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  And worried, thought Horton, that his architect and therefore his school might be dragged into it. 'Do you know of anyone who might have had a vendetta against both Ms Langley and Mr Edney?'

  'A vendetta?' Thornecombe stared, aghast, at him. 'That's a strong word.'

  'Murder is a very nasty business, sir.'

  'Murder! Yes, of course. I suppose it has to be that. Good grief! I can't imagine anyone doing such a dreadful thing.'

  'Unfortunately we have to imagine, sir, and the worse case scenario too.'

  'I-' Thornecombe was interrupted by a timid knock on the door. 'Come in,' he barked.

  A harassed-looking woman poked her head into the room. 'Mr Ranson, sir,' she announced hesitantly.

  'Show him in, Joan.' Thornecombe rose, made to say something, then thought better of it as Ranson swept in with a face like thunder. Thornecombe didn't even look at the architect as he left the room.

  As soon as the door closed, Ranson rounded on Horton. 'Just what the hell do you think you're doing, coming here, demanding to see me when I'm in the middle of an important project, treating me like some kind of criminal?'

  If it was an act then it was a good one. 'Sit down, Mr Ranson.'

  'No, I damn well won't,' Ranson hotly declared, glaring at him with the vivid blue eyes that Horton recalled from their previous meeting, only this time instead of haughty indifference they were shooting daggers.

  'Sit down,' repeated Horton, firmly, as he walked around Thornecombe's desk and took the seat vacated by the head teacher. On the desk was a silver-framed photograph of a young man in a dog-collar who looked very much like a younger version of Simon Thornecombe.

  'You don't intimidate me, Inspector. I'll sit when you tell me why I've been hauled in here,' Ranson blazed.

  Horton gave a small shrug and sat back in the slightly rocking swivel chair.

  'We need to ask you some questions about Jessica Langley.'

  'For goodness sake! I really don't see what-'

  'How well did you know her, sir?' interjected Cantelli casually.

  Ranson swivelled his eyes to meet Cantelli's. Ranson would have to do better than glaring at the sergeant to make Cantelli react, thought Horton. But Horton could see that Ranson was uneasy. He couldn't maintain the same air of righteous indignation because now Horton guessed his mind was racing with trying to weigh up how much they knew about his affair with Langley.

  Stiffly, Ranson replied, 'She was the head teacher at a school where I was the architect responsible for designing and developing a new building. Even you could have gathered that from our first meeting.'

  Horton thought Ranson a bit heavy-handed with the sarcasm. Was it a defence mechanism perhaps? His experience told him that Ranson was clearly uncomfortable about something: was that murder? He had also avoided answering the question. Behind those piercing blue eyes, the bow-tie and the supercilious manner, Horton saw a worried man, and if Daphne Edney was correct, a man who had known Jessica Langley a darn sight better than just professionally. Time to ease off and make him think they believed him.

  'You seem to specialize in school buildings.'

  'We handle a variety of projects,' Ranson replied curtly, 'and if that's all you want to talk to me about then I suggest you make an appointment with my secretary.'

  He had reached the door when Horton, his voice as hard as steel, said, 'We know about your affair with Jessica Langley.'

  Ranson froze. His body tensed. Slowly he turned back and scrutinized Horton's face. 'Who told you?'

  Horton remained silent.

  After a moment Ranson crossed the room and sat in the chair that Horton had earlier vacated. The hostility had vanished and Horton was now looking at a nervous and worried man.

  'When did the affair begin?' Cantelli asked.

  Ranson tried a last-ditch attempt to give Cantelli a withering look, but it didn't come off and only served to make him look sheepish. Seeing there was nothing for it, Ranson reluctantly capitulated.

  'About a month ago. It wasn't really an affair though.'

  'Then what was it?' asked Horton.

  Ranson pulled out a handkerchief, which he proceeded to wipe his hands with. 'Just a bit of fun. It didn't mean anything.'

  Horton could see that Ranson was beginning to rehearse in his mind what he might have to tell his wife. Horton didn't think 'a bit of fun' was going to win her over though.

  'I finished it a week ago.'

  'Then why did you visit her on the evening of her death?'

  'I didn't.'

  For Horton, the too swift denial confirmed Daphne Edney's story. He threw the pencil down and slapped his hand on the desk. 'Stop lying to me, Ranson. Two people are dead.'

  'Two?'

  Horton said sharply, 'Tom Edney was brutally murdered on Saturday night. Where were you between three and seven p.m.' Horton knew of course, but no harm in making Ranson sweat, and he was sweating now.

  'You can't think…I didn't have…I didn't even know he was dead.'

  Horton contrived to look incredulous. Ranson flushed and mopped his brow with the handkerchief. He was clearly no longer the supercilious architect, but a very anxious and frightened man.

  'I went sailing for the weekend with my family to Guernsey. I have witnesses,' he cried with a note of desperation.

  'And for Langley's murder,' rapped Horton.

  'I was at home with my wife.'

  Oh, yeah, thought Horton, pull the other one; it's got bells on.

  He said, 'Not according to our witness you weren't. Did you kill her?'

  'Of course I didn't,' Ranson declared vehemently.

  Did Horton believe him? It didn't look like an act, and the man had gone quite pale, but then Horton had seen some Oscar-winning performances before from murderers. 'You asked Jessica Langley to meet you on your boat at Sparkes Yacht Harbour and once on it you killed her. Why?'

  'I haven't killed anyone.' Ranson sat forward. 'Look, I did go to her apartment on Thursday evening, but I was only there a few minutes. I left her there, alive and well. I didn't ask her to meet me anywhere.'

  'You had sex and then left her?'

  From the post-mortem report Horton knew he hadn't, but he wanted to see Ranson's reaction. The man looked horrified.

  'No. I arrived at her flat just after seven thirty. I had hardly been there a few minutes when the doorbell rang and Daphne Edney was hurling abuse at Jessica on the doorstep. Jessica slammed the door on her. She seemed to find it exciting and amusing. I thought things between us were going to be… well, all right. Then her mobile phone rang and everything changed. No, hang on. She had two calls. The first one made her cross.'

  Horton was immediately aware that this new information was important, if the architect could be believed. He hoped to God it would give them a lead, because if Ranson wasn't Langley's killer then apart from that betting slip found in Langley's pocket he had sod all left.

  'Who was it?' he asked sharply.

  'I don't know. I just heard her say, 'You'll get nothing from me. Now piss off.' Then almost immediately her phone rang again. She must have thought it was the same caller but her expression changed.'

  'How?'

  'It sort of lit up. She rang off and told me something had come up. She couldn't get rid of me quick enough.'

  Horton studied the architect. Ranson's eyes were pleading with him to be believed.

  'Who was on the phone the second time?'

  'I don't know and she didn't say.'

  'Male or female voice?'

  'I couldn't hear. Jessica moved away. I just heard her say, "Great."'

  'So you were angry at being rejected. You lay in wait for her and then attacked and killed her.'

  'No!' Ranson was out of his chair, shouting. 'I went home. Ask my wife, she'll tell you what time I got in.'

  'And that was?' asked Cantelli.

  'Just after eight thirty. I left Jessica alive and well at eight o'clock.'

  Horton studied him closely. He
believed him. Ranson hadn't killed Langley or Edney.

  'Did you go out again?' asked Cantelli.

  'No, why should I?'

  Horton suddenly had an idea about Edney's death. Maybe he had been killed because he'd seen Langley's murderer. 'Did you see Tom Edney anywhere in that vicinity on Thursday evening?'

  'No.'

  Shame. 'You look surprised that he could have been there.'

  'He was hardly her favourite person. She used to laugh at how she tormented him. She wasn't always a very nice woman. In fact she could be horrid, but she was kind of addictive and stimulating to be with.'

  Horton didn't think Ranson's wife was going to be very pleased to hear that. But Ranson's words had finally unlocked that small niggling thing that had been in the back of his mind since he'd first set eyes on Jessica Langley on the mulberry and then again in the mortuary. It had been the way her hair had been curled on to her forehead on the mulberry. It hadn't been like that in any of the photographs he'd seen of her. 'The Owl and the Pussy-Cat', and 'Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush' weren't the only rhymes their killer had been having fun with — when she was bad she was horrid.

  'Did you ever go sailing with her?' he asked.

  Ranson looked surprised at the question. 'A couple of times. She was a very competent sailor.'

  Horton took the photograph from his pocket. 'Did you take this of Jessica Langley?'

  Ranson studied it. 'No.'

  'Do you know if she owned a boat?'

  'She never said.'

  'Did she wear foul-weather sailing clothes when she was on your boat, like these in the photograph? Leggings, jacket…'

  'A couple of times, when the weather was rough. They were my wife's,' he said. 'Please don't tell my wife about Jessica. She won't understand.'

  'I bet she won't!' Cantelli said with feeling, when Ranson had left and they were in the car. Horton had asked Ranson to call into the station at two thirty that afternoon and make a statement. He had agreed with alacrity in the vain hope that they wouldn't check his movements with his wife. They would, of course.

  'Our killer's a real joker, Barney, and it's not Leo Ranson. Langley's body had been arranged on the mulberry, with her dark hair curling on to her forehead. Picking up on our nursery rhyme theme, does anything strike you about that?'

  'No.' Cantelli looked blank.

  'Can't say I blame you for not getting it. It's taken me long enough.' And Horton chanted: '"There was a little girl/Who wore a little curl/Right in the middle of her forehead/When she was good, she was very, very good- "'

  Cantelli finished, '"And when she was bad she was horrid." Our killer knew her well.'

  'Yes. And a woman like Langley would have as many enemies as she would admirers.' But who could have killed her if Ranson was in the clear for murder? Horton had to go back to the beginning. Or did he? There was still that matter of the betting slip. Why had the killer left it in Langley's pocket? What did the message on it mean: Have you forgotten ME? Did it have any significance to the case? Perhaps Morville was telling the truth when he said it had been intended for Elaine Tolley. But what if he was lying, and Jessica Langley had been the intended recipient? That meant Morville knew her. Morville's alibi had checked out: he'd been drinking in the club. But there was something he wasn't telling them and with one trail cold it was time to follow another one.

  He also hadn't forgotten about Mickey Johnson and those antiques thefts, and Johnson's missing accomplice, who hadn't yet been found. But that would have to wait just like the break-in at the ex-forces club and the school building site robbery, though he'd keep the latter in mind, in case he was back to his theory that Langley had surprised the robbers at her school and been killed because of it. After Leo Ranson had left her apartment perhaps she had returned to the school to collect something. Or perhaps this second caller had asked her to meet him there, though that was more unlikely. Her caller could have asked Langley to meet him on his boat.

  But first Eric Morville. Horton glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was just after midday, and there were three places that Morville could be: the betting shop, the ex-forces club or at home.

  'Drop me off on the corner of Corton Court, Barney. I'm going to see if I can get some sense out of Morville. You follow up Ranson's alibi.' If Morville wasn't there then Horton could easily walk to the other two destinations. But he was lucky. Morville was in.

  Pauline Rowson

  Deadly Waters

  Fourteen

  U nshaved, and bleary-eyed, Morville looked as though he'd had a heavy night on the tiles. Either that or he had started drinking early, which, judging by the smell on his breath, Horton thought more likely. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the almost empty whisky bottle on the small table beside Morville's armchair. Beside it was a plate with the remains of bacon rind on it and the yellow stain of what once must have been a fried egg if the smell in the flat was anything to go by.

  'I suppose you've come about that bloody betting slip again.' Morville sank heavily into his armchair and began to roll himself a cigarette.

  'Well, I haven't come to discuss how Portsmouth are doing in the Premiership.'

  'Good. I know sod all about football.'

  'But you do know about Jessica Langley?'

  'Yeah, you told me you'd found a body.' Morville lit up and inhaled deeply. Horton felt like throwing open a window to let out the smell of cigarette smoke, alcohol and cooking.

  Morville continued, 'I heard another schoolteacher's been bumped off. Not doing very well, are you, Inspector. Shouldn't you be out looking for the killer instead of bothering innocent ratepayers like me?'

  Horton doubted Morville paid any council tax, being on benefit. He leaned forward, thrusting his face so close to Morville that he could see the fine blood vessels in the yellowing whites of his eyes and smell the nicotine and stale booze on his breath. He took the cigarette from Morville's thin lips and said very quietly, 'Oh, I am, Mr Morville, which is why I am here.'

  Horton held his position for a few seconds, which was long enough to see the flicker of fear in Morville's eyes. Then, straightening up, he squashed the cigarette between his fingers, crumbling it over the plate.

  Morville reached for the whisky bottle and poured the remaining liquid into a glass.

  Horton stepped away. 'You've got a criminal record: assault on man in a pub, ten years ago.'

  'I was drunk.'

  'And you always get violent when drunk? Were you drunk when you hit Jessica Langley?'

  'I didn't hit her!' Morville cried indignantly.

  'You just slipped that note into her pocket. Why?'

  'I told you; I dropped it.'

  'Where?'

  'How the hell do I know?'

  'Were you blackmailing Jessica Langley?'

  'I didn't know her. How could I blackmail her?'

  Horton knew instantly that he'd struck the right chord. Years of interviewing suspects had given him a finely tuned antenna for the slightest nuance of tone that betrayed a man. What could Morville have had over the head teacher? Was there something in her past that connected her to Morville? Their paths had crossed, that much was clear, but was it here in Portsmouth or when Morville had been stationed elsewhere whilst in the navy, perhaps near Jessica Langley at a previous school? If so, they would be able to pinpoint it by viewing Morville's naval record and comparing it with Langley's career path. But all that would take time. And he didn't have time. On Friday morning, in four days' time, he would have to hand this case over to Dennings, as Uckfield had so bluntly reminded him.

  Horton said sharply, 'Where were you Saturday between three and six p. m?'

  'At the betting shop.'

  'They close at five.'

  'I came home, had something to eat and then went to the club about seven. Satisfied?' he challenged.

  Far from it, Horton thought. He would check.

  'You can't pin either murder on me,' Morville crowed defiantly.


  More's the pity, thought Horton. He wasn't going to rule Morville out until he had checked and double-checked his alibis, and he'd found the reason why Langley had had the betting slip in her trouser pocket.

  'I'd like to know what you're not telling me,' Horton said. Morville opened his mouth to reply, but Horton got there first, his voice low and threatening, 'And I will find out.' He had the satisfaction of seeing Morville worried before he swept out of the foul-smelling flat.

  He needed that link between Morville and Langley. It sounded as though Langley could well have refused to give Morville money. Could he have killed her for that? Looks could be deceptive; perhaps Morville was more energetic than he appeared. But how could he have got the body on to the mulberry? Did he have an accomplice with a boat? Morville couldn't afford to keep and run one on benefit. He had been in the navy though, so maybe he could handle a boat. But a blackmailer would hardly kill the goose that lays the golden egg. Back to those bloody fairy stories again, Horton thought irritably. And would Morville have the intelligence to use the mulberry bush nursery rhyme? Why the honey and money? Questions, questions and no bloody answers.

  Horton rounded the corner; a few hundred yards would take him to the front entrance of the ex-forces club, and now that he was here he might as well check out Morville's alibi for Saturday afternoon, and try and get at least one of those questions answered.

  There was no sign of Barry Dunsley but the cleaner, Mrs Watrow, was there.

  'Barry's gone to the cash and carry,' she said in answer to Horton's enquiry. 'Calls himself a steward, but if he's a steward then I'm the Queen of the May.'

  Horton gave her an encouraging look; not that he needed to, as he could see that Mrs Watrow liked to talk.

  'No doubt he's pulled a few pints of beer in his time, but he ain't no professional steward,' she snorted.

  'Does he have to be?'

  'Gives himself airs. He drinks more pints than he pulls. He's an idle bugger, not like Jim. I'll be glad when he's back.'

  'Do you know Eric Morville?'

  'He's another lazy blighter. Heart condition, my eye. Allergic to work more like. I-'