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 grandeur? 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
