Death Lies Beneath (2 page)

The lights changed and Horton made for the motorway leading into the city. The other theory, one that Sergeant Cantelli had favoured, was that Woodley had been attacked by a mugger who had been disturbed before being able to rob him of the fifty pounds benefit money he had in his pocket. Horton recalled his conversations with Cantelli before the sergeant had gone on holiday. After Cantelli had consulted his wife, Charlotte, a nurse, he’d suggested that Woodley had staggered out of the hospital in a dazed and confused state, keen to go back to the time before the attack, a common factor in head-injury cases though they very rarely picked up their bed and walked. Once outside Woodley had been given a lift by a lorry or van driver or a passing sales rep to the marshes where he had passed out and died.

‘But why drop him at the marshes?’ Horton had asked.

‘Because whoever picked him up soon realized he was trouble and said that was as far as he was prepared to go,’ Cantelli had answered.

Then Sawyer had weighed in with his bright idea about Marty Stapleton being behind Woodley’s murder. As Horton pulled into the station car park, he thought that whichever theory might be correct, they seemed fated not to get a result on the case.

He made his way to the overheated CID operations room where he found DC Walters, perspiring and jacketless, munching his way through a packet of crisps staring at a computer screen. It smelt like the back of a bin lorry. God alone knew what Walters had been eating but Horton caught the faint smell of curry, vinegar and eggs, which turned his stomach over.

‘Don’t you ever open any windows,’ he said in exasperation, crossing to one on Walters’ right and pushing it wide. It made little difference. There was no wind and hardly any air.

‘Sorry, guv, got caught up watching these videos, trying to spot our metal thieves on the Hard,’ Walters replied with his mouth full. ‘Nothing doing. I’ve been sifting through the CCTV footage for so long that I wouldn’t spot a masked robber if he stood in front of the camera and waved at me. Extra patrols around the area would stand a much better chance of catching the buggers.’

And Horton had about as much hope of getting that as he did of being able to walk across the Solent to the Isle of Wight. It had started with the theft of a bronze statue from a garden in Old Portsmouth and a fountain from a nearby wine bar eighteen days ago. Five days later two memorial plaques had been taken from benches in the museum grounds and two days ago two brass plaques had been removed from the wall of St George’s Church, just off the Hard. It must have taken a hell of a lot of muscle not to mention noise but no one had seen or heard anything. The fact that there was no forced entry meant the thieves either had a key or an accomplice had let them in, or they’d entered the church during daylight hours when the door was unlocked. But no one had come forward after appeals in the local newspaper for witnesses. Uniform had interviewed the clergy and the regular parishioners without joy. It was hardly big time but the thieves were getting bolder and with the spiralling prices in metal, Horton knew it could escalate, as it had done in other cities across the country, and it might not be long before someone lost their life by trying to steal live cables from electricity pylons or cabling from the railways or the telephone company.

Walters said, ‘Uniform’s done the rounds of the licensed scrap-metal merchants but they all swear blind they’ve not bought any statues or plaques and they’re worried they’re going to be next in line to be targeted by the thieves.’

‘Contact the Environment Agency; see what intelligence they have on any illegal and unlicensed scrap yards.’

He relayed to Walters what had happened at Daryl Woodley’s funeral, which took two seconds and one word, ‘nothing’, and asked Walters to check out the vehicles Sholby and Hobbs had been driving when the video came over from Clarke. ‘Find out how long they’ve had the cars, where they bought them and how they paid. Check if there is any finance on them. I doubt even they’d be stupid enough to drive stolen cars to a funeral, but you never know your luck.’

Horton pushed open his office door wishing that Cantelli wasn’t on holiday. DCI Bliss had only grudgingly let the sergeant go after Horton had lied saying he was needed in Italy for a big family celebration. Cantelli had said, ‘I only hope she doesn’t decide to go camping in the New Forest.’ Knowing Bliss’s desire for status and her almost pathological obsession with neatness, cleanliness and order, Horton thought camping was the last thing their CID boss would ever dream of doing.

His office was like an oven. Wrenching back the blinds he shoved the window open as wide as it would go but only the sounds of bad-tempered traffic filtered in. Slinging his jacket on the back of his chair his hand brushed against the letter in the pocket. For the last hour he’d forgotten about it. He had no need to read it again. Every word was ingrained on his mind. In six weeks’ time he and Catherine would be officially divorced. The decree absolute would be granted and his twelve-year marriage would be finally and legally over.

His eyes flicked to the photograph on his paper-strewn desk of his eight-year-old daughter and his heart felt heavy. He desperately wanted to spend more time with her but now that she was at boarding school that looked less likely than ever. And Catherine seemed determined to keep them apart during the school holidays.

He turned to stare out of the window seeing nothing but the day spent with Emma last Friday with a brief smile which turned to a scowl as the memory of how it had ended encroached on his thoughts. Catherine had agreed to reasonable contact time, only her idea of reasonable was turning out to be different to his. One day at the beginning of the half-term holiday was not enough. And it had not been what they’d agreed. Catherine had conveniently found a reason to take their daughter away from him yet again. At Christmas it had been with her parents to their villa in Cyprus. At Easter it had been a holiday with one of Catherine’s friends and last week she and Emma had gone sailing to the Channel Islands on Catherine’s father’s yacht. He’d protested. Catherine had accused him of being unreasonable in trying to deprive Emma of her grandparents and vice-versa.

‘Have you ever stopped to consider how you’re depriving me,’ he’d hissed, not wanting to upset Emma, who was climbing into Catherine’s car.

‘Emma loves her grandparents. And they deserve to see her. She and they were all we had when you were too busy getting drunk.’

He’d been stung to retort, ‘If you had stood by me during my suspension instead of believing those ridiculous rape allegations I might not needed to have got drunk!’

‘That’s it, blame me. If all you can do is argue and shout when I collect Emma then it’s obviously for the best that she doesn’t come very often.’ Catherine had turned towards the car but Horton had grabbed her. She’d spun round and he’d seen the glint in her eyes. God! He’d played right into her hands. As though stung he’d let her go. With a supreme effort, though his gut was churning with fury, he had leant into the open car window and kissed his daughter, forcing a smile. He didn’t look at Catherine again.

‘I’m glad you’ve got time to gaze out of the window, Inspector.’

Horton spun round to find DCI Bliss on the threshold. Dressed in her customary black skirt and white blouse, with her hair scraped back in a limp ponytail off her pinched unmade face, she looked as cool as though she’d just stepped out of a refrigerator. He stifled a groan.

‘Why did you attend Woodley’s funeral without clearing it with me?’ she snapped.

Horton wondered how she had heard. He didn’t think Walters had mentioned it, because Walters for all his faults would have forewarned him, and he was very good at acting dumb when asked questions by those on high. Probably because he was dumb.

‘I couldn’t find you, ma’am,’ Horton lied. He hadn’t even looked for her, because he’d known what she’d say; it wasn’t his case. ‘Detective Superintendent Uckfield thought it might be helpful to have me there as I’ve been working on the investigation.’

‘Not any more,’ she replied crisply. ‘We have enough of our own outstanding cases and I want an update now including what you are doing about these metal thefts.’

She plonked herself down opposite him. He sat and swiftly relayed where they were on several investigations, which clearly didn’t please her because they all seemed to be going nowhere, finishing off with what Walters had reported about the metal thefts. That drew a deeper frown from her and a pursing of thin lips. ‘That’s simply not good enough. Make it a top priority. I want whoever is responsible caught and I mean soon not within days or weeks.’

Didn’t she think that was what he also wanted?

‘And I want a full report on it by six o’clock this evening. I have a meeting tomorrow morning with Inspector Warren, Superintendent Reine and senior executives from British Telecom and the British Transport Police. Copper wiring and cabling thefts would mean a severe disruption to businesses.’

‘Ma’am.’ He watched her march out before he let out a sigh. Stuffing his tie in his desk drawer he turned his attention to his computer and located Clarke’s email. Clicking on the link, he began to play the video he’d shot at the crematorium.

Woodley’s mourners drove into the car park and congregated outside the waiting room. Cliff Wesley and Leanne Payne arrived separately. She moved among the mourners with her Dictaphone; Wesley with his camera. Horton had seen all this from his Harley. The hearse arrived. No other funeral car followed it. Woodley had no living relatives and none of his so-called friends had arranged the funeral or chipped in to pay for it, despite their flashy cars and gold jewellery and the latest gizmos in their homes. Woodley hadn’t owned anything of value, or left any savings, the state had taken care of him during his life and the state had buried him.

The mourners filed in to the chapel behind the coffin and he followed them. No one entered after him, and Clarke’s video showed no one hanging around outside or arriving soon after Woodley’s short service started. The next thing Horton saw was Uckfield’s BMW entering the car park and Uckfield and Marsden climbing out. They went to the rear of the crematorium. Nothing further happened. Clarke had kept the camera rolling but Horton fast-forwarded it until cars began to pull in for the next funeral. Then Woodley’s lot emerged from the rear of the chapel. They stood talking in the hot June sunshine for a while, the press photographer again snapping away. Where was Wesley while they were in the service? Horton hadn’t seen him go into the crematorium gardens so he guessed he’d probably sat in his car for a smoke. Leanne Payne broke into the Woodley crowd and then a few minutes later he, Uckfield and Marsden came into view.

Clarke’s video swung back to the Woodley mourners and to their right where Horton caught sight of the woman in the black dress and wide-brimmed black hat before the camera followed the Woodley crowd climbing into their cars and driving away. Then Uckfield’s BMW almost collided with the next hearse arriving. Next up was him leaving on his Harley, then Leanne Payne and Cliff Wesley.

Horton sat back letting the video play as Clarke swung the camera back to the chapel entrance and waiting room opposite it. The mourners for the next funeral, about fifteen of them, were going in. Horton looked for the woman in the black hat but there was no sign of her. Perhaps she’d answered a call of nature. Whoever she was and wherever she had gone, Horton thought, forwarding the video to Walters, she clearly had nothing to do with Daryl Woodley, and neither did he any more, Bliss had made that perfectly clear.

He switched his attention to the metal thefts, trawling through reports across the wider area looking for similar patterns, and paused when he came to a brass propeller stolen from an old boat being renovated in a boatyard in Fareham creek. That was about twelve miles from Portsmouth. Could it be the work of the same villains? It seemed a little off their patch. The theft had occurred last night and Sergeant Dai Elkins of the marine unit had filed the report. Horton rang him, but got his voicemail. He left a message asking Elkins to call him in the morning to discuss it. He then spent the remainder of the afternoon finishing the report for Bliss and attempting to clear the backlog of paperwork that had piled up while investigating Woodley’s murder. It was a couple of hours later when Walters knocked and entered.

‘The cars driven by Sholby and Hobbs are registered in their name and bought from the same source, a garage near Waterlooville.’

Which was six miles to the north of Portsmouth. ‘For cash?’ asked Horton.

‘Looks like it. Can’t find any finance on them.’

Horton wondered how they had got hold of so much money. Both had no formal occupation, they spent most of their lives claiming benefit and the remainder inside after being nicked for theft or receiving stolen goods. Did their newly acquired wealth have something to do with the robbery on Mason’s Electricals three weeks ago, which thankfully Bliss hadn’t mentioned? There had been no progress on that either. A black van had been recorded on the CCTV cameras pulling up outside the store but they hadn’t been able to get the vehicle licence number or any adequate footage of the two men seen like black shadows dressed in hoodies emerging from it. Their build could fit Sholby and Hobbs but equally it could fit a third of the male population of Portsmouth. One of the two security officers had been knocked out and tied up, the other had been in the toilet suffering from eating too much curry, though he claimed it was food poisoning and that he shouldn’t have been at work anyway. By the time he’d emerged, the black shadows and their dirty black van had vanished along with a quantity of televisions, hi-fis, computers and anything else that wasn’t screwed down.

Horton said, ‘Do we know this garage owner?’

‘No. Officers at the station close to it might.’

‘Talk to them tomorrow, find out all you can about the proprietor.’

Walters took that as a dismissal for the day. Horton decided to followed suit soon afterwards, noting that Bliss had already left. As he headed along the busy promenade towards the marina where he lived on his yacht, he wasn’t surprised to see that the pebbled beach was still packed with sunbathers. It was a glorious cloudless evening, still hot but not with the intensity of the earlier heat of the day, and he toyed with the idea of getting a couple of hours’ sailing in before sunset. He might have done except there was hardly a breath of wind. Instead he ate on deck, enjoying the quiet of the evening and watching the sun set, trying to shut out thoughts of Woodley and work. But as the lights came on in the houses on the hill slopes across Langstone Harbour to the north, Woodley refused to budge from his thoughts. Below the lights, and bordering the harbour, were the marshes where Woodley’s body had been found.