'They're dementia patients, for heaven's sake. Everyone is suspicious.'
'Oh, I see. So we can forget it,' he said with heavy irony, stung by her supercilious tone. 'Irene Ebury had dementia and has no one left to care about her or her belongings, which don't amount to much anyway. Her dead son is a criminal so he won't be missed. It's obviously not as high profile as two ponced-up television presenters receiving threatening calls, which you will find are a publicity stunt.'
Bliss stood up, her face flushed with anger. 'You know very well what I mean. It's a question of resources and you don't have them to explore every petty crime-'
'I hardly call someone dying petty,' he replied tautly.
Her colour deepened. 'If you can't prioritize your caseload, then you'd better think again about staying in the job.'
That was well below the belt. It didn't even justify an answer as far as he was concerned. He held her stare which was as cold as an emperor penguin but not nearly so cute and thought how he'd love to see the back of her.
Her voice was like barbed wire when she added, 'I've ordered DC Walters to return to the station immediately, and Seaton and Somerfield to resume their usual duties. You might not like the fact that I got promotion, especially when you didn't, or that I am now your superior officer, but you either work with me or you put in for a transfer.'
Like bloody hell I will, he thought. And give you the satisfaction of getting rid of me? He could see that he was a great big nasty thorn in Bliss's neatly tended garden of CID. Well, tough, if she didn't like it, then she'd have to pull him out. She'd get her hands scratched trying, though, and he couldn't see Bliss wearing gloves. She wasn't the type.
'Results, Inspector, that's what we're paid to get. C.A.S.E. = Results. See if you can earn your salary.' With a tight frown, she swept out of room. Well, at least now he knew what the initial R stood for.
Cantelli poked his head round the door. 'You're still walking then?'
'My balls are intact and so is my determination. She told me to forget about Irene Ebury and her stolen belongings, and you know what that makes me want to do?'
Cantelli groaned and rolled his eyes. 'I've sent the photographs off to the photographic unit and I've requested the case notes on the Peter Ebury armed robbery. I'll start looking into Irene Ebury's background this afternoon.'
Horton hesitated. He knew that Bliss's threats wouldn't hold water with Cantelli, but should he tell him about the connection with his mother? He'd never lied to Cantelli and had rarely kept anything from him. In fact, Cantelli was the only person in the station who knew about him being raised in children's homes and with foster parents. But maybe there would be nothing to find. And perhaps he'd explain everything after Thursday when Cantelli had got through the ordeal of his father's funeral. Horton heard the excuses in his mind and shoved them aside.
'Is Walters back?' He glanced at the clock on his desk, seeing with surprise it was almost two o'clock.
'In the canteen. He saw Bliss on the warpath and just kept going straight on.'
Horton didn't blame him for that. Fortunately Bliss's office was in the opposite direction to the canteen. 'Then let's see what he's unearthed.'
FOUR
With his mouth full of chicken and ham pie, Walters said, 'We managed to speak to all the staff on duty before Seaton and Somerfield had to report back and she called me in.'
'It's all right, Walters, Sergeant Cantelli is keeping an eye on the door.'
Walters stabbed another chip with his fork and conveyed it to his mouth with a look of relief. 'No one claims to have gone to Irene Ebury's drawer in the basement or to have noticed if the drawer was locked or unlocked. They all think Mrs Kingsway saw Dr Eastwood leaning over Mrs Ebury on the morning she died and the old lady's got confused over the dates.'
But it was the night staff that had been on duty so Horton knew they'd have to question them. And without Bliss knowing. He took a bite of his sandwich as Walters continued.
'The fingerprint bureau found some prints on the cabinet in the basement and on the door. They took the staff's prints. Mrs Northwood nearly blew a gasket. But they haven't done the night staff.'
'How many are there?'
'Six, not counting the manager who's off sick.'
Marion Keynes would be at home and hopefully not too sick to answer his questions, which he intended to put to her later.
'Go back tonight, Walters, and talk to the night staff. Ask them to call into the station so we can take their prints.'
'Do I have to?'
'You got a date?'
'No, but…'
A glare from Horton stilled his protest. Polishing off his sandwich, Horton said, 'How did you get on at Oldham's Wharf this morning?' It seemed ages ago now.
'Nothing was stolen. And there was no sign of a break-in.'
'Then why report it?' Horton asked, puzzled.
Walters shrugged his expansive shoulders and the flesh around his jowl wobbled. 'Ryan Oldham said one of his vehicles had been moved.'
'And that's it?' Horton cried incredulously. 'The driver could have done that!'
'That's what I said. He didn't go a bundle on it. Told me how to do my job. He wants fingerprints, forensics, the lot. I said I'd see what we could do.'
'Which is precisely nothing unless you've got more than that.' He hoped he didn't sound like Bliss. But at least he did have a theft at the nursing home to investigate, not to mention a questionable death, two if you counted Peter Ebury. Scraping back his chair, he said, 'Make an appointment for me to see Dr Eastwood.'
In his office Horton studied the notes he'd made on Irene. She'd been thirty-five when she'd given birth to Peter, which was quite old to have a first child in 1974 when women tended to have them younger. If indeed Peter was her first and only child. Her medical records would reveal this information, but Cantelli would also run a check with the Registrar and HM Revenue and Customs at the same time and get her employment record. He'd also see if could find any record of a marriage.
He looked up as Cantelli and Walters walked into the CID office and settled at their desks. Bliss's reprimand rang in his ears. They're dementia patients, for heaven's sake.
Irene Ebury had no one to fight her corner. She deserved more than just becoming another statistic. He'd like to find at least one relative or friend who would stand by her coffin and mourn her passing.
And what about his own mother? There was no record to say she was dead, but perhaps her body had never been identified. Gaye Clayton's words about corpses stacked up in the mortuary made him shiver despite the heat from the radiator. Could his mother be lying in a mortuary somewhere, awaiting the day when someone would claim her? Or had she been buried in an unknown grave without anyone to mourn her death? The thought disturbed him, so hastily he pushed it away and began to shift some of the paper on his desk.
There were three telephone messages waiting for him. He dealt swiftly with one by ringing the person, another by throwing it in the bin, and then paused over the third. It was Mrs Collins again, insisting they investigate her son's death. Daniel Collins had died in a road accident on Christmas Eve. He'd been drunk. No other vehicle had been involved. This was the third time she had rung. On the second occasion he had asked to see the incident report. It might have arrived by now and be buried on his desk somewhere.
He found it and flicked it open. Daniel Collins had skidded off the dual carriage and over Salterns Wharf into the sea. It had been his bad luck the tide had been up. He'd drowned. The autopsy had revealed he had been over the legal drinking limit. End of story. Strange coincidence, though, that it was only about half a mile from Oldham's Wharf.
Horton closed the file. There was nothing they could do, but he wasn't without sympathy for Mrs Collins in
