Horton watched the expressions on Uckfield's face turn from puzzlement to anger and then finally exasperation as he slammed down his phone.
'The bugger's got a watertight alibi,' he roared, rising and pacing the room. 'Is nothing straightforward with this bloody case?'
'What alibi?' Horton asked sharply, feeling disappointment well up in him.
'That was Sergeant Elkins. Leo Ranson and his loving family have been safely tucked up in the Channel Islands, Guernsey. He moored up in St Peter Port at midday on Saturday and didn't leave until lunchtime today. So he can't be Edney's killer.'
Horton's heart sank. 'Was Leo Ranson definitely on board?'
'Oh, yes. The marina manager spoke to him when he came in. And the whole family attended a party last night on shore in the yacht club. The manager himself was there. So unless he's lying and in on these murders you can kiss good-bye to your theory.'
Damn! He'd been wrong. Then he recalled what Dr Clayton had said about Edney's killer being right-handed and the person who struck Langley was left-handed.
'Ranson might not have killed Edney, but that doesn't mean to say he didn't kill.' Horton saw a glimmer of hope dawn in Uckfield's rather bloodshot eyes. Horton went on, 'Ranson has given himself the perfect alibi for Edney's death. Why else take his wife and kids away sailing at the end of October?'
'Why not? I do it, or I would if I didn't have such incompetent and sick staff.'
Horton didn't rise to the bait. 'He could have got someone else to kill Edney.'
'Like who?'
How the hell do I know? thought Horton with desperation. He wasn't going to give up on this one yet. 'I'd like to catch Ranson off guard and I know what will really rile him.' Disturbing him at work he thought, recalling the architect's manner at that first meeting at the Sir Wilberforce Cutler School.
Uckfield sucked in his breath and then let out a heavy sigh. 'OK, but remember if you don't get this bugger by Friday I'll be handing the case over to DI Dennings.'
'Do you know, I'd almost forgotten that?' Horton said with heavy sarcasm. As an exit line he thought, maybe it wasn't half bad.
Thirteen
Monday: 9.30 A.M.
Horton took PC Seaton and WPC Kate Somerfield out of uniform and set them to keep a watch on Ranson's house. He didn't want the bugger slipping out and killing anyone else, and he didn't want him doing a moonlight flit. Somerfield reported the next morning, that Ranson hadn't gone anywhere except to his office in Southsea at eight a.m.
'Is he there now?' Horton asked glancing at his watch, as Cantelli knocked and entered his office.
'No, sir. He left there fifteen minutes ago. He's at Nettleside High School. There's a board outside that says, 'Ranson and Rawlings are the architects of the new sports hall'.
Ranson seemed to specialize in schools. Another factor which slotted in with his choice of nursery rhyme. 'Right, we're on our way. Call me if he leaves. Glad to see you back, Sergeant. You're just in time for school.'
'The Sir Wilberforce Cutler?' 'No, the high school in Old Portsmouth. It's where we might find our killer. I'll brief you on our way there.'
Twenty minutes later Horton and Cantelli walked into reception. It wasn't half term in the private sector. After showing their ID, the receptionist paged the school caretaker and asked him to locate Leo Ranson. Horton knew that Ranson wouldn't run away, why should he if he thought he was in clear? If he were guilty then he would be curious to know how far the police had got with their inquiries. And if he were innocent? Then he'd be one very tetchy man.
He saw the receptionist pick up the phone and punch in a number that was clearly an internal extension. She spoke quietly into the receiver but her eyes kept glancing up at them. He guessed she was calling the bursar or the school business manager to say there were police officers on the premises. He stepped away from the desk to examine a large organization chart opposite. At the top was the head teacher, dressed in cap and gown, Dr Simon Thornecombe BD, DD, MBBS, BSc (Hons.), PGCE, MBA.
'Looks as though he's collecting the alphabet,' Cantelli said beside him. 'Wonder what they all stand for. I bet Jessica Langley didn't have as many initials after her name.'
No, thought Horton, recalling from memory, just BEd and MBA: Bachelor of Education and Master of Business Administration. How did anyone have time to take two degrees, let alone a whole batch of them like Dr Thornecombe? It was a wonder he ever found the time to hold down a proper job.
The door on their left opened and a stockily built man, with thinning brown hair swept back off a broad forehead, marched towards them with a slightly apprehensive smile and an outstretched hand. Horton recognized him instantly as the head teacher. So that's whom the receptionist had been calling, or probably his secretary.
Thornecombe introduced himself in a quiet but confident voice that had just a hint of an accent, Yorkshire, thought Horton. The head teacher's grey eyes coolly assessed them both before he said, 'I wonder if I might have a word, Inspector? It won't take a moment. Mrs Harris, my secretary, can show Mr Ranson into my office when he's located, and you can talk to him there, if you wish.'
'Of course,' Horton replied, raising his eyebrows slightly at Cantelli as they followed Thornecombe's purposeful steps down a short corridor and into a spacious, tidy office. It was furnished, Horton noted, with a deep pile burgundy carpet, expensive oak furniture and equipped with the latest in computer technology. Bit different from Edney's and Langley's offices, he thought dryly.
He watched Thornecombe cross to his wide desk and, unfastening the button of his double-breasted suit jacket, he waved them into comfortable seats opposite and then settled himself into his large leather chair with a concerned frown.
'I'm not sure whether this information is important, but I thought you ought to know that Ms Langley was here on the day she died.'
Horton hid his surprise. He had expected a lecture from Thornecombe on how important it was to keep the name of the school from the press if anything should come of their inquiries here.
'What time was this, sir?' Horton sensed Cantelli's interest beside him as he removed his notebook from his pocket and his pencil from behind his ear.
Thornecombe continued to address Horton. 'She arrived just after half twelve. I had sandwiches brought to my office and she left shortly before two.'
So, this was where she had been coming when she had been seen leaving the school at lunchtime, and Neil Cyrus had witnessed her return. One question answered and maybe a second one also: was this the reason why Langley had dressed more soberly on Thursday? Susan Pentlow had said that Langley wore black either when she had an important meeting to attend or when she was disciplining someone, and from the statements taken, she hadn't done the latter.
Horton wondered what Langley had been doing visiting a private school when hers was a state school.
'We were exploring how we could share our resources,' Thornecombe said, easing his squat figure back in the chair. 'I can see that you're sceptical.' He smiled knowingly. 'And I don't blame you but it's not improbable for private and state education to work together. Let me explain. I first met Ms Langley at a head teachers' conference in May. She struck me then as a forceful, vibrant personality who would be able to push through the changes that the Sir Wilberforce Cutler badly needed. Being popular wasn't important to her. Oh, it's nice to be liked, but leaders can't always be popular. One has to be thick-skinned.'
Horton thought of Uckfield. The superintendent was in the rhinoceros class when it came to the density of skin.
'We struck up a professional friendship almost immediately and began to explore how we could work together; especially once our new buildings are complete. The Wilberforce will have superb facilities for drama and media studies whilst we will have a swimming pool, gymnasium, tennis and squash courts. We both saw it as a pioneering project of co-operation between the state and private sector.'
