Death Lies Beneath (23 page)

‘Or Harry Foxbury,’ Horton interjected, suddenly seeing the link. ‘Salacia could have been at the boatyard to meet Foxbury that day. She saw something, kept quiet about it and now Harlow’s come into money via his aunt’s death, has returned to blackmail him.’

‘Sounds plausible.’ Uckfield picked at his teeth.

Horton finished his meal and sat back thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps she was blackmailing Gregory Harlow before she showed up at the funeral, which was why Woodley had her photograph. Harlow must have got it into the prison and somehow arranged for Woodley to get rid of Salacia, only he realizes he’s made a mistake and tries to silence Woodley. He makes a hash of it first time but second time around leaves his body on the marshes. And he decides to kill Salacia himself.’ At last he felt they were getting somewhere. There were holes in the theory but perhaps once they tracked Harlow down he’d be able to plug them.

Uckfield was looking more cheerful too. His eyes swivelled beyond Horton and he muttered, ‘Here comes her ladyship.’

So Uckfield knew her pedigree?
Eames drew level and Horton could see instantly by her heightened colour that they’d got some new and vital information. She flicked him a solemn glance before addressing Uckfield. ‘We’ve just had a call from the Isle of Wight police, sir. They’ve found Gregory Harlow’s van in Firestone Copse.’

‘And Harlow?’ asked Uckfield.

But Horton knew what was coming. Eames’ expression had given that away.

‘In the driver’s seat. Dead,’ she answered.

Uckfield cursed. Horton felt like doing the same but didn’t. He felt cheated.

‘Suicide?’ he asked. Had his theory been correct and Harlow realizing he had gone too far had killed himself?

‘They’re not sure, sir.’

Scraping back his chair, Uckfield said, ‘Then let’s find out.’

H
arlow’s body lay slumped over the steering wheel. Horton’s stomach recoiled at the sight of the bluey-pink face and the sign of nesting flies in the eye staring sightlessly at him. The vehicle reeked with the smell of whisky and Horton registered the empty bottle on the passenger seat, the keys in the ignition and that Harlow was dressed in a similar or the same T-shirt he’d seen him wearing when he’d interviewed him on Thursday.

DCI Birch from the local CID addressed Uckfield. ‘The doctor says he’s been dead for approximately twenty-four hours.’

Horton thought it less than that because Harlow had logged out of the festival at ten thirty-five p.m. the previous night. Driving here would have taken him about thirty minutes and then another hour or so to drink himself to death, less possibly, if he’d taken drugs with the alcohol and Horton was betting he had. He also wondered if those drugs had come courtesy of Haseen Nader.

He said as much. Birch was eyeing him as though he was a nasty smell from the shore of Wootton Creek a mile away but Horton could deal with that. He didn’t care for Birch either, a lean inflexibly hard man with sparse light-brown hair above a thin-lipped gaunt face. As far as Horton was concerned Birch had about as much imagination and feeling as the tree he was named after, though to be fair to the plant at least that blossomed once a year, which was more than could be said for Birch the detective. Their paths had crossed several times in the past and had always resulted in friction, mainly because Horton had resolved the cases they’d been forced to work together on and Birch resented that.

Uckfield waved Clarke forward. Taylor and Beth Tremaine waited patiently for the photographer to finish. They’d all travelled across on the police launch, which had moored up on one of the pontoons at Fishbourne a couple of miles away. Two patrol cars had brought them here. Arc lights were in the process of being erected and the undertaker’s van was waiting close by, along with the police vehicle-recovery truck. Although this had all the hallmarks of suicide they couldn’t take any chances.

Moving some distance away, Uckfield addressed Horton. ‘Pity there’s no suicide note.’

‘He might have left one in the caravan he shares with Haseen Nader. I’ll call Ross Skelton to give him the news and tell him that we’ll need to search the caravan and question his staff.’ And judging by what he’d seen of Skelton he didn’t think the quick-tempered boss of Coastline was going to be very pleased about that, or Harlow’s death, mainly because it would inconvenience him.

Uckfield turned to Birch. Crisply he ordered, ‘Get your officers at the festival to search the caravan and put out a picture and description of the van, asking for any sightings of it. I also want a fingertip search done of this area.’ Horton caught a glimpse of fury in Birch’s grey eyes at Uckfield’s curt dismissive manner. That was not how a detective chief inspector should be addressed. But Uckfield would never forget or forgive the fact that Birch had tried to get him thrown off a case recently because he’d had an affair with someone involved in a murder investigation.

Turning his back on Birch, Uckfield said to Horton, ‘We’ll break the news to Patricia Harlow.’ Reaching for his phone Uckfield added, ‘I’ll call Dean.’

Birch marched off, rigid and livid. Horton rang Skelton and, as he’d expected, his initial reaction was that of fury. ‘That’s all I need!’ Then he seemed to recollect that one of his employees had died. ‘Why the hell would he want to do a bloody stupid thing like that? Who’s going to tell his wife?’

‘We will.’ Horton thought he heard Skelton sigh with relief. ‘We’ll need to question your staff and search the caravan.’

‘Why? I thought you said it was suicide.’

‘Routine procedure, sir.’

Grudgingly Skelton said, ‘If you have to.’

‘Thank you, sir. We appreciate your cooperation.’ If Skelton detected his note of irony he didn’t comment on it. Horton rang off considering Harlow’s suicide. The autopsy would confirm how he’d died and if he’d taken drugs, also what kind, but it couldn’t answer why Harlow had killed Ellie Loman or Salacia. And neither could it tell them Salacia’s real identity and why she’d been at the crematorium. Perhaps Patricia Harlow would know. And perhaps she’d be able to confirm that her husband had had an affair with Ellie Loman and Salacia. It would explain why she was so harsh and embittered. He wondered how she’d take this news.

Clarke moved away, indicating to Taylor that he had all the photographs he needed. He’d also taken a video. Horton asked Beth Tremaine to empty the dead man’s trouser pockets. This she did carefully and without flinching but then she’d had plenty of practice, Horton thought, watching her slender small hands stretch inside the dark blue cotton trousers.

‘Wallet with some money, credit cards and a security pass for the festival,’ she said before dropping it into an evidence bag. It was brown leather, and well worn. Horton noted that Harlow didn’t carry a photograph of his wife around but that didn’t mean anything significant.

‘There’s nothing else in his side pockets, Inspector. Do you want me to check the back pockets?’

Horton did. The body was stiff with rigor. He stepped forward to help her, steeling himself for the ordeal, but Taylor waved him aside. ‘We’ll handle this, sir,’ he said. Horton was only too pleased to let them get on with it. After a moment Beth shook her head. ‘Empty.’

Taylor added, ‘There’s only the usual vehicle documentation in the car compartments.’ He handed the keys, which he’d placed in a plastic evidence bag, to Horton. ‘As well as the ignition key, and automated key fob, there’s a key for the rear door,’ he added, walking around to the rear of the vehicle where the two doors were wide open. ‘The other two keys look as though they are to his house.’

But Horton thought the smaller key might be to the caravan at the festival. He peered inside the rear of the van. It was empty, which was what he had expected. All the supplies were at the festival, which thankfully they couldn’t hear from here.

‘Any sign of a mobile phone?’ He knew there couldn’t be otherwise Taylor would have said. Taylor confirmed this with a shake of his head.

‘He could have got out of the van and dropped it, or chucked it away.’

Or it could be in the caravan at the festival. That seemed unlikely, why would Harlow leave it behind? Equally why would he ditch it? The obvious reason was because it contained evidence linking him to Salacia. They would get the number and apply for the phone records.

Uckfield came off the phone. He left instructions with DCI Birch to keep the area cordoned off until they’d finished the search and told the undertakers to take the body to Portsmouth on one of the night-ferry crossings. ‘No point in dragging Mrs Harlow over here,’ Uckfield said to Horton while unzipping his scene suit. ‘She can make a formal ID tomorrow morning before Dr Clayton does the autopsy.’ Stepping out of the disposable suit and hitching up his trousers he added, ‘Let’s break the news to her.’

On their way back to Portsmouth, Horton wondered what Uckfield would make of Patricia Harlow. Perhaps this news would cause that brittle shell of hers to crack wide open.

It was almost ten o’clock by the time they pulled up outside the house, and dark. Horton had wondered if Patricia Harlow would still be up. There was no light shining from the front of the house. A marked police car was waiting for them further down the road. Inside were two PCs. Eames climbed out of her car and handed Horton the search warrant that Trueman had given her. ‘It seems a bit insensitive searching her house this late and at the same time we’re telling her that her husband’s dead,’ she said.

‘Not if Harlow murdered two women and she’s an accomplice,’ Horton brusquely replied, recalling Kenneth and Marie Loman. As he headed towards the house, he saw the net curtains twitching at a house across the car-lined street. He rang the bell while Uckfield stood impatiently beside him and Eames waited behind them with the two uniformed officers. He was beginning to think that she must have retired to bed when a light came on in the hall and a few seconds later the door was flung open. Patricia Harlow had discarded the white overall in favour of a lemon T-shirt that stretched across her well-developed chest. She eyed them first with surprise and then with anger.

‘What is it now? Can’t you leave me alone? This is harassment. I won’t tolerate it.’

‘Shall we go inside, Mrs Harlow? No need for the neighbours to hear everything.’

She stared at him and each of them in turn before stepping back.

They entered the spotlessly clean hall with its pale pink carpet covered by plastic to protect it from the footsteps of her clients. The smell of antiseptic was as pungent as before. Horton continued, ‘We have a warrant to search these premises.’ He nodded at PC Johnson, who held out the warrant.

‘This is ridiculous—’ she began without looking at it.

But Horton interjected, ‘I’m afraid we also have some very upsetting news for you concerning your husband.’

‘Gregory’s on the Isle of Wight,’ she declared.

‘Shall we go in here?’ Horton gestured towards the front room, which he knew to be her surgery. It wasn’t the best of places to break the news but it was the nearest and it would allow the officers to search the house.

She entered it with ill grace. Horton nodded at the two officers to begin their search and for Eames to stay with him. Uckfield remained silent but entered the room behind Horton and stood by the door. Nothing seemed to have changed from Horton’s last visit.

He began. ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your husband’s body was found late this afternoon.’

She eyed him with suspicion then her eyes flicked over the small group. ‘Dead? But he can’t be. You must have made a mistake,’ she said hesitantly.

‘No mistake, Mrs Harlow.’

Silence. What would she do now?

‘I don’t understand. If this is some kind of trick—’

‘No trick. This is Detective Superintendent Uckfield. He and I have just come from your husband’s body. He was found in his van in a wood on the Isle of Wight.’

Her skin paled. ‘How? An accident?’ She frowned as though she was trying to make sense of what he’d just told her.

‘It appears as though he took his own life; there was a bottle of whisky beside him in the van.’

‘Gregory hates whisky. He never touches the stuff.’ She said it as though it was conclusive proof that it couldn’t be her husband.

‘They’ll be a post-mortem, which will give us more information about how he died but not why; we thought you might be able to tell us that?’

‘Me? How should I know?’

But she knew something. She showed no sign of breaking down, though. That could be because she was in shock or in denial; the news hadn’t really sunk in yet. That could take some time. Her eyes shifted at the sound of the officers searching in the room next to them. She turned away to the cabinet where her sterilizer was and began to idly finger some instruments. Her tension filled the air.

Horton said, ‘We believe your husband’s death might have something to do with the deaths of Ellie Loman and the woman seen at the crematorium at the same time as your aunt’s funeral.’

Her hand froze. She stiffened but she didn’t turn to face them.

‘You know who she is, don’t you?’ Horton persisted gently.

‘No.’

‘Mrs Harlow. Your husband is dead. The time for lying is over.’

She spun round, her eyes filled with fury. ‘My husband’s death has nothing to do with that woman or Ellie Loman. Isn’t it bad enough that one person in my family has died because of police persecution? You just couldn’t leave Rawly alone and the poor weak soul killed himself, so now you’re looking for someone else. Me or my husband. We’ll do. Just as long as you get someone for it you’re happy. Well, Gregory had nothing to do with her disappearance and neither did I. Do your search and then leave me alone. I’ve got things to do.’ She pursed her lips together and stood erect.

Uckfield jerked his head towards the door. Horton said, ‘My colleague will stay with you in here while we conduct the search.’

She made no reply.

In the hall Uckfield raised his eyebrows and gestured for them to enter the kitchen. ‘God, she’s tough,’ he said quietly.

‘And capable of killing,’ Horton replied. ‘Perhaps Gregory Harlow didn’t meet and kill Salacia but she did when she discovered he’d had an affair with her. And perhaps she told her husband that and he killed himself, unable to live with it.’