parents. But my reasoning is that our pupils will need to mix with all sorts of people in this world, and it is wise to prepare them for that.’

Horton thought he should have brought Jake Marsden with him. He’d been privately educated and now mixed with all sorts of low-lives – and that was just the coppers.

‘Maybe you can start again with the new head?’

‘I hope so. It would be a pity to lose that vision. Mr Edney’s an excellent deputy, good at the detail. Just what you need in a deputy, I can assure you of that. I’m just not sure he will have Ms Langley’s drive and energy. People like Jessica Langley are rare.’

So he hadn’t heard the news, which was surprising when it had been reported on the radio and television this morning.

‘I am sorry to have to tell you, sir, that Mr Edney is dead.

We are also treating his death as suspicious.’

‘Dead! Good God! When? How? I don’t believe it.’

Thornecombe looked genuinely shocked. He sprang forward in his chair and stared at each of them in turn. ‘But this is dreadful. What is going on?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to ascertain, sir.’

Horton saw from Thornecombe’s expression that he was very rapidly making the connection between Langley’s death and their request to see the architect.

Thornecombe, clearly horrified, cried, ‘But you can’t think that Mr Ranson has anything to do with it?’

‘Mr Edney was killed on Saturday evening. You hadn’t heard?’

The slight pucker of Thornecombe’s eyebrows and a flicker in his grey eyes told Horton that the head teacher was not used to having his questions ignored. Nevertheless he said, evenly, ‘My wife and I have been away for the weekend, and I had an early morning meeting with prospective parents. I am appalled at this.’

And worried, thought Horton, that his architect and therefore his school might be dragged into it. ‘Do you know of anyone who might have had a vendetta against both Ms Langley and Mr Edney?’

‘A vendetta?’ Thornecombe stared, aghast, at him. ‘That’s a strong word.’

‘Murder is a very nasty business, sir.’

‘Murder! Yes, of course. I suppose it has to be that. Good grief! I can’t imagine anyone doing such a dreadful thing.’

‘Unfortunately we have to imagine, sir, and the worse case scenario too.’

‘I—’ Thornecombe was interrupted by a timid knock on the door. ‘Come in,’ he barked.

A harassed-looking woman poked her head into the room.

‘Mr Ranson, sir,’ she announced hesitantly.

‘Show him in, Joan.’ Thornecombe rose, made to say something, then thought better of it as Ranson swept in with a face like thunder. Thornecombe didn’t even look at the architect as he left the room.

As soon as the door closed, Ranson rounded on Horton.

‘Just what the hell do you think you’re doing, coming here, demanding to see me when I’m in the middle of an important project, treating me like some kind of criminal?’

If it was an act then it was a good one. ‘Sit down, Mr Ranson.’

‘No, I damn well won’t,’ Ranson hotly declared, glaring at him with the vivid blue eyes that Horton recalled from their previous meeting, only this time instead of haughty indifference they were shooting daggers.

‘Sit down,’ repeated Horton, firmly, as he walked around Thornecombe’s desk and took the seat vacated by the head teacher. On the desk was a silver-framed photograph of a young man in a dog-collar who looked very much like a younger version of Simon Thornecombe.

‘You don’t intimidate me, Inspector. I’ll sit when you tell me why I’ve been hauled in here,’ Ranson blazed.

Horton gave a small shrug and sat back in the slightly rocking swivel chair.

‘We need to ask you some questions about Jessica Langley.’

‘For goodness sake! I really don’t see what—’

‘How well did you know her, sir?’ interjected Cantelli casually.

Ranson swivelled his eyes to meet Cantelli’s. Ranson would have to do better than glaring at the sergeant to make Cantelli react, thought Horton. But Horton could see that Ranson was uneasy. He couldn’t maintain the same air of righteous indignation because now Horton guessed his mind was racing with trying to weigh up how much they knew about his affair with Langley.

Stiffly, Ranson replied, ‘She was the head teacher at a school where I was the architect responsible for designing and developing a new building. Even you could have gathered that from our first meeting.’

Horton thought Ranson a bit heavy-handed with the sarcasm.

Was it a defence mechanism perhaps? His experience told him that Ranson was clearly uncomfortable about something: was that murder? He had also avoided answering the question. Behind those piercing blue eyes, the bow-tie and the supercilious manner, Horton saw a worried man, and if Daphne Edney was correct, a man who had known Jessica Langley a darn sight better than just professionally. Time to ease off and make him think they believed him.

‘You seem to specialize in school buildings.’

‘We handle a variety of projects,’ Ranson replied curtly,

‘and if that’s all you want to talk to me about then I suggest you make an appointment with my secretary.’

He had reached the door when Horton, his voice as hard as steel, said, ‘We know about your affair with Jessica Langley.’

Ranson froze. His body tensed. Slowly he turned back and scrutinized Horton’s face. ‘Who told you?’

Horton remained silent.

After a moment Ranson crossed the room and sat in the chair that Horton had earlier vacated. The hostility had vanished and Horton was now looking at a nervous and worried man.

‘When did the affair begin?’ Cantelli asked.

Ranson tried a last-ditch attempt to give Cantelli a with-ering look, but it didn’t come off and only served to make him look sheepish. Seeing there was nothing for it, Ranson reluctantly capitulated.

‘About a month ago. It wasn’t really an affair though.’

‘Then what was it?’ asked Horton.

Ranson pulled out a handkerchief, which he proceeded to wipe his hands with. ‘Just a bit of fun. It didn’t mean anything.’

Horton could see that Ranson was beginning to rehearse in his mind what he might have to tell his wife. Horton didn’t think ‘a bit of fun’ was going to win her over though.

‘I finished it a week ago.’

‘Then why did you visit her on the evening of her death?’

‘I didn’t.’

For Horton, the too swift denial confirmed Daphne Edney’s story. He threw the pencil down and slapped his hand on the desk. ‘Stop lying to me, Ranson. Two people are dead.’

‘Two?’

Horton said sharply, ‘Tom Edney was brutally murdered on Saturday night. Where were you between three and seven p.m.’ Horton knew of course, but no harm in making Ranson sweat, and he was sweating now.

‘You can’t think . . . I didn’t have . . . I didn’t even know he was dead.’

Horton contrived to look incredulous. Ranson flushed and mopped his brow with the handkerchief. He was clearly no longer the supercilious architect, but a very anxious and frightened man.

‘I went sailing for the weekend with my family to Guernsey.

I have witnesses,’ he cried with a note of desperation.

‘And for Langley’s murder,’ rapped Horton.

‘I was at home with my wife.’

Oh, yeah, thought Horton, pull the other one; it’s got bells on.

He said, ‘Not according to our witness you weren’t. Did you kill her?’

‘Of course I didn’t,’ Ranson declared vehemently.

Did Horton believe him? It didn’t look like an act, and the man had gone quite pale, but then Horton had seen some Oscar-winning performances before from murderers. ‘You asked Jessica Langley to meet you on your boat at Sparkes Yacht Harbour and once on it you killed her. Why?’

‘I haven’t killed anyone.’ Ranson sat forward. ‘Look, I did go to her apartment on Thursday evening, but I was only there a few minutes. I left her there, alive and well. I didn’t ask her to meet me anywhere.’

‘You had sex and then left her?’

From the post-mortem report Horton knew he hadn’t, but he wanted to see Ranson’s reaction. The man looked horrified.

‘No. I arrived at her flat just after seven thirty. I had hardly been there a few minutes when the doorbell rang and Daphne Edney was hurling abuse at Jessica on the doorstep. Jessica slammed the door on her. She seemed to find it exciting and amusing. I thought things between us were going to be . . . well, all right. Then her mobile phone rang and everything changed.

No, hang on. She had two calls. The first one made her cross.’

Horton was immediately aware that this new information was important,
if
the architect could be believed. He hoped to God it would give them a lead, because if Ranson wasn’t Langley’s killer then apart from that betting slip found in Langley’s pocket he had sod all left.

‘Who was it?’ he asked sharply.

‘I don’t know. I just heard her say, ‘You’ll get nothing from me. Now piss off.’ Then almost immediately her phone rang again. She must have thought it was the same caller but her expression changed.’

‘How?’

‘It sort of lit up. She rang off and told me something had come up. She couldn’t get rid of me quick enough.’

Horton studied the architect. Ranson’s eyes were pleading with him to be believed.

‘Who was on the phone the second time?’

‘I don’t know and she didn’t say.’

‘Male or female voice?’

‘I couldn’t hear. Jessica moved away. I just heard her say,

“Great.”’

‘So you were angry at being rejected. You lay in wait for her and then attacked and killed her.’

‘No!’ Ranson was out of his chair, shouting. ‘I went home.

Ask my wife, she’ll tell you what time I got in.’

‘And that was?’ asked Cantelli.

‘Just after eight thirty. I left Jessica alive and well at eight o’clock.’

Horton studied him closely. He believed him. Ranson hadn’t killed Langley or Edney.