‘Edward Ballard’s making for Guernsey,’ Elkins reported.
Not France then as he’d said. But a man had the right to change his mind.
‘I’ve asked the Port to alert me when he arrives. His boat’s not registered at any of the marinas there. I’ve checked.’
That was good thinking and Horton said so. ‘Any joy with Horsea Marina?’
‘Yes. Ballard arrived there on Monday and paid cash for two nights’ berthing. He left late on Wednesday evening.’
Which coincided with his arrival at Southsea Marina.
Elkins continued. ‘The lock master says he doesn’t remember
And the same could be said for Foxbury’s tender, which Horton had seen on his motor cruiser. But Gregory Harlow’s disappearance made it look increasingly unlikely that either Foxbury or Ballard were involved in Salacia’s death.
He rang off after asking Elkins to notify him when Ballard reached Guernsey. He spent the remainder of the ferry crossing speculating on the reaction he’d get from the abrasive Patricia Harlow. Did she know her husband had gone walkabout? Maybe? Did she know why? Had she lied about not knowing Salacia? It seemed that her husband had, and if Salacia hadn’t been at the crematorium for Woodley’s funeral then perhaps she had been there to see Gregory Harlow. Could Harlow have been the man Ellie Loman had spent her last day with and Salacia, whoever she was, had discovered this and had threatened to tell? But why wait all these years? Had she only just found out? If so how? Had Harlow confessed it to her in a post-coital daze after drinking wine and eating lobster, then realizing what he’d done he’d killed her?
As Trueman had said they’d get little, if anything, from the search of Amelia Willard’s house but it would be interesting to see Patricia Harlow’s reaction when he told her about Ellie Loman. According to Danby this would be the first time she’d been questioned about her.
When he arrived outside the house, not far from Southsea Common, some thirty minutes later, he was surprised to find it much smaller and shabbier than he’d expected. The tiny terraced house fronted straight onto the pavement in a road of similar houses sporting satellite dishes on the front elevation on one side of the road and wheelie bins on both. A patrol unit was parked outside number fourteen and Eames was waiting for him in her hired car with a cross-looking Patricia Harlow.
‘I’ve got better things to do than watch you tear my aunt’s house to pieces,’ Patricia Harlow snapped, as she unlocked the door and they entered the musty smelling narrow passageway. Horton nodded at the two uniformed officers to begin their search. ‘I’ve had to cancel several appointments,’ she continued. ‘This is most inconvenient for me and my clients. I shall be making a formal complaint to your Chief Constable regarding this harassment over the death of a woman I know nothing about. And I shall demand financial compensation for loss of earnings.’
‘Of course,’ Eames answered politely but wearily. By her tone, Horton guessed she’d already heard this several times on the journey here. With a slight nod he gestured Eames towards the rear of the house and remained in the hall with Patricia Harlow. From the glimpse into the small front room Horton didn’t think there was much to ‘tear to pieces’. She’d said nothing about her husband being missing, so Horton surmised Ross Skelton hadn’t called her to ask her if she’d seen him, probably too busy at the Festival.
‘I don’t know what you expect to find,’ Patricia Harlow added, her expression stern as the sound of drawers opening came from upstairs.
Nothing significant clearly, Horton thought. ‘Shall we go into the kitchen.’ It wasn’t a question but a command. He stood back and gestured her forward. After a moment she marched towards it, annoyance in every short step.
It was larger than the Lomans’ kitchen but not much. It was also dated, with cupboards in a shiny sickly grey and a worn dark grey Formica worktop. Eames, who had been searching it, gave a slight shake of her head. She’d left the cupboards open and Horton could see they were empty. There was also a gap where the fridge must have been and another where a washing machine had once stood. It was spotlessly clean, though. Through the window, devoid of curtains or blinds, Horton could see a small concrete-covered yard with a rotary washing line, and beyond that a high wall, which backed on to the houses in the next street.
‘Let’s sit down.’ He waited for Patricia Harlow to sit, which she did primly on the edge of one of three wooden chairs at a small table pushed up against the wall, before sitting himself. Eames took up position next to him and opposite Patricia Harlow, who sat tight-lipped and frowning.
Eames removed her notebook from her jacket pocket. Danby’s words flashed through Horton’s head. This tiny kitchen in this tiny house was probably smaller than one of Eames’s daddy’s horse boxes. The sound of PC Allen searching the front room brought his thoughts back to the job in hand. He could hear Johnson clomping about upstairs. Despite the heat outside the house was cold.
‘Tell me about your aunt?’ Horton began.
‘There’s nothing to tell. I don’t know why you’re here. She was old and ill and she died.’
‘Of cancer you said, what kind?’
‘Is that relevant?’ she replied tartly.
‘Anything could be in a murder inquiry.’
‘Murder? Oh, you mean that woman at the crematorium. You must be mad if you think my aunt-’
‘Another body’s been found. We believe it to be that of Ellie Loman.’
Clearly that was a surprise. For a moment she was speechless then her eyes widened as she made the connection and scornfully she said, ‘So that’s what this is all about, you’re still persecuting Rawly after all these years, even though the poor man is dead, driven to his death, may I add, by the police harassing him. He never met her. He never saw her the day she disappeared and he never dated her. And if you think there’s anything left of my aunt’s belongings that will incriminate him then you are completely insane, not to mention the fact that you are wasting taxpayers’ money, and my time.’
Evenly Horton said, ‘Is that what he told you, that he had never dated her?’
‘He worked with her, he liked her, but he never asked her out.’
Eames looked up. ‘Why not?’
Patricia Harlow eyed Eames with something that bordered on contempt. Unaffected by it, Eames added, ‘Ellie Loman was an attractive young woman.’
‘That doesn’t mean Rawly went out with her.’
‘But he’d like to have done,’ insisted Horton.
Patricia Harlow’s eyes swivelled to Horton. ‘Rawly was a quiet man, sensitive. He didn’t have a great deal of confidence or experience when it came to women.’
And did that mean that when he finally plucked up the courage to ask her out he’d been rejected and hurt enough to kill her? Or perhaps he’d seen her with another man and in a jealous rage had killed her and pushed her body in the sea? But there had been no evidence to corroborate that. Could he have obliterated it so completely? And whatever the circumstances, Rawly Willard certainly hadn’t killed Salacia.
‘Your aunt’s cancer? What kind was it? We can find out from her medical records but it would be quicker if you told us.’
‘I don’t see why you want to know.’
‘And I don’t see why you are being so evasive,’ retorted Horton, sharply. He knew it wasn’t relevant to the inquiry but he wasn’t going to let her get away without answering. And her carping was beginning to get on his nerves.
‘Rectal cancer,’ she grouchily replied.
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s no need-’
‘Did you know Ellie Loman?’
‘No.’
It was said too quickly and her eye contact was evasive. ‘Let me rephrase the question, Mrs Harlow. Did you ever meet Ellie Loman?’
‘No.’
Another lie.
