Deadly Waters dah-2 Page 6

  Ranson glared at him. 'I'd forgotten. Neil is quite correct. We were discussing progress, and whether or not the hall would be ready for the official opening in March.'

  'And will it?' asked Cantelli.

  'If we don't have any more break-ins, and we are allowed to get on with our work,' Ranson said curtly before storming off.

  'He's temperamental,' explained Cyrus with a sneer.

  Horton watched the architect as he crossed to talk to a man who was clearly the boss — he was wearing a white hard hat like Ranson's. The exchange didn't look as though it was a particularly pleasant one, but Ranson appeared to gain the upper hand. He was obviously a man who didn't like being thwarted.

  Cantelli thanked the assistant caretaker but they had only gone a few paces before Horton turned back. 'How long have you worked here, Mr Cyrus?' he asked casually.

  'Three months,' Cyrus answered, clearly surprised at the question. Horton also saw signs of the nervousness return. Well, if that made him anxious this next question was going to really make him sweat.

  'And the name of your last school?'

  'St Matthews, Basingstoke. Why?'

  'No reason.'

  Horton smiled to himself at Cyrus's anxious expression. As they made their way back to the car Horton said to Cantelli, 'Run a check on Neil Cyrus as well as Eric Morville when you get back to the station. And speak to Cyrus's last school. Ask if they have any unsolved break-ins.'

  'You think it could be an inside job.'

  'One break-in could be outsiders, but two looks decidedly iffy to me. And if it is two,' he added, peering into Ranson's Range Rover, 'does that make it more likely Langley was killed by Cyrus because she stumbled on a break-in or less likely?'

  'Search me.'

  'Is Ranson looking this way?'

  'Yes.'

  'Walk round the other side of the car, Barney, and peer inside.'

  'Why?'

  'Because I don't like Ranson, and I don't like his manner.'

  Cantelli smiled. 'Sounds a good enough reason to me.'

  'What's he doing now?'

  'Frowning. He looks very annoyed.'

  'Good.' Horton noted the manila files on the passenger seat and some toys and children's books on the back seat before looking up. 'I think that will do.'

  As he crossed to Cantelli's car he glanced in Ranson's direction. The architect was indeed frowning at him, though Horton thought fuming would be a more apt description. Climbing into the car, Horton said, 'Head for Langley's apartment, Barney. Walters should be there by now.'

  Soon they were turning into a residential street that ran almost parallel to the quayside of Town Camber. On the right and backing on to the small harbour was a stylish low-rise block of apartments. Cantelli swung the car into the entrance as DC Walters hauled his bulk out of his car and waddled over to the gate to let them in.

  Climbing out, Horton scanned the car park in front of the building. There was no sign of Langley's car. 'Do these apartments come with garages?'

  'No. Only residents' parking,' replied Walters.

  Had there been a red TVR parked here last night, when he'd run past giving chase to Mickey Johnson's accomplice, the athletic youth? Horton tried to remember, but he'd been too preoccupied to notice.

  He studied the impressive red-brick building. The plaque in the wall told him it had been built in the early 1990s. The architect had done a good job here, he thought, wondering if Leo Ranson had had any part in its development. It blended well with the old buildings and ancient harbour fortifications not a stone's throw away. This was a very select area of Portsmouth, and in complete contrast to where Eric Morville lived, both financially and architecturally. There surely couldn't be a link between Morville and Langley? Morville claimed not to have any family, but maybe he was lying. Could he have a granddaughter or grandson, niece or nephew at the Sir Wilberforce? It was possible. Perhaps something had happened at the school for which Morville held Langley responsible, and he had sought revenge. But then, Horton told himself sternly, Langley had only been at the Sir Wilberforce six months, and Morville had an alibi, which they would need to check out.

  Horton pointed to the camera just above the entrance. 'That could be useful.'

  But Walters was shaking his head as he pressed the key fob against the pad on the wall. 'It doesn't record anything, just lets the residents see who is ringing their bell, or who wants to come into the car park. The individual apartments aren't alarmed, unless a resident has installed one.'

  Damn. Horton might have known it wasn't going to be that easy. He turned right along a narrow corridor and located Langley's apartment about halfway down on his left. Donning a pair of latex gloves he nodded at Cantelli and Walters who did the same, and then taking the key from Walters opened the door.

  No alarm sounded and there was no post on the mat. 'How does the postman get in?' he asked Walters.

  'He has a code.'

  Horton stepped inside. This could, of course, be the scene of a crime and as such should be sealed off, but Horton's instincts told him Langley hadn't been killed here. He could be wrong (it had been known) so he urged caution as Cantelli took the rooms to the right of the hall and Walters the left. Horton entered the lounge. He was relieved to find no bloodstained walls or carpet.

  Walters called out. 'Bathroom's clean.'

  'So's the bedroom,' came Cantelli's cry. 'Just checking the kitchen. It's clean.'

  Horton glanced around the lounge seeing something of the disarray he'd witnessed in Langley's office. Newspapers and magazines were scattered on the coffee table in the centre of the room in front of a low-slung maroon sofa. He flicked through them. There was the Sunday Times from last Sunday, a couple of copies of The Times Educational Supplement and SecEd magazine as well as Sailing Today and Yachts and Yachting, which certainly tied in with the photograph he'd taken from Langley's office. The cream-coloured cushions were squashed rather than plumped up. Scented candles adorned the mantelpiece and hearth, and tucked behind a gold carriage clock was a photograph of a large ginger cat. It was the only photograph in the room. He picked it up and turned it over. Just like the sailing photograph there was nothing written on the back of it. The mantelpiece was covered with a thin layer of dust, as was the widescreen television in the left-hand corner of the room in front of the patio doors. A smattering of DVDs lay scattered beside it, some with their discs discarded. Langley's tastes in DVDs amounted to modern feature films of the popular type that didn't need a lot of effort or imagination, which surprised him a little, but then maybe she just liked to chill out after a hard day's work at the Sir Wilberforce with something undemanding, and who could blame her.

  He looked up and saw, through the now streaming rain, that the flat gave on to a communal garden, complete with a small fountain, and a row of black iron railings that led directly into Feltham Row, beyond which was the Town Camber. Although it didn't look as if she had been killed inside this flat, she could have been attacked in the garden. But surely someone would have seen that.

  'There's not a lot of medication in her bathroom cupboard,' Walters said with disparagement. 'Must have been a healthy type.'

  'We're not all inflicted with the ailments of the medical dictionary.' Horton turned away from the window, thinking the Internet must be a boom to people like Walters, and a curse to the GPs who had to suffer patients like him. 'Bag up her bank statements and telephone bills. See if there's a diary.' Strictly speaking, he should wait for the formal identification to be made, but he was sure their victim was Langley. And he didn't have time to waste. Not if he wanted to solve this case before Dennings showed his ugly mug in the incident room. He stepped into the kitchen where Cantelli was poking about.

  'Just a coffee cup and cereal bowl in the sink,' Cantelli said.

  'No cat dish?' asked Horton.

  'Should there be one? The cupboards are fairly well stocked, though the place could do with a clean.'

  Horton could see that. It wasn't th
at the grime was inches thick but from what he had gleamed so far, cleanliness was not next to godliness in Langley's book. Maybe she was an atheist. Though Horton got the impression that Langley didn't have time to clean being too devoted to carving out her career as a super head. And maybe she hadn't yet found herself a reliable cleaner.

  'There's a couple of bottles of white wine in the fridge, one half drunk,' continued Cantelli. 'There's also a bottle of champagne and some red wine over there.' Horton followed Cantelli's glance, where four bottles nestled in a rack. Cantelli added, 'There's just some circulars in the kitchen drawers, a couple of spare light bulbs and batteries and a mobile phone charger. I can't find a calendar or notice board to give us any clues as to who her friends were, or who she associated with outside of work, and there's no sign of a laptop computer.'

  'Photographs?'

  'Not that I've noticed.'

  Everyone has photographs, Horton thought, even him. His few were kept in a battered old Bluebird toffee tin stowed under his bunk on his boat. He hadn't looked at them in years. There was one of him and his mother. He had a picture of Emma pinned up beside his bunk and another on his desk in his office. There were hundreds of others at home — correction — at what used to be his home near Petersfield where Catherine lived with Emma. Even if Catherine gave them to him now, he didn't think he could bear to look at them. They would remind him too much of what he had lost. He tensed at the thought of their meeting in five hours' time, then hastily pushed it aside. Time to think about that later.

  Jessica Langley had kept her photographs in her office, apart from the one of her cat, which she had kept pride of place here on the mantelpiece. What did that tell him? He didn't know, except that maybe she had loved the cat more than anyone else. Who were her parents? Where were they? Dead, he suspected, as they hadn't been named on her school personnel file as next of kin, or maybe she had fallen out with them. There seemed little else in Langley's life except work, and perhaps sailing. Sounded a bit like him.

  He returned to the lounge where he found Walters crouched in front of a cupboard. 'Everything is stuffed in any old how,' he grumbled, pulling out bank statements and correspondence, which Horton eyed hopefully. 'It'll take ages to sort through this lot.'

  'Not going on holiday are you, Constable?'

  Walters heaved himself up. 'Chance would be a fine thing.'

  'Did Langley take this apartment furnished?'

  'No. Unfurnished.'

  So these were the sum total of her belongings. It wasn't much to show for a woman of forty plus, and one who had a good career. So what else had Langley spent her money on? Jewellery? She'd certainly had a few bob's worth around her neck and wrists. Maybe she liked exotic holidays, or an expensive yacht, he thought, recalling the photograph.

  'Did you find any sailing clothes in her bedroom: jackets, leggings, deck shoes?'

  'Don't think so, but you're the expert.'

  Ignoring Walters' sarcastic tone, Horton entered Langley's bedroom. It was tidier than he had expected. A plain cream duvet had been thrown over the bed and there were no items of clothing lying around. He opened a drawer that was part of a built-in wardrobe and sifted through her clothes.

  'What are you expecting to find?' Cantelli asked, coming up behind him.

  'Just poking around. She's got some nice underwear.' He held up a pair of red and black skimpy knickers.

  Cantelli shuddered. 'Can't imagine Miss Hindmarsh in those.'

  'Whose Miss Hindmarsh?'

  'My old head mistress.'

  Horton smiled. 'But can you imagine Ms Langley in them?'

  Cantelli frowned in thought. 'Now you come to mention it, yes.'

  Horton turned his attention to the wardrobe. He bent down and picked up a pair of navy blue leather deck shoes. 'Get an evidence bag, Barney.'

  'What are you expecting to find on them?' asked Walters, looking puzzled as Cantelli slipped out.

  'She was a sailor, but her foul-weather leggings and jacket are not here, so where are they? On her boat or on her killer's boat? When we find out we might need evidence from these.'

  Walters looked as though he didn't think that likely, but that was why he was still a DC; he lacked imagination. And, Horton thought, it was about time he stretched his imagination. He was coming to the conclusion that Langley might never have reached her apartment last night. If she had then why hadn't she changed her clothes and dumped her laptop computer and briefcase? And if she had met her killer on a boat in Town Camber, then why would the killer take her body all the way round to Langstone Harbour when he could have thrown her overboard in the harbour, or in Southsea Bay?

  He waited until Cantelli returned before saying, 'There's no sign of a black suit jacket here in her wardrobe to match the trousers she was found in, and Tom Edney says she was wearing one yesterday. Neil Cyrus claims she was wearing it when she climbed into her car, and that she was carrying her briefcase. Where is it? Where's her car? Why did she choose to wear black yesterday when all her other suit jackets are mauve, green and red?'

  Walters looked blank.

  'Perhaps she just felt in a sombre mood,' suggested Cantelli, dropping the deck shoes into the evidence bag. 'Or perhaps she had to go to a meeting where she needed to dress more soberly.'

  Yes, thought Horton, and perhaps that meeting had been after she had left the school at seven fifteen p.m. If only they had her diary.

  Horton handed the bag to Walters. 'Get those sent over to the lab. And take all that paperwork back to the station and start going through it. Ask Sergeant Trueman to get a forensic team in here and some officers over to start a house-to-house. If she came straight home from school then she should have arrived at about seven thirty p.m. Someone must have seen her and her car.'

  Walters slouched off.

  Horton turned to Cantelli. 'Let's get some fresh air.'

  Horton's head felt heavy, as though he had a hangover. He needed to clear it. He needed to understand this woman and why someone had chosen to kill her. It could be a random killing, yet he didn't think so, not with the body having been placed on the mulberry.

  The rain had eased to a fine drizzle, which was somehow more dampening and depressing than a torrential downpour. Cantelli pulled up the collar of his jacket and thrust his hands in his pocket. Soon they turned on to the quayside. Only a handful of people were about and most of those working in the fish market to their right. It was the same route only in reverse that Horton had run in the early hours of the morning chasing his burglar. Now, in the daylight, he had a good view of the Town Camber. Across the small harbour was the Bridge Tavern. Beyond, and sandwiched between it and the expensive apartments of Oyster Quays, he could see the funnel of the Isle of Wight ferry as it slid into its dock. The cathedral clock behind them struck one. Horton had skipped breakfast and realized he was hungry.

  Cantelli, echoing his thoughts, said hopefully, 'We got time for a bacon butty?'

  'We'll get something back at the station.'

  What could the head teacher of an inner city school have done that could incite such retribution? Horton couldn't think straight. He needed to splash his face with cold water. He was tired, but he didn't have time for sleep. He needed to catch this killer quickly. It was a point of honour now. He would show Uckfield that he'd chosen the wrong man.

  He glanced at the row of apartments and houses to his left, at right angles to Feltham Row. They faced on to Town Camber, and one of them had been broken into a week ago. He turned round to stare at Langley's flat behind him. Something stirred in his sluggish brain. His pulse quickened. It was a long shot, but it was possible.

  He said, 'Could Langley have witnessed Mickey Johnson and his mate breaking into that house last week?' He nodded to his left. 'And that's why she was killed.'

  Cantelli shook his head. 'You know Mickey as well as I do. He's not a killer.'

  No. And neither was he an antiques thief, though he had stolen antiques. But the haul found on Johnson last nigh
t had been nowhere near as valuable as that taken on previous robberies. What significance did Johnson have with the owl and the pussycat? Horton couldn't see him putting honey and money in Langley's knickers. He doubted Johnson even knew the poem. His accomplice might have done though.

  Horton leaned over the railings and stared down into the water. A single white swan was weaving its way among the blue and white tugboats. The pilot boat's engines across the quay throbbed into life.

  He glanced up. 'Mickey was conducting a robbery at one a.m. and was in the police station from one forty-five a.m., so he couldn't have dumped her body. But suppose his accomplice the great athlete returned? He could have killed Langley before going on the job with Mickey, and come back here after I let him get away.'

  'She wasn't on the boat where they'd stashed the antiques. I think Elkins and I would have noticed.'

  'Yeah, OK. But she could have been on any one of these other boats.' Horton waved his arm at the tiny harbour. 'Or on her own boat moored here. Perhaps Langley saw this youth on the previous burglary, recognized him and threatened to go to the police.'

  'Could be a pupil.'

  Horton groaned silently. He hoped not. He didn't fancy interviewing all Year 11. 'Would a yob like that be able to handle a boat?'

  'He could be a clever lad, one of her star pupils. Perhaps she was having an affair with him.'

  Horton was about to scoff when he reconsidered. It was possible, though surely Langley wouldn't jeopardize her career like that!

  Cantelli warmed to his theme. 'He arranged to meet her on her boat after she left school and before he went on the job with Mickey. He killed her and then did the job with Mickey before returning to her boat after we'd all left. He took the boat out and dumped her on the mulberry. He brought the boat back, took her car keys and drove her car somewhere to flash it up. Or perhaps he sold it on. He stole her laptop, again with the intention of selling it.'

  Horton pondered a moment. 'It fits except for that blessed money and honey. It's too smart-arse clever.'