Deadly Waters (2 page)

High tide had been just after three a.m., Horton calculated, when he’d been questioning Mickey Johnson in a stuffy interview room. Elkins was right. If she had been put here on the previous high tide in mid-afternoon there wouldn’t have been much left of her face. And to place her in daylight would have been too risky; someone might have witnessed it.

He scanned the handful of fishing boats and a couple of motorboats left in the harbour for the winter. Could one of them have been used for the purpose? Or perhaps the killer had come here on a boat out of the nearest marina, which was where Horton’s boat was moored. Access in and out of that was via an automatic tidal flap gate, which meant the marina was only accessible three hours either side of high water. That could put the time anywhere between midnight and six a.m. Perhaps the victim had gone willingly on to a boat with her murderer. Or maybe the fisherman who had called up the harbour master had dumped her. Though if he had, then why report it?

And what about the residents either side of the harbour?

Would they have seen anything? Horton doubted it. Too dark.

He surveyed the area. To his right was the Hayling shore, which gave on to the Hayling Billy Coastal Path spanning the length of the western side of the small island, which was joined to the mainland at its northern end by a bridge. The shore curved round to the right leading to the grounds of the holiday centre known as Sinah Warren. Had anyone from there seen anything suspicious? It was worth asking. And they’d have to check with those people living in the chalet-style buildings to the right of Sinah Warren for any possible sightings.

His eyes swivelled to the left and the Portsmouth shore.

There were a few large houses facing on to the harbour and behind them a tower block occupied by students of the University of Portsmouth. He doubted if any of them would have noticed anything untoward: too busy getting pissed, partying, studying or shagging.

He stared back at the body. It was a pretty strange place to dump it; did the mulberry have any significance? Was this woman’s death connected with something that had happened during the Second World War? Surely not. She wouldn’t have been born then, not for some time afterwards.

The throb of a powerful motorboat speeding towards them made him look up. It was another police launch and on it he could see the squat figure of Uckfield wrapped in an over-sized camel overcoat. Beside him was the lanky, long-haired figure of Dr Price.

‘Any ID on her?’ Uckfield bellowed as soon as he was within hailing distance.

‘I didn’t want to disturb her. I thought the doctor could go through her pockets for us.’

Horton noted Price’s horrified expression as he stared at the mulberry.

‘You’re expecting me to climb on to that to examine her!’

‘She’s hardly likely to come to you,’ Horton retorted, feeling the usual stab of antagonism that Price always managed to engender in him. Whilst he didn’t think Price totally incompetent he nevertheless considered him mediocre and unprofessional mainly because of his drink problem. That must surely cloud his judgement. Horton thought that Superintendent Reine, Head of Operational Command, could find a better police doctor than Price. But either Reine was too lazy to do so, or he owed Price and didn’t wish to rock the boat. How long before Price retired he wondered, watching Price glare at the mulberry. Five years?

Three?

Turning to Elkins, Horton said, ‘You and Ripley can get off duty. I’ll go back with Superintendent Uckfield or Ray.’

With a grateful glance Elkins climbed back on board his launch. Ripley started the engine and they pulled away, allowing Uckfield’s police launch to get nearer to the mulberry.

‘You’ll need a life jacket, doctor, and a scene suit. If you hang on a moment Phil’s just on his way over,’ Horton shouted.

He saw Phil Taylor and his team of three officers climb into the harbour master’s rib, and within a couple of minutes they were beside them. Grumbling, Dr Price shed his tatty Barbour and climbed into a scene suit and a life jacket. Horton helped him across to the mulberry. As Price staggered against him, Horton caught sight of the doctor’s bloodshot eyes and grey skin. It looked as though Price had had a rough night, though judging by the smell of his breath Horton thought he had been nursing a bottle of whisky rather than a sick patient.

‘Can’t you get these bloody crabs off her?’ Price growled.

Turning to Uckfield’s launch, Horton reached for the boat hook and extended the pole so that he could reach the face without having to step any closer to the body and compro-mise the scene. He didn’t need to do much to make the remaining crabs scuttle away, a gentle prod at a couple of them was enough. Horton handed back the boat hook and briefed Uckfield while Price carried out his examination of the body.

‘How come you got called out to this?’ Uckfield asked, rubbing his fleshy nose and frowning.

‘I was just finishing off a surveillance operation,’ Horton answered, not wanting to go into too much detail and admitting to Uckfield that he’d let one get away.

Uckfield grunted. Horton thought he detected resentment.

He eyed the big man curiously. Uckfield seemed uneasy and wouldn’t look directly at him. What was bothering him?

Perhaps he had some trouble at home; if so Horton could sympathize with that, which made him recall he had a meeting with Catherine, his estranged wife, later. Their first meeting since she had thrown him out six months ago. He hoped they’d be able to come to some amicable agreement over Emma. It too had been six months since he’d seen his young daughter and that was far too long.

Dr Price was indicating that he wanted to return to the safety of the police launch. Horton helped him climb back on board and then joined him, nodding at Phil Taylor who instructed the videographer across to the mulberry.

‘She was hit violently over the head. Of course that might not be what killed her,’ Price said, divesting himself of his life jacket and scene suit. Horton noticed he was looking rather green around the gills and guessed it was being on water that fazed him rather than examining bodies, because he’d never seen Price turn a hair before at even the most grisly of deaths.

Price continued. ‘Rigor mortis and lividity are well established so I would say she’s been dead for about six to nine hours, though it’s a bugger to tell in these conditions. You’ll need to get her on the mortuary slab to check that.’

Horton said, ‘That would make it between ten p.m. and one a.m. Was there anything on her to give us an ID?’

‘Only this.’

Uckfield took the scrap of paper that Price held out and dropped it into a plastic evidence bag. He scrutinized it, frowned and then handed it to Horton. It was a betting slip, and it was blank. Horton turned it over. On the back was written in a long thin scrawl. ‘
Have you forgotten ME?
’

Had the victim written this note? Or had someone given it to her? Either way it didn’t give him any clue as to the victim’s identity. It did, however, give him a starting point. He said,

‘The betting shop is Vinnakers in Commercial Road.’

‘Then you’d better get down there and start asking some questions,’ Uckfield said crisply.

‘I’m on the team then?’ Horton’s heart lifted.

‘For now,’ Uckfield replied coldly and looked away.

Those words and the slight nuance in tone made Horton tense. ‘But not for good, is that what you’re trying to say?’

‘We’ve got a job to do here, Inspector.’

Horton knew then why Uckfield wouldn’t look him in the eye. And why his manner was so hostile. ‘You’re appointing someone else as your DI,’ he said calmly, though his guts were churning and he felt the bitter and sickening blow of disappointment.

Uckfield didn’t answer. ‘I’ll take a look at her,’ he said.

Horton watched the bulky figure climb on to the mulberry.

He saw Uckfield stiffen as he gazed down on the corpse. Why had he had such a change of heart in the last seven weeks?

Uckfield had spent much of that time, since his promotion to superintendent, on courses and conferences. What had made him break his promise? Who had got at him? Horton was guessing that he had been overlooked because of his past.

And, although he had been completely exonerated of charges of rape, when you trod in shit it took a long time to get the stench from your shoes, and that smell around him obviously didn’t suit Uckfield’s ambitions. Well, sod him!

Uckfield returned to the launch, Horton noted, not without some difficulty. Once Uckfield had been as fit as him. They had worked out together in the gym. Not so long ago Uckfield would have vaulted over the side of the boat without any trouble.

Perhaps that was what promotion and responsibility did for you, that and make you shed your loyalties to your friends.

He watched as Uckfield punched a digit on his mobile phone. The colour on his fleshy face was high; his grey eyes keen. Horton could feel the tension and excitement radiating from Uckfield at the prospect of heading his first major investigation since his appointment and he felt angry and betrayed.

Crisply Uckfield commanded the mobilization of the major incident suite at the station and the mobile units to the Portsmouth side of the Hayling Ferry, with instructions to ask DI Lorraine Bliss to get hers down to the Hayling side.

Dr Price interjected, ‘If you don’t mind I’d like to get back on terra firma.’

‘The inspector and I will come with you. A car will collect us from the Portsmouth pontoon.’ Uckfield left a parting shot for Taylor. ‘I want a report on this one quick, understand?’

Taylor nodded, but Horton knew that whatever was said the thin and thorough Taylor would work at his own pace, steadily and methodically.

They returned to the shore in silence. The doctor sat on one of the boulders in the car park, trying, Horton guessed, to settle his stomach, and wishing for a brandy. Calculating he was out of earshot, Horton took his chance.

‘I think you owe me an explanation, Steve,’ he said quietly and firmly.

Uckfield kept his eyes on the road, scanning it for his car.

‘We’ve got a murdered woman and you have an investigation to undertake,’ he snapped.

‘Vinnakers isn’t open yet. There’s time. We’ve known one another long enough to be honest. If you don’t think I’m suitable for your team then I’d like to know why.’

Uckfield spun round. He was a policeman; he had been schooled in the art of not showing his feelings. Horton saw nothing, not even a trace of their friendship. It was as if the past between them had been obliterated, which was what Horton guessed Uckfield had mentally done.

‘The appointment will be announced—’

‘Who’s got the job, Steve?’ insisted Horton, now with an edge of steel to his voice.

‘Tony Dennings.’

It felt like a slap in the face. ‘He’s only just been promoted to inspector!’ Horton was hardly able to believe he’d been overlooked in preference for the man he had worked with on the undercover operation that had landed him with that rape charge.

‘He will join the major crime team a week today,’ Uckfield said curtly. ‘
If
this case is still running you will hand it over to him. Now go home and take a shower, you smell worse than Billingsgate Fish Market. Get Sergeant Cantelli out of bed and find me a killer.’

Horton badly wanted to ask, ‘Why Dennings?’ He didn’t bother. He was hardly likely to get the truth anyway. Besides, Horton knew the answer. Dennings hadn’t blotted his copy-book.

Horton held Uckfield’s eyes for a moment longer before climbing on to his Harley. So that was the way Steve wanted to play it. So be it. Horton was used to betrayal and disappointment in his life, but that didn’t mean to say he was hardened to it. Once he would have said that he could rely on Uckfield, and yet in the last two months he’d been given cause to doubt his friendship, first on their last major case together when Uckfield had believed him capable of murder, and now at his lack of openness and honesty.

Horton called Cantelli.

‘I’ve only just got my pyjamas on,’ the sergeant protested.

‘Good, I’d hate to think that I’d woken you.’

Sleep would have to wait for both of them, and so too would Mickey Johnson and the antiques thefts. He had a killer to find before Dennings could get so much as a toe inside the major incident room, and the trail started at Vinnakers Betting Shop in Commercial Road.

Friday: 9.10 a.m.

Horton followed the manager’s swaying hips through to a small office at the back of the betting shop. She waved him into the seat across a narrow desk scratched and scarred with cup rings and cigarette burns while Cantelli leaned against a battered grey filing cabinet to Horton’s right.

The room was so heavy with the sickly smell of her perfume that Horton wanted to push open the barred window behind her, though judging by the state of it, he doubted it would budge an inch.

Elaine Tolley flashed him a smile as she settled her ample backside on to a creaking leather chair opposite him and crossed her legs. Horton didn’t waste any time with preliminaries. He couldn’t afford to. He was damned if he was going to hand this case over to Dennings.

‘Mrs Tolley, can you confirm if this is one of your betting slips?’ He gave her a photocopy. The original had been sent to the forensic lab.

She took hold of it with bejewelled fingers. He saw that they were stained yellow with nicotine. Her vermillion nail varnish was chipped and her nails bitten.

‘Yes, why do you want to know?’

‘Do you recognize the handwriting on the back?’

Holding it at a distance she squinted at it. Then sighing heavily she picked up a pair of spectacles from her desk, her gold bracelets rattling and clinking as she settled them on her lined and heavily made-up face. ‘Sign of old age,’ she said with a smile.

Horton didn’t contradict her and Cantelli looked too tired to pour on his usual charm. Horton watched for signs of recognition or surprise as she scrutinized the paper. He saw a slight widening of her eyes and after a moment she pulled off her glasses, and with a puzzled frown said, ‘I think it’s Eric Morville’s writing.’