Dead Man's Wharf dah-4 Read online

  Oldham was heading for the shore, where Horton could see a dredger waiting to unload its cargo of gravel. It had obviously come up the harbour on the high tide. About twenty feet from the quayside Oldham abruptly drew up.

  'There.' He flung out a podgy finger. Horton followed its direction and found himself staring into a pit about five feet deep and twelve feet square. Focusing his eyes in the streaming rain, he blinked and ran a hand over his sodden face. To his horror, he was staring at what looked remarkably like a human hand protruding from the gravel. This he hadn't expected. He glanced at Cantelli, who paused mid chew.

  'You could have said on the telephone,' Horton grumbled.

  'And be called a liar like before. Not bloody likely and before you say anything, I told the lads not to touch it. Not that they'd want to, if it's for real, but I haven't got all day to stand around here gawping at it. That dredger needs unloading, so hurry up and do what you have to do.'

  Horton didn't like to tell him it wasn't that simple, but before he called in the heavy squad he ought to check that it was a human hand and not a plastic one, otherwise he'd have to emigrate to avoid the ribbing.

  'How do I get down there?'

  'That steel ladder over there. You'd better wear a hard hat. Scott,' he bellowed, and a muscular man in his thirties appeared almost from nowhere. 'Give us your hard hat and get yourself another one.'

  Oldham handed it over to Horton, who adjusted it before beginning a careful descent of the slippery ladder. In the pit he felt the rain even keener, cutting into his flesh, but that was probably his imagination and apprehension.

  His feet sunk into the soft gravel almost up to his knees. He didn't think he could get any wetter or dirtier not unless someone decided to throw a bucket of slurry over him. This was his penance for sending Walters out into the mud of the harbour.

  As he waded his way closer — thinking Phil Taylor of SOCO would have a fit if he could see him — he noticed a piece of blue material around the wrist. The material didn't look like cloth but some form of latex or rubber. His heart contracted. Could it be a diving suit? If so, then one particular diver sprang to mind. Shit! Perry Jackson. He touched the hand and the icy flesh made him recoil. It couldn't be him. Those telephone calls had been a publicity stunt, hadn't they?

  'Who is it, Andy?' Cantelli called out.

  Horton heard the anxiety and excitement in Cantelli's voice. He glanced up and caught the sergeant's concerned expression.

  'Can't see yet, but it's a man judging by the size of the hand and wrist.' Too big a hand to be Jackson's?

  With difficulty, his cold, wet fingers fumbled inside his jacket for a pair of latex gloves. Putting them on proved almost impossible, but eventually he managed.

  Oldham shouted, 'Can't you get a move on?'

  Ignoring him and with his heart thudding against his ribs, Horton carefully began to clear away the gravel around the hand. His heart quickened as more of the rubber became exposed. Yes, it was definitely a diver. His mind was racing. If this was Perry Jackson, then what the blazes was he doing here — dead? And if it wasn't him, then who could it be? Daniel Collins had been a diver and he'd died not far from here, and last night he'd been in the sub-aqua club asking questions about Daniel's death. Had he somehow instigated this?

  The yard seemed to have fallen quiet and even the weather seemed to have abated, yet he knew neither had. The hand and wrist extended to an arm, but that was as far as he dared go before spoiling the scene of the crime even further, if this man had been killed and he had no real evidence of that. He could have met with an accident and fallen into the pit, but Horton doubted it, unless Oldham had started kitting his employees out in diving gear.

  Horton's spine pricked with unease as he climbed back to the surface. He mentally replayed the last call that Jackson had received: 'Resign from the programme by the end of the week or you're dead meat.' But it was only Wednesday.

  At a nod from Horton, Cantelli pulled the mobile phone from his coat pocket and stepped away.

  'Who the hell is he?' demanded Oldham.

  'No idea. We'll have to wait for the doctor and the scene of crime team.'

  Oldham glared at him. 'Are you saying you can't move him?'

  'Sorry. This could be a crime scene.'

  Oldham snorted.

  Raising his voice against the howling wind, bleeping trucks, engines running and concrete churning, Horton shouted, 'Were there any signs of a break-in this morning?'

  'That loading shovel's been moved.' Oldham pointed to a truck to their right, which had a big scoop-like shovel attached to it. It was the same type of truck that Walters said Oldham had reported as having been tampered with on Monday. Perhaps Taylor and his scene of crime team would get something from it. But Horton knew that the rain would have washed away most, if not all, of the external evidence.

  Oldham didn't strike him as a man given to fancies and paranoia and if he said a truck had been moved, and none of his men had admitted to moving it, then Horton guessed it had. Maybe for the grizzly purpose of dumping the body in that pit. For a moment he wondered if he should call the Queen's Hotel and check if Perry Jackson was there, then thought better of it. He didn't want to alarm anyone. He was still hoping it wasn't Jackson's body in the pit. But if it wasn't, then who was it?

  'Did anything show up on your CCTV?'

  'No. Not last night or Sunday night, when we had the first break-in and that idiot showed up.'

  'Is there any other way into the yard?' Cantelli asked, coming off the phone and giving Horton a slight nod that told him that SOCO were on their way, along with Dr Price.

  'No. It's fenced on all sides except seaward, of course, where the dredger is. Wish I'd let the bloody thing unload now and bury the poor sod.'

  'I'm sure you don't mean that.'

  Oldham sniffed. Perhaps he did, thought Horton. Their killer — if this man had been killed — had been unlucky because if Oldham's dredger had disgorged its cargo, then the body might not have been discovered for days, weeks even.

  'What do you dredge for?' Cantelli shouted above the wind.

  'Marine aggregates, sand and gravel, the sort you use for your patios, and driveways, and for building houses.'

  'Business is good?' Horton asked.

  Oldham turned and waved a hand around the yard. 'What do you think?'

  To Horton's mind it looked as though it was thriving. He was puzzled that none of Oldham's staff had stopped working to gaze at the somewhat unusual, not to mention shocking, discovery of a body on the premises, but maybe they were scared of Oldham. He had a reputation for being a tough businessman and he was probably a very demanding employer.

  'Can someone walk around the perimeter with Sergeant Cantelli to see if an intruder could have entered that way?' Well, Cantelli had the wellingtons and the hat.

  Oldham nodded at Scott, who set off at a brisk pace with Cantelli following, trying to keep up. 'Look, can't you move him? I've got to unload that dredger.'

  'Sorry.'

  'Then I'll send my angry customers to you.' And Oldham stormed off.

  Horton was glad to see the scene of crime van sweep into the yard, and behind it a patrol car. Taylor and his crew sensibly stayed put whilst PCs Seaton and Allen began the almost impossible task of erecting a canvas tent in the pit in the atrocious weather. It would have been laughable if the reason for them being here hadn't been so serious, Horton thought, watching them. There was no sign of Uckfield or Dennings. Cantelli wouldn't have notified the major crime team until they were absolutely certain this was murder. Horton hoped it wasn't, and he sincerely hoped it wasn't Perry Jackson down there, but he wasn't about to take bets on either.

  Finally the tent was up. Seaton and Allen were drenched to the skin and looked appealingly at Horton. 'Join the club,' Horton muttered, before detailing Seaton to log everyone who entered the tent and Allen to talk to the men in the yard to find out if any of them knew about the mystery of the moving truck. It sounded li
ke a Miss Marple mystery, he thought, once again climbing into the pit, only Miss Marple would probably have solved the case by now and remained dry in the process.

  He stepped just inside and Taylor handed him a scene suit. Against the sound of feet crunching on gravel and the canvas snapping in the wind like rifle-shots, he watched silently as the photographer and videographer did their stuff. Then Taylor and his assistant, Beth Tremain, slowly and carefully began to uncover the gravel that hid the body. Horton found himself holding his breath. He tried to prepare for what he was about to see. He thought of those anonymous threatening telephone calls, his visit to the sub-aqua club last night, Daniel Collins's body being fished out of his car not half a mile from here, and a chill ran through him that had nothing to do with the weather and how wet he was.

  Taylor had outlined the body without uncovering it. It didn't look like Jackson's build. Too tall. But he could be mistaken, or perhaps he was just hoping that. Then Taylor began to clear the gravel that covered the head. Horton's body was so rigid with tension that he felt it might snap. Then a voice and a blast of wind and rain swept through the tent along with the smell of alcohol.

  'You could have picked a better day to find a body,' Price said, coming up behind them.

  'There's an obstruction on his face,' Taylor said, in his usual mournful manner.

  'What kind?' Horton could feel his heart thudding against his ribcage.

  'Don't know. Hang on.'

  Horton watched, feeling as if he were in the grip of a nightmare and couldn't escape. Gradually Taylor's skilled fingers uncovered the face. Across the nose and eyes was a diving mask. A regulator was pushed into the poor man's mouth. The head, forehead and neck were covered with a diving hood that resembled a balaclava. He couldn't tell who it was.

  'Want me to remove the paraphernalia?' Price volunteered, stepping forward after the photographer indicated that he'd got his shots.

  Horton nodded and held his breath. His heart was going like the clappers as Price bent over the body. He pulled the regulator from the mouth and then carefully removed the diving goggles, easing them over the back of the head. With a sinking heart Horton gazed on a face he knew all too well, and one that a great many people in the United Kingdom would also know. But it wasn't Perry Jackson he was staring at. Instead Horton was peering into the dead face of his co-presenter: Nicholas Farnsworth.

  TEN

  ' Looks like you've cocked up,' Uckfield said half an hour later. Horton winced inwardly at the accusation and felt guilt rush in to replace reason. 'You should have treated those threatening telephone calls seriously,' Uckfield added.

  It was what Superintendent Reine would say, not to mention the media. Horton groaned silently. He hadn't liked Farnsworth, but he hadn't wished for him to turn up here, dead. Had he really got it so wrong? Obviously, he thought, following Uckfield's scowl as it studied the recumbent figure of Farnsworth.

  But why Farnsworth? If those threatening calls had been genuine, then the body lying before him should have been Perry Jackson. Was Farnsworth's death nothing to do with those calls, but everything to do with Horton's visit to the sub-aqua club last night? Had Farnsworth known something about Daniel Collins's death and was that why he had left the club hot on their heels with a mobile phone pressed to his ear — to warn Daniel's killer and sign his own death warrant? Or was he simply looking for an excuse to offload his guilt?

  Perhaps Farnsworth had also received threatening calls but had chosen to ignore them. Was this a vendetta against the TV divers? Bloody hell, he didn't know. In fact, he was fast coming to the conclusion that he knew bugger all about anything. Maybe he should simply hand everything over to Uckfield and DC Lee. But he didn't like to admit defeat, and he didn't much fancy leaving a case with such a stain on his judgement. Maybe if he hadn't been in such a foul mood when he'd first met Jackson and Farnsworth, brought on by his emotional reunion with his daughter at Heathrow Airport, he might have treated the inci dent more seriously. No. It was pointless speculating and beating himself over the head with guilt. There was still time to get some answers before Saturday. And he was determined he would.

  Dr Price had given the time of death as somewhere between twelve to four hours ago. That was a wide margin. But Horton could narrow that down. Farnsworth was still alive at nine thirty-five when he had left the station. Had he come straight here to meet his killer? That would put the time at approximately ten p.m. Or had his killer transported the body here and dumped it in the pit? He couldn't help thinking that if that second breathalyser had proved positive, or if he had questioned Farnsworth, then he might have been alive now. But he'd been caught up with the news about DC Lee, and he hadn't thought that Farnsworth mattered. That was a mistake he was going to have to live with.

  'You'd better brief me, fully, but for heaven's sake find somewhere out of this sodding weather,' Uckfield growled, as they stepped outside the tent.

  Horton scanned the yard and saw Ryan Oldham giving PC Johns a hard time at the entrance. Johns was capable of handling that. As Uckfield crossed to Dennings, Horton made for Oldham.

  He broke the news bluntly. There was no need to tiptoe around men like Oldham.

  'What the hell is Farnsworth doing in my yard, dead?' Oldham bellowed.

  Long years of listening to liars and cheats had fine-tuned Horton's senses, and he detected something that told him Oldham was familiar with the TV diver.

  'You know him?'

  'Of course I do. I've seen him on the television.'

  There was more, but Horton judged now wasn't the time to push it.

  'We'd like the use of an office until the mobile incident suite arrives.'

  'Do what you bloody well like — you will anyway. How long will you be?'

  'Could be all day.'

  Oldham snorted and, shouting to Scott to follow him, stormed off towards a Portakabin.

  Horton saw a very wet Cantelli talking to the driver of a lorry, which had just pulled up. If only this bloody rain would stop, he thought, turning and heading for the same Portakabin as Oldham. Not that it made any difference now; he was soaked to the skin.

  Uckfield joined him. 'What the hell was Farnsworth doing here?' he demanded, stepping inside.

  And that was the million-dollar question that was bugging Horton. The upper reaches of Langstone Harbour, where the tide receded to expose mud and sand, was hardly the place to go diving. If you wanted to discover wrecks and other historical artefacts in the harbour, then you simply waited for the tide to go out.

  Horton addressed a woman behind a desk. 'Is there somewhere we can talk in private?' Through the thin partition in the office beyond, Horton could hear Oldham talking to Scott and he wasn't being very complimentary about the police.

  'There's the kitchen. It's just through there.'

  They'd have to talk quietly, he thought, because it was only in the next room. 'Can we make ourselves a drink?'

  'Help yourself.'

  Horton flicked on the kettle and spooned coffee into two mugs as he told Uckfield about Daniel Collins's death nearby. He said nothing of Ray Ferris's discovery about DC Lee.

  'But Collins's death was an accident,' Uckfield said, obviously irritated.

  Now, how do you know that? Horton hadn't mentioned it being an accident, and the road traffic incident report would hardly have landed on the head of the major crime team's desk. Maybe Uckfield had just assumed it. Like hell he had! Someone had told him, and probably at HQ yesterday. He guessed that Uckfield had been summoned there after he'd made some enquiries about DC Lee. A guess that became a conviction when Horton saw a slight shiftiness in Uckfield's eyes.

  'Was it an accident?' Horton said evenly. 'It's beginning to look very doubtful. And before you say anything, I've got no hard evidence to support that, just a feeling.' The kettle boiled and Horton turned away. As he poured water into the two mugs, he said casually, 'Did you find out anything about DC Lee?'

  'She comes highly recommended by Superintend
ent Warren.'

  'You've spoken to him?' Horton said, once again facing Uckfield.

  'Yes. She got involved with an officer there; it all went pear-shaped so he thought a spell away from there and being operational would do her good.'

  So Uckfield was sticking with the cover story. Horton handed him his coffee, seeing only Uckfield's usual scowling countenance. But he'd swear on oath that Uckfield was lying.

  'You'll have to make a report on why you ignored the threats to Farnsworth's life.'

  'He wasn't threatened. It was his co-presenter who got the calls.'

  Uckfield dismissed that with a wave of his hand. 'It's the same difference.'

  'No, it's not, Steve, and you know it,' Horton was stung to retort. 'And my money's still on it being a publicity stunt.'

  'Well, I hope you're right, because if you aren't then this other presenter — what's his name…?'

  'Perry Jackson.'

  'Could be at risk.'

  Horton doubted it, but he remained silent.

  After a moment Uckfield said, 'This doesn't look good for you. It's bound to be a high profile case, with Farnsworth being a television personality. We'll get hammered by the press. I'll do my best to cover your backside, but…'

  With immaculate timing, saving Uckfield from making a comment that Horton knew would drive him to a cold fury, Cantelli put his head round the door.

  'Any chance of a cuppa? My feet are so cold they hurt.'

  Uckfield looked about to explode and deny Cantelli's request when his mobile phone rang. Brushing past Cantelli, he exited with a glare at Horton and a 'Yes, sir,' into his mobile phone.

  Cantelli let out a breath as Uckfield banged the door on them. He picked up a tea bag and tossed it into a mug. 'I see he's his usual cheerful self. Holiday must have done him good.'