Pauline Rowson - Death Lies Beneath

‘OK, no need to get your underpants in a twist. Do the business.’ Uckfield jerked his head in the direction of the body. He stepped away and reached for his phone, presumably to call Dean. Horton saw the uniformed officer he’d instructed to check out the sailing club return and crossed to him while Clarke slipped into a scene suit and began to film the body. His SOCO colleagues, Taylor and Beth Tremaine, waited patiently nearby.

‘The club secretary’s details were on the door; a Richard Bolton, sir.’

Horton jotted them down. He rang Trueman and relayed Uckfield’s instructions and the club secretary’s details, then he called Walters. ‘Is DCI Bliss there?’

‘Just left, guv. She muttered something about seeing Superintendent Reine when I told her where you were.’

And Horton could guess why she’d gone running to their boss; to complain about his total disregard for proper procedure. He should have reported the incident to her and not Uckfield. But that would only have prolonged matters and besides the victim was connected with one of Uckfield’s investigations. Reine wouldn’t see it like that, though. Both he and Bliss were sticklers for procedure.

A red Mini pulled up and Dr Clayton climbed out. He returned her wave as she made for the wreck.

‘Did you find out whose funeral was after Woodley’s?’ he asked Walters.

‘Yes. The deceased is Amelia Willard, aged seventy-three. Her funeral was arranged by the Co-op in Fratton Road and it was the last funeral of the day at the crematorium. Want me to contact them for the address of her next of kin?’

Walters was thinking for once. Horton wasn’t sure that was a good sign. ‘Call me when you’ve got it. Any reports of missing persons fitting the victim’s description?’

‘No.’

It was early days yet. He rang off wondering if he should have asked Walters if there had been any further metal thefts, not because of Bliss’s meeting but because of Sergeant Elkins’ report of the propeller theft from the boatyard near Fareham. He looked across to the hulk where Dr Clayton, now in a scene suit, was climbing onto it. Uckfield was still on the phone. Clarke had finished taking his photographs and was talking to Taylor and Beth Tremaine. He called Elkins.

‘Sorry, Andy, I was just about to phone you. Do you need us at Tipner Quay? I heard about the body.’

‘No. What do you have on metal thefts from boatyards?’

‘That’s why I’m late getting back to you. I’m at Northney Marina, Hayling. Two alloy propellers were stolen from boats laid up in a small compound overlooking Chichester Harbour last night and a brass bell has been taken from an old clipper. It looks as though it’s the work of the same thieves who stole that brass propeller from the Fareham boatyard on Monday. No one in the marina office saw or heard anything, but the thieves didn’t need to drive that far because the compound is several hundred yards before you reach it. There are no CCTV cameras over this compound, and there’s no one in the office complex overlooking the boatyard at that time of night. Ripley’s asked at the nearby hotel but the night shift have gone off duty. If a vehicle was used then it would have driven past the hotel but I doubt anyone would have taken any notice of it going towards the boatyard. We’re putting out a notice to all marinas and boatyards.’

‘OK, keep me posted, especially if you hear anything about robberies or boats seen heading for Tipner quay last night.’

He rang off, wondering if the boat thieves were the same culprits as those responsible for stealing the bronze statue and the plaques in Old Portsmouth. They were different methods, one set of thefts on land and the other on water, but maybe they’d extended their operational range. Perhaps he should call Bliss and update her for her meeting. But he didn’t.

He made his way back to the body. The stench of the petrol fumes from the motorway seemed to be sinking lower over them in a smog as the morning grew hotter and more sultry.

He arrived as Uckfield came off the phone. His mood hadn’t improved.

‘Dean’s informing Sawyer. I said it would help if he let me have DI Dennings back instead of allowing him to ponce about on the Isle of Wight at that ruddy music festival with the Border Agency trying to sniff out illegal immigrant workers, but he said that was impossible . Anyone would think I’d asked for Sherlock bloody Holmes.’

Dr Clayton straightened up. ‘Do you want me to turn her over?’

Uckfield nodded leaving Horton to instruct Taylor to assist her. Horton waited eagerly. It was difficult to see the victim’s face until Dr Clayton brushed away the seaweed. Beth Tremaine dropped it into an evidence bag. Horton didn’t think forensic would get anything from it but they couldn’t take any chances. He studied the dark lifeless eyes, the dirt-smeared face with its high cheekbones, the shoulder-length black hair now free of the hat, which Tremaine had also put into another evidence bag, and although death had stripped the personality from the victim, Horton got confirmation of what he already knew: that it was the woman he’d seen at the crematorium yesterday.

Extricating herself from the wreckage, Dr Clayton said, ‘Stab wound to the lower back, but I can’t confirm that was the cause of death until I do the autopsy. There are no other obvious signs of physical assault, no marks visible to show that she turned and struggled with her attacker, but I need to examine her more closely on the slab to be certain of that. And there’s no identification on her or under her. No handbag I’m afraid, Superintendent, and there’s no sign of the missing shoe on the wreck.’

Horton said, ‘Any signs that she was brought here under duress?’

‘Not on the surface. I’d say her killer came up behind her while she was standing on the quayside, thrust the knife into her back, then pushed her into the water. At a rough estimate she’s been dead between ten to thirteen hours; some time between nine thirty p.m. and twelve thirty a.m. I can be more precise when I do the autopsy, which I’ll do as soon as she’s brought to the mortuary. But I was here last night.’

Uckfield eyed her, surprised. The red Mini that Manley had mentioned, thought Horton. He knew that Gaye Clayton was a sailor like him but he hadn’t known she was a member of the Tipner Sailing Club. No reason why he should know, they’d hardly discussed it. Corpses were more their usual topic of conversation.

Gaye added, ‘I certainly didn’t see her, although I was sailing in the harbour so I might have missed her arrival. But I didn’t see a car parked that I didn’t recognize when I left the sailing club just before ten.’

‘Who else was here?’ asked Uckfield sharply.

‘Your chief constable, for one; Paul Meredew.’

Uckfield’s craggy features registered surprise. Horton hadn’t known Meredew was a sailor but then why should he; he’d barely spoken two words to the new chief on his recent tour of the troops. He’d only been in post five weeks.

Gaye added, ‘Paul Meredew is a new member at the club. The commodore sponsored him; Councillor Dominic Levy.’

‘Christ, it gets worse,’ muttered Uckfield. ‘The chair of the Police Committee and the Chief Constable. Anyone else I should know about at this club last night? The local MP? The Home Secretary?’

Gaye smiled. ‘No, just Paul Meredew, Dominic Levy, Fiona Wright, who’s a radiographer at the hospital, and me; and Richard Bolton, who owns Print Easy, he was behind the bar and he’s also club secretary. There were a few more people in the club earlier having a drink but I don’t know them. You’ll need to check the times with Richard, or look in the log book. We all sign in, and sign out, so that should help, and Richard can give you their contact details.’