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 that 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
