Tide of Death dah-1 Read online

  He snatched up a photograph on top of an ancient oak bureau and stared at a portly man in his sixties with silver hair and a wide smile. It must be Melissa Thurlow's father, Randall Simpson. On the top of the bureau there were pictures of a younger Melissa with him. He hardly recognised her. As well as being rich she had also been a beauty, quite a catch for Roger Thurlow, as she had said.

  He began a search of the bureau, finding the usual household bills and receipts. There was correspondence between Melissa Thurlow and the local fuchsia society. He flicked open her diary. She had put a line through the Friday her husband was killed and written, South West Fuchsia Show, Swindon. That would be easy enough to check out.

  He finished his search finding nothing of interest and crossed the room to scan the books in the bookcase beside the fireplace. He could hear Cantelli moving about upstairs. They were mainly gardening books with one or two biographies and some romantic fiction-Melissa Thurlow's escape? The poor woman hadn't had a great deal of love and romance it seemed with Roger.

  His eyes alighted on the painting over the fireplace. It was a fairly competent watercolour of Briarly House. The name in the bottom right hand corner gave him the artist, Melissa's father: Randall Simpson.

  Some instinct made him reach out and take it down disturbing the fine cobwebs around it and leaving a faded patch of wallpaper behind it. He turned the painting over to see what, if anything, was written on the back. It wasn't very professionally framed, as around each edge was brown sticky tape that was beginning to come away. Stretching across the back was a piece of string knotted at each end in the eyelets and in the middle a square piece of cream card handwritten with 'Briarly House 1956.' He made to return the picture then changed his mind. His fingers picked at the sticky tape, which came away very easily and slowly he peeled it back. It was all that was holding the backing cardboard in place and as it worked loose he could see something sandwiched between it and the painting itself. With a quickening heartbeat he gently prised the paper out. It was cream and quite delicate.

  Putting the picture down, he crossed to the bureau where he slowly unfurled the rectangular piece of paper.

  'You found something?' Cantelli asked, crossing the room.

  'It's a birth certificate. I found it behind that painting.'

  'Strange place to keep it.'

  'Not so strange when you take a closer look at it. See the column that gives the name of Melissa's father?

  'Unknown,' Cantelli read surprised. 'She was adopted?'

  'Yes. By Randall Simpson.'

  'So?'

  'She didn't want her husband to know.'

  'But how could that make a difference?'

  Horton's mind replayed that last interview with her. From what she had said and left unsaid he could imagine what her life with Roger Thurlow must have been like.

  'Roger Thurlow would have used this information to humiliate her,' he said. He couldn't help recalling the taunts of the other children at school: your mum doesn't love you; she gave you away. It wasn't strictly true; his mother had deserted him, though it amounted to the same thing. And some of his foster parents had been just as cruel always telling him he should be 'grateful' for being taken in. In this day and age being adopted wasn't anything to be ashamed of, but he knew that you couldn't help how you felt inside.

  He said, 'Thurlow had been gradually chipping away at Melissa's self confidence, making her feel worthless. If he had discovered this little secret he would have taunted her with it. Melissa has admitted drugging her husband by giving him an overdose but she doesn't strike me as a hardened killer. She'd had enough. She just wanted him out of her life.'

  'So Uckfield is right? And she also killed Culven?'

  'Why aren't her fingerprints and DNA in Culven's house? Why aren't they on those letters? Get a team in here, Barney. See if we can find any evidence that Culven came here, though I think it unlikely.' Horton slipped the birth certificate into an evidence bag. It might have no bearing on the case but it was one of those oddities. He was interested to see what she would have to say about it.

  'They had separate bedrooms,' Cantelli said. 'But his room is like a hotel bedroom. There's nothing personal in it. No papers.'

  'And there are no papers here belonging to Thurlow either. There might be a safe. I'll get Marsden to ask her.' Horton pulled out his mobile and rang the station.

  They continued their search and had almost finished it when Marsden rang back.

  'There's no safe,' Horton told Cantelli.

  'So where did he keep his cheque book, bank statements, passport?'

  'Where indeed? Let's ask her.'

  She said she didn't know. 'Or won't say,' Cantelli ventured, later.

  'We need to cherchez la femme.'

  'Or l'uomo!'

  'Judging by the clothes Thurlow was found dressed in, you could be right.'

  CHAPTER 12

  Tuesday

  'Mr Calthorpe's at a client meeting,' Mrs Stephens managed to blurt out in between sobs. Clearly she had taken the news of her boss's death badly. Far worse than his wife, Horton thought, as he looked at her red, swollen eyes. She led him into Thurlow's office, Cantelli following behind.

  'Is Mr Parnham in?'

  'I'll tell him you're here.'

  Horton threw himself into Thurlow's large black leather swivel chair and gazed around the spacious and immaculately tidy office. Thurlow had been too important to have filing cabinets in here; they were in Mrs Stephens' adjoining one where he could hear her quiet sobbing.

  When he had questioned Melissa about the birth certificate, she had been surprised he'd found it, then fearful and finally relieved, as if it had only just dawned on her, he thought, that her husband was no longer around to verbally torment her. Her reasons for hiding it had been as he had suspected.

  He recalled their conversation.

  'Do you know who your birth father is?'

  'No and I don't care,' she had replied fiercely. 'I was illegitimate, as you now know, but when my mother met Randall Simpson and learnt from him that he couldn't have children, I was taken from the Barnados home. I was only two years old, so I don't recall anything about my time in the home.'

  Lucky you, Horton thought, her words conjuring up unpleasant memories of his time spent in a home.

  'Did your mother ever tell you anything about your father?' All he could recall his mother saying was 'your father was a waste of space'.

  'Only that he gave her double trouble. When

  I asked her what she meant she hinted that I hadn't been her only illegitimate child.'

  'Older or younger? Brother or sister?'

  'I don't know.'

  Horton picked up one of the executive toys on Roger Thurlow's desk and turned it. As the liquid inside ran down he pulled at the desk drawers and began to poke around inside.

  Cantelli took the sideboard on the far wall. 'Not much here. Just drink and some glasses.' 'Nothing here either, stationery, the odd letter, nothing important.'

  The door opened and a man swept into the room. He reminded Horton of an actor on Gala night his manner was confident and self-assured. The eyes were intelligent and assessing behind the small John Lennon type spectacles. Uckfield would have approved of that suit. Horton recognised Parnham from the photograph on Thurlow's Boardroom wall: the runner with the medal and the disabled children.

  'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, inspector. This is dreadful news. I simply can't believe it. Roger dead!'

  'Won't you sit down, Mr Parnham?' Horton gestured him into the chair opposite.

  He sat. 'How was Roger killed? Oh I've read about it in the local newspaper and the press have been hounding us ever since but no one's told me what actually happened. I've tried calling Mrs Thurlow but there's no answer. Is it true you've taken her in for questioning? One of the reporters told me. You can't honestly think she has anything to do with this dreadful business?' He removed his glasses and gave them a quick polish before replacing them. The
sun glinting off his spectacles made his expression difficult to read.

  Horton said, 'When did you last see Mr Thurlow?'

  'Friday before last, when he went to his boat.'

  'Did he leave the office before you?'

  'Yes. He left at about six thirty. I locked up at seven and went straight to the ferry port. I was catching the eight thirty ferry to St Malo. I have a cottage in north Brittany, a beautiful part of the world. It's just outside Cancale, a village famous for its oyster beds much as Emsworth used to be. That's where I live.'

  'And you were in France all weekend?'

  'Yes. I returned on Wednesday evening.'

  'Did you hear from Mr Thurlow at any time over the weekend?'

  'No. Mrs Stephens phoned me on the Monday morning when Roger didn't return. She thought he might have taken his boat across to France to meet me. Then she called me again early on Wednesday morning. I told her to call Mrs Thurlow.'

  'How did Mr Thurlow seem to you the last time you saw him?'

  Parnham hesitated. For the first time in the interview he looked ill at ease. 'He was OK.'

  Parnham was keeping something back, that much was clear to Horton but what and why? Perhaps it was out of loyalty to his late boss? He decided not to press it for the moment. 'Mr Parnham, can you think of anyone who would want to harm Roger Thurlow?'

  'No, I can't. He was a very popular man, well liked, especially by his clients.'

  Horton fell silent. A telephone was ringing along the corridor; he could hear someone's footsteps hurrying passed.

  Parnham cleared his throat but just as he made to speak, Horton said, 'Can you tell us why, when we found Mr Thurlow, he should be dressed in women's clothes?'

  'Ah.' Parnham showed no signs of being shocked.

  'You knew about this?'

  'About his dressing up, yes. I found some photographs in his desk. It was about three months ago. I was looking for something else. I asked Roger about them. Of course it was none of my business what he got up to in his spare time but I told him he should either keep that sort of thing away from the office, or at least keep his desk locked. I didn't want to know about it, but I suppose he was relieved to have someone to talk to. He couldn't explain why he did it but he said it, er, gave him a kick.'

  'He told you this?' Horton asked surprised.

  Cantelli's pen hovered over the notebook.

  'We didn't labour over it.'

  'He was a transsexual?'

  'I wouldn't go as far as to say that. I don't think he went out in the clothes, only dressed up in them in private and…' Parnham hesitated. Horton waited.

  Parnham shrugged, 'Well I suppose you might as well know it all now, inspector. There seems no point in keeping anything back. He went to parties; you know the sort of thing I'm sure. Apparently these people advertise in magazines. Sex magazines. I also found one of them in Roger's desk.'

  Horton knew all right.

  Parnham leaned forward, his expression earnest and concerned. 'Now you can see why I had to confront Roger with it. Can you imagine what would have happened if Mary Stephens, or one of the younger members of staff, had found it?'

  Horton thought the younger staff would probably have had a good laugh over it. Mrs Stephens he wasn't so sure about.

  'Is there anything else that Roger Thurlow told you about these parties, Mr Parnham?' Horton asked hopefully. Uckfield's conviction that he had found the killer had distracted him. This stank of Jarrett and his blasted club.

  Parnham's answer disappointed him. 'No.'

  'Did Mrs Thurlow know about her husband's predilection for dressing up in women's clothes?'

  'I've no idea. I've hardly spoken to her in all the time I've worked here.'

  'And that is how long?'

  'Two and a half years.'

  Parnham looked worried. 'I don't know what our clients will make of this. Can't it be kept quiet?'

  'I'm afraid not, sir. It will come out at the inquest.'

  Parnham groaned. 'I'd forgotten that. I don't know what this will do to the business.'

  Make it all the more successful I shouldn't wonder, Horton thought with cynicism. 'What about Michael Culven? How well did you know him?'

  'He was our company solicitor. He was reviewing our employment contracts.'

  'Is that why Roger met him in the yacht club on the Friday lunchtime?'

  'Possibly, although they often had lunch together.'

  After a short pause Horton said, 'Do you know if Michael Culven shared the same interests as Roger Thurlow.'

  'The same…? I don't know. I simply don't know. God, what a mess.'

  Horton rose and walked slowly to the big arched window. He looked down on the bustling harbour. 'We'll need to have a look through your client files in case anything there can help us…'

  He froze. No it couldn't be. The past was playing tricks with him, he'd gone mad; he was seeing things. He blinked hard but when he focused his eyes back on the boardwalk she was still there. God, Lucy Richardson was right there, under his very nose. She was sitting as bold as brass drinking from a bottle, smiling and talking to a dark-haired girl. His stomach did a somersault. His heart began to race. Slowly and carefully he turned round.

  'Sergeant, take over.' He barely registered Cantelli's surprise before he was out of the door. He couldn't get away quick enough. Down those stairs, turn to his right. Would he get there in time? How much did she have in the bottle to drink? His heart was thumping so fast that it was wonder it didn't explode.

  He rounded the corner and drew up with a start. No, it couldn't be. It wasn't possible. Please God, how could you do this to me!

  He stared at the table where she'd been sitting but instead of the young, blonde, attractive female there was a fat woman and her equally obese husband. He'd got the wrong table, the wrong bar. She couldn't have gone. It had taken him about three minutes at the most to reach her. He wanted to race up to the fat couple and shake and scream at them, demanding to know what had they done with Lucy, but he forced himself to calm down. She couldn't have gone far.

  Rapidly he scanned the crowd but there was no Lucy. Perhaps she had gone to another bar. Desperately he searched them all, then the shops, but somehow he knew he wouldn't find her. His chance had come and gone, maybe never to return. He swore softly. There was one last place to look. He should have gone there to begin with.

  'Inspector Horton, CID,' he announced into the intercom wondering if he'd be admitted. But they had to. There was no legal reason why they shouldn't admit the police.

  After a moment the door buzzed and he stepped into Alpha One's brightly lit and very swish reception. A pretty dark-haired girl of about twenty sat behind a low, grey reception desk. She was wearing a crisp white overall and a worried expression on her perfectly made up face. Horton could tell instantly that she knew about him by the way her green eyes darted nervously about the room.

  'Is Mr Jarrett available?' He flashed his ID knowing damn well that if Jarrett were there he wouldn't deign to see him. There was a camera in the far right hand corner pointing directly at him and, he guessed, one behind him above the door, judging by the way the girl's eyes kept flicking beyond him.

  'No. Can I take a message?'

  You just have Horton felt like saying.

  'Tell him I'd like to talk to him about Michael Culven. Is he a member?'

  'Our membership is strictly confidential.'

  'I could insist.'

  'Don't you need a warrant?' She'd been well trained.

  'I'll come back with one, if it makes you happier.'

  He saw the relief in her eyes as he turned to leave. He reached the door before pausing and turning back. 'Oh, I nearly forgot, tell Lucy I'm here, will you?'

  'I don't know any Lucy.'

  'No?' He eyed her steadily. Her eyes dropped and her face flushed. Lucy was there all right.

  'I think you'd better…'

  'Leave. Well thank you for your help.'

  He saw th
e look of alarm on her pretty young face. She was wondering what help she could possibly have given him. Lucy had to be inside. Where else could she have gone?

  He made his way back to Thurlow's office wondering where Lucy was living. If he could only find her. Perhaps he could come here every evening and hang around outside Alpha One. It was a thought.

  Cantelli looked up as he entered Thurlow's office. Horton could see he was worried. They were alone.

  'It's all right, Barney, I haven't gone mad. I saw Lucy Richardson on the Boardwalk.'

  Cantelli looked at him incredulously.

  'By the time I got there she'd gone. She was in Alpha One but the girl on reception denied it.'

  'You've been there? Christ, Andy! Jarrett will make sure Reine throws the book at you.'

  Horton rounded on him. 'What else am I supposed to do? Don't tell me to leave it. You know I bloody can't, especially after that newspaper article.'

  Horton turned his back on Cantelli and stared out of the window, silently counting to five and trying to still his raging temper. Barney was right. This would mean the end of his police career… or would it? He wasn't so sure. Slowly another thought dawned on him. He turned back.

  'Jarrett knows that if I get kicked out of the police force I'll be even more of a wild card. He won't go blabbing. He tried that once and it didn't work. No, the only way to get me off his back is to get rid of me — period.'

  'Andy, this is too dangerous. You'll get killed.'

  'Not if I get to Lucy first.'

  Cantelli let out a long slow breath. After a moment he said, 'I'll give a copy of Lucy's photograph to my sister, Isabella; if Lucy goes into the cafe on the seafront Isabella will let me know.'

  Horton hadn't expected that. He was torn between needing Cantelli's help and not wanting him to become involved and end up a possible target himself. In the end, seeing the determined look in his sergeant's dark eyes, he knew that even if he refused, Cantelli would go ahead and do it anyway. He smiled his thanks.

  Bringing his thoughts back to the case he said, 'Did Parnham have anything else useful to say?'

  'He confirmed that the business hadn't been doing too well lately but he has an appointment with the bank manager. He hopes to get a loan. His story about the porn mags fits. Perhaps Thurlow was simply getting them for his own use and not smuggling them in.'