Pauline Rowson - Death Lies Beneath

Cliff Wesley was out on a job but they were given directions to the newsroom on the third floor of the modern building, where they found Leanne Payne amongst a handful of reporters whose eyes were glued to their computer screens. Horton introduced Eames as a colleague without giving any reference to her working for Europol. That would have alerted Leanne Payne to the possibility of an international connection, which would have had her drooling with excitement. So far they had managed to keep any connection between Woodley’s death and Stapleton quiet, but for how much longer Horton wasn’t sure, especially as Leanne Payne had spoken to Reggie Thomas yesterday at the funeral.

Eyeing them both curiously she said, ‘I don’t expect you’ve come here voluntarily to give me a statement about Woodley’s murder. And if you had managed to catch his killer, then Detective Superintendent Uckfield would be crowing about it to a packed press room.’

Ignoring her sarcasm, Horton said, ‘What did you get from Woodley’s mourners?’

She cocked her head on one side and gave a sardonic smile. ‘That desperate, are we, Inspector? Hoping the local press will give you the lead you so badly need in this brutal murder?’

Horton didn’t rise to the bait. She was trying to goad him, and he could well imagine the headline, Police dismiss murder because victim was a criminal. Editorial would then pitch in and preach that no matter what the man had done he was still a human being and deserved the final dignity of his killer being found. Horton wanted that too even though Woodley had completely disregarded the dignity of his many victims, the last of whom had been a man in his eighties who Woodley had threatened with a knife, tied up and beaten, before stealing the small amount of cash the old man had. Woodley had got eleven years for that, double it wouldn’t have been long enough as far as Horton, his colleagues and the man’s relatives were concerned. The victim had died nine months after the attack, and in Horton’s mind, Woodley had as good as killed him. The victim’s daughter and her family had moved to New Zealand but no matter how far they went, Horton reckoned the pain and trauma of the incident would never leave them.

Stiffly, he said, ‘Withholding information is a serious offence, Miss Payne.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘I got nothing out of them, which is what you’d expect. Oh, except that the police were corrupt and a bunch of wankers and worse.’

Horton said, ‘We’re used to such praise.’

She smiled, waved them into seats at the empty desk behind her and swivelled round to face them.

Horton said, ‘Do you remember seeing a slender woman in a tightly fitting black dress, wearing a large black hat, at the crematorium?’

She eyed him keenly. Horton could see her journalistic antenna quivering like an aerial in a hurricane. ‘High-heeled black court shoes, dark hair, nice sun tan. Yes, I noticed her. Is she connected with Daryl Woodley?’

He could see her fighting the urge to reach for her notepad and pen. His eyes scanned her desk but he couldn’t see a Dictaphone.

‘That’s what we’re trying to establish.’

‘Who is she?’

‘We don’t know.’

For a moment she looked as though she didn’t believe him then saw he was telling the truth. ‘You’re trying to trace her.’

Rather formally he said, ‘A woman fitting that description was found dead at Tipner Quay this morning. We’re treating her death as suspicious and trying to establish her identity.’

Her grey eyes widened. ‘Can I use this?’ She reached across her desk and grabbed her notepad. Even if Horton said no he knew she’d ignore him. She was probably already calculating how soon she could sell the story to the nationals.

At a sign from Horton, Eames handed across the photograph. ‘Have you ever seen her before, apart from at the crematorium yesterday?’ she asked.

Leanne Payne studied it carefully then shook her head. ‘No. Can I keep this?’

‘No,’ answered Horton.

Reluctantly she handed it back. ‘Who discovered her? How did she die?’

Horton answered. ‘Detective Superintendent Uckfield is in charge of the investigation, he’ll be giving a press briefing in due course.’ When, though, Horton had no idea.

Leanne Payne eyed him pleadingly. ‘Can’t you give me more than that?’

‘It’s too early in the investigation yet.’

‘I’ve heard that one before.’

Eames said, ‘When did you first notice the woman?’

‘After Woodley’s funeral when I was talking to Cliff. I thought she was there for the next funeral.’

Horton wondered if she’d call the crematorium to get the details of the funeral party following Woodley’s to help her flesh out her story. Even if the crematorium staff wouldn’t give her that information, she’d easily be able to get it from the name on the aisles where the flowers were laid out or possibly from the announcement of deaths in her employer’s newspaper. From what he’d seen of Patricia Harlow he didn’t think she’d be very pleased at being contacted by the press but he didn’t doubt that she’d be able to handle it in her own imitable way.

He said, ‘Did Cliff Wesley mention this woman to you?’

‘No, but he might have taken pictures of her.’ She leapt up. ‘The picture editor will have them.’ She set off at a pace, assuming they would follow. They did, along a short corridor to the next smaller room littered with photographs, newspapers, computer screens, keyboards and cables. Swiftly she explained the situation to a man in his mid-fifties with wild grey hair, who she introduced as Peter Kelvin. He called up the photographs on his computer and Horton quickly scanned Woodley’s mourners doing their best to look heartbroken both before and after the service. When pictures of him, Uckfield and Marsden came up on the screen he groaned inwardly. He had a feeling one of them was going to feature very large in tomorrow’s newspaper along with a headline that contained the words ‘police’ and ‘baffled’. There were no photographs of the woman in the black hat.

Disappointed, Leanne Payne said, ‘Are you sure you can’t let me have that picture of her? It might help speed up your inquiries.’

‘Not at the moment,’ Horton said firmly. He knew that she’d be on to Uckfield the moment they left. He asked the picture editor when Wesley might return.

‘He’s out on jobs for most of the day. You can have his mobile number, though.’

Eames took it down. Leanne Payne scurried off to write her copy and make her phone calls. In the car Eames called Wesley but there was no answer. She left a message for him to call her urgently. Horton gave her directions to the undertakers who had handled Amelia Willard’s funeral. They were fortunate to find the director in his office rather than conducting a funeral. His response to their questions was disappointing, though. After studying the photograph the large man with a thick greying walrus moustache said, ‘I didn’t see her either before or after the service. I’ll ask the two drivers if they saw her.’

Horton left his number but he wasn’t optimistic about gaining new information.

Heading back to the station, Eames said, ‘He confirms what Patricia Harlow told us, which means the victim must have been there for Daryl Woodley’s funeral.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Horton had been giving the matter consideration. ‘She could have been there to visit a floral tribute left from a recent funeral, or a memorial written in the Book of Remembrance. She could have arranged to meet someone there, and was looking for them when Woodley’s crowd emerged.’

‘Wearing funeral clothes?’ Eames said, making it clear she thought that unlikely.