the letter burning a hole in his pocket would put paid to that.
Cantelli joined him. 'Last Friday has a ring around it on her calendar and the initials SWFS, otherwise nothing. There's a fuchsia society newsletter, some invoices from seed merchants, and the vet's telephone number pinned on her notice board and that's about it.'
Horton hadn't really expected Cantelli to find anything and certainly not a big circle around yesterday's date with the words 'kill husband!' Still it was always worth having a nose around to get the feel of a place. And this place, with the exception of the garden, said, 'tired'. He turned back to see Mrs Thurlow heading towards them.
'Will this do, inspector?'
Horton took the comb and popped it into a plastic evidence bag. He saw her eyes flit to the large greenhouse on his right and she seemed eager to get rid of them. He wondered if they'd disturbed some kind of fuchsia potting out ritual. He glanced at the photograph of a tall, slender man in his fifties standing on the deck of a large motor cruiser. He was wearing navy shorts, a light-blue polo shirt and stained deck shoes. His silver hair was swept back off a suntanned, narrow face and he was smiling into camera. In his hand was what looked like a champagne glass. The boat was in a marina, which to Horton's trained eye looked like Cowes on the Isle of Wight. Who had taken the photograph? Not Mrs Thurlow by her own account, so a fellow crewmember, or a lover perhaps?
He smiled his thanks and handed the photograph to Cantelli who glanced at it before slipping it carefully into his notebook.
'What happens now, inspector?' she asked, leading them to the door.
'We'll let you know as soon as we have any news. Is there anyone you would like us to call? A friend or relative you might want- '.
'No. Thank you, inspector. I will be fine. I have Bellman.'
'There is just one more thing. Does your husband have any distinguishing features or scars?'
She shook her head. 'No.'
Horton handed over his card and urged her to get in touch if she heard from her husband, which he thought would be difficult unless she was clairvoyant. He was convinced that the body was Thurlow. He was also certain that Mrs Thurlow knew more than she was saying.
'She's a cool one,' Cantelli said, as he turned the car in the driveway. 'Which is more than can be said for that blessed conservatory and this car. She didn't even offer us a drink. I was nearly tempted to shove the dog over and slurp from his bowl.'
Yes, a nice cold glass of water would be welcome, Horton thought as he called Uckfield.
'Get over to the mortuary,' Uckfield snapped. 'And if Evans has regained consciousness see him too. There's a briefing at midday. Be here.'
Horton relayed the instructions to Cantelli then called the Marine Support Unit.
'The boat's as neat as nine pence,' Sergeant Elkins said to Horton's enquiry. 'There's been no fight or struggle. There's a sailing bag in one of the cabins.'
'Has it been unpacked?'
'No.'
'What about a tender? Is there one on board?'
'No, but there looks as though there should be.'
'Start the search for one, will you, Elkins? Check out the shores around the area and the marinas. Make sure nothing is touched and that Thurlow's boat is secure.'
'It's in the compound in the ferry port.'
As Horton rang off Cantelli said, 'You think she was lying about when she last saw her husband?'
'Could be. I don't think she much cared for him but that's no crime.'
'You reckon it's Thurlow then?'
Horton didn't hesitate. 'Yes.'
'And could she have killed him?'
Horton thought about the body laid out on the pebbled beach, the face smashed beyond recognition. Was it a random killing? Had the killer chosen the first person he met as his victim and killed instantly and spontaneously? Mutilation was common in such cases. Or had it been planned and the victim known to the killer? A crime of passion perhaps? Somehow he couldn't see Mrs Thurlow working herself up into a passion about anything except her fuchsias. Or was it a crime of hatred? Horton's fingers curled around the envelope in his pocket. Could he have done that to Colin Jarrett? Was hatred enough? It often was, but in his case certainly not enough to take someone's life.
He said, 'Why kill him on the beach? Why not closer to home or even on his boat?' And why, Horton thought, lay him out like that? That was bugging him.
Cantelli said, 'She doesn't go on the boat.'
'She could be lying.'
'Doubt it, that would mean leaving her precious fuchsias. I know what Charlotte's like about watering her garden, if we go away for more than one day in the summer she starts fretting about her tomatoes.'
Cantelli was right but it was early days yet and useless to hypothesize until they had an ID; the DNA and fingerprints on the comb might give them that. First though it was the mortuary. Hardly Horton's favourite place, but then whose was it save the pathologist?
CHAPTER 3
'Yes, a woman could have done it if she surprised him,' Dr Gaye Clayton said in answer to Horton's question as he stared down at the body on the mortuary slab. The victim had been cleaned up but the battered face didn't look any better than when he'd seen it on the beach. He couldn't identify him from the photograph that Mrs Thurlow had supplied either. He would have defied the victim's own mother to identify him.
'How?'
He stepped back and turned his gaze on the small, freckled woman in front him. To say Dr Clayton had been a surprise was putting it mildly. He wasn't sure what he had expected but it wasn't someone who looked as if she'd just finished college.
She said, 'He could have been kneeling, she came up behind him and applied a Spanish windlass.'
'A what?' asked Cantelli, chewing his gum and studying the body with interest. Horton was always amazed that the mortuary smell never seemed to get to Cantelli.
'A piece of material is looped around the victim's neck and then tightened with a stick, like a tourniquet. If it's done quickly enough and the victim is a relatively weak person then it's possible.'
Cantelli said, 'Then she undressed him? Difficult undressing a dead body.'
'Yes, but not impossible.'
'Time of death?' asked Horton, trying to place Dr Clayton's accent. West Country? He could hear Tom, the mortuary attendant, a big, brawny auburn haired man, clattering about in the background whistling a tune from The Sound of Music.
'There was rigor in the body and taking this into account, the air temperature and the rectal temperature I took at the scene I would say he had been dead about nine hours before he was found.'
'Which puts it at about nine o'clock last night.' Four days since Mrs Thurlow last saw her husband on Friday.
'Nine, ten, thereabouts,' Dr Clayton confirmed. 'Not a very pleasant experience for whoever found him.'
'I did,' Horton bluntly announced. 'I was out running.'
'Oh.' She gave him a look that was both assessing and curious, which made him feel as if he was lying on the slab.
'Do you know if he was killed where I found him?'
'There is significant bruising and scratches on his back and legs. I think he was killed not far from where you found him, inspector, then dragged up the beach most probably to prevent him from being covered by the incoming tide. He wasn't restrained. He was killed quickly. The photographer has taken some images of the marks on the
