Horton gave Venetia Trotman’s corpse a final glance before following Gaye’s petite green-gowned figure across the mortuary to a room just beyond it where she slid open the drawer. He stared down at the blackened, sea-life chewed corpse, trying not to breathe for fear of what the smell would do to the breakfast he’d eaten earlier. It hadn’t been a pretty sight first time around and it certainly hadn’t improved with age. Even Cantelli stopped chewing his gum.
Gaye said, ‘The questions are, was the victim alive or dead when he entered the water, and is the cause of death drowning? Well, I found no evidence of water and sea debris in the stomach and only a small amount of the microscopic algae called diatoms in his throat, which indicates he was already dead when he entered the water. As we don’t yet know who the victim is we have no evidence of the circumstances arising before his death, therefore no idea what he was doing in, on or near the water. However, because he was wearing clothes and he was dead when entering the water, you can rule out homicide by drowning, and suicide.’
Horton knew that suicides usually piled their clothes up and left them on the shore. He’d already mentally discounted that anyway. And Cantelli’s theory that a drugged Luke Felton could have walked into the sea and drowned was now also out.
Gaye Clayton was saying, ‘There are no bullets embedded in what is left of the body or any bullet entry or exit wounds, but there are signs of a considerable trauma to his skull.’
Cantelli said, ‘He was bludgeoned to death.’
‘Not necessarily. The trauma could have come from his body being dashed against an object under or on the water.’
‘But something must have killed him if he was dead when he hit the water.’
‘Quite. There are a wide range of injuries on his body, consistent with floating in the water, but one more prominent than the others — where, as I thought earlier, he could have become lodged up against something, hence the rapid putrefaction. Have you seen enough?’
‘Plenty.’
She slid the drawer shut. Cantelli let out a slow breath and resumed chewing.
Gaye said, ‘There was also severe coronary artery atherosclerosis, so it’s possible he could have suffered a fatal cardiac arrest with a collapse dead into the water.’
And surely Luke Felton was too young for that, thought Horton, though a cocaine overdose could certainly cause a heart attack. Or if this wasn’t Felton then it could have been a natural death. Perhaps the man was out walking by the sea, suffered a heart attack and fell into the water.
Horton said, ‘Any indication of where this might have happened?’
‘None at all,’ she replied brightly. ‘Everything’s been sent to the lab for analysis, including clothes — what is left of them — skin, organs, fragments of sea life, grit, gravel, sand and anything else I could find in and on him. You might get more from that. There’s not a lot more I can tell you at present.’
‘What about fingerprints?’ asked Cantelli.
‘Not enough skin left to lift any complete ones. We’ll have to rely on DNA. It’s being run through the database, but I doubt you’ll get an answer,
Horton felt irritated by the delay. ‘Isn’t there anything you can tell us about the identity of the victim?’ he asked, exasperated.
She eyed him keenly. ‘You sound a tad desperate, Inspector.’ He opened his mouth to reply but she held up her hand to silence him. ‘I know; it’s a matter of life and death. OK, here’s what I’ve got. Got your notebook ready, Sergeant?’
Cantelli waved it at her with a grin and plucked the pencil from behind his right ear.
She began. ‘He was five feet eleven inches tall, size nine shoe, aged mid to late forties, dead for at least two weeks, maybe more. What’s wrong, Inspector? Have I disappointed you?’
She had. Clearly this was not Luke Felton. Two weeks ago Luke had been alive and kicking around Crown House. The body was also the wrong age, the wrong height and probably the wrong shoe size. And once again that raised the question of whether Luke had anything to do with Venetia Trotman’s death.
‘I did have someone in mind,’ he said, glancing at Cantelli, who gave a resigned shrug. They’d have to wait to see if they got a DNA match and if the lab came up with anything from the samples Dr Clayton had sent them.
Gaye crossed to the mortuary. ‘Are you staying for the autopsy on Venetia Trotman?’
Horton declined. Although he was eager to know how Venetia Trotman had died he wasn’t keen enough to witness Dr Clayton’s ritualistic disembowelment, and neither was Cantelli.
‘It doesn’t answer where Luke Felton is, or Rookley,’ Horton said glumly, as they drove back to the station. ‘We’ll have to circulate Felton’s photograph and put out an all-ports alert for him.’ And he’d need to tell Uckfield that Luke Felton could be in the frame for Venetia Trotman’s murder. They desperately needed to track his movements since Tuesday evening.
Cantelli broke the news over the phone to Ashley Felton, who said he’d let his brother-in-law know. Then, armed with a warrant, Cantelli took himself off to Kempton’s to collect Luke’s computer, informing Toby Kempton he was on his way. Horton had decided not to accompany him. Not because he was concerned about Toby Kempton’s threats — his father-in-law’s bullying wasn’t going to prevent him from speaking to Kempton’s employees again — but he had an itch to see where Natalie had been killed. He didn’t mention it to Cantelli, who would only roll his eyes at him again and shake his head. First though, Horton called Sergeant Warren and asked if PC Seaton was on duty. He was, and as luck would have it was in the station. A few minutes later there was a tap on Horton’s door and he beckoned Seaton in.
‘Take Luke Felton’s photograph to the bus station, Seaton, and ask if any drivers on the route past Kempton’s in both directions, towards Portchester or Portsmouth, remember seeing Luke Felton on Tuesday evening after work.’
Seaton looked pleased at being given the task. Horton knew he was keen to get into CID and he would be just as eager to take him, if he was ever granted more manpower, which seemed about as likely as him being given the freedom of the city. Collecting his helmet and leather jacket, he detoured to the main incident suite on his way out of the station and was surprised to find a dejected major crime team and a room silent of ringing phones, bustling with about as much activity as a slug.
‘Has your pen run out?’ he asked Trueman with surprise, eyeing the crime board. On it were the photographs of the battered body of Venetia Trotman, her name, details of where she was found, when, and the estimated time of death. And nothing else.
‘No, our information,’ Trueman replied. ‘You look a bit the worse for wear, Inspector.’
‘I’ll survive. Didn’t you find anything in the house?’ He didn’t mind telling Trueman what had happened at the lock but he wasn’t going to mention it while others were present, especially Dennings. He didn’t trust the bastard not to blab it to Bliss and get him into trouble. Thankfully she still hadn’t put in an appearance.
‘There’s not a bloody thing in it to tell us who she is,’ Uckfield grouched, stomping across to the crime board and glaring at it. ‘No photographs, no personal papers, no next of kin, and Trueman can’t trace her anywhere.’ Uckfield spun round and redirected his angry stare towards the stoical sergeant, as if it was his fault.
Trueman didn’t take it personally. ‘There’s no register of birth, or marriage. She has no credit card or bank account. No tax record and no national insurance number. She simply doesn’t exist.’
‘Not any more she doesn’t,’ Horton said, puzzled and intrigued.
Uckfield threw himself down on a chair with an explosive sigh and spread out his short fat legs. ‘It seems she didn’t in the first place, except for the fact we have a body and you saw and spoke to her when she was alive. The phones are silent even after my TV appeal, which makes me think the buggers have cut us off. We’re waiting on Dr Clayton for fingerprints, dental records and DNA. Taylor confirms the victim was killed where she was found. There are some faint shoe prints around the body and the area leading from the boat, and we might get some traces left by our killer on the victim’s clothes or skin, but might’s no bloody good to me.’
‘What about her late husband?’ Horton asked, baffled.
Uckfield threw an exasperated glance at Trueman.
‘The house is registered to Joseph Trotman, who purchased it in March 1997. There’s no mortgage on it. All the utility bills are in his name and have always been paid in cash.’
Did that explain why the central heating had been switched off, Horton wondered, because Venetia Trotman had run out of cash and was afraid she wouldn’t be able to pay the bill when it arrived? Perhaps she had sold the
