Pauline Rowson - Death Lies Beneath

He took a breath. In the silence Horton heard the rain start up again, thrashing against the window, and the solemn ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, where there was a photograph of a couple that was clearly Lawrence Sanderling and his late wife. In the flat above a dog began barking incessantly and a baby started crying.

‘Then just as I thought I’d be in the car all night she came down the boardwalk and got into her car.’

‘What time was this?’

‘Ten fifteen. She headed for Portsmouth. For a moment I thought she must know where I lived and was coming to see me. See how stupid I am,’ he said with a bitter laugh. ‘But she turned off and headed for the old boatyard at Tipner. I stayed well back because there are no street lights there and I didn’t want her to see me. I knew there was no other way out except that road, or by sea. So after a while I followed her, dimmed my lights and pulled up at the sailing club.’

Eames interjected. ‘Were there any cars there?

‘No. And it was in darkness. I had a torch in the car. I saw her waiting on the quayside. I headed for her. She must have heard me because she swung round. Perhaps if she hadn’t spoken I wouldn’t have killed her.’

Eames interrupted. ‘Sir, I should warn you that-’

‘Oh, don’t bother with all that now, you can caution me or whatever later. Besides even if she hadn’t spoken I guess I still would have killed her. After all, what have I got to lose? A prison cell has got to be better than this dump and I’ll be fed and kept warm.’

Eames flicked Horton a sad glance.

Sanderling continued. ‘Besides I didn’t only have a torch in my hand, as you well know. I also had the knife I use for gutting fish, which I keep in the car along with some other bits for fishing, when I get invited out. She said, “Who are you? What do you want?” I said something like, “You don’t remember your victims, then?” But why should a woman without a single shred of conscience, an evil wicked woman, remember the people she had destroyed? She told me to go away. And that if I didn’t she’d call the police and have me arrested for pestering her. I said, “Go on then call the police and I’ll tell them what you and that boyfriend of yours did to me, Edgar Willard and countless others.” That pulled her up sharpish for a moment then she said she didn’t know what I was talking about, and that obviously I was confused, suffering from some kind of dementia, and that people like me should be locked away in a home. She turned away. I grabbed her, caught the chain of her handbag on my arm, it broke and fell. She made to turn. I still had hold of her and I plunged the knife in her back and thrust her into the sea. I remember staring down at the water thinking, Good, now you won’t destroy anyone else’s life. I put the handbag in the boot of her car and drove it to the multi-storey car park at the ferry port. The car had a foreign number plate and I thought it was the natural place for it. It must still be there, unless you’ve found it.’

They hadn’t because they’d only recently got the registration number and no one had thought to check a legitimate car park for it. They’d been looking for it abandoned or flashed up somewhere.

Sanderling said, ‘I returned to the boatyard, got in my car and came home.’ He looked at both of them in turn. ‘I’ve been following the investigation on the news. I’ve been waiting for you to come. I didn’t know there was another body down there. Is it connected with that wicked woman?’

Horton answered, ‘We believe it to be the remains of Ellie Loman.’

Sanderling’s eyes widened with surprise. ‘Was she murdered?’

‘Yes.’ Horton knew he shouldn’t say anything about the case but Sanderling, although a killer — and Horton couldn’t condone what he had done — should know. ‘But not by Sharon Piper, although she knew about it. Patricia Harlow killed Ellie.’

‘My God!’ A veil of sadness touched his eyes.

Eames rose. ‘Would you fetch your coat, sir? Is there anyone you’d like to call? Your daughters perhaps?’

‘No. There’s no one.’ At the door he said, ‘When you’re old people stop noticing you.’

Yes, and that had been Horton’s mistake. He had thought nothing of the man going to the toilets in the crematorium until less than two hours ago. And if had recognized the significance of him earlier perhaps he could have saved two lives.

Sunday

Horton stepped out of the station and gazed up at the pale pink sky in the calm, fresh morning. The streets were silent. It had been a long night. They’d taken statements from Loman and Sanderling, both had refused to have a solicitor present, neither man seemed concerned about what would happen to him. Loman would probably receive a suspended sentence unless Patricia Harlow died but even then he would in all likelihood escape prison given the circumstances behind the attack, unless he was very unlucky with the Judge. And Sanderling? Horton simply didn’t know.

He took a breath. Uckfield had been bouncing around the station with a big grin on his craggy face, elated at clearing up one of Dean’s failed cases and disappointed that there was no one around to hear him crow about it. Monday though would be different. Horton thought they would hear about it on Ben Nevis. Uckfield would get his revenge on Dean for pulling in DCI Bliss to review one of his cases. He’d gone home about an hour ago along with an extremely tired Trueman and a weary and relieved Marsden because Uckfield in his joy had forgotten all about the press debacle. Only Eames remained inside the station. Horton thought he should call Mike Danby and tell him about Ellie Loman’s murder. Or perhaps he’d delegate that to Eames. Danby was staying in one of her family’s properties, after all.

He heard footsteps behind him. Eames.

‘Thought you’d like to know, sir. A call’s just come through from the hospital. Leo Garvard died this morning at three thirty-three.’ She looked as tired as he felt. Fatigued she appeared vulnerable, more approachable, and even more beautiful. He experienced a strong yearning to wrap his arms around her and hold her, which he quickly nipped in the bud, not without some difficulty. What was the point? She was out of his reach and she’d be returning to The Hague on Monday. He knew that wouldn’t have stopped other men from trying and might even have made seducing her more attractive but he wasn’t most men. He didn’t want a one-night stand. He wasn’t sure if Eames would want that either. God, he didn’t even know her first name.

‘Did they tell him what had happened?’

‘Yes, but whether he heard. .’ She shrugged. ‘He was unconscious.’

Horton knew though that hearing was the last sense to leave a person. So perhaps Garvard did know, and knowing, he had finally let go.

Eames continued. ‘We might discover who left the photograph of Sharon in Woodley’s cell now that Garvard is dead. I’m assuming that Garvard had the photograph all the time.’

‘Probably, but I don’t think anyone’s going to admit to putting it in Woodley’s cell.’

Eames considered this for a moment before saying, ‘And Ross Skelton attacked Woodley and because he made a hash of it first time he picked Woodley up from the hospital and took him to the marshes where he left him to die.’

It was the conclusion that Uckfield had drawn and the timing of Woodley’s visit to the coffee stall seemed to match it, although they didn’t have the exact date for when Iris saw him. Uckfield’s reasoning behind it was that Skelton had been planning to join forces with Sharon. ‘He was a crook and a killer,’ Uckfield had reiterated. ‘Woodley must have told Skelton, under Garvard’s instructions, that Sharon had a scheme he’d be interested in that would make him a great deal of money but that no one should know about it. That would have been enough for Skelton to silence Woodley. He proved himself a killer with Gregory Harlow’s death. He followed Woodley to the pub, waited until he came out then attacked him but he botched it. Then he picked Woodley up and took him to the marshes.’