Horton doubted Morville paid any council tax, being on benefit. He leaned forward, thrusting his face so close to Morville that he could see the fine blood vessels in the yellowing whites of his eyes and smell the nicotine and stale booze on his breath. He took the cigarette from Morville's thin lips and said very quietly, 'Oh, I am, Mr Morville, which is why I am here.'
Horton held his position for a few seconds, which was long enough to see the flicker of fear in Morville's eyes. Then, straightening up, he squashed the cigarette between his fingers, crumbling it over the plate.
Morville reached for the whisky bottle and poured the remaining liquid into a glass.
Horton stepped away. 'You've got a criminal record: assault on man in a pub, ten years ago.'
'I was drunk.'
'And you always get violent when drunk? Were you drunk when you hit Jessica Langley?'
'I didn't hit her!' Morville cried indignantly.
'You just slipped that note into her pocket. Why?'
'I told you; I dropped it.'
'Where?'
'How the hell do I know?'
'Were you blackmailing Jessica Langley?'
'I didn't know her. How could I blackmail her?'
Horton knew instantly that he'd struck the right chord. Years of interviewing suspects had given him a finely tuned antenna for the slightest nuance of tone that betrayed a man. What could Morville have had over the head teacher? Was there something in her past that connected her to Morville? Their paths had crossed, that much was clear, but was it here in Portsmouth or when Morville had been stationed elsewhere whilst in the navy, perhaps near Jessica Langley at a previous school? If so, they would be able to pinpoint it by viewing Morville's naval record and comparing it with Langley's career path. But all that would take time. And he didn't have time. On Friday morning, in four days' time, he would have to hand this case over to Dennings, as Uckfield had so bluntly reminded him.
Horton said sharply, 'Where were you Saturday between three and six p. m?'
'At the betting shop.'
'They close at five.'
'I came home, had something to eat and then went to the club about seven. Satisfied?' he challenged.
Far from it, Horton thought. He would check.
'You can't pin either murder on me,' Morville crowed defiantly.
More's the pity, thought Horton. He wasn't going to rule Morville out until he had checked and double-checked his alibis, and he'd found the reason why Langley had had the betting slip in her trouser pocket.
'I'd like to know what you're not telling me,' Horton said. Morville opened his mouth to reply, but Horton got there first, his voice low and threatening, 'And I will find out.' He had the satisfaction of seeing Morville worried before he swept out of the foul-smelling flat.
He needed that link between Morville and Langley. It sounded as though Langley could well have refused to give Morville money. Could he have killed her for that? Looks could be deceptive; perhaps Morville was more energetic than he appeared. But how could he have got the body on to the mulberry? Did he have an accomplice with a boat? Morville couldn't afford to keep and run one on benefit. He had been in the navy though, so maybe he could handle a boat. But a blackmailer would hardly kill the goose that lays the golden egg. Back to those bloody fairy stories again, Horton thought irritably. And would Morville have the intelligence to use the mulberry bush nursery rhyme? Why the honey and money? Questions, questions and no bloody answers.
Horton rounded the corner; a few hundred yards would take him to the front entrance of the ex-forces club, and now that he was here he might as well check out Morville's alibi for Saturday afternoon, and try and get at least one of those questions answered.
There was no sign of Barry Dunsley but the cleaner, Mrs Watrow, was there.
'Barry's gone to the cash and carry,' she said in answer to Horton's enquiry. 'Calls himself a steward, but if he's a steward then I'm the Queen of the May.'
Horton gave her an encouraging look; not that he needed to, as he could see that Mrs Watrow liked to talk.
'No doubt he's pulled a few pints of beer in his time, but he ain't no professional steward,' she snorted.
'Does he have to be?'
'Gives himself airs. He drinks more pints than he pulls. He's an idle bugger, not like Jim. I'll be glad when he's back.'
'Do you know Eric Morville?'
'He's another lazy blighter. Heart condition, my eye. Allergic to work more like. I-'
'Do you know if he was in here drinking on Saturday night at about seven o'clock?'
But she was shaking her head. 'Me and my husband didn't come down here until eight. He was here then.'
'Alone?'
'What sort of woman would want him?' she scoffed. 'Good for nothing idle beggar.'
'You don't seem to like him very much.'
'He's a nasty piece of work, like that so-called steward.'
Horton was curious. He hadn't taken to Barry Dunsley either, and had his suspicions about the break-in being an inside job, but he was curious to know why Mrs Watrow didn't like him apart, that was, from him not being a professional or competent steward. He asked her.
'He's always listening into people's conversations and making snide remarks. If you ask me they're two of a kind, Dunsley and Morville, and the pair of them have got their hands in the till.'
Now Horton's interest heightened. 'Do you have any evidence to back this up?'
'Stands to reason, don't it? They are always in a huddle. Up to no good, if you ask me. And he told you a lie when you were here before asking about the break-in.'
Horton's ears pricked up. He studied her closely. How much of this was spiteful gossip and how much the truth? 'How do you know what Mr Dunsley told me?'
She smiled. 'You can hear every word that's said in the bar when you're in those gents' toilets, especially if it's quiet like.'
Horton recalled that Dunsley had sent her to clean them.
She said, with a triumphant gleam in her watery grey eyes, 'He told you he was serving all Thursday night, only he wasn't. Doris was serving, and she locked up. He didn't show.'
'She told you this?' Horton's heart quickened. So Dunsley had lied when he said he'd seen Morville drinking in the bar the night of Langley's murder. Had Morville asked him to provide an alibi for him, whilst he'd been killing Langley?
'We go to the bingo together,' Mrs Watrow declared, as if this was the clinching argument as to why Doris should be believed.
'Do you know where Mr Dunsley had been?' Horton asked.
'Out with some tart, I expect.'
'And Eric Morville, do you remember if he was here last Thursday evening?'
'He was. Propping up the bar as always.'
Pity. Morville had a cast-iron alibi. He thought Mrs Watrow was reliable enough. If she said Morville was here, then he was. Nevertheless he wouldn't rule him out yet. Not until he got to the bottom of that message on that bloody betting slip.
'Was Mr Dunsley here on Saturday afternoon between three and six p. m?'
'I don't know, luv, I wasn't here.'
Horton thanked her and left, wanting to know a great deal more about Mr Barry Dunsley. Why had he lied about being in the bar on the night Langley was killed? Horton knew the break-in to be phoney. He could sense and smell it. Cantelli had sussed it out too. So what was Barry Dunsley up to? Had he been killing Langley? But why fake a break-in and draw attention to himself? Horton smiled as he gave himself the answer: to provide an alibi, of course.
At the station he asked Marsden to chase up Morville's navy record, and to match that information against
