Death Lies Beneath (17 page)

Ballard looked thoughtful. ‘I guess she could have told them she was going to be away for a few days.’

‘Or perhaps they’re not a close family and only keep in touch infrequently. Once a year at Christmas is sometimes all some families manage, if that, and, as you say, if she had friends then she might have told them she was going away on business or on holiday.’

‘She appeared to be a nice-looking woman. Her picture was on the news.’

‘Have you ever seen her before?’

Ballard’s head came up with surprise. ‘Me? No. Why do you ask?’

‘I’ve asked so many people it’s become a kind of habit,’ Horton joked, wearily.

Ballard gave a smile. ‘And here’s me making you talk about it when that’s the last thing you probably want to do. I came to say thank you and to tell you that I’m heading off early tomorrow morning.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘France, I think, for a while.’ He took a pull at his drink and surveyed the cabin. ‘Do you live on board?’

‘Most of the time,’ Horton replied, not wanting to be drawn.

‘It’s nice.’

‘Bit smaller than yours, and not as fast,’ Horton answered, taking a swallow of his drink and adding, ‘How long have you had your boat?’

‘Not long.’

‘Been around much in it?’

‘The Channel Islands, Spain, France, here.’

‘Wish I had the time. Are you retired?’

‘Sort of. I have some investments. I dabble a bit here and there.’

Evasive thought Horton but then there was no reason why Ballard should tell him his life story, just as he wouldn’t relay his.

Ballard rose and consulted his watch. A Rolex, Horton noted, and genuine. ‘I’d better be going. Thanks again for your help.’ He had hardly touched his drink. He stretched out a hand and Horton took it noting the firm dry grip and the steady confident eye contact. He thought he detected something behind the eyes in that brief glimpse but he couldn’t define what exactly.

Ballard turned away and climbed on deck. Horton followed him.

‘I’ve asked for any further incidents like the one that happened to you last night to be reported to me. I’ll let you know if we catch whoever attacked you. How do I get in contact?’

‘Forget it. I don’t want any fuss,’ Ballard said, smoothly and pleasantly.

‘It would help us to secure a conviction if you’d press charges.’

‘Sorry, but I’d rather not.’

Horton let him go. He watched him strike out down the pontoon. Before he reached the security gate Ballard turned and raised his hand. There was something in the gesture that tugged at the back of Horton’s mind. It had the smack of a farewell in it. And why shouldn’t it? Horton was hardly likely to see Ballard again.

He stayed on deck long after Ballard had disappeared from view, scouring the marina and the car park. There was no one about and he recognized all the cars in the car park. Why wouldn’t Ballard give him his contact details? OK, so the man was entitled to his privacy but Horton wasn’t just anyone. He replayed their conversation, mentally dissecting it. Had he missed something? Had Ballard merely been thanking him for being a Good Samaritan and making chit-chat about the murder case, or had there been something more to his visit? He recalled that brief eye contact. What had he seen? There was something, he was sure of it but what, he couldn’t define.

He thought back to what he had seen on Ballard’s boat. One cabin door had been ajar but there had been nothing on the ruffled double bed. He hadn’t seen into the other cabin. In the shower room, where he had washed his hands before attending to Ballard’s cut, there had been men’s toiletries: toothpaste, toothbrush, electric razor, aftershave, expensive brand. No women’s toiletries but then Ballard would have cleared them out if they had belonged to Salacia. Could he be involved? Could he be her killer? But why not clear out after her death? Why come into Southsea Marina? Had he wanted to tell him something but couldn’t bring himself to? No, he must be wrong. Then what was it that bothered him so much about Edward Ballard? It was there, at the back of his mind, nagging at him, tormenting him.

He returned to the cabin, and stood just inside it. First Sawyer had shown up here and then Ballard, but had they arrived at the marina in that order? Had Sawyer got here before Ballard? He’d certainly arrived before Horton, which he’d already considered surprising. Had Sawyer known that Ballard was here? Was that why Sawyer had been at the marina? Ballard was connected with Sawyer. Or could he be connected with one of Sawyer’s investigations. And was that investigation to do with Marty Stapleton and Salacia? Or . . . Horton stiffened. Was Ballard connected with Zeus? Was that why Sawyer had been here and had warned him?

His eyes swept the cabin. Ballard’s can of Coke was on the table. Reaching into his jacket pocket Horton pulled out a pair of latex gloves, stretched his fingers inside them, and poured the almost full can of drink down the sink. Then taking out an evidence bag he dropped the can inside it, sealed the bag and labelled it: Assault, Edward Ballard, and wrote the date, estimated time and place. Tomorrow morning he’d allocate a crime number and send the can for fingerprints and DNA. It was highly irregular because he hadn’t obtained Ballard’s permission, and whatever he discovered wouldn’t be admissible, but he didn’t think Ballard was connected with Salacia anyway. No, unless he was very much mistaken Ballard was connected with DCS Sawyer and that meant Zeus. And he suspected that when he ran Ballard through the computer tomorrow morning he would find precisely nothing.

‘T
here’s not a lot I can tell you about her,’ Dr Clayton announced when Horton arrived at the mortuary early the next morning. He’d already been into work, entered the assault on Edward Ballard on the computer and sent the can off for fingerprints and DNA testing. He’d also spoken to Simon, the marina manager, and discovered that Ballard had paid for his mooring by cash and hadn’t given an address or left a telephone number. There was nothing wrong in that but Horton gave instructions that he was to be informed when Ballard left the marina.

‘Anything wrong, Andy?’ Simon had asked, concerned. Horton had told him he just wanted to make sure that Ballard didn’t suffer any after-effects from the attack. He wasn’t sure if Simon had swallowed it but he’d asked no further questions. Simon had called him on his mobile at eight twenty-five, as he’d been leaving for the mortuary, to say that Ballard had left the marina. Horton had then rung Elkins and asked him to contact the Border Agency to track Ballard’s boat but not to stop it, and to find out if it had been berthed at Horsea Marina on Tuesday night. As he’d predicted, Ballard hadn’t shown up on the computer.

There was nothing more he could do on that score but there was plenty on the matter of the bones laid out in front of him, and he brought his full attention back to them and Dr Clayton. She’d said the remains were those of a woman, which ruled out Foxbury’s elderly man, but the fact that it was a woman made it even more likely there was a link with Salacia’s death. He hesitated to even silently frame the words ‘serial killer’ which the newspapers had emblazoned across their pages. But this serial killer, if it was one, had left a long gap before killing again and the divers had said there were no further bodies lying in the deep.

‘The sacrum is short and wide, not long and narrow as it would be with a male,’ Gaye Clayton was explaining, ‘and amongst other indicators the sacroiliac joint is small not large. She’s also Caucasian, and from the measurements of the femur and humerus, and consulting the tables we use to determine height, she was five foot one inches. The pattern of fusion of bone ends to bone shaft, plus the general condition of the bones, indicates she was in her early twenties.’

It was a start but he needed more. ‘Any idea when she died?’ Foxbury had said the wreck she’d been found on had been there from the late 1980s and the one above it from 2002, but Horton wasn’t sure he could rely on his evidence.

‘No, sorry. We need to conduct further laboratory tests to determine that, but if blood pigments are present in the bones then it will be less than ten years. We should be able to get DNA from the teeth, which are in good condition.’

But whether it would match with anyone they had on the DNA database was another matter.

Reading his mind Gaye said, ‘I know, you want more. But there’s not much I can tell you. We can compare the degradation rate of DNA extracted from the recovered rib bones to determine the time interval since the death of the victim. And if you don’t get a DNA match from the database we can do a three-dimensional facial reconstruction to give you an idea of what the victim looked like based on the size and shape of the skull.’

All that was helpful but it would also take time and Horton, like Uckfield, was impatient for a speedier result. ‘What about cause of death?’ he asked hopefully while preparing himself for disappointment. But Dr Clayton surprised him there.

She picked up the skull and swivelled it round. Horton found himself staring at a gaping hole. ‘I don’t think such extensive damage was done by it washing up against an underwater obstruction. Of course,’ she added, replacing the skull on the slab, ‘that might not have been the actual cause of death but it does indicate she was struck violently on the back of the head.’

‘Could she have fallen?’

‘Accidental death, you mean?’

Horton nodded.

‘If she did accidentally strike her head against something on land, someone then pushed her body into the sea instead of calling for help. And if she accidentally fell into the sea and landed on that wreck then she would have struck her forehead not the back of her head. I can’t be a hundred per cent certain, of course, it is possible she could have stumbled and slipped over the quay backwards, but the size and type of wound doesn’t look consistent with that. It looks to me as though you’ve got yourself another homicide, Inspector.’

And that wouldn’t please Uckfield or the ACC. He wasn’t too happy about it himself, and the newspapers would go to town on it. He thanked Dr Clayton and headed for the station, mulling over what she had said. Was it linked with Salacia’s death?

At the station, he called Uckfield on his mobile and relayed Dr Clayton’s findings. As predicted they didn’t improve the Super’s mood. Horton had no idea what Sawyer’s reaction was as the two men headed for Wales. Uckfield’s phone was on speaker but Sawyer made no comment.

Horton rang off feeling irritated and frustrated and wondering where the hell they went next with this inquiry. He hoped that Uckfield might get something from Stapleton and that Eames, who was working away at one of the computer terminals in the incident suite, might dig up something on Foxbury that would throw a light into the dark corner of this investigation. They had a body and bones, both without an ID, and no idea why either woman had been killed or by whom, or even if they were connected. It couldn’t get much worse. Or could it?

Trueman hailed him. Holding out the phone he said, ‘It’s Joliffe.’

Horton took the receiver expecting the worst. Joliffe’s Scottish tones reverberated down the line. ‘There are three letters engraved on the bracelet, Inspector. The initial E followed by the letter L then a gap and then the last letter, E.’

‘How many letters altogether?’ asked Horton. It wasn’t much but it was better than nothing.

‘Six at the most, probably five.’

‘Anything else?’

‘It’s silver and it fits a small wrist.’

Horton thanked him and quickly relayed the information to Trueman, adding, ‘OK, a girl’s name beginning with EL, five letters, ending in E, any ideas?’ Horton thought of Cantelli’s daughter Ellen but that didn’t end with E.

Trueman quickly logged on to the Internet and a web site of girls’ names. ‘Could be Elaine.’

‘Any with five letters?’

‘Elise. Ellie. No others but it could be a pet name, a surname or even a foreign name.’

‘Let’s hope not. Start with those three.’

Trueman called up the missing-persons database while Horton crossed to the crime board hardly daring to hope they might strike lucky. They needed something. His eyes caught Eames’s as she glanced up. She gave him a brief smile but he saw nothing more than general friendliness in it. He told himself he was relieved.
Who was he kidding?

He crossed to her. ‘Anything?’

‘Harry Foxbury was investigated by the tax office in 1998. No irregularities were discovered. He’s got two spent convictions for driving offences; one for driving without due care and attention in 1995 and the other for speeding in 2004. He sold the boatyard for re-development to the council and a private investment firm four years ago for two million pounds.’

Very nice
, thought Horton but before he could answer Trueman cried out.

‘Andy, we’ve got a match.’

Horton spun round surprised. ‘That was quick.’

‘Came up almost immediately. Nothing under Elaine or Elise but there’s an Ellie Loman from Portsmouth, reported missing July 2001.’

He didn’t recall the name but in 2001 he’d been seconded to Basingstoke. He flashed Eames a glance. She said, ‘According to Foxbury the second wreck was there but not the one on top of it where Salacia was found.’

Horton’s pulse quickened. ‘The timing sounds right. Go on,’ he said eagerly to Trueman.

‘Ellie Loman, aged twenty-one, auburn haired, five foot one inches, slim. Lived in Portsmouth with her parents. Hold on, there’s more. I’ll print off her picture while I access the file.’

It fitted with Dr Clayton’s original findings. They had to be on the right track. With rising excitement he collected the photograph from the printer and studied the small oval face, the green eyes looking shyly into camera and the long shiny auburn hair. She’d certainly been an attractive young woman, feminine and delicate. He tried not to think of her as the collection of rotting bones on Dr Clayton’s mortuary slab. There was still a chance that they weren’t Ellie Loman’s and the bracelet had been lost or discarded, but Horton knew in his gut it was her. But was her death connected with Salacia’s?