Death Lies Beneath (28 page)

‘I promised Leo I would. It was all he asked me to do. And because of that a woman has died. I’m sorry.’

Leo Garvard must be a hell of a man, he thought. ‘Tell me about it.’

‘He was two weeks into his treatment last June when he said he thought he recognized an elderly woman as he was leaving. He couldn’t approach her even if he’d wanted to because of the prison officer with him and even if he did he wasn’t sure she’d recognize him or want to acknowledge him because of his conviction. Leo’s appointments were usually timed at the beginning of the day so that he could arrive and leave before too many other patients arrived. Over the following sessions we got talking. Not about his criminal conviction and I didn’t ask him. I wasn’t here to judge him, just to treat him, but I became emotionally involved and that was wrong, and unprofessional. I’m not sure how we ended up talking about Amelia Willard but we did.’

Garvard hadn’t lost any of his charm or his powers of persuasion. Horton remembered what Geoff Kirby had told him and he wondered what weakness Garvard had exploited in Fiona to get her to open up and do his bidding. Compassion, kindness, pity? Or perhaps she’d fallen in love with him.

‘Amelia was also one of my patients,’ Fiona was saying. ‘She was a lovely, gentle, happy lady despite her illness. Leo so desperately wanted to speak to her. Even though he was having treatment for his cancer he didn’t believe he’d survive it very long. He told me that he’d been very close to Amelia and her family years ago but they’d become estranged when Amelia’s son had killed himself and he’d been sent to prison. It was a great relief for Leo to talk to someone outside the prison service. He told me that he’d been raised in a children’s home, he’d never known his father or mother and that Amelia and Edgar Willard were the closest he’d got to having family.’

Bullshit
, Horton thought but didn’t say. He’d read Garvard’s file and he’d been raised in a secure middle-class home by his banker father and his schoolteacher mother, both of whom had died before his conviction.

‘Leo had worked hard and built up a successful financial business. But in a moment of madness, he threw it all away. I told him I didn’t want to know what he’d done.’

And he wouldn’t have told you the truth even if you had asked.

‘He asked me about Amelia’s cancer and the prognosis. It wasn’t good. When Leo came to the end of his treatment he said he wouldn’t see me again. I told him I’d visit him in prison but he made me swear I wouldn’t. He couldn’t bear me to see him there. It was too painful for him.’

I bet.
Garvard didn’t want Fiona blowing open his little scheme before it had time to hatch.

‘He said that if he survived the cancer, when he was released we could be together. In the meantime he asked me to do one thing for him. He didn’t make me promise and he said if I decided not to then he would understand. I was to find out when and where Amelia’s funeral would be held and put an announcement in the
Daily Telegraph
and I promised to do it even if he died before Amelia. I rang the registrar and asked to be kept informed when the death of Amelia Willard was registered. I knew it wouldn’t be long. I thought it might bring the families together. Instead it brought a woman to her death.’

She fell silent for a moment. Garvard had wormed his way into her affections and manipulated her. Even when she discovered the truth about him he knew that she would still see only the best in him.

‘I know I should have told the prison,’ she added. ‘But Leo said it might bring Amelia’s family back together following the rift caused by her son’s suicide, and I believed that.’

She would, after all Garvard was an expert con man. ‘You should have told us about this earlier.’

‘But I didn’t know that woman’s death had anything to do with Amelia Willard. You showed me her photograph but you never mentioned she had been at Amelia’s funeral.’

No, they’d been too focused on Daryl Woodley.

‘Besides I didn’t even know if the announcement had been read, let alone acted upon.’

But Garvard had taken that chance. Sharon might not have read the newspaper or seen the announcement and even if she had she might not have cared. But Garvard was a risk-taker and one more might pay off. Even if it didn’t he wasn’t going to be around to find out, and he wasn’t going to lose by it. He’d played the odds and it had paid off.

‘Did you have anything to do with Woodley leaving this hospital?’

‘No! I never saw him.’

‘Did someone tell you to give Woodley a message from Leo Garvard to say that he wasn’t safe here and that someone would meet him outside?’

But Fiona was shaking her head vigorously. ‘No. I only placed the announcement.’

He eyed her carefully. Had she taken Woodley to the marshes and left him there, believing someone was going to pick him up, because he couldn’t see her deliberately abandoning him and leaving him to die. No, he didn’t think so. But someone did.

Horton told her they needed a statement and she promised that she’d go to the station right away. He had no reason to doubt that.

Outside he stood under the shelter of the canopy as people dashed to and from the car park in the pelting rain and the thunder crashed around them. He thought briefly of the festival-goers on the Isle of Wight and the fact that DI Dennings might get a soaking, which brought a smile to his lips. It faded long before Trueman answered the phone.

‘The Super is interviewing Kenneth Loman now with Agent Eames. He made no protest when we asked him to come in.’

Horton relayed his interview with Fiona Wright and said that she was on her way to the station. ‘Ask Marsden to take her statement.’

‘I’ll get someone to check out the announcement in the
Daily Telegraph
. And you were right, Andy, Sharon Piper, or rather Carol Palmer, was booked into a de-luxe cabin on the
Pont Aven
from Santander to Portsmouth. She travelled alone and by car. The ferry left Santander at three p.m. on Monday and arrived in Portsmouth at two fifteen on Tuesday afternoon. We’ve got her vehicle registration. I’ve put a call out for her car. She was booked to return on the
Cap Finistère
on the midday sailing on Wednesday. We’re checking the hotels in the area to see if she made a reservation for the night, but there’s nothing so far, and she might not have booked but just decided to take pot luck.’

‘And I doubt she would have expected to stay with her sister. She could have arranged to stay with the man she spent the afternoon with and not necessarily on a boat now that we know she came by car. It could have been at his flat or house. He hasn’t come forward because he doesn’t want to be involved in her death or is scared he’ll be suspected of killing her.’

‘He still could have done.’

‘Unless Loman confesses. Does Foxbury’s alibi for Tuesday afternoon and evening check out?’

‘Yes.’

So they could rule him out. Horton rang off. He should return to the station but he felt too restless for that. If Kenneth Loman was busy confessing to the murders of Sharon Piper and Gregory Harlow then that would be it: case solved, except for Woodley’s death, and that had to be either one of his so-called associates or someone Garvard had sent. But if Loman wasn’t their killer then who was? This man she’d eaten a meal with and had sex with? She wouldn’t have picked up any old stranger, unless it was someone she had met on the ferry on the way over and had arranged to see him, and that was possible. But in that case he couldn’t be her killer but if it was someone she had once known and who’d been fond of her, who she’d previously had an affair with . . . Several thoughts jarred in Horton’s mind. But how had this man known she was returning for her aunt’s funeral? The answer was the same he’d reached earlier: Woodley.

He had to go back to the attack on Woodley. Why had Woodley been at the Lord Horatio pub near the waterfront if the message from Garvard was for Kenneth Loman who lived in the north of the city and close to Woodley’s own patch? There were two answers to that question: either Woodley had been told to relay the message to two people, or he’d met Loman on the Hard. Loman could have been there because he’d gone fishing with a friend, or he wanted to be close to where his daughter had worked, the Historic Dockyard. It was tenuous to say the least but as Horton dashed through the rain to his Harley he knew he wouldn’t find the answers here and he wouldn’t find them at the station.

Fifteen minutes later he pulled up outside the tattoo parlour on the Hard and surveyed the area just as he’d done on Thursday, again taking in the taxi rank, the cafe, the road leading to the railway station and the small ferry which crossed the narrow harbour to the town of Gosport beyond. Then there was the coffee stall, the Net Fishermen’s Association Hut, the tourist centre and the Historic Dockyard where Ellie Loman and Rawly Willard had worked. His eyes travelled back to the coffee stall. He read the sign above it and remembered where Eames had bought their lunch at the festival: Coastline Coffee. And here was another connection between Ellie Loman, Rawly Willard and Gregory Harlow. Was it possible?

Eagerly, on foot, he hurried towards the stall oblivious of the heavy rain sweeping in off the harbour. Two of four of the small plastic tables and chairs under the huge awning were taken up by tourists huddled over maps. Horton took his place in the queue behind two tourists and impatiently waited while they ordered burger and chips with their cappuccinos. When his turn came he ordered an americano to go and asked the middle-aged dark-haired lady serving him how long she’d worked there.

‘A lifetime, love,’ she said smiling. ‘And I’m still not appreciated.’

‘I’m sure you are,’ he said returning her smile. Now for the questions and he hoped some answers that linked in with the theory he had formed. ‘Did you work with Gregory Harlow?’

‘You know him?’ She glanced at him over her shoulder while making his coffee. Her heavy black eyebrows arched in surprise, and there was a pucker of concern on her furrowed forehead.

Horton nodded and brought out his warrant card. As she placed the coffee in front of him she called out, ‘Lisa, take over. I’ve just got to have a word with this gentleman.’

Although he’d hoped for cooperation he hadn’t expected it so quickly and readily. His excitement mounted because he could see that she had something to get off her chest and he hoped it was what he wanted to hear.

A blonde woman in her early twenties appeared from the back of the stall wiping her hands on a black-and-white-striped apron and slipped into the older woman’s place. Horton stepped around to the back and stood under the rear awning out of the rain, facing the grey choppy sea of the harbour which he could see through the plastic window. The thunder had stopped but the rain was heavier than ever.

‘I heard that Greg was dead,’ the woman, who introduced herself as Iris, said with a sad expression. ‘Was it suicide?’

‘We’re treating his death as suspicious.’

She looked concerned and troubled. ‘You mean someone killed him?’

He let his silence do the talking.

‘My God! That’s awful.’ She took a deep breath. ‘And that’s why you’re here asking questions. You want to know about Greg?’

‘Anything might be helpful. How long did he work for Coastline?’ Horton thought it best to lead up to putting the real questions he wanted answered.

‘He started here on the stall in April 2001 just after I did and became a delivery driver for the supplies side after about nine months.’ She looked uneasy or rather troubled. ‘And he was a delivery driver until last October when Mr Skelton suddenly promoted him to event-catering manager. Biggest leap in promotion I’ve ever seen.’

Horton eyed her keenly. ‘What do you mean?’

Iris hesitated. Horton had seen this before. It was the moment of mental struggle. Whatever Iris had to tell him had ramifications for her personally. He held his silence hoping her conscience would win out, feeling that at last he was on the edge of the truth. Harlow could have got that photograph to Woodley in Parkhurst before his promotion but Horton didn’t believe he had.

‘Mr Skelton is a shrewd businessman. And successful. He’s built this business up from one small coffee stall to a chain of them along the south coast and a big catering company. He makes a lot of money.’ She paused. Then lowering her voice still further she continued. ‘He’s got a big house over the Hamble somewhere, a flashy car – one of those big four-wheel-drive vehicles, looks like a tank – and he has a boat in a marina. Nothing wrong in that but he doesn’t like spending money on his staff. He pays the minimum wage and then not always. He has an eye for cheap labour,’ she added pointedly.

No wonder she had hesitated. Horton understood perfectly what she was talking about. ‘How cheap?’

‘Cheapest you can get away with if the people you employ have got nothing to start with.’

‘Here at the stall?’

‘No.’ Lowering her voice and looking out to sea she said, ‘Not enough space here.’

Horton followed her drift immediately. He thought of that tent of Skelton’s at the Isle of Wight Festival and of Dennings’ presence when he and Eames had arrived. Then there was Haseen Nader. He was probably legit, but it didn’t take too many brain cells to work out what Iris meant: illegal immigrant workers. Harlow had found out about it and kept silent in return for promotion, or perhaps he’d got his promotion because he agreed to be a party to it. Then his conscience had finally troubled him, especially after Sharon’s death when he and Eames had started asking questions. Or rather he’d got scared. He told Skelton he was going to the police, or perhaps Skelton saw he was getting jumpy and decided to silence him. And that made far more sense to him than Loman killing him.

In her normal voice Iris added, ‘And to think the poor soul didn’t live long enough to spend his bigger wage packet. And not long after his aunt’s death too.’

‘He mentioned that to you?’ Horton asked his pulse quickening.

‘No. I overheard that man talking about it. He said Gregory Harlow’s sister-in-law was coming home for her aunt’s funeral, and he had a photograph of her.’