Deadly Waters (27 page)

Desperately he dived into his memory trying to recall exactly what she had said: ‘
She registered with my practice in May.

It’s the closest to her school in Canal Walk. I gave her a
medical, as we do all new patients, she was very fit. I saw
her a couple of times after that, nothing serious, just the usual
women’s things.
’

He climbed on his Harley. He’d been thinking like everyone else in the investigation that Langley’s lover must be male.

But Morville had given them some new information. OK, it was a long time ago that Langley had had a teenage lesbian affair but maybe those feelings had been rekindled. Why hadn’t he worked this out before now? he thought, annoyed with himself. But he’d only just extracted Morville’s evidence. And, of course,
he
hadn’t seen Langley’s medical notes. Uckfield had given him a brief outline of them, confirming what Woodford had said. If Horton had seen them then he would have spotted an appointment recorded on the day of her death and known that Dr Woodford had lied to him. But surely so would Uckfield, which meant there had been no appointment.

But, according to Morville, Langley had been there.

Did Dr Woodford own a boat? He racked his brains trying to recall if he’d seen her name on the list, but he couldn’t remember. There were two ways to find out: ask Sergeant Trueman, or ask Dr Woodford herself. He plumped for the latter.

At the surgery he showed his warrant card only to be told that Dr Woodford wasn’t holding a clinic that evening. When he asked where he could find her he was told he’d need to speak to the practice manager, Janice Barton. Three agonizingly slow minutes later he was escorted into her office.

‘Dr Woodford’s taking a few days’ holiday,’ Barton, a large woman in her late forties with short dark hair and a crisp manner, told him. She waved him into the seat opposite.

‘When was this decided?’ he asked sharply, trying desperately to curb his impatience.

She gave him a curious stare. ‘This morning after surgery.

It left me in a rather difficult position, having to find a locum at short notice, but I could see that Dr Woodford needed a break. She looked exhausted. She said she might go sailing.

I don’t call that a break, I call it mad in this weather, but each to their own, and if it does her good—’

So, she did have a boat. His heart hammered against his chest. Was he already too late? ‘Where does she keep it? The boat.’

‘Gosport Marina.’ Now the practice manager was beginning to look worried. ‘I hope nothing has happened to her.’

‘Can you tell me the name of the boat?’

She raised her eyebrows in surprise before her brow knitted.

‘
Swansong
. I really don’t see—’

‘Did Ms Jessica Langley have an appointment to see Dr Woodford last Thursday morning?’ he asked, his heart pumping fast.

‘That’s the murdered head teacher. Why do you want to know?’

‘Did she?’ insisted Horton. When he could see the woman pursing her lips in anticipation of refusing him, he forced himself to speak calmly, though he wanted to push her away from the computer and check himself. ‘I don’t want to know any confidential medical information, Mrs Barton, just whether or not Ms Langley had an appointment.’

She looked about to protest then changed her mind and tapped into the computer in front of her. As she did so Horton glanced impatiently around the office. It was bulging with paperwork, files and books. On the far left hand wall was a large roster and beside it some notes about the doctors under their individual names. Dr Teresa Woodford MD, BSc (Hons) MBBS, MRCGP, was one of six GPs, all of whom also had a wealth of initials after their names. He waited anxiously for the information. The clock was ticking away. He wondered whether he was he already too late. Would Woodford be making her escape across the Solent to France or Spain? The only saving factor was the weather, which was growing wilder by the minute. Maybe that would make her postpone her trip.

After all she couldn’t know that he was on to her.

At last Mrs Barton looked up from her computer screen.

‘Not that I can see.’

‘But she did come here,’ Horton insisted. Had Morville lied? This time Horton didn’t think so.

‘I’ll ask Reception.’ She picked up her phone.

‘Can you also ask if Eric Morville had an appointment, what time and did he keep it?’

Whilst she spoke to her receptionists, Horton chewed over what he had learnt. One thought kept returning to him: was Langley still involved with women? Had Dr Woodford been Langley’s second caller and Langley’s lover?

Mrs Barton replaced the receiver. ‘Jessica Langley arrived just before surgery on Thursday morning at nine a.m. Dr Woodford had left instructions that she was to be shown through to her consulting rooms. Eric Morville is Dr Stainton’s patient; he had an appointment Thursday morning, at half nine, which he kept.’

Horton rose. He had the information he needed. Then he paused. ‘Just one thing more, can you tell me if Tom Edney was a patient?’

With a pointed sigh she fiddled about with her computer and after a moment she looked up and said, ‘No.’

Horton thanked her and left. He had two more calls to make, which he did in the shelter of the surgery lobby. It wasn’t very private with a stream of people coming in and out, but no one seemed interested in him; he guessed they were too preoccupied with their medical needs and the nerve-racking experience of visiting a doctor. Or was that just him who suffered from this phobia?

The first call was to the Queen’s harbour master. No one in the office could remember if
Swansong
, Woodford’s yacht, had radioed up to cross the small boat channel last Thursday, during the day. They didn’t keep a record, there would be too many. And Cantelli had already discovered earlier that only a handful of fishing boats and the Isle of Wight ferry had used it at night.

Then he called Gaye Clayton.

‘How well do you know Dr Woodford?’

‘I’ve met her a few times at the sailing club.’

‘Can you tell me what the initials MRCGP stand for?’

‘Member of the Royal College of General Practitioners.’

‘And MBBS?’

There was a moment’s silence then, ‘It stands for Bachelor of Medicine and Bachelor of Surgery, awarded after a five year course of study involving two years’ pure science and three years’ clinical experience.’

‘So whoever has this degree can carry out surgery?’ He thought of the expert way Tom Edney’s throat had been cut.

‘It shows a satisfactory understanding of anatomy, biochem-istry, physiology, pharmacology, sociology, psychology, medical statistics, pathology, medicine, and yes, surgery, also obstetrics and gynaecology and psychiatry. A further year of supervised work must be undertaken before a doctor can be fully registered with the General Medical Council. What is it, Inspector?

Why do you want to know?’

‘I’ll tell you later. Thanks.’

It was raining hard now. The wind beat against him as he weaved his way in and out of the heavy home time traffic on the M27 to the west of Portsmouth on his way to Gosport Marina. Had she already gone out sailing? He hoped not. He would call on Sergeant Elkins when he reached the marina.

But the police launch wasn’t in its usual place. Blast! He had been counting on Elkins’ help. Horton phoned Cantelli. He wasn’t in the station and his mobile was switched off. Had he already left for home? Horton left a message on Cantelli’s mobile saying where he was, then switched off his own mobile.

After showing his warrant card to the man behind the reception counter in the marina office, Horton got the location of Woodford’s boat.

Horton ran down the pontoon. Driving slashes of rain beat against his face. He thought he was never going to get there but eventually he caught sight of its mast. Thank God, he wasn’t too late.

He turned at right angles on to the pontoon that housed
Swansong
, a Legend 41. There was a light on below in the cabin. Glancing up at the mast he could see that the yacht had global positioning satellite, which would easily guide Woodford across the channel in the dark. And although she was an experienced sailor like him, perhaps she didn’t like to chance going out in this storm and the likelihood of being run through by a container ship.

The boat opposite was uninhabited. The wind was howling through the rigging and the rain drumming on the pontoon.

He was wet but he hardly noticed it. Across the harbour he could see the lights of Oyster Quays. He climbed quietly and nimbly on board, yet even then the boat rocked. It must have alerted Woodford, yet no one appeared on deck.

The hatch was open. There were no shadows to tell him if the boat was occupied. He stepped under the deep blue spray hood. Still no one hailed him or showed their head. With a racing heart, he descended into the cabin, climbing down the wooden steps rather awkwardly frontwards rather than backwards as was usual. He didn’t want to be caught unawares.

He’d only gone a couple of steps though when he saw that no one was going to catch him off his guard. Dr Woodford was there all right, but killing him looked to be the last thing on her mind.

She was sitting opposite him, the other side of the galley, on a cushioned bench, which ran in a U-shape around the table. Dressed in navy trousers and a red Mustoe crew jacket, which was zipped up to her chin as if she was cold, she gazed at him blankly.

Horton forced himself to relax though his heart was going like the clappers and the adrenalin was pumping fast. It didn’t look as though he was in imminent danger of being attacked by her. Quite the opposite in fact, Woodford looked like a discouraged child, tired and defeated. A woman stricken by grief. The strain of what she had done was etched into every line of her face.

She lifted her head. It seemed to take a great effort. In a flat voice she said, ‘You know, don’t you?’

‘That you killed Jessica Langley, yes.’

His words seemed to confuse her. She stared at him as if puzzled. Then as they finally sank in her eyes widened and she cried, ‘No! How could I? I was in love with Jessica.’

So she was going to deny it, but for how long? He moved further into the luxurious and elegantly designed teak cabin that made his boat look like a shack on the sea. Now he was standing close to her, looking down on her as she sat. The door on his right, to the aft cabin, was slightly ajar.

‘What happened?’ he asked gently, treating her like a frightened child. One wrong word and she would clam up, or perhaps lash out and he didn’t fancy any hypodermics filled with methadone being pumped into him. He should have called for back-up, but he hadn’t so there it was. But she didn’t look as if she had the energy to rise from her seat, let alone attack him. And he was strong and fit. In the silence he could hear the wind whistling and drumming through the halyards.

Finally, just when he thought he would have to prompt her, she said, ‘Jess registered with me as a patient in May. At her first consultation we both knew there was something between us. It just happened. I couldn’t help it and neither could she.

I know it was unethical. It’s never happened to me before.

I’m a married woman and have been for nineteen years. But you can’t plan these things. When you fall in love it’s so over-powering you’re helpless. Doesn’t matter who it’s with, even someone of the same gender. I would never have believed it of myself. She was so . . . so exhilarating. It was as if I was only living a half life before I met her.’

Horton saw the memory of her relationship shining in her eyes. He thought of poor little Michelle Egmont who had killed herself for Langley and now Dr Woodford had killed Tom Edney and Timothy Boston because of Langley. What a woman.
When she was bad she was horrid.

‘Does your husband know?’ he said, keeping his tone conversational and non-accusatory.

‘He won’t understand. He’s a true alpha male and he has a reputation to uphold.’

Something stirred in Horton’s brain. He scrabbled to retrieve it, but it remained as illusive as smoke.

‘What happened the night Jessica died?’ he asked. There was no need to bully this broken woman into a confession; she was ready to tell it all.

She glanced up at him with a sad and dazed expression. ‘I telephoned her on Thursday evening just before eight o’clock and told her I was on board my boat. I had taken it that afternoon to the Town Camber to be closer to her apartment . . .’

Her voice faltered.

The Town Camber manager hadn’t mentioned Woodford’s boat when Walters had asked if any strangers had moored up.

Horton said, ‘They don’t usually let you stay in the Town Camber for very long.’

‘I know, but they’re not so strict out of season. Anyway the manager is a patient of mine.’

Of course! That explained it. To the manager, Dr Woodford wasn’t a stranger.

She continued. ‘I was excited at seeing Jess again. We were going away for the weekend on Friday night, a whole weekend together, alone, but I couldn’t wait. I had to see her on Thursday night.’

‘Why not simply go to her apartment?’

‘She didn’t like me to. She said it was too dangerous for both of us; someone might see us together and recognize us.

I’m a married woman and Jess is always worried someone will find out, Inspector.’

She spoke as if Langley was still alive. Horton felt some sympathy for her. No one would have thought twice about them being seen together, but Langley had sewn seeds of doubt in Teresa Woodford’s mind. He guessed that the real reason Langley kept Woodford away was because she didn’t want her stumbling across her other lover: Leo Ranson. Was there only the one? Horton wouldn’t mind betting not.

She continued. ‘We had just got ourselves a drink when I had a call out. I didn’t have to go of course, since GPs are no longer on call these days, but a patient I was very fond of was being taken to hospital; his wife telephoned me. I don’t give all my patients my mobile number but this one I did, and it had to ring that night.’

‘So you left Jessica on your boat.’ But was she alive or dead? According to Woodford, alive. Could he trust her to be telling the truth though? ‘What time?’ he asked sharply.