Shroud of Evil (22 page)

‘Can I borrow these for a while? I’ll copy them and return them to you.’

‘Of course.’

Kimber showed him to the front door. There Horton paused. He wished he had a photograph of Edward Ballard but he recalled the fair, fit man he’d seen talking to Bernard and asked Kimber if he remembered seeing him. His answer was as Horton expected: no.

Outside, Horton let his memory go back to the time he saw Edward Ballard hand that Bluebird Toffee tin containing the photograph of his mother and his birth certificate to Bernard. Had it contained anything else that Bernard had removed before passing on to him? He would never know, not unless he found Ballard and asked him, and he thought he had about as much chance of that as being promoted.

He scanned the long road of terraced houses built in the 1930s while his memory slipped back in time to the day he’d sneaked home early from school and seen Bernard with Ballard. What had been parked here then? Ballard must have arrived in some kind of vehicle. Would he, as a teenager, have noticed any cars though? Yes, if they had been different, flash and expensive like the one he recalled his mother climbing into once, parked outside their flat. That had been an American car he’d thought, but couldn’t be sure. Maybe to a child it had just looked big and flash. No, the only thing he would have noticed here was something he was interested in, even as a boy. Of course! Why hadn’t he recalled it before? Because it had been autumn and the weather damp and windy and he’d thought nothing of a man dressed in black clothes – trousers and a big black jacket – but now, if he put that with the admiring glance he’d given a motorbike, Horton knew that Ballard had come by bike. What kind though? A Honda? A Triumph? He racked his brains trying to remember. He’d seen Ballard climb on a motorbike. It had given a satisfyingly deep throb as it had roared away. That had appealed to his boyhood fantasy of being able to escape. He’d wished he could ride away from the school he hated and the other boys he fought with, but most of all from the anger inside him. And there it still was like a hard ball gripping his gut, causing his fists to clench. He took a breath. Emotion was no use to him, but reason was and it was only reason that would help him get to the truth. Edward Ballard had ridden away on a powerful motorbike but that fact didn’t help him find out what had happened to Jennifer and why Bernard and Eileen Litchfield had been able to unofficially foster him.

He returned to his boat where he postponed all thoughts of Jennifer, showered and cooked something to eat. He turned his mind to Jasper Kenton. Mentally he ran through all the facts he’d learned about Kenton and his death, trying to find something that would make Uckfield take more direct action. But he knew this was one of those cases that was set to drag on, mainly because Eames wanted it that way. Was that because of the beachcomber? Was Horton harbouring a killer? He had to know. Perhaps he should take his own boat across to the island and motor up that creek. From the sea it would look different and maybe he’d spot something that could give him a lead. He’d need to refuel though because he hadn’t been out sailing for some time. He froze. Fuel. What had Elkins said about Kenton’s boat? Rapidly he racked his brain. Yes, that was it, the tank was half full. Had it been empty when Rob at the marina had helped Kenton to refuel? Or had Kenton been topping it up? Did it matter? He knew it did. He wasn’t quite sure why, but like that nagging personality discrepancy in Kenton that refused to go away, Horton knew that the amount of fuel in that boat meant something significant and he was determined to find out what it was.

‘N
either Kenton nor anyone else took that boat to the Isle of Wight or anywhere Thursday night,’ Horton relayed to Cantelli the next morning in the CID Operations room. ‘I’ve spoken to Rob at the marina and he says he asked Kenton if he wanted the boat filled up but Kenton said no, just half a tank, and there was only a small amount of fuel left in it when he took it to the pumps. Elkins says there is still half a tank left in the boat and he hasn’t found any trace of Kenton’s boat putting in to any of the marinas on the Isle of Wight. He must have met his killer here on the mainland and it wasn’t at Oyster Quays or the Camber because I’ve already checked with them. He certainly didn’t drive over to the island because the ferry company have no record of his car being on any sailings on Thursday or Friday.’

‘So he either crossed on someone else’s boat or in someone else’s car.’

‘Yes. And that’s not Brett Veerman’s because he didn’t cross to the island until Friday night, by which time Kenton was dead. And I don’t think Kenton could have been in the rear of his Volvo, bleeding to death since Thursday night.’

‘What about Thelma Veerman’s car?’

Horton shook his head. ‘There’s no record of her having been on the ferry.’ He’d checked that morning. ‘I’ve told Uckfield that we need to run a check on all those who travelled on the ferries on Thursday night and Friday morning for any connection with Kenton. I’m going to re-interview Thelma Veerman and I want you with me.’

Cantelli grimaced. ‘Wish you’d asked me before I had breakfast.’

‘I’d ask Walters only he looks as though he’s already been on a rough sea for forty-eight hours.’ Horton jerked his head at the overweight DC, who staggered in the door with a face like a constipated St Bernard dog clutching his fat stomach.

‘Think I ate something dodgy last night at that bloody Turkish restaurant. My guts feel like they’re going to explode.’

‘Well for Christ’s sake don’t let them do it here. I take it you were on surveillance last night and no one showed up to spray filthy slogans on the filthy kitchen.’

‘No. After my meal I sat outside in the car until two o’clock. Then my guts started playing up.’

‘See that they’re better by tonight.’

‘I’m not going back in there to eat,’ Walters protested vehemently.

‘Then try the Indian restaurant you mentioned yesterday or get a takeaway and sit in your car.’

‘And if I get taken short?’

‘Perhaps they’ll let you use the restaurant toilet.’

Walters groaned. ‘I’m sick. I should be at home.’

‘Then go home,’ Horton said sharply. ‘But make sure you’re outside or in one of those restaurants you identified as in desperate need of redecoration and better security tonight.’

Walters nodded gloomily and plodded out. Horton gave Cantelli instructions to book them on the ten o’clock sailing and returned to his office where he rang Thelma Veerman but there was no answer. Annoyed, he replaced the receiver without leaving a message. He could have another wasted journey if she wasn’t at home, but glancing at the clock and seeing it was just after nine he thought she was probably walking the dogs. She had to go home at some point – unless she was away, he thought, but her car had been on the drive yesterday.

He tried her number again at the ferry terminal but still got no answer. Cantelli handed the electronic ticket to a very wet and clearly very unhappy member of the marshalling staff who zapped the bar code on it with a hand-held device and quickly turned away. Cantelli hastily let the window back up and wiped the inside of the door where the rain had beaten in. He looked worried and Horton knew why; it was very windy and the ferry crossing would be far from smooth.

‘Just don’t let them bury me at sea,’ Cantelli said, as they were waved on board.

Cantelli refused all refreshment and took a seat at a table away from the windows, which he’d been told was the best position to avoid the worst of the rolling of the ferry. He didn’t look as though he believed that. Horton bought a Diet Coke. He had just reached the table when his phone rang. It was Gaye Clayton.

‘I’m sorry, Andy, but I can’t find anyone who saw Brett Veerman in the ward or in the nurses’ hostel on Thursday night. He was definitely in surgery until eight thirty-five, and he did have clinics on Friday morning as well as hospital rounds. He went to the private hospital on Friday afternoon just after four p.m. That’s all I can get about his movements but my sources tell me he is very well liked and respected. He’s considered rather dishy and sexy. Has a good sense of humour and is courteous and polite and rather charming. In fact he seems to have attracted a kind of hero worship.’

‘I’m surprised he hasn’t been mobbed.’

She laughed. ‘If he wasn’t suspected of murder I might fancy him myself. There’s no gossip about him having affairs though. Do I still get a free meal?’

‘Sure you wouldn’t prefer to dine out with Mr Veerman?’ he joked.

‘Positive. He might poison me.’

‘Let’s hope the restaurant food doesn’t. When are you free?’ he said, pleased.

‘No time like the present. Tonight?’

‘Sounds good. I’ll—’

‘No. I’ll pick
you
up in the Mini. I don’t mind a ride on your Harley but if you’re taking me to a posh restaurant I don’t fancy turning up looking like a drowned rat with flattened hair.’

Horton swiftly tried to imagine Gaye’s short spiky auburn hair flattened and couldn’t. He smiled. ‘Eight o’clock.’

‘Great.’

He rang off with Cantelli eyeing him smugly and for the moment seemingly oblivious that the ferry was out at sea.

‘Where are you going?’ Cantelli asked.

‘Nowhere near where Walters will be,’ Horton answered promptly. And after their meal? He didn’t like to think that far ahead.

The ferry bucked and rolled. The car alarms on the decks below began to sound. Cantelli’s skin paled.

‘Close your eyes and think of England.’

‘Not sure that will work,’ Cantelli said gloomily.

‘OK then we’ll go over the details of Kenton’s murder.’ They did but it threw up no new thoughts except that it highlighted the apparent dual personality of Jasper Kenton. Horton told Cantelli he’d also called the yacht brokerage that morning after he’d spoken to Rob in the marina office and discovered that Jasper Kenton didn’t even want to give the boat a trial run when he was in the process of purchasing it. ‘The salesman started up the engine and Kenton said that it sounded OK to him.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a very thorough man to me.’

‘Me neither. The salesman also confirmed that the boat had just a small amount of fuel in the tank and that he hadn’t topped it up. He said there was no need if Kenton didn’t want to take it out for a trial run. Kenton said he trusted the brokerage to provide him with a boat they claimed was in perfect working order.’

Cantelli raised his dark eyebrows. ‘For a PI, and someone who’d worked in security, he was very trusting.’

And that didn’t ring true. Horton rang Trueman and asked him if he had anything on the sail that Kenton had been wrapped in.

‘Just got the preliminary report. It’s a gaff-rigged mainsail.’

That surprised Horton and worried him a little. A gaff-rigged mainsail was hoisted up by a pole called a gaff. It was shaped like a truncated triangle but with four sides rather than three, with two short sides top and bottom and two longer sides right and left. They were used on more traditional and classic sailing yachts, not the type of dinghy that Veerman had in his garden nor the yacht Thelma Veerman had told him they’d owned before her son had left home.

Trueman said, ‘The size of this sail indicates it comes from a yacht no bigger than twenty-two feet. The sail is anything between ten and five years old. It’s been used but is still waterproof.’

‘Which means that the body was in sea water before being wrapped in it.’

‘Yes. There’s no number on it, which the lab says suggests it was made as a spare sail or possibly for a boat designed by the owner.’

Not much help then.

Trueman said, ‘It could have been lying around somewhere for months, years even.’

Horton recalled the beachcomber’s words
. ‘I search for bits of flotsam and jetsam I find on the beach that I can turn into art.’
Had he found the sail and after killing Kenton had decided to turn him into a work of art? If so the man was mad and Horton had prevented him from being apprehended. He shifted uneasily as Trueman continued, ‘The lab is trying to find traces of earth or gravel on it which we might be able to match.’

‘
If
we knew where it came from. How are Marsden and Somerfield getting on with the archery clubs?’

‘They’re not. No one matches up with any names we have in the investigation so far.’

Gaye’s words about the weapon being used by soldiers overseas darted into Horton’s mind and he experienced an uncomfortable few moments as he considered that Veerman was nothing but a smoke screen of his own choosing to divert attention from the real killer, the beachcomber, who could be ex-forces. Thoughts of Bernard Litchfield flashed before him in his RAF uniform with flak jacket and guns. But swiftly he pushed them aside and reminded himself of the facts that made Veerman a suspect – which, he thought with some anxiety, were all circumstantial.

Horton asked Trueman to keep him updated on new developments and said he and Cantelli were on their way to re-interview Thelma Veerman.

Cantelli made no effort to hide his relief as they disembarked from the ferry. Switching on the windscreen wipers he said, ‘I only hope the wind drops by the time we return.’

‘We’ll have Thelma Veerman’s statement to consider by then; that should occupy us.’ But Horton had tried her number twice on the ferry and still no answer. Perhaps he should call Eunice Swallows and see if she had a mobile number for Thelma Veerman but that would mean explaining to Bliss why he had asked for it, because Eunice was bound to tell her.

Horton gave Cantelli directions to the Veermans’ house. If they got no joy there they’d try the abbey.

The gates were closed and her car was on the driveway and still in the same position as yesterday. Horton didn’t think it had been moved, unless she always parked in that exact spot. He thought that unusual but dismissed it. There was no answer when Cantelli pressed the intercom and there didn’t look to be any signs of life from the house.

Horton climbed out and as he did the sound of the dogs barking came from a distance. She couldn’t be far then. It sounded as though they were on the shore. She was probably down there throwing a ball into the sea for them to fetch. But in this weather? It was sheeting down now but then Thelma Veerman had struck him as the outdoor type. Obviously she couldn’t hear the intercom there. And he hadn’t come all this way to turn back again.