‘Did your husband?’
‘No.’
Horton left a few seconds silence before saying, ‘What were your aunt and uncle like?’ She looked disconcerted by the sudden change of conversation, as Horton had intended.
‘They were decent law-abiding people. My uncle was a very principled man.’
‘Harsh?’ asked Eames.
‘No. Fair. Upright. He tended to see things in black and white. He worked for the Inland Revenue, rose to be a senior officer there. He was clever with money. He had investments.’ Her voice trailed off. Horton sensed a ‘but’.
‘He played the stock market?’
‘No. But he made one or two unsound investments and lost some money that he was hoping would see him and my aunt through their retirement. When Rawly killed himself my uncle went downhill rapidly. He died within a year. My aunt got the life insurance and half his pension but it wasn’t much and the house was too big and had too many unhappy memories for her. She lived in one of those large rambling Edwardian houses off the seafront. She sold up and moved here a year after Uncle Edgar died.’
Horton said, ‘And now you inherit.’
Patricia Harlow eyed him with something akin to loathing. ‘Yes, though that’s none of your business.’
PC Johnson flushed the upstairs toilet. He was probably searching under the bath. Horton heard PC Allen climb the stairs. That meant he’d found nothing in the two rooms downstairs or in the cupboard under the stairs. Horton leaned back in his chair and kept his eyes on the stiff-backed woman beside him. ‘Where were you and your husband the day Ellie Loman disappeared?’ Horton noted that her hands, clasped together on the table, tightened.
‘I don’t remember.’
‘The day your cousin was accused of murder!’ Horton scoffed. ‘I’d have thought it would be imprinted on your mind. But let me remind you. It was Sunday 1 July 2001.’
‘Then I was at Mass in the morning.’
‘And in the afternoon?’ pressed Horton, knowing there was something she was uncomfortable about telling him.
She shifted position. One hand reached for a tissue from the pocket of her jacket. ‘I went to my aunt’s for tea.’
‘With your husband?’
‘No.’
‘Did your husband go to church with you?’
‘He’s not a Catholic.’
‘So where was your husband, Mrs Harlow?’
‘I don’t see why you should be asking now. No one was interested before.’
Horton said nothing.
After a moment she said, ‘If you really must know, he went fishing.’
‘On a boat?’ Horton asked sharply.
‘Where else would you go fishing?’ she sneered.
‘Yes. We had a small day boat then.’
‘Then?’
‘Greg sold it a few years ago.’
Had he, though? ‘When exactly?’
‘I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.’
‘
‘Did he go fishing alone on that day?’
‘I think so. I don’t know. Why all this interest?’
‘Where did he keep the boat?’
‘On a mooring in Portsmouth Harbour,’ she said with a note of exasperation.
This was getting even more interesting. So Gregory Harlow must have been familiar with Foxbury’s boatyard, and he had no alibi for the day of Ellie’s death. Horton knew that his expression gave nothing away but Eames had caught on and even though she showed no emotion he could sense her excitement.
He said, ‘If it was on a mooring in the harbour your husband would have rowed out to it.’ And perhaps he had done that from the slipway at the Tipner Sailing Club. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it.
‘I suppose so.’ But her exasperation was tainted with an air of unease.
‘From where?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Oh, come on, you never asked him or went with him?’
‘I certainly never went with him and what he did with his boat was his business. I wasn’t interested in it.’
Unfortunately that had a ring of truth about it.
Eames said, ‘What time did your husband return home that day?’
‘I can’t remember.’
But Horton wasn’t going to let her get away with that. ‘Let me rephrase my colleague’s question, how long was it after you returned from your aunt’s that your husband came home?’
‘A couple of hours,’ she shrugged, but avoided looking at him.
‘And that was when?’ persisted Horton.
She looked annoyed she fallen into the trap. ‘I left my aunt’s at six, Gregory got home around about eight. I can’t see why you want to know all this. We had nothing to do with that girl’s disappearance. We didn’t even know her.’
But she was edgy. ‘Was your uncle at home that day?’
‘No. He was playing golf on Hayling Island.’
Horton wondered if there was any way of corroborating that after all these years. He doubted it. ‘Did he return home while you were with your aunt?’
‘No. And before you ask I don’t know what time he came in. That surely must be in your files.’
Horton would ask Trueman. ‘Did Rawly return while you were with your aunt?’
‘No.’
‘So he still wasn’t back when you left at six?’
‘I’ve just said, haven’t I?’
‘Who arranged your aunt’s funeral?’
She looked surprised at the question. ‘I did, obviously.’
‘Why did you choose that date and time?’
‘It was the only one available,’ she said with irritation. Horton raised his eyebrows in surprise, forcing her to add, ‘And convenient. With Gregory at the Isle of Wight Festival it had to be then. His boss wasn’t very pleased when he asked for the time off.’
‘And neither of you asked this woman to your aunt’s funeral?’ He pushed the photograph of Salacia at her.
She didn’t look at it. ‘I’ve already told you, no.’
And the other mourners had confirmed they didn’t know her.
‘Did you know that Daryl Woodley’s funeral was being held just before your aunt’s?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘How should I have known that? I’ve no idea who he is. I’ve never seen him before or heard of him.’
Horton rose. She looked surprised then relieved. But if she thought she was off the hook she was mistaken. ‘Shall we go into the front room?’ PC Allen entered with a slight shake of his head. With a silent command Horton indicated for him to check outside.
