Deadly Waters dah-2 Read online

  He reached across and switched the heater off, then pressed his finger on the button and let the window glide down a few inches, allowing a chill damp blast of air to invade the car. Cantelli, who always seemed to suffer from the cold, shuddered elaborately and then, as if to remind Horton he had a cold coming, sneezed.

  'We both need to stay alert,' Horton said. 'The fresh air will do you good.'

  Cantelli didn't look convinced but said nothing.

  Horton continued, 'This poem by Edward Lear, what significance does it have to the case?'

  Cantelli chanted, '"O let us be married! too long we have tarried." Perhaps Langley was running off with a lover, but something went wrong and lover boy stuffed her knickers full of money and honey.'

  'Seems unlikely, and why would she throw away her career like that?'

  'Love does funny things to people.'

  Yes, it does, thought Horton, and despite not wanting to his mind once again wandered to Catherine. He had fallen in love with her the moment he had first seen her at a disco. He had been with Steve Uckfield. Catherine had been with her friend Alison, the chief constable's daughter, and now Uckfield's wife. They were still happily married.

  'What was your impression of Langley?' he said abruptly, pushing the past away.

  Cantelli indicated left off the roundabout that led into Portsmouth town centre and drew up at a pedestrian crossing before answering. 'Efficient and in control. The kind who leave you a bit dazed and worn out with their dynamism. She was friendly, but I can remember glancing at Charlotte, as we were being given the guided tour, and she was frowning.'

  'Charlotte didn't like her?'

  'She said there was no real warmth behind Langley's smile and Charlotte's pretty good at judging people. I must say I didn't take to her either. She was one of those people who ask you a question as though they're really interested in your opinion, then look away almost before you've answered them.'

  Horton knew the type: impatient, dominant and self-important. Sounded a bit like Uckfield.

  Cantelli continued as he drove on. 'Langley was some kind of super head. She was brought in to sort out the problems at Sir Wilberforce.'

  'Was she getting anywhere?'

  'Dunno.'

  Nothing seemed to have changed since Horton had been a pupil there before being moved to a small Church of England school in nearby Portsea. That, and being fostered by Bernard and Eileen Lichfield at the same time, had been the saving of him. He recalled the elderly couple with fondness and a sense of guilt that he had given them a hard time. Bernard, an ex-copper, had understood though.

  A few minutes later Cantelli pulled into the car park and drew to a halt in one of the visitors' spaces. Horton let up the window and stared across the concourse towards the main entrance, remembering all the days he'd traipsed across it with a heavy bag on his back and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. God, how he had hated this school and not just because of the bullying, he could handle himself, but because from here he could see the tower block where he had once lived with his mother, and where she had walked out on him.

  He climbed out of the car and stared at the parking spaces. The head teacher's was empty. If Jessica Langley had been in the school when the thieves had struck, and been killed because she had discovered them, then where was her car? Perhaps the thieves had used it to transport her body to the boat that had ferried her to the mulberry and then ditched it. He said as much to Cantelli as they made their way across to the main entrance.

  Cantelli said, 'Finding the car's the easy bit. It's this boat business that worries me.'

  'Only because you get seasick just looking at one. I don't know how you ended up living by the sea.'

  'Blame Hitler and Mussolini. Dad would never have come here if it hadn't been for them. We'll put a call out for the car as soon as we've got the registration number.'

  They paused before the entrance. Horton gazed up at the neglected building with its flat roof and torn, faded blinds. Someone should pull it down and start again, he thought, which perhaps was what they were in the process of doing by erecting a new building to the school's right.

  'You're not really considering sending Marie here, are you?' he asked.

  'Charlotte said it would be over her dead body.'

  Hooray for Charlotte. 'Sniff around that building site, Barney. See what you can find out about the robbery and Jessica Langley. I'll break the bad news to the deputy head.'

  Four

  'Tom Edney.'

  A tall, pinched man in a well-cut dark suit rose from behind an immaculately tidy desk and held out his hand to Horton. The grip was strong but fleeting, a bit like the eye contact, thought Horton and yet in that glance Edney had somehow managed to convey his disapproval of Horton's leisurely style of dress. It reminded him of Superintendent Reine who seemed to have the same problem with Horton's attire. 'I expect my CID officers to be smartly dressed.' That meant a suit and Horton only ever wore one to court.

  Edney gestured him into a seat and then rather fastidiously sat himself. Horton noted that the in and out-trays were heavily laden with paperwork but they were neatly stacked. He got the impression that if he ran a ruler along their edges the paper would line up exactly. Another thing Reine would admire. The files and books on the cabinets, and piled on a low coffee table, were stacked precisely and according to their size. Horton got the feeling that Edney was a man who sought refuge against the traumas of life in his obsessive desire for order. Was this a man who was losing or who had lost control? At the Sir Wilberforce Cutler it was highly probable.

  'If you've come about the break-in, Inspector, I'm afraid I can't help you. I leave that sort of thing to our building superintendent and the site foreman. I suggest you talk to them, or our business manager, Susan Pentlow.'

  Edney ran a hand over the back of his hair and then picked up his spectacles. Horton watched as he folded and unfolded them in slender hands. He appeared nervous, but perhaps that was his usual demeanour, thought Horton. And who could blame him, teaching in a school like this. Horton wondered how he'd take the news of the murder of his head teacher.

  There was no doubt in Horton's mind now that the body in the mortuary was Jessica Langley because while he'd been waiting in reception he had studied the organization chart. There, at the top of the hierarchy, was the smiling face of a dark haired woman in her early forties that bore some significant resemblance to the corpse he'd seen on the mulberry: Jessica Langley, BEd. MBA.

  'Your head teacher isn't in school today.'

  Edney gave a small start. It clearly wasn't the statement he had been expecting. A frown of irritation crossed his narrow features. 'We are expecting her.'

  Not any more you're not, thought Horton. Aloud he said, 'Is she usually here by now?'

  'Yes, unless she has an appointment but I don't think she has today. Well, certainly not one that I'm aware of. I called her as soon as I arrived in school and was told about the break-in, but there was no answer.'

  Horton noted Edney's irritation and exasperation. He left a short pause before continuing. 'Is Ms Langley married? Or does she have a partner?'

  'No. Why do you want to know?' Edney looked surprised, and puzzled as he shifted in his swivel chair.

  Time to break the bad news. 'I'm sorry to have to inform you, Mr Edney, that a woman's body was found this morning. We believe it to be that of Jessica Langley.'

  His reaction was perfect. Shock, incredulity, then the implication of what Horton was saying hit him.

  'Body? You mean… Good God! That's impossible. She's dead?' Edney went pale.

  His eyes clouded with confusion. 'How? An accident?'

  'I'm afraid not, sir.'

  'Suicide?' Edney breathed, clearly horrified.

  Horton could almost see the thoughts running through his head; how would this reflect on the school and the staff? He said, 'We are treating Ms Langley's death as suspicious.'

  Edney's face blanched. He shook his head, d
azed. 'I can't believe what you're saying. Did someone break into her apartment? I mean, who would want to-?'

  A short piercing bell vibrated through the school startling Horton for a moment and making Edney jump. It was followed by what sounded like the migration of a massive herd of wildebeest coupled with the cry of rampaging hyenas. In the children's cries Horton could hear the cruel taunts of long ago: 'Your mum doesn't love you, your mum's run away.'

  'When did you last see Ms Langley?' he said, perhaps more harshly than he intended. It was bad enough stepping inside this building without the memories returning to torment him. Not that Edney had noticed, he was like a man in the middle of a dream or perhaps a nightmare was more accurate. Edney looked decidedly off colour.

  'What? Oh, last night, here.'

  'What time was this?'

  Edney stared at him dazed but answered, 'I left school just before seven. Ms Langley was still here.'

  'Did she have any appointments last night, either here or away from the school?'

  'I don't know. She didn't say. My God! This is dreadful.' Edney propelled himself from his chair and glared at Horton as if he were personally responsible for the death. 'Are you sure about this? Couldn't you be mistaken?'

  Horton rose slowly. He was used to this reaction. 'I need her address and next of kin, Mr Edney.'

  But it was as if Edney hadn't heard him. His hands were flapping and his eye contact darting all over the place as he said, 'I must notify the governors at once. Then there's the press. I take it they'll hear of it?' You bet they will, Horton thought, as Edney went on, 'And the children and parents… this is awful, the most dreadful thing to happen to the school.'

  'It's not the best thing that could have happened to Ms Langley,' Horton replied quietly.

  'No. Of course. It's the shock.' Edney made some attempt to pull himself together.

  Horton saw that it was an effort.

  'How did she die, Inspector?'

  'It's too early to say.' Horton gave his stock answer. 'Her next of kin?' he prompted, eager to get moving on the investigation.

  'Mrs Downton, her secretary, keeps the personnel files.'

  Horton made for the door while Edney remained standing. 'Shall we go?'

  'Yes, of course.'

  Horton noted that it was said automatically. Edney was in a state of shock, which appeared genuine, and Horton wasn't without sympathy for him. But as Edney locked his office door behind him and led Horton back down the corridor towards reception, Horton noted that Edney hadn't expressed any sorrow at his head teacher's demise, or sadness. Perhaps that would come later after the shock had worn off. Sometimes it happened that way.

  The unmistakable smell of school rose in Horton's nostrils: a clawing damp from the wet coats and shoes, an accumulation of stale school dinners and sweaty PE kits. He could hear the children in their classrooms and every now and then some would emerge, glance at them, giggle and dart back inside whilst others completely ignored them. Despite his shock and distress at the news of his head teacher's death, Edney still managed to scold three children: one for running and the other two for fighting.

  Edney pushed through two sets of double glass fire doors into another corridor and along to an office on their right where Horton found himself facing a statuesque woman in her late fifties with straight black hair in a pudding-basin hair cut. She peered at him through large red-rimmed spectacles as if he were something rather nasty Edney had brought in from the bike sheds.

  'Janet, I'm afraid I have some terrible news,' Edney began, then looked to Horton for help.

  Horton obliged. 'We believe that the body of a woman found this morning is that of Jessica Langley. She is yet to be formally identified, but there are strong indications that it is her.'

  Janet Downton blinked behind her huge glasses. Then she scowled at Horton. 'It's that car, isn't it? I don't know what a woman in her position was thinking about driving a car like that.'

  The secretary had clearly leapt to the conclusion of an accident. 'What type of car did Ms Langley own?' asked Horton.

  'A red sports thing-'

  'A TVR,' Edney interjected.

  'Do you have the registration number?'

  'It's on her file,' Mrs Downton said. 'Why do you want it?'

  'It wasn't an accident,' Edney broke in. 'It appears she has been murdered.'

  'At this school! How could she?' The secretary's fleshy face flushed with indignation.

  Horton felt a flash of anger. 'I don't think she had much choice in the matter.'

  The look the secretary gave him made him feel like the twelve-year-old boy back here being reprimanded. His muscles tensed. He said tersely, 'I need to see her office and her file.'

  She rose from her desk and crossed to the cabinet which she wrenched open with such vigour that it almost made Horton's eyes water. He practically snatched the file from her.

  Edney said, 'Janet, get me the chairman of the board of governors. Make sure the staff assemble in the staff room at the next break, which will be extended if necessary-'

  'I think it would be best if you keep it from them for now,' Horton interjected.

  'Why?' Edney looked affronted, as if his professional status were under question.

  'I'd rather you wait until we have a formal identification, and I don't think telling them would help the standards of teaching for the rest of the day.'

  After a moment, Edney's belligerent look softened. 'You're right, of course, Inspector. Thank God it's half term next week. Can I inform Mr Forrest, the chairman of the board of governors?'

  'Ask him to keep it confidential until we are ready to give a statement to the media. I will appoint an officer to liaise with you, the media and the local education authority.'

  He concluded that would be a good job for DC Jake Marsden, their graduate entrant. He quickly scanned the top form in the buff-coloured folder, while Janet Downton called Mr Forrest. What he saw didn't please him at all. His heart sank. The fickle finger of fate was laughing at his expense all right. Jessica Langley lived in an apartment overlooking the Town Camber in Old Portsmouth, where he had been crouched in that blessed fishing boat with only Mickey Johnson and his holdall of stolen goods to show for it. Shit! Uckfield was going to crucify him if it proved that Langley had been killed in her apartment and taken from there to a boat in the Town Camber. Horton could swear that no boat had been moved whilst he had been there between midnight and one thirty-five a.m., but then, according to Dr Clayton, Langley had been killed sometime between nine and eleven p.m., which was before they had arrived. And she might have met her killer elsewhere, for example here.

  He flicked through the rest of the file. There was no next of kin mentioned, just the name of Langley's solicitors, who Horton guessed must be the executors of her will, otherwise why name them.

  'Did Ms Langley have any relatives?'

  'No.' It was Mrs Downton who answered him. 'She told me so herself. No family.'

  'Friends then?'

  'I wouldn't know about that,' she replied crisply and with disdain, as if he'd asked her where the local brothel was. 'Mr Forrest, I have Mr Edney for you,' she barked into the telephone.

  Taking the file, Horton pushed open the interconnecting door into the head's office. He wasn't sure what he'd find; perhaps a repeat version of Edney's office, but the only similarity was the furniture and the shabbiness. Where Edney's office had been neat almost to the extremes of clinical obsession, Langley's looked as though a tornado had hit it.

  He picked his way through the books, files and DVDs stacked on the floor, taking half a glance at them — they all related to educational matters — and headed for a large notice board on the left-hand wall. Alongside a huge timetable was a smattering of photographs. There were several taken with students who were wearing casual clothes rather than school uniform.

  He studied Langley, trying to gauge her personality. Although the portrait on the organizational chart had shown her smiling, it had been a form
al head-and-shoulders shot; here though, perhaps the real Langley shone through.

  Most of the snapshots appeared to have been taken on school trips to Europe. Langley was always in the middle of a group of fifteen and sixteen-year-olds; her dark unkempt hair was pushed off her forehead and she was smiling broadly into camera. She was dressed casually, but in each picture she favoured a tight, low-necked T-shirt underneath a jacket or cardigan, straining against well-developed breasts, and clearly she wasn't afraid to show cleavage. Bet the boys loved that, he thought, though on reflection maybe they didn't. To a young man Langley would probably have appeared ancient and maybe the sight of her tits was a turn-off. Their dads, though, would have appreciated it. Cantelli hadn't mentioned this aspect of Langley, which was surprising, but then on prospective parent night perhaps Langley had dressed more soberly, not wanting to frighten them off.

  Her make-up was rather on the heavy side and in each photograph, save one, lots of gold jewellery adorned her neck and wrists just as he'd seen on her body. The only photograph where these were missing, along with the tight T-shirt, was one taken on board a yacht; here she was wearing a red and blue sailing jacket.

  Horton unpinned the photograph and peered at it more closely. He couldn't make out what type of yacht but it didn't look pea-green. Interesting. Did she have her own boat? Had she been killed on that? Had it been used to dump her body on the mulberry? He turned the photograph over. There was nothing written on the back. Pity.

  He took down the other photographs and glanced at the back of each one. He had been right about the school trips abroad. Langley had written in a flamboyant hand the dates, place and the name of the school, which the students had attended. None of them were from the Sir Wilberforce Cutler, and Horton guessed he would be able to match the school against where Langley had taught by looking at her CV. So why not write anything on the back of the sailing photograph? Who had taken that and when? It looked fairly recent. Where had it been taken? Unfortunately there was nothing but sea in the background. He slipped the sailing photograph into his notebook and the others into an evidence bag. They could probably get some of Langley's prints from that, and also from her apartment.