Deadly Waters dah-2 Page 3

  'None of your business.'

  Horton leaned closer to Morville, despite not really wanting to; the man smelled. 'It is our business, Mr Morville, because we found that scrap of paper this morning on the body of a woman.'

  Morville's eyes widened. 'You're having me on. This is a trick…' He glanced at each of them in turn, must have seen that they weren't kidding him, and poured a generous measure of whisky into the earthenware cup, which he knocked back in one go.

  'You know who she was?' Horton asked sharply.

  'No. Why should I?' The surliness was back and along with it an increased nervousness that Morville was doing his best to disguise.

  'How did it get on to her body then?'

  'How the bloody hell should I know? You're the detectives.'

  He took a drag of his cigarette, his eyes flicking up at Horton. In them Horton thought he saw guilt, but then maybe he just wanted to see something that would give him a quick lead in this case.

  'When did you write that note?'

  'Can't remember. Tuesday. Wednesday.'

  'Do you have any family?'

  'No.'

  'Have you ever been married?'

  'No, and I've got no kids either, least, ones that I know about.'

  Cantelli said, 'What about brothers or sisters?'

  'I had a sister. She died ten years ago, massive stroke.'

  So the dead woman wasn't a relative.

  'How long have you lived here?' Horton asked.

  'Long enough.' Horton felt like shaking him.

  'Mr Morville, why won't you co-operate with us? Is there something you're hiding?'

  Morville stubbed out his cigarette. He poured himself another whisky. Horton glanced at the clock. It was barely ten. The gesture was lost on Morville.

  'About fifteen years,' Morville said pointedly.

  'And before that?'

  'I was in the navy for twenty years.'

  That made Horton think of the sea and in particular Langstone Harbour where their victim had been found. But being in the navy didn't mean that Morville could sail or even pilot a boat, though it probably meant he was aware of the rhythm of the tides. Time to increase the pressure. His voice harsher, Horton said, 'What does the note mean?'

  'Probably the name of a horse or greyhound.'

  '"Have you forgotten ME?" It doesn't sound like a name to me.'

  'Some of them greyhounds have funny names.'

  Then why hadn't Elaine Tolley recognized it? 'Which race was it in?'

  'I can't remember. I didn't bet on it. Just wrote it down. I liked the sound of it.'

  'I think you'd better get changed-'

  'All right, so I wrote that on the betting slip and was going to give it to Elaine.' Morville shifted nervously. 'She's the manager of the betting shop. We went out a couple of times and I was going to ask her for a date again. The note was a joke, a tease.'

  Again, why didn't Elaine Tolley tell them this? Morville must have read Horton's thoughts because he added: 'She's married. I don't expect she wants anyone to know about us.'

  No, and who could blame her, thought Horton? No wonder she had looked worried.

  Morville continued, 'I must have dropped it.'

  That didn't explain how it came to be in the victim's pocket. And, if Morville was telling the truth, then why hadn't he jumped to the conclusion earlier that the dead woman could be Elaine Tolley? Horton hadn't described the victim to Morville. It was obvious Morville was making this up as he went along. Why?

  'Where were you last night between ten p.m. and one a. m?'

  'At the ex-forces club until just after eleven, then here.' Morville glared defiantly at Horton.

  He was too cocky. Morville could have killed their victim after eleven p.m., but why should he? And how would he have got her to the mulberry? To do that required a boat, and judging by what he had seen so far Horton thought that Morville wouldn't be able to afford a model boat let alone a real one.

  'Can anyone vouch for you returning here?'

  'I doubt it.'

  No, thought Horton, who would want to spend their time with this man?

  He asked, 'Do you work?'

  'I've been on invalidity benefit for ten years, if it's any of your business. I had a heart attack at fifty-two.'

  Horton looked pointedly at the whisky and cigarettes.

  Morville snapped, 'I've got bugger all else except this and the betting shop.'

  Horton left him to his vices and with the threat that he might want to talk to him again. Morville might not own a boat but he could know someone who did, which made him think of Mickey Johnson and the boat he'd taken the stolen antiques to last night. That had been borrowed and they hadn't yet found out from whom. Horton felt far from satisfied about that note, which Cantelli seemed in agreement with.

  'He's not telling the truth,' Cantelli announced, climbing into the car. 'Could he be the killer?'

  'I shouldn't think he's got enough energy to get any further than the club or that betting shop. As for taking a boat into the Solent, I doubt he's seen the sea since he left the navy. But there's definitely something not right about him. How did that betting slip end up in the victim's pocket? Why did Morville write that note? I certainly don't believe all that bollocks about it being the name of a greyhound or horse, but you'd better check it out. And see if Morville's got any previous-'

  Horton's mobile phone rang. He was expecting Uckfield and was surprised to hear Dr Gaye Clayton's West Country burr instead.

  'I think there's something you should see, Inspector, before I start the post mortem.'

  'What is it?'

  'I can't really explain over the telephone, and this needs seeing to be believed.'

  Horton was intrigued. His pulse quickened. Could this be the break they needed? Perhaps he wouldn't need a week to solve this case.

  'Have you told Superintendent Uckfield?'

  'No, I'm telling you, Inspector,' she answered pointedly. Horton stifled a smile; another one clearly not a member of the superintendent's fan club. But then who was, with the exception of Dennings and the chief constable, Uckfield's father-in-law?

  'We're on our way.' He rang off. 'Barney, head for the mortuary, let's see what Dr Clayton's got up her sleeve.' 'Hopefully it's more than a handkerchief.' And Cantelli sneezed.

  Three

  'We found it stuffed in the top of her knickers,' Dr Clayton announced, pointing at a small bundle on the bench just beyond the body. Horton stared at her, incredulous, and then down at the wad of money secured by a red elastic band, the kind post-office workers used and left scattered around the pavements of Portsmouth. This he hadn't expected.

  'Yeah, quite a turn up for the book,' she added interpreting his surprise.

  Cantelli voiced Horton's thoughts.

  'She was on the game!'

  'I don't know about that, Sergeant,' Gaye answered. 'I've not started the post mortem. But that's not all. It's coated with something sticky. I would say honey. The lab will confirm if it is that. And see, wrapped around the money is a five-pound note. Remind you of anything?'

  Oh, yes, Horton thought looking into Dr Clayton's slightly mocking green eyes. The Owl and the Pussycat. How many times had he read that poem by Edward Lear to his daughter? He was about to recite it when Cantelli beat him to it:

  '"The Owl and the Pussycat went to sea/In a beautiful peagreen boat/They took some honey, and plenty of money/Wrapped up in a five-pound note." What the devil does it mean?'

  Horton didn't know, but it confirmed what he'd thought earlier, this killer was some kind of joker and a nasty one at that.

  'Perhaps that's why she was dumped at sea,' he ventured. 'To fit with the poem.' Did Morville have the imagination for this? Somehow Horton doubted it.

  Gaye said, 'And if she's the pussycat-'

  'Then who's the owl?' Cantelli finished. 'Our murderer?'

  Horton didn't like the sound of this. Did they have a killer who was paranoid with delusions of gr
andeur? One who was saying, 'Look at me, aren't I clever?' Had their victim been chosen purely at random to demonstrate just such a point? It was bad luck on her if she had. And it left them with a hell of a task and one he was no means certain of completing before being taken off the case. Damn.

  'There's something else I think you ought to see,' Gaye added, crossing to the body. 'Tom.'

  The brawny auburn-haired mortuary assistant stepped away from the body, nodded at Horton, and began whistling, 'Oh what a beautiful mornin''. Not for this poor woman it wasn't, thought Horton, staring down at the corpse.

  Although the victim looked slightly more presentable than she had done on the mulberry, she still wasn't a very pretty sight with some of her flesh eaten away. Studying her, Horton thought how different she looked with her dark hair pushed off her forehead. Something stirred at the back of his mind but he couldn't quite grasp what it was. Had he seen her before? He didn't think so. Then why did he have a niggling feeling he was missing something?

  Gaye indicated to the victim's arms. 'See here, on her forearms…'

  Horton stared at two deep, purplish stains. 'Bruising? You think she could have been held down by her killer?'

  'I'll cut in to check; if it is bruising then the blood will have drained into surrounding tissues.'

  Cantelli was studying the body. 'She looks familiar. I've seen her before, but can't think where.'

  'I'm not surprised with half her face eaten away, Sergeant.'

  But Horton knew that Cantelli had a remarkable memory for faces and names, and had worked the Portsmouth area for many years. If there was anything left to recognize then Cantelli would get it.

  'She's not a Tom,' Cantelli added. 'Or if she is then she's kept it very low key. I haven't seen her on the streets. But I definitely know her from somewhere. My brain's gone to sleep, lucky bugger.'

  'See if you can wake it up, Barney. An ID would be helpful.' Horton wondered if that was what had stirred in his memory a moment ago, a sense of familiarity. But he was sure he didn't recognize her. Maybe she reminded him of someone or something. He asked, 'What about time of death, doctor?'

  'By the pattern and scope of lividity I estimate about twelve hours or thereabouts, which would put her death sometime between nine and eleven p.m.'

  Horton recalled that Dr Price had said between ten p.m. and one a.m. His timing was out. Horton wasn't sure if that was a reflection on the doctor's competence or the fact that it hadn't been easy to conduct an examination on the mulberry. He gave Price the benefit of the doubt this time. So, if Eric Morville was telling the truth about drinking in the ex-forces club (and no doubt several people would have seen him there) then he was in the clear. Pity.

  Gaye said, 'She's been lying on her back for some, or most of the time, since her death. There is no lividity on her buttocks, shoulders or the back of her head.'

  Could she have been killed and kept on board the boat that must have been used to transport her body to the mulberry, wondered Horton. It seemed possible. But where could that boat have come from? There were hundreds of places to keep a boat around the coast. Tracing it could be a mammoth task; it could take for ever. And he didn't have for ever.

  'Would that blow on the head have killed her?' He pointed at the caved-in skull on the right-hand side of the victim's head.

  'I won't know until I do the autopsy.'

  'But if she was alive when she was struck surely there would have been blood.'

  'Yes, and a great deal of it, and there is none on her clothes, or that I can see on the rest of her body.'

  And Horton hadn't seen any on the mulberry, though the sea could have washed that away.

  'Which suggests that she could already have been dead when she was hit, hence a limited amount of bleeding,' added Gaye, pre-empting him.

  Cantelli looked up and with a click of his fingers cried, 'I've got it! I know who she is.' Then his elated expression clouded. 'But it can't be. Who would want to kill her, and like this?'

  'Are you going to let us into your secret or do we have to play twenty questions,' Horton quipped.

  'Sorry, Andy, it just took me by surprise. She's the new head teacher at Sir Wilberforce Cutler School.'

  'Are you sure?' he asked, taken aback by Cantelli's pronouncement, recalling that the Wilberforce had a reputation that made Parkhurst Prison sound like a holiday camp, which was obviously why Cantelli was reluctant to send the third of his five children there.

  'Positive. Charlotte and I met her in July, just before the end of term. Marie goes up to the big school next September, and Sir Wilberforce is one of the schools we've been told we'd have to consider if there were no places at our first two choices. She showed us around.'

  'What's her name?'

  'Jessica Langley.'

  It didn't ring any bells with Horton. 'I've not heard of her.'

  'You wouldn't. She only started there at Easter, in April.'

  That had been when Horton had been on suspension. It was also when Catherine had kicked him out. He tried not to blame her for that but he didn't succeed. She should have supported him. How could she have believed he'd raped a girl? The thought still made him angry. Maybe if she had stood by him he wouldn't have turned to drink. Maybe then his marriage would still be intact. Maybe he would also have got the job he coveted. Life was full of bloody maybes.

  'Do you know if she's married?' he asked, bringing his mind back to the case. He didn't have time for trips down memory lane or to waste on regrets.

  Cantelli frowned, thinking back. 'I don't think so. We called her Ms anyway.'

  'Who would want to kill a head teacher?' mused Gaye Clayton.

  'A disaffected pupil or parent?' suggested Cantelli.

  Horton hoped not. He didn't fancy organizing the interviewing of hundreds of school kids and their families. He said, 'A stabbing in the school playground or outside the school gates is more likely than stuffing her knickers with money, and dumping her body on the mulberry. This sounds too clever and calculated for it to be a Sir Wilberforce Cutler school kid or an irate parent.' And that would mean they would have to be even cleverer to catch her killer.

  But that wasn't all. Horton saw by Cantelli's expression that he too had recalled there had been a break-in last night on a building site at the Sir Wilberforce Cutler School. Coincidence? Maybe. And though suspicious, Horton knew that coincidences weren't always significant. Dr Clayton put the time of death between nine and eleven p.m.; what time had the break-in taken place? Had their victim disturbed the thieves and been killed for her pains? But then why the devil put her on the mulberry?

  Still, thanks to Cantelli, they now had something to start with. And confirming ID was one of the first things they needed to do. Horton knew that Joliffe, the forensic scientist would scrape some skin off their victim for fingerprints and take some DNA. So they should be able to match her prints with something taken from her office. DNA would take longer.

  'Make for the Sir Wilberforce Cutler School, Barney,' Horton instructed, stretching the seat belt round him. 'I've got some calls to make.'

  His first was to the local education authority. The second to the school, and the third to the station, where he asked to speak to DC Walters.

  'Who reported the break-in at the Sir Wilberforce Cutler?'

  'Don't know, guv.'

  'Then find out,' Horton demanded tetchily. Walters seemed to take for ever. All the man had to do was look the bloody thing up on the computer. He heard Walters laboured breathing as he picked the phone up a couple of minutes later. About time!

  'Sorry, guv. The computer's gone down. I had to find the file. A postman who was going into work at four thirty a.m. saw the school gates open and the padlock cut and thought it looked suspicious. A unit responded just after six a.m.'

  'Did they find out when the break-in took place?'

  'Only that it must have been between ten p.m. when the assistant caretaker, Neil Cyrus, left the premises and four thirty a.m. this morning wh
en it was discovered.'

  So it could have happened within the time frame in which Langley had been killed. 'Find out all you can about Jessica Langley. She's the head teacher of Sir Wilberforce Cutler School and our possible victim. I've already spoken to the local education authority and the school so no need to talk to them. See if she's got any previous, which I doubt, but check anyway. Look out any press reports on her. You know the drill.'

  Walters did. He wasn't the quickest or brightest of detectives, and neither was he the most cheerful of human beings, but he'd do as he was told and that was about it. Initiative was another quality lacking in the DC. So how the hell had he got into CID? Maybe someone had owed him a favour, which made him think of Dennings. Had Uckfield owed Dennings? If so, why? Horton would like to know. Perhaps Walters had been shoved into CID because he wasn't any good at anything else.

  Horton punched in Uckfield's number, a case of promoting, or moving someone beyond their competence to get rid of them. Had the vice squad wanted Dennings out of the way? No, that was unfair; Dennings had earned his promotion to inspector. Hadn't he? Cantelli didn't seem to think so.

  'Inspector,' Uckfield snapped in answer.

  Horton quickly and succinctly briefed him about Dr Clayton's findings and Cantelli's identification. Then said, 'The local education office say she isn't on a sabbatical or gardening leave. I didn't tell them why I wanted to know and didn't get her address either, until we're sure I don't want to alarm them. The school say she is expected in today, but hasn't shown yet. I'll get a photograph and we'll be able to match fingerprints. I might even find someone who will give us a positive ID.' He pitied the poor soul who would have to go through that ordeal.

  'Does what was written on that betting slip have anything to do with the poem?' Uckfield asked.

  'No. There is another thing, though,'Horton went on. 'There was a break-in last night at the school.'

  Uckfield swore. 'Any connection?'

  'Could be.'

  'Keep me informed. I'll let the chief constable know.'

  Horton rang off and stared out of the rain-smeared window. He watched the rain run in rivulets down the pane. The car heater was on full blast and for a moment sleep threatened to engulf him. He yawned widely and tried to marshal his thoughts. He had a week to solve this case and show Uckfield he'd made the wrong decision. He couldn't afford to be tired and neither could he allow himself to slip up on even the smallest of details.