And that brought them back to Harry Foxbury. He said, ‘Foxbury has had a woman on his boat but denies it. Both Eames and I smelt her perfume and he was with someone on Tuesday. It could have been Salacia. She might have arranged to meet him and he doesn’t want to admit it because of her body being found at his old boatyard.’
Uckfield pushed away his empty plate. Between mouthfuls, Horton continued, ‘Harlow could have taken Ellie out with him. She knew the sailing club and the old boatyard and agreed to meet him there. By the time he brought her back they’d rowed. Perhaps she’d refused to let him have what he considered to be payment for a day out. She threatened to tell his wife. He lost his temper, struck her a violent blow across the back of the head as she made to leave him. Then, seeing what he’d done, and that there was no way back, he pushed her body into the sea. Nobody knew they’d been together and the Harlows weren’t even questioned.’
Uckfield took up the theory. ‘Then Salacia shows up. She has to be connected with the Willards-’
‘Or Harry Foxbury,’ Horton interjected, suddenly seeing the link. ‘Salacia could have been at the boatyard to meet Foxbury that day. She saw something, kept quiet about it and now Harlow’s come into money via his aunt’s death, has returned to blackmail him.’
‘Sounds plausible.’ Uckfield picked at his teeth.
Horton finished his meal and sat back thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps she was blackmailing Gregory Harlow before she showed up at the funeral, which was why Woodley had her photograph. Harlow must have got it into the prison and somehow arranged for Woodley to get rid of Salacia, only he realizes he’s made a mistake and tries to silence Woodley. He makes a hash of it first time but second time around leaves his body on the marshes. And he decides to kill Salacia himself.’ At last he felt they were getting somewhere. There were holes in the theory but perhaps once they tracked Harlow down he’d be able to plug them.
Uckfield was looking more cheerful too. His eyes swivelled beyond Horton and he muttered, ‘Here comes her ladyship.’
‘And Harlow?’ asked Uckfield.
But Horton knew what was coming. Eames’ expression had given that away.
‘In the driver’s seat. Dead,’ she answered.
Uckfield cursed. Horton felt like doing the same but didn’t. He felt cheated.
‘Suicide?’ he asked. Had his theory been correct and Harlow realizing he had gone too far had killed himself?
‘They’re not sure, sir.’
Scraping back his chair, Uckfield said, ‘Then let’s find out.’
SIXTEEN
Harlow’s body lay slumped over the steering wheel. Horton’s stomach recoiled at the sight of the bluey-pink face and the sign of nesting flies in the eye staring sightlessly at him. The vehicle reeked with the smell of whisky and Horton registered the empty bottle on the passenger seat, the keys in the ignition and that Harlow was dressed in a similar or the same T-shirt he’d seen him wearing when he’d interviewed him on Thursday.
DCI Birch from the local CID addressed Uckfield. ‘The doctor says he’s been dead for approximately twenty- four hours.’
Horton thought it less than that because Harlow had logged out of the festival at ten thirty-five p.m. the previous night. Driving here would have taken him about thirty minutes and then another hour or so to drink himself to death, less possibly, if he’d taken drugs with the alcohol and Horton was betting he had. He also wondered if those drugs had come courtesy of Haseen Nader.
He said as much. Birch was eyeing him as though he was a nasty smell from the shore of Wootton Creek a mile away but Horton could deal with that. He didn’t care for Birch either, a lean inflexibly hard man with sparse light-brown hair above a thin-lipped gaunt face. As far as Horton was concerned Birch had about as much imagination and feeling as the tree he was named after, though to be fair to the plant at least that blossomed once a year, which was more than could be said for Birch the detective. Their paths had crossed several times in the past and had always resulted in friction, mainly because Horton had resolved the cases they’d been forced to work together on and Birch resented that.
Uckfield waved Clarke forward. Taylor and Beth Tremaine waited patiently for the photographer to finish. They’d all travelled across on the police launch, which had moored up on one of the pontoons at Fishbourne a couple of miles away. Two patrol cars had brought them here. Arc lights were in the process of being erected and the undertaker’s van was waiting close by, along with the police vehicle-recovery truck. Although this had all the hallmarks of suicide they couldn’t take any chances.
Moving some distance away, Uckfield addressed Horton. ‘Pity there’s no suicide note.’
‘He might have left one in the caravan he shares with Haseen Nader. I’ll call Ross Skelton to give him the news and tell him that we’ll need to search the caravan and question his staff.’ And judging by what he’d seen of Skelton he didn’t think the quick-tempered boss of Coastline was going to be very pleased about that, or Harlow’s death, mainly because it would inconvenience him.
Uckfield turned to Birch. Crisply he ordered, ‘Get your officers at the festival to search the caravan and put out a picture and description of the van, asking for any sightings of it. I also want a fingertip search done of this area.’ Horton caught a glimpse of fury in Birch’s grey eyes at Uckfield’s curt dismissive manner. That was not how a detective chief inspector should be addressed. But Uckfield would never forget or forgive the fact that Birch had tried to get him thrown off a case recently because he’d had an affair with someone involved in a murder investigation.
Turning his back on Birch, Uckfield said to Horton, ‘We’ll break the news to Patricia Harlow.’ Reaching for his phone Uckfield added, ‘I’ll call Dean.’
Birch marched off, rigid and livid. Horton rang Skelton and, as he’d expected, his initial reaction was that of fury. ‘That’s all I need!’ Then he seemed to recollect that one of his employees had died. ‘Why the hell would he want to do a bloody stupid thing like that? Who’s going to tell his wife?’
‘We will.’ Horton thought he heard Skelton sigh with relief. ‘We’ll need to question your staff and search the caravan.’
‘Why? I thought you said it was suicide.’
‘Routine procedure, sir.’
Grudgingly Skelton said, ‘If you have to.’
‘Thank you, sir. We appreciate your cooperation.’ If Skelton detected his note of irony he didn’t comment on it. Horton rang off considering Harlow’s suicide. The autopsy would confirm how he’d died and if he’d taken drugs, also what kind, but it couldn’t answer why Harlow had killed Ellie Loman or Salacia. And neither could it tell them Salacia’s real identity and why she’d been at the crematorium. Perhaps Patricia Harlow would know. And perhaps she’d be able to confirm that her husband had had an affair with Ellie Loman and Salacia. It would explain why she was so harsh and embittered. He wondered how she’d take this news.
Clarke moved away, indicating to Taylor that he had all the photographs he needed. He’d also taken a video. Horton asked Beth Tremaine to empty the dead man’s trouser pockets. This she did carefully and without flinching but then she’d had plenty of practice, Horton thought, watching her slender small hands stretch inside the dark blue cotton trousers.
‘Wallet with some money, credit cards and a security pass for the festival,’ she said before dropping it into an evidence bag. It was brown leather, and well worn. Horton noted that Harlow didn’t carry a photograph of his wife around but that didn’t mean anything significant.
‘There’s nothing else in his side pockets, Inspector. Do you want me to check the back pockets?’
Horton did. The body was stiff with rigor. He stepped forward to help her, steeling himself for the ordeal, but Taylor waved him aside. ‘We’ll handle this, sir,’ he said. Horton was only too pleased to let them get on with it.
