Death Lies Beneath (26 page)

Uckfield sniffed in disgust. ‘OK, with Garvard inside and not our killer, although there’s the possibility he engineered Sharon’s death, and if we discount Gregory Harlow for now on account of him being killed himself, an unknown hit man, and Reggie Thomas, who could still be in the frame, who else does that leave?’

‘Harry Foxbury,’ answered Horton. ‘There are still the hours of Salacia’s life unaccounted for between being seen at the crematorium and arriving at the quayside and I don’t think Reggie Thomas would have treated her to lobster and white wine.’

‘And nobody in their right mind would have sex with him,’ Uckfield sneered.

Horton continued. ‘So whoever she met that afternoon could be the person who tipped her off about her aunt’s funeral and who dropped her off at the quay and hasn’t come forward, because either he’s scared of being accused of killing her, or he did kill her. Foxbury could have known Salacia when she was Sharon Piper or Carol Palmer. It’s likely he also knew Ellie Loman. Or there might be another motive for Sharon’s death that we’re currently unaware of.’

‘I bloody hope not,’ Uckfield growled.

Trueman said, ‘We’ve cleared Kevin Manley, his crew, the boatman Ethan Crombie and the crane operative Bill Shoreham, but it could be a member of the sailing club. Richard Bolton, the sailing-club secretary, was at work at his printing company all afternoon. But now that we’ve got Salacia’s real name, and her most recent one, we can see if there is a connection between her and any of the sailing-club members.’

‘Including the Chief Constable and councillor Levy,’ Uckfield said pointedly.

Horton thought he saw an expression of horror flit across Bliss’s thin face.

Uckfield rose. ‘Right. We dig deeper on Foxbury. Eames, you and Marsden find out where Foxbury was Thursday night between eleven p.m. and two a.m. and on Tuesday afternoon and evening. And we want the names of alibis this time and we
will
check them. Trueman, start checking the sailing club members.’ Turning to Horton, Uckfield added, ‘And as you’ve already got contacts in the prison, you can have the pleasure of another visit to Her Majesty’s Parkhurst and see if this Garvard can tell us how Woodley came to have his girlfriend’s photograph in his cell.’

Horton would have preferred having a go at Harry Foxbury, but he was curious to meet Garvard and to find out more about Sharon Piper. He called Elkins and asked him to pick him up from the quay at the Continental Ferry Port. As he headed there he chewed over the new facts that had come to light. They still hadn’t traced Sharon Piper’s entry into the country. He was convinced she’d come from abroad and it sounded highly probable that she’d come from the Continent. As he swung into the ferry port it suddenly struck him. God, what an idiot, and not just him, it had been staring them all in the face and no one had thought of it. Salacia hadn’t flown in and neither had she come by private boat. She’d caught the ferry.

He brought the Harley to a stop at the quayside where the police launch was waiting, retrieved his phone and called Trueman.

‘Check the passenger lists of the ferries from France and Spain. I think you’ll find Sharon Piper booked on one that arrived some time just before her aunt’s funeral. She probably travelled under the name of Carol Palmer, but she might have used her real name. It’ll be interesting to see if she came by car and if she booked a return passage.’

‘I’ll get on to it now.’

Horton headed out of the harbour on the police launch. It had grown overcast but the heat was as oppressive as ever. Elkins foretold a thunderstorm. ‘I always get a headache when thunder’s on its way,’ he grumbled, ‘and I’ve got thumping great one now.’

‘And there’s me thinking you were some kind of weather guru.’ Horton asked if there had been any movement from Ballard.

‘Still in the marina at Guernsey on his boat.’

Or at least his boat was, thought Horton. Ballard could be anywhere on that island, which was smaller than the one they were heading towards across a darkening grey and eerily calm Solent. He turned his thoughts to Foxbury. If Reggie Thomas wasn’t their killer could it be Foxbury? He couldn’t see how Foxbury could have got that photograph to Woodley, unless he knew a relative of an inmate, and that was possible. And the motive for wanting Sharon Piper dead? Perhaps she’d seen him up to some illegal activity in his boatyard years ago; Danby had mentioned he’d once been suspected of smuggling. And perhaps Sharon had returned to blackmail him, especially since he’d come into a great deal of money. But why kill her at his old boatyard? Why not take her out on his boat and kill her in a remote bay or toss her body into the sea?

And if Foxbury had killed Sharon out of revenge for her killing Ellie Loman that meant Foxbury must have been infatuated or in love with Ellie. If so why hadn’t Foxbury told the police? Unless Foxbury had killed Ellie because she’d rejected him. Or was there a connection between Foxbury and this Marcus Piper, Sharon’s late husband whom Patricia Harlow had told them had thrown himself off his boat? Had he, though? Had Sharon pushed him and had Marcus been a friend of Foxbury’s?

Whichever way he looked at it the answer lay in Parkhurst Prison. And although it pained him to admit it, as far as the prison being critical to the investigation, DCS Sawyer had been right after all, it was the key to both Woodley’s and Sharon Piper’s deaths. He only hoped that Garvard wouldn’t be as close-mouthed as Stapleton. He wanted the bugger to talk.

‘Y
ou’ll be lucky. He’s not here,’ Geoff Kirby said when Horton was once again sitting in his office.

‘What do you mean?’ Horton cried, annoyed he’d had a wasted trip.

‘And I doubt you’ll get him to talk because he’s in St Mary’s Hospital across the road, cancer. It’s terminal. He’s only days to live.’

Horton cursed. Would the answers to the investigation die with Garvard? He needed to see him. But he curbed his impatience. Kirby could give him some information on Garvard that might help, and it might be all he’d get if Garvard was in no fit state to talk when Horton reached the hospital. Swiftly he told Kirby they’d traced the identity of the woman in the photograph found in Woodley’s cell back to Garvard.

‘I never saw him with it,’ Kirby quickly replied, surprised, ‘and he has never mentioned a woman, not even after he was diagnosed with cancer or when he went into hospital two weeks ago.’

‘This one gave him up to the police.’

‘Ah.’

Horton could see Kirby’s mind racing to work out the implications of this piece of news. It didn’t take him long. ‘You think Woodley was paid to find and kill her.’

‘It’s one possibility but there’s still a great deal unexplained and I was hoping Garvard would explain it.’

‘You might not have much joy. He’s slipping in and out of consciousness and it’s likely that soon he won’t come out of it.’

Horton would have to try, though. ‘What’s he like?’

Kirby didn’t even pause to consider his answer. ‘Clever, manipulative, shrewd, genial, charming.’ After a moment, he added, ‘And embittered. Yes, I’d say embittered. And now I know his girlfriend shopped him that explains a lot about his manner.’

‘How?’

Kirby’s forehead creased in a frown as he seemed to weigh up his answer. ‘When I say embittered, I don’t mean he went around swearing to get revenge or was outwardly cynical but you got the sense that something was going on inside him that you would never get him to reveal, it was as though he was hugging a secret, and not a happy one. It was a silent bitterness if that makes any sense.’

Yes, Horton thought it did.

Kirby continued. ‘Garvard was clever, or I should say
is
clever, he’s not dead yet. Outwardly he was no trouble but you got this feeling between your shoulder blades that he was somehow always one step ahead of you, that he knew more than you did and what he knew was far more important than what you’d ever know.’

Horton had known other villains like that. And the profile Kirby was painting fitted that of a con man. ‘How did he interact with the other prisoners?’

‘He never caused any trouble and they never gave him any trouble, but . . .’ Kirby paused again to consider his reply. ‘You couldn’t pinpoint it but you had this feeling that whatever was going down he was behind it somehow.’

Horton quickly read between the lines. ‘The attack on Stapleton?’

‘Nobody said anything and there was never any proof that Garvard was behind it, which was why it wasn’t mentioned in the report, and of course I didn’t know about the woman, but yes, now I can see it is possible. He could have persuaded Stapleton’s minders to go AWOL. And, yes, he could have persuaded Woodley to attack Stapleton.’ Kirby looked thoughtful for a moment before adding, ‘This might sound daft, but it’s possible that Garvard could even have persuaded Stapleton to
allow
himself to be attacked.’

Horton rapidly considered this. It wasn’t so daft. ‘In exchange for what?’

‘Money. It’s why he didn’t want to be let out on licence for his remaining days in his weakened condition, in case some of the villains or victims he stitched up came after him, and it’s why we’ve got a prison officer sitting with him at the hospital. Garvard could have offered Stapleton information on where this money is.’

And Sharon might not have known where Garvard had put all the money from their scams. Perhaps he hadn’t trusted her, which would have given her another reason to grass on him. Or was this just another of his cons? Another thought occurred to Horton. ‘Could Garvard have been a gang master here instead of or in addition to Stapleton?’

‘There’s never been any evidence to suggest that, or that he had a power base, but like I said he’s a clever, cunning bugger. He must have known that even if we discovered he was behind the attack he wouldn’t be moved because he’d been diagnosed with cancer, although there was a time when we were considering transferring him to Kingston Prison in Portsmouth. He stayed in the prison sick bay there while he underwent a six-week course of radiotherapy treatment in June, last year, at Queen Alexandra Hospital Portsmouth, accompanied by a prison officer, of course. It made sense for him to stay at Kingston Prison rather than travel back and forth on the ferry, locked in the back of a prison van. And he
was
ill.’

Thoughts rushed through Horton’s mind and paramount in them was the possibility that he’d found another connection between the Willards and Garvard and a more recent one than 2001. Who had given Garvard his radiotherapy treatment? Had it been Fiona Wright, Dr Gaye Clayton’s friend and the woman who had been sailing a dinghy the night Sharon Piper had arrived at the boatyard for her meeting with Gregory Harlow? But he didn’t see Fiona Wright as Sharon’s killer and he certainly didn’t see her as Harlow’s murderer.

With a keen interest he said, ‘Why did he go to Portsmouth for treatment?’

‘There was a problem with the equipment at the hospital here. I don’t know all the details but someone from the medical staff can give you that.’ Kirby tapped into his computer. ‘I can give you the start and finish dates of the treatment but not the exact times of his appointments, the hospital can tell you.’

Kirby handed the printout to Horton. He scanned it briefly before folding it and pushing it in his pocket. ‘Has Garvard named anyone to be notified on his death?’

Kirby again consulted his computer. ‘No.’

Horton rose and thanked him warmly. On his way across the road to the hospital, he rang Trueman and relayed what Kirby had told him. He asked him to find out if Amelia Willard had undergone radiotherapy for her cancer and if so when. He couldn’t see quite how it joined up yet but he was convinced it did.

Trueman said, ‘Eames has reported back. Foxbury has an alibi for Tuesday afternoon and evening and for Thursday night. He was with his wife Thursday night. They had some friends over for supper and it sounds kosher. When Foxbury was showing Marsden and Eames out, away from his wife’s flapping ears, Eames said he grudgingly gave them the name of the woman he was with on Tuesday, and it’s not Sharon Piper. She’s checking her out now.’

So Foxbury looked as though he wasn’t involved. It was a blow. Into his mind flashed Ballard and as quickly he discounted him. He had no reason to believe that Sharon Piper had been anywhere near a boat, except for the ferry that had probably brought her to Portsmouth, and Trueman was still checking that.

The hospital staff, and the prison officer keeping Garvard company, had been told to expect him. Horton was shown swiftly into the bland single room. It had the smell of death about it. The cavernous man on the bed bore no resemblance to the photograph Horton had seen on the police computer of a dark-haired, rugged good-looking man with a square jaw and blue eyes. Garvard appeared to be asleep.

‘He drifts in and out of consciousness,’ the prison officer said quietly. ‘You might have a long wait.’

As it happened Horton didn’t. Perhaps Garvard sensed his presence. Horton pulled up a chair and sat close to Garvard’s emaciated body. The eyes flickered open and took a while to focus, when they did Horton withdrew his warrant card and introduced himself. Garvard smiled weakly. ‘Took your time. Didn’t think you’d make it.’

Horton had to lean closer to the deathly grey face to hear. He steeled himself not to recoil at the smell of death. ‘You could have made it easier,’ he answered, ‘and saved two people from being killed.’

‘Why? She deserved it.’

‘Did she?’

Garvard frowned but he was too weak to show too much emotion or reaction. Horton could see that he was drawing strength from reserves that would soon be exhausted. After this last effort it wouldn’t be long. He needed to get as much information as he could from him on this visit because he knew it would be the final and only time Garvard would speak.

Horton beckoned the prison officer over. ‘Take notes.’

The slim man in his thirties reached for a notepad and pen and Horton silently thanked the heavens that he’d got someone prepared and bright. He nodded to say he was ready. Horton said, ‘Tell me about Ellie.’

Garvard opened his eyes. ‘Sharon killed her.’ His strained voice was barely above a whisper. ‘She was jealous. I loved her.’