Pauline Rowson - Death Lies Beneath

‘Motive?’

‘Perhaps she had something on him from back in 2001. He’s crooked now so he could have been crooked then. Skelton’s employing illegal immigrant labour but DI Dennings probably knows that already, or at least the Border Agency do, which is why they’re watching his tent at the festival. Garvard knew Skelton was a crook and he judged what Skelton’s response would be when he discovered that Sharon was returning. Skelton needed to find out what and how much Sharon knew, perhaps Woodley was even told to hint that she knew something about his current operations. He might not only be employing illegal immigrants, he could be trafficking in them, or drugs. Garvard could have picked something up on the prison grapevine, or from one of the Coastline delivery drivers. He’s a twisted bugger and a creative con man, he could easily have made up enough to convince Skelton. Skelton decided it was too risky to let Sharon live. Gregory Harlow saw Skelton kill her or suspected him of it and wanted more than another promotion out of him. Maybe he asked for a big fat pay rise or a bonus. He got killed instead.’

‘Right. I’ll get the Island police to bring him in and I’ll get a unit over to his house, have you got his address?’

‘No, but according to Iris it’s at Hamble and he has a boat in a marina. Could be Horsea Marina, nice and convenient for Tipner Quay. And he’s not answering his mobile.’

Horton relayed the number. It wouldn’t take them long to get Skelton’s address and locate the boat, and Skelton had no reason to suspect they were on to him and go into hiding. They would have their killer. But what if Skelton wasn’t at the festival and he wasn’t at home or on his boat?

Horton started the Harley and swung it in the direction of the church which had been robbed of its brass plaques. A short distance after it he indicated left and turned into one of the back streets, retracing on the bike the steps he and Eames had taken on Thursday. He came out by the Lord Horatio pub, which looked worse than normal in the gloomy weather and rain.

His thoughts veered from Ross Skelton to Woodley and Garvard. There was something he’d seen or noted in a gesture from the sick man, or was that just his imagination? He considered what he knew of Garvard and what Geoff Kirby had told him. Where was Ross Skelton now? Skelton and Sharon Piper, he ran it over in his mind. Something was troubling him. It was one small niggling doubt and the image of Garvard on that hospital bed flashed before him.

Before he knew it he found himself heading for the north of the city and within twelve minutes was drawing up outside a terraced house. It took some time for the door to be opened and when it did it wasn’t Patricia Harlow who stood before him but a fair-haired, blue-eyed, good-looking man in his early twenties. For an instant Horton thought he was being haunted before Dr Clayton’s words at Sharon Piper’s autopsy flashed through his mind: she’s borne a child. My God, now he knew why Patricia hadn’t wanted Connor Harlow at the mortuary with her when she had identified her husband’s body. And he also knew why Gregory Harlow had stayed with Patricia all these years. Horton showed his ID.

‘I’d like to speak to your mother,’ he said, knowing that would be impossible.

‘She’s not here.’ Connor Harlow looked anxious and upset, not surprisingly thought Horton, eyeing him closely. ‘Is it true that my father was murdered?’

‘I’m sorry to say it is. Does your mother know this?’

‘Yes. A woman police officer came a couple of hours ago to tell us. Have you any idea who could have done such a thing? Why kill Dad? He never did anything to harm anyone.’

Horton was rapidly thinking. ‘What did your mother do after she was given the news?’

Connor looked confused.

‘It’s important,’ Horton pressed as gently as he could while trying to suppress his concern and impatience. He was beginning to get a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach about this.

‘She didn’t cry, if that’s what you mean. She never does.’ There was a touch of bitterness in his voice and Horton thought he saw a brief flicker of anger behind the eyes. ‘I tried to talk to her but she blanked me out. That’s not unusual. She’s not the type of person you can. . she doesn’t show her emotions. She went into her surgery. She told me she needed to think and she couldn’t do that with me around.’ Now Horton heard the pain in the young man’s voice.

‘Did she telephone anyone?’

‘I don’t know. She might have done. She went out about ten minutes ago.’

Horton thanked him and hurried away. He felt a slight qualm for being so abrupt and for leaving the man bewildered and upset but time was critical. He told himself that Patricia Harlow could have gone to a friend who was consoling her in her grief, only he didn’t think Patricia had any friends. And from what he’d seen of her, and from his brief meeting with Connor Harlow, he doubted she needed consoling over her husband’s death. She might even be glad he was dead. From her reaction to the news Horton guessed she’d been working out who might have killed her husband and why. She wasn’t stupid, far from it. And there was only one place she could be.

The blue-and-white police tape on the cordon flapped in the wind as Horton drew the Harley to a stop just outside it. The sailing club was still closed, the road was deserted except for the two cars parked inside the boatyard, one belonged to Patricia Harlow and the other was as Iris had described it ‘like a tank’, a big four-wheel-drive cruiser: Ross Skelton’s.

Behind and above Horton the traffic swished and roared along the rain-soaked motorway. The day had drawn in early, the sky was a darkened hue making the sea of the harbour look a muddy grey, flecked with smudgy white foam. Horton tensed and hurried quietly forward through the empty boatyard. He hoped to God he wasn’t too late. He could see the two wrecks on the quayside but there was no sign of anyone and certainly not Patricia Harlow or Ross Skelton. Could they be inside the old boatshed?

Swiftly and silently he headed for the quayside, the rain running down his face, his ears straining for any sound. He eased his way around the wreck where Sharon Piper’s body had been found and drew up as the crane barge came into view. On it stood the bedraggled figure of Patricia Harlow, looking out across the rain-swept harbour. He reached it before she spun round, sensing his presence rather than hearing his approach, Horton thought.

In an instance he registered her ashen face, her blood-stained jacket and the bloody knife in her right hand before his eyes fell on the body that lay face down at her feet. It was Skelton. The back of his head was a mess of blood, flesh and bone but there was no knife wound. He rapidly theorized that she must have stood in front of him and stuck the knife into his guts taking him totally by surprise and then hit him over the head with a piece of metal piping he could see lying close by. And he didn’t think she’d acted in anger.

‘It’s over, Patricia. Put down the knife,’ he commanded with authority, while his heart was hammering fit to bust. Keeping his eyes on her he made to climb on the barge but she quickly stepped away from the body towards the edge and closer to the sea. The rain was drumming against it like a hundred stones being flung at the flat steel surface. Edged with a flimsy piece of wire strung out by poles not even knee high it wouldn’t take much for her to topple over.

‘I need to check if he’s still alive,’ Horton insisted, climbing onto the barge alert to the fact that at any moment she might step further back. But this time she remained still. She showed no signs of relinquishing the knife though. He didn’t like the fact that she was still holding a weapon which she could plunge into him while he was crouching over the body, but he assessed that he could dodge out of her way by the time she reached him and then he’d be able to easily disarm her.