Pauline Rowson - Death Lies Beneath

‘Could she have been a neighbour of Amelia’s?’

‘Her neighbours are over sixty and they were at the service.’

‘A friend then?’ persisted Eames.

‘Amelia was seventy-three and that woman is clearly a lot younger.’

‘It doesn’t mean they couldn’t have been friends.’

Pointedly consulting the clock on the wall above the client’s chair, Patricia Harlow said, ‘Amelia didn’t have many friends and before you ask she didn’t have any family either. Her son, Rawly, died in 2002 and Uncle Edgar died soon after. There is only me and my husband, Gregory.’

‘And where can we find him?’ asked Horton.

‘I don’t see why you need to bother him,’ she said sharply, frowning.

‘There’s always the chance he caught sight of her.’

‘He didn’t.’

Horton said nothing and was pleased that Eames kept silent too. After a moment Patricia Harlow was forced to add, ‘He’s event catering manager for Coastline Catering and he’s on the Isle of Wight for the Festival.’

Where DI Dennings and most of the drugs squad were. But that was only a ten-minute trip across the Solent on the hovercraft or thirty-five minutes on the car ferry, less on the police launch. Removing a photograph of Daryl Woodley from his jacket pocket, he said, ‘Do you recognize this man?’

She gave an exaggerated sigh and studied it briefly. Horton wondered if she might recognize it from the local newspapers. But she shook her head. ‘No.’

‘His name is Daryl Woodley.’

Clearly that meant nothing to her either. ‘His funeral was the one held before your aunt’s.’

‘Then that woman must have been at that.’ Her hand grasped the door handle. But Horton hadn’t finished yet.

‘We’ll need a list of all those who attended your aunt’s funeral with their contact details, please. How soon can you draw one up for us?’

‘Is that really necessary?’

Horton held her exasperated glance and remained silent even though he felt like shouting, yes it bloody well is. Eventually she had to capitulate. Grudgingly she said, ‘Call back after seven. I’ll have it for you then.’

Horton would have liked it sooner and no doubt so would Uckfield, but Patricia Harlow was already showing in her elderly client.

‘Charming woman,’ Eames said sarcastically, as they walked the short distance to the car. ‘I wouldn’t like to be one of her clients.’

‘She could be sweetness and light to them.’

‘It seems that the victim was there for Woodley’s funeral.’

But Horton would reserve judgement on that for a while at least. He told her to head for the newspaper offices, giving her directions. ‘Leanne Payne, the journalist who covered Woodley’s funeral, and the press photographer, Cliff Wesley, might remember seeing the victim.’

‘Won’t that alert them?’

‘They probably already know about it.’ He thought of Ethan Crombie on his mobile phone. ‘The newspaper won’t be able to run anything until tomorrow anyway.’ But that didn’t stop the news appearing on the Internet or on television and radio, and for all he knew Crombie, or one of the others, might already have informed them. Perhaps uniform were keeping reporters and camera crew at bay at the crime scene right now and Marsden was making with the ‘no comments’. The press were not Horton’s favourite people but there were many times when they needed their assistance and this might be one of them.

He called Uckfield, who was not overly optimistic about that. So far no one from the media had been on to him. Horton relayed the interview with Patricia Harlow and added that he and Eames would also call in on the funeral directors to see if any of the pall-bearers or drivers remembered seeing the woman in the black hat. There was no point contacting Woodley’s undertakers because they had left immediately after depositing the coffin in the chapel. There hadn’t been any need for them to stay. Woodley had no relatives, and no one had booked or paid for a car to take anyone to a wake, if there had been one.

He rang off and addressed Eames. ‘So what do Europol have on Marty Stapleton?’ He’d not had time to discuss the case with her on the way to Patricia Harlow’s because it had only taken them twelve minutes and most of that time had been taken up by Bliss’s call. She’d rung for an update while Eames had used her satellite navigation to locate the Harlows’ residence.

‘Nothing that you don’t already know, sir.’

Horton doubted that. ‘Try me.’

She flashed him a glance and obviously caught his dubious expression. ‘For the last two months I’ve been working on mapping and analysing major jewellery robberies that have taken place across Europe over the last fifteen years, liaising with officers across the Continent, trying to establish a connection between the robberies, apart from the jewellery that is, and if the proceeds are being used to fund criminal activity and if so what kind. Stapleton’s series of robberies along the south coast of England, committed between 1997 and 1999, targeting jewellers and jewellery reps, were included. I’m sorry to say I haven’t made any real progress. When DCS Sawyer reported that Daryl Woodley had been found dead and that he’d not only been in the same prison as Marty Stapleton but had attacked him, I was asked to fly over and liaise with the Intelligence Directorate to see if we could establish a new link or get further information. I only arrived yesterday. This morning I was with DCS Sawyer at police headquarters, when he took the call from ACC Dean about the dead woman. I was told to report to the ACC at the station and when I arrived I was given instructions to work with the Major Crime Team.’

So a desk Johnnie then and not operational, thought Horton. Eames might be better utilized working with Trueman in the incident suite rather than interviewing potential witnesses and suspects. He admitted she’d acquitted herself well with Patricia Harlow, but that had been basic stuff.

Eames was saying, ‘I know from the file that Stapleton netted millions of pounds, which have never been recovered, and neither has he named his confederates, although one of them was caught with him; Billy Baldwin. He was sent down with Stapleton in 2000 and died in prison.’

‘Of a massive blood clot on the brain, two months into his fifteen-year sentence.’

‘Yes. Baldwin was in a prison in another part of the country from Stapleton and his death was not considered suspicious but he had shown signs of wanting to do a deal and get his sentence reduced.’

‘And that would have been enough to bring Marty out in a rash and arrange to have Baldwin disposed of.’

‘The autopsy confirmed natural causes.’

‘It would.’

‘You think it was rigged?’

Horton shrugged to disguise his true answer, you bet it was.

She continued, ‘None of the stolen items have resurfaced either in their original or in any other form. And we haven’t been able to trace an account in Stapleton’s name either here or abroad despite running a number of combinations of his name and his background through all the major banks and investment houses across Europe and in various international tax havens.’

‘Right. No, I mean turn right here.’

‘Oh.’ She indicated and swung into the newspaper office car park.

He waited until she had silenced the engine before saying, ‘Does the description of the victim match anyone you’ve come across while mapping and analysing?’

‘No, not from memory, but I haven’t run her profile through the computer. Someone in the Intelligence Directorate or one of my colleagues at Europol is probably doing that now.’

‘Then let’s hope they come up with something. Meanwhile let’s see what the press remember about her.’