Deadly Waters (20 page)

‘Did you go out again?’ asked Cantelli.

‘No, why should I?’

Horton suddenly had an idea about Edney’s death. Maybe he had been killed because he’d seen Langley’s murderer. ‘Did you see Tom Edney anywhere in that vicinity on Thursday evening?’

‘No.’

Shame. ‘You look surprised that he could have been there.’

‘He was hardly her favourite person. She used to laugh at how she tormented him. She wasn’t always a very nice woman.

In fact she could be horrid, but she was kind of addictive and stimulating to be with.’

Horton didn’t think Ranson’s wife was going to be very pleased to hear that. But Ranson’s words had finally unlocked that small niggling thing that had been in the back of his mind since he’d first set eyes on Jessica Langley on the mulberry and then again in the mortuary. It had been the way her hair had been curled on to her forehead on the mulberry. It hadn’t been like that in any of the photographs he’d seen of her. ‘The Owl and the Pussy-Cat’, and ‘Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush’ weren’t the only rhymes their killer had been having fun with –
when she was bad she was horrid.

‘Did you ever go sailing with her?’ he asked.

Ranson looked surprised at the question. ‘A couple of times.

She was a very competent sailor.’

Horton took the photograph from his pocket. ‘Did you take this of Jessica Langley?’

Ranson studied it. ‘No.’

‘Do you know if she owned a boat?’

‘She never said.’

‘Did she wear foul-weather sailing clothes when she was on your boat, like these in the photograph? Leggings, jacket . . .’

‘A couple of times, when the weather was rough. They were my wife’s,’ he said. ‘Please don’t tell my wife about Jessica.

She won’t understand.’

‘I bet she won’t!’ Cantelli said with feeling, when Ranson had left and they were in the car. Horton had asked Ranson to call into the station at two thirty that afternoon and make a statement. He had agreed with alacrity in the vain hope that they wouldn’t check his movements with his wife. They would, of course.

‘Our killer’s a real joker, Barney, and it’s not Leo Ranson.

Langley’s body had been
arranged
on the mulberry, with her dark hair curling on to her forehead. Picking up on our nursery rhyme theme, does anything strike you about that?’

‘No.’ Cantelli looked blank.

‘Can’t say I blame you for not getting it. It’s taken me long enough.’ And Horton chanted: ‘“There was a little girl/Who wore a little curl/Right in the middle of her forehead/When she was good, she was very, very good— ”’

Cantelli finished, ‘“And when she was bad she was horrid.”

Our killer knew her well.’

‘Yes. And a woman like Langley would have as many enemies as she would admirers.’ But who could have killed her if Ranson was in the clear for murder? Horton had to go back to the beginning. Or did he? There was still that matter of the betting slip. Why had the killer left it in Langley’s pocket? What did the message on it mean:
Have you forgotten
ME?
Did it have any significance to the case? Perhaps Morville was telling the truth when he said it had been intended for Elaine Tolley. But what if he was lying, and Jessica Langley had been the intended recipient? That meant Morville knew her. Morville’s alibi had checked out: he’d been drinking in the club. But there was something he wasn’t telling them and with one trail cold it was time to follow another one.

He also hadn’t forgotten about Mickey Johnson and those antiques thefts, and Johnson’s missing accomplice, who hadn’t yet been found. But that would have to wait just like the breakin at the ex-forces club and the school building site robbery, though he’d keep the latter in mind, in case he was back to his theory that Langley had surprised the robbers at her school and been killed because of it. After Leo Ranson had left her apartment perhaps she had returned to the school to collect something. Or perhaps this second caller had asked her to meet him there, though that was more unlikely. Her caller could have asked Langley to meet him on his boat.

But first Eric Morville. Horton glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was just after midday, and there were three places that Morville could be: the betting shop, the ex-forces club or at home.

‘Drop me off on the corner of Corton Court, Barney. I’m going to see if I can get some sense out of Morville. You follow up Ranson’s alibi.’ If Morville wasn’t there then Horton could easily walk to the other two destinations. But he was lucky. Morville was in.

Unshaved,and bleary-eyed,Morville looked as though he’d had a heavy night on the tiles. Either that or he had started drinking early, which, judging by the smell on his breath, Horton thought more likely. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the almost empty whisky bottle on the small table beside Morville’s armchair. Beside it was a plate with the remains of bacon rind on it and the yellow stain of what once must have been a fried egg if the smell in the flat was anything to go by.

‘I suppose you’ve come about that bloody betting slip again.’

Morville sank heavily into his armchair and began to roll himself a cigarette.

‘Well, I haven’t come to discuss how Portsmouth are doing in the Premiership.’

‘Good. I know sod all about football.’

‘But you do know about Jessica Langley?’

‘Yeah, you told me you’d found a body.’ Morville lit up and inhaled deeply. Horton felt like throwing open a window to let out the smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol and cooking.

Morville continued, ‘I heard another schoolteacher’s been bumped off. Not doing very well, are you, Inspector. Shouldn’t you be out looking for the killer instead of bothering innocent ratepayers like me?’

Horton doubted Morville paid any council tax, being on benefit. He leaned forward, thrusting his face so close to Morville that he could see the fine blood vessels in the yellowing whites of his eyes and smell the nicotine and stale booze on his breath. He took the cigarette from Morville’s thin lips and said very quietly, ‘Oh, I am, Mr Morville, which is why I am here.’

Horton held his position for a few seconds, which was long enough to see the flicker of fear in Morville’s eyes. Then, straightening up, he squashed the cigarette between his fingers, crumbling it over the plate.

Morville reached for the whisky bottle and poured the remaining liquid into a glass.

Horton stepped away. ‘You’ve got a criminal record: assault on man in a pub, ten years ago.’

‘I was drunk.’

‘And you always get violent when drunk? Were you drunk when you hit Jessica Langley?’

‘I didn’t hit her!’ Morville cried indignantly.

‘You just slipped that note into her pocket. Why?’

‘I told you; I dropped it.’

‘Where?’

‘How the hell do I know?’

‘Were you blackmailing Jessica Langley?’

‘I didn’t know her. How could I blackmail her?’

Horton knew instantly that he’d struck the right chord. Years of interviewing suspects had given him a finely tuned antenna for the slightest nuance of tone that betrayed a man. What could Morville have had over the head teacher? Was there something in her past that connected her to Morville? Their paths had crossed, that much was clear, but was it here in Portsmouth or when Morville had been stationed elsewhere whilst in the navy, perhaps near Jessica Langley at a previous school? If so, they would be able to pinpoint it by viewing Morville’s naval record and comparing it with Langley’s career path. But all that would take time. And he didn’t have time.

On Friday morning, in four days’ time, he would have to hand this case over to Dennings, as Uckfield had so bluntly reminded him.

Horton said sharply, ‘Where were you Saturday between three and six p.m?’

‘At the betting shop.’

‘They close at five.’

‘I came home, had something to eat and then went to the club about seven. Satisfied?’ he challenged.

Far from it, Horton thought. He would check.

‘You can’t pin either murder on me,’ Morville crowed defiantly.

More’s the pity, thought Horton. He wasn’t going to rule Morville out until he had checked and double-checked his alibis, and he’d found the reason why Langley had had the betting slip in her trouser pocket.

‘I’d like to know what you’re not telling me,’ Horton said.

Morville opened his mouth to reply, but Horton got there first, his voice low and threatening, ‘And I
will
find out.’ He had the satisfaction of seeing Morville worried before he swept out of the foul-smelling flat.

He needed that link between Morville and Langley. It sounded as though Langley could well have refused to give Morville money. Could he have killed her for that? Looks could be deceptive; perhaps Morville was more energetic than he appeared. But how could he have got the body on to the mulberry? Did he have an accomplice with a boat?

Morville couldn’t afford to keep and run one on benefit. He had been in the navy though, so maybe he could handle a boat. But a blackmailer would hardly kill the goose that lays the golden egg. Back to those bloody fairy stories again, Horton thought irritably. And would Morville have the intelligence to use the mulberry bush nursery rhyme? Why the honey and money? Questions, questions and no bloody answers.

Horton rounded the corner; a few hundred yards would take him to the front entrance of the ex-forces club, and now that he was here he might as well check out Morville’s alibi for Saturday afternoon, and try and get at least one of those questions answered.

There was no sign of Barry Dunsley but the cleaner, Mrs Watrow, was there.

‘Barry’s gone to the cash and carry,’ she said in answer to Horton’s enquiry. ‘Calls himself a steward, but if he’s a steward then I’m the Queen of the May.’

Horton gave her an encouraging look; not that he needed to, as he could see that Mrs Watrow liked to talk.

‘No doubt he’s pulled a few pints of beer in his time, but he ain’t no professional steward,’ she snorted.

‘Does he have to be?’

‘Gives himself airs. He drinks more pints than he pulls.

He’s an idle bugger, not like Jim. I’ll be glad when he’s back.’

‘Do you know Eric Morville?’

‘He’s another lazy blighter. Heart condition, my eye. Allergic to work more like. I—’

‘Do you know if he was in here drinking on Saturday night at about seven o’clock?’

But she was shaking her head. ‘Me and my husband didn’t come down here until eight. He was here then.’

‘Alone?’

‘What sort of woman would want him?’ she scoffed. ‘Good for nothing idle beggar.’

‘You don’t seem to like him very much.’

‘He’s a nasty piece of work, like that so-called steward.’

Horton was curious. He hadn’t taken to Barry Dunsley either, and had his suspicions about the break-in being an inside job, but he was curious to know why Mrs Watrow didn’t like him apart, that was, from him not being a professional or competent steward. He asked her.

‘He’s always listening into people’s conversations and making snide remarks. If you ask me they’re two of a kind, Dunsley and Morville, and the pair of them have got their hands in the till.’

Now Horton’s interest heightened. ‘Do you have any evidence to back this up?’

‘Stands to reason, don’t it? They are always in a huddle.

Up to no good, if you ask me. And he told you a lie when you were here before asking about the break-in.’

Horton’s ears pricked up. He studied her closely. How much of this was spiteful gossip and how much the truth? ‘How do you know what Mr Dunsley told me?’

She smiled. ‘You can hear every word that’s said in the bar when you’re in those gents’ toilets, especially if it’s quiet like.’

Horton recalled that Dunsley had sent her to clean them.

She said, with a triumphant gleam in her watery grey eyes,

‘He told you he was serving all Thursday night, only he wasn’t.

Doris was serving, and
she
locked up.
He
didn’t show.’

‘She told you this?’ Horton’s heart quickened. So Dunsley had lied when he said he’d seen Morville drinking in the bar the night of Langley’s murder. Had Morville asked him to provide an alibi for him, whilst he’d been killing Langley?

‘We go to the bingo together,’ Mrs Watrow declared, as if this was the clinching argument as to why Doris should be believed.

‘Do you know where Mr Dunsley had been?’ Horton asked.

‘Out with some tart, I expect.’

‘And Eric Morville, do you remember if he was here last Thursday evening?’

‘He was. Propping up the bar as always.’

Pity. Morville had a cast-iron alibi. He thought Mrs Watrow was reliable enough. If she said Morville was here, then he was. Nevertheless he wouldn’t rule him out yet. Not until he got to the bottom of that message on that bloody betting slip.

‘Was Mr Dunsley here on Saturday afternoon between three and six p.m?’

‘I don’t know, luv, I wasn’t here.’

Horton thanked her and left, wanting to know a great deal more about Mr Barry Dunsley. Why had he lied about being in the bar on the night Langley was killed? Horton knew the break-in to be phoney. He could sense and smell it. Cantelli had sussed it out too. So what was Barry Dunsley up to? Had he been killing Langley? But why fake a break-in and draw attention to himself? Horton smiled as he gave himself the answer: to provide an alibi, of course.

At the station he asked Marsden to chase up Morville’s navy record, and to match that information against Langley’s background. To Walters he designated the task of finding out all he could about Barry Dunsley.

‘Does Dunsley have a boat?’ Horton asked Trueman, who checked on the computer against the lists they had received.

‘Not according to this.’

Shame. But maybe Dunsley hadn’t registered his boat with a harbour master. Or perhaps he had an accomplice. Morville?

It was possible especially after what Mrs Watrow had told him.

Horton headed for the canteen, bought himself some sandwiches and a coffee and returned to his office with them. He closed his door and stared at the photograph on his desk of Emma. He could call a solicitor now while he had a moment yet he hesitated. It seemed so final. Damn it, it was final, hadn’t Catherine made it quite clear their marriage was over.