grappled with this new information.
Gaye said, ‘She’d also eaten a meal five to six hours before she died, probably between five thirty and six thirty. Again there is no sign of her having been forcibly fed.’
‘What kind of meal?’ asked Horton.
‘I’ll let you know as soon as I can.’
Horton thanked her. He caught her quizzical glance before he left, which made him feel a little uncomfortable. Why, he didn’t know, or perhaps he did. He wondered if Dr Clayton was a mind-reader as well as a pathologist. He hoped not because she might have sensed that Agent Eames disturbed him, and not just mentally either.
Outside he said, ‘Does the fact she was really blonde strike any chords with you?’
‘Not immediately but I’ll circulate a revised description to Europol. I’ll also issue a new photograph of the victim with her natural colouring once the photographic unit give us a computer-generated image.’
‘It doesn’t sound as though she was held somewhere against her will. And I can’t see her having sex and eating a meal with any of Woodley’s associates.’
Eames considered this. ‘Perhaps she met someone before meeting her killer.’
That was entirely possible but why hadn’t this person come forward? Perhaps whoever it was didn’t know she’d been killed. He said, ‘While we’re here, let’s see if we can have a word with Fiona Wright.’
They made their way to the radiography department in the hospital. Horton was mulling over Dr Clayton’s revelations but he was still no nearer a conclusion by the time they located Fiona Wright. She’d finished with her patients for the day and waved them into seats in the small air-conditioned consulting room.
‘I had been hoping to go sailing tonight,’ she said, ‘but obviously because of the police investigation, that’s out of the question.’ She pushed back her shoulder-length brown hair and gave them both a nervous smile. Horton guessed she was in her late thirties. There was no ring on her left hand or indeed on any of her fingers but that didn’t mean she wasn’t married or living with someone, she probably removed her jewellery for work.
She said, ‘Gaye told me that you’d probably want to speak to me about that poor woman’s death. Do you know who she is yet?’
‘We’re still trying to establish that.’ He nodded at Eames, who took the photograph from her jacket pocket. As she handed it across to Fiona Wright, Horton wondered how much more different the victim would look blonde- haired and blue-eyed.
‘Have you seen this woman before?’ Eames asked.
After studying the picture carefully, Fiona Wright said, ‘No. Gaye told me where her body had been found. I certainly didn’t see her last night. I arrived at the club just after seven and left just before ten with Gaye. There was no one outside then.’
‘Any cars parked that you didn’t recognize?’
‘Only a silver Range Rover.’
And Horton knew that belonged to the Chief Constable. ‘Did you leave the club by the front entrance at any time while you were there?’
‘No. There was no need. The dinghies are kept at the rear, near the club’s slipway.’
Horton knew that. ‘Did you see anyone on the quayside while you were sailing?’
‘No.’
Horton asked if she’d seen any other craft heading towards the club or the quayside.
‘Not that I can remember. There were several heading towards Horsea Marina, some large cruisers, a couple of yachts and a few motoring out into the harbour, but I didn’t really take much notice of them.’
Horton had two questions left to ask and he wasn’t hopeful that either would draw a positive response.
‘Do you know a Daryl Woodall?’
‘No.’
He showed her the photograph. ‘Have you seen this man before?’
She glanced at the picture and then back at Horton. ‘I’ve seen his photograph in the newspaper. He’s the man who discharged himself from hospital and was found dead. I didn’t come across him while he was here. I’m sorry I can’t help you, Inspector.’
Horton was too. He hadn’t really expected anything. In the car he told Eames to head for Tipner Quay, drawing a curious look from her. He called Uckfield as she threaded her way through the rapidly building rush-hour traffic. Uckfield’s phone was on voicemail. He must be in his press conference or with Dean. He rang Trueman and reported what they had discovered from Dr Clayton and requested him to get a revised photograph of the victim.
‘We’re on our way to the sailing club to get that list of members who were there last night and to interview Richard Bolton, the club secretary.’ It was a good enough reason to call in at the quay but Horton had another one. There was something he wanted to check out.
Forty minutes later, Bolton, a large, round-faced, bald-headed man in his mid-fifties, had equipped him with a dinghy and a life jacket and Horton was sailing in the harbour. There wasn’t much breeze, but enough. He wasn’t skiving, although Bliss would claim he was, this was research. From here he could see the large brick and corrugated-iron-roofed boatshed. Could the victim have parked her car in front of it? If she had then no one would have seen it from the club or the road leading to the boatyard. The crane barge was still in place and the remains of the wrecked boat had the canvas awning stretched over where the body had lain. But that area had been clear before the wreck had been raised so it was possible that she’d arrived before dark and waited there.
Taylor and his SOCO team had finished working on the wreck and surrounding area, and the police diving operation was now in progress. Horton wondered if they’d find the victim’s handbag, and the murder weapon. He’d asked Eames to relay a description of the latter to Marsden and the diving team.
He felt the little dinghy pick up speed as a sudden gust of wind filled the sails. It had been a long time since he’d sailed such a small vessel and, despite the seriousness of the occasion, he was enjoying it. He recalled the days spent on his former yacht,
That decided he concentrated on sailing. Sergeant Elkins in the police launch could have done this trip much easier and quicker, which was what Bliss would say and Uckfield might agree with her, but it had occurred to him that perhaps their killer had used a dinghy or small sailing boat last night, and slipped in to the quay, silently, catching their victim unawares before thrusting that knife into her back and pushing her into the water. He needed to see if it was possible. And there was also the possibility that the victim had arrived with her killer by boat either before or after Richard Bolton had left, which he’d claimed had been at ten twenty-five. Bolton hadn’t seen the victim or her car.
But Horton was finding it difficult to navigate with precision on to the quay even in daylight, and in the dark it would have been extremely difficult, particularly as there hadn’t been a full moon last night to light the way. He was rapidly concluding that the killer would need to be an extremely skilled sailor to have arrived by this method, and that, as far as he was aware, didn’t fit the profile of any of Woodley’s associates. It wasn’t impossible, but as he saw Eames raise her hand to him, as he’d instructed, he thought it more probable that if the killer had come by sea he would have done so in a small motorized craft, such as a RIB, or a fishing boat equipped with lights. And that meant the victim would have been expecting it.
Steadily he brought the dinghy alongside the quay to the left of the diving operation.
Eames took up her role. ‘I’ve been waiting ages for you. I didn’t think you’d make it. We need to talk.’
‘Get on board.’
Eames looked uneasy. ‘I can’t, not in these shoes.’
No. The victim certainly hadn’t been dressed for sailing. ‘OK. I’ll come up.’ He swung nimbly onto the quayside and tied up.
‘What is it you want?’ Eames said, turning away as though to look out to sea.
Horton came round behind her. ‘You know.’
‘I don’t. I came here because you said it was urgent.’
Horton made as though he was carrying a knife. ‘It is. As urgent as this.’ And he thrust his hand into Eames’s back, where Dr Clayton had indicated the position of the stab wound, with his arm wrapped around Eames’s waist,
