A Killing Coast

As the sky darkened and the wind stiffened, Horton couldn’t help wondering if the same fate had befallen his mother, only her body had never been washed up. He scanned the green-blue choppy sea as the Portsmouth skyline drew closer. Had someone lured Jennifer on to a boat and then killed her and thrown her body overboard? But why? Or perhaps she’d met a boyfriend on his boat and there’d been an accident. The boyfriend had been too scared to report it and had kept silent about it all these years. Horton was convinced that Jennifer could not have committed suicide; the reports of her being in good spirits when she’d left the flat scotched that. But then another thought slapped him in the face. Perhaps Jennifer had been stood up or thrown over by someone she thought had loved her and, distraught, she’d decided to end it all. And leave him, alone? No, surely not. But what was the alternative? That she’d run off leaving her child to the mercy of children’s homes?

As the launch eased its way into the narrow entrance of Portsmouth Harbour, Horton was glad to put his mind back on the job. He caught sight of the round-shouldered, overweight and shambolic figure of DC Walters on the first deck of the superyacht. He was dwarfed by a man built like a brick outhouse, with a keen face and cropped fair hair. Russell Glenn, wondered Horton? If so, he looked more like a member of the Russian mafia than a successful businessman, though the two weren’t mutually exclusive. Elkins couldn’t enlighten him either. ‘We haven’t been introduced,’ he said facetiously.

And neither was he likely to be. A fact that didn’t worry Horton one bit, though he suspected others in the police hierarchy might be desperately trying to wrangle their way on board. He doubted though that someone like Glenn would handle his own security arrangements. Walters was probably talking to a member of the crew.

Horton felt the first lean spits of rain as the launch motored past the naval ships and eased its way towards the deserted quayside, not far from the gigantic berths of the commercial ferry port, where a continental ferry was belching out black smoke preparatory to sailing. The wiry dark-haired figure on the quayside looked up at the sound of the launch and a few minutes later Horton was replacing his sailing jacket for his leather one. He told Elkins that Cantelli would give him a lift back to Gosport Marina to collect his Harley and that they’d let him know what they discovered about the dead woman.

As Cantelli pointed the car in the direction of the hospital mortuary, he said solemnly, ‘From what I saw of her, Andy, she looks as though she’s been dead a few days.’

And Horton knew what that meant. He primed himself for the ordeal that lay ahead.

‘There was something odd about her though,’ Cantelli continued. ‘It was her dress. Kind of old-fashioned I’d say: long-sleeved, high-neck and down to her ankles, and she was wearing trainers.’

That could possibly rule out suicide because most suicides removed their shoes before wading into the water to drown. ‘Old or young?’

Cantelli pulled a face as he considered this then shook his head. ‘Couldn’t say.’

‘That bad, eh?’

‘Yep.’ There was a moment’s silence before Cantelli added, ‘The clothes don’t fit the descriptions of any of the three missing women but that doesn’t mean it isn’t one of them. They could have changed.’

‘Does Bliss know about it?’

‘I haven’t told her.’

Then he would, and he also needed to report back on his interview with Victor Hazleton, which he swiftly told Cantelli about before trying Bliss’s number. He got her voicemail. He didn’t think there was any urgency to leave a message or call her on her mobile. He’d try again after they had the preliminary report from Dr Clayton, and by then they might have an identification.

Horton’s stomach did its usual double somersault as the smell of the mortuary greeted them. Cantelli popped a fresh piece of gum in his mouth to try and distract him from it, but Horton knew nothing would, as he nodded at Tom, the mortuary attendant.

‘Just finished taking photographs of her,’ Tom said jerking his head at the fully clothed, filthy body on the slab. ‘I’ll fetch Dr Clayton.’

Horton took a breath and ran his eyes over the corpse. Cantelli was right, judging by the deterioration she’d clearly been dead for some time. There wasn’t a great deal left of the soft tissue of the face; the eyelids, nose, lips and ears had all been chewed by the marine life. What remained was filthy, and what was left of the hair was matted with dirt, seaweed and sea life. The clothes were, as Cantelli had described, rather unusual. The dress was covered in multicoloured small flowers and had a ruffle at the neck, long voluminous sleeves with ruffles on the wrists and a high waistband that fell just under the breast. There were no pockets that he could see, but he hoped there might be some identification on her. What was left of the hands was dark bluish-pink and there were no rings.

The door from the anteroom swung open and Horton looked up to see the petite figure of Gaye Clayton advancing toward them with a smile of greeting on her freckled face. Despite the circumstances Horton found himself smiling back.

‘Let’s see what you’ve got for us this time,’ she said cheerfully, running her practised eye over the corpse. ‘Well, I can certainly certify death. As to the time, I’ll be more precise when I conduct the autopsy, which I’ve scheduled for first thing tomorrow morning, but I’ll give you an estimate once we’ve undressed her.’

Horton watched her ease down the ruffle around the neck and caught a glimpse of a slightly quizzical expression as she studied the head and neck.

‘I can’t see any obvious signs of cause of death, no bullet or stab wounds, and no visible marks of strangulation, although there is trauma to the skull, but that could have been caused by the body coming into contact with an obstruction in the sea.’ She stepped back and nodded at Tom to begin undressing the body.

Horton tensed in anticipation and sensed Cantelli’s heightened interest beside him as Tom eased off the sodden trainers.

‘Size nine,’ he announced, turning them over. ‘Cheap, ordinary chain store make, marking too faint to read. Well worn, especially on the right foot, but size still visible on the sole.’ He dropped them into one of the evidence bags on the nearby trolley.

Surprised, Horton said, ‘Large feet for a woman. How tall would you say she was?’

‘Five foot ten, maybe eleven,’ answered Gaye. ‘We’ll measure the body, of course.’

Consulting his notebook, Cantelli said, ‘Karen Jenkins, the missing forty-year-old, is five three, and the teenagers are five four and five six. So we can positively rule out all three.’

So who was she? Had anyone missed her? Perhaps she had lived alone. Horton watched Tom’s big hands ease the dress up the purple, half-chewed flesh of the legs. He frowned in puzzlement as a pair of dark-coloured lightweight shorts came into view.

‘Unusual underwear for a woman,’ Cantelli said.

‘But not completely unknown,’ added Gaye.

Cantelli stopped chewing. ‘She’s wearing a T-shirt.’

‘So am I, Sergeant, under this get-up,’ Gaye replied, brightly, pointing at her mortuary garb.

‘Yeah, but there are T-shirts and T-shirts, and that one looks more like a-’

‘Vest,’ furnished Horton, thoughtfully. It was loose, round-necked and short-sleeved, not the sort of garment to compliment the intricate and old-fashioned dress that Tom was now holding. And there was something else peculiar about the body, but before Horton could express it, Tom said, ‘There’s a label inside but with only faint markings on it. There’s also a pocket in the side. It’s zipped up. There’s something in it.’

Horton’s pulse quickened as Tom eased the small zip down, thrust his big hand inside it and retrieved a small object. It was a plastic key fob minus the keys and inside the small plastic case, shaped like a Christmas tree, was a perfectly preserved picture of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, with dark curly hair and a broad smile.

Cantelli studied it, puzzled. ‘Could that be a daughter or granddaughter who has died and, distraught, this woman took her own life?’

It was possible, Horton supposed, but it could also be a photograph of the corpse itself taken when younger. Tom put the key ring into a small evidence bag and handed it to Cantelli, then he folded the dress carefully into another evidence bag. Gaye stepped closer to the corpse.

‘Anything wrong?’ Horton asked as her brow furrowed.

‘Plenty, but please go on, Tom.’

Horton saw a knowing glance pass between them. He dashed a look at Cantelli and got raised eyebrows in