Pauline Rowson - Death Lies Beneath

Tuesday 7 June 3.20 p.m.

‘Anything?’ Detective Superintendent Uckfield asked hopefully.

Inspector Andy Horton shook his head and pulled at his black tie. Loosening his collar, he stepped into the shade of a tree in the crematorium gardens hoping to find some relief from the burning sun and wondering what Uckfield, head of the Major Crime Team, and Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate had expected they’d gain by a police presence — a weeping confession from the killer of Daryl Woodley over his coffin? That would have been nice but Horton knew that Woodley’s handful of mourners would sooner have their private parts tattooed with a blunt and dirty instrument than confess to a crime. And grassing to the police was only one step below being a paedophile in their code. They’d got nothing out of them during the investigation into Woodley’s death and they’d get nothing now. And neither would the crime reporter from the local newspaper, Leanne Payne, he thought watching her slim figure move amongst the mourners as they stood blinking in the bright sunshine like miners released from deep underground.

She addressed a shaven-headed, skinny man with tattoos up his hairy arms. Reggie Thomas, like Daryl Woodley, had been released from Parkhurst Prison on the Isle of Wight in March. When questioned, Reggie claimed to have no knowledge of why his former fellow inmate had been assaulted just off the Portsmouth waterfront eighteen days ago, or why, after three days in hospital, Woodley had risen from his bed and somehow ended up dead at the marshes to the north of the city three miles from the hospital. No one claimed to have driven him there, it was inaccessible by public transport and he could hardly have walked that distance.

Despite Uckfield’s public appeals for information no one had come forward with any sightings of Woodley, either where he’d been attacked or where his body had been found by a man walking his dog. Exasperated, Uckfield had declared, ‘Someone must have seen him; this isn’t the Starship bloody Enterprise , he couldn’t have been beamed to the marshes.’ But it was almost as though he had been.

The pathologist, Dr Gaye Clayton, had said that Woodley had died from his earlier injuries, a violent blow to the head and hypothermia. Hard to believe with the temperature soaring to equatorial heights, thought Horton plucking at the shirt sticking to his back, but a fortnight ago it had been as cold as December.

Uckfield sniffed noisily. ‘Can’t think what they’re doing here, anyway. None of that lot had a good word to say about Woodley when he was alive.’

Did anyone? thought Horton. Even the chaplain had struggled to find a kind word for the man who had lied, cheated, robbed and assaulted his way through his forty-seven years.

‘Probably wanted to get their picture in the newspaper.’ And he’d witnessed some heart-breaking performances by them worthy of an Oscar, put on for the benefit of the local press photographer, Cliff Wesley, who’d been snapping away on their arrival.

‘This is a waste of time.’

A sentiment shared by Horton. DCS Sawyer was going to be disappointed, he thought. Sawyer’s department was also responsible for gathering prison intelligence and Sawyer believed that the attack on Woodley had been carried out on the instructions of big-time crook Marty Stapleton, currently in Her Majesty’s Prison Swansea, where he’d been transferred after Woodley had attacked him in Parkhurst in September. Horton had ventured the opinion that a crook as big as Stapleton wouldn’t bother himself with low-life scum like Woodley only to be told he would because Woodley had humiliated him, and Stapleton, with a record of robbery, violence and extortion, wouldn’t allow that to go unpunished.

Horton guessed there was something in that, but watching Woodley’s mourners shuffle off, he thought that Sawyer’s hope of apprehending and gaining information from Woodley’s assailant on where Marty had stashed the proceeds of his robberies was too optimistic.

‘Perhaps we should send Marty Stapleton some of Cliff Wesley’s photographs,’ he said.

‘Yeah, and while we’re at it we’ll send him a signed copy of the video Clarke’s shooting. Marty can watch that and have a good laugh.’

Clarke, the forensic photographer, was under Sawyer’s orders, filming the occasion in a van with darkened windows under the trees in the car park at the front of the crematorium. Horton wouldn’t have wanted to exchange positions with him in this heat. He saw DC Marsden cross to Leanne Payne, who had lingered to jot down the words of condolence on the labels of the few floral tributes laid out on the cold slabs beside the aisle. They exchanged a few words and smiles before Leanne Payne moved off in the same direction as Woodley’s mourners.

‘At least she didn’t ask for a comment,’ Uckfield growled.

‘Unless Marsden gave her one.’

‘I’ll have his balls for doorstops if he did.’

But Horton knew it was easy to get caught out, especially when the reporter was experienced and keen, and the copper, despite his degree and being on the fast-track entry system, was inexperienced in handling investigations and the media.

Marsden straightened up as they drew level. ‘There are no flowers from any anonymous source, sir, or from anyone we don’t know,’ he said with disappointment.

‘His killer’s hardly likely to send a wreath and sign his bloody name,’ Uckfield snapped before striding off.

‘It’s the heat,’ Horton tossed at Marsden before following Uckfield through the aisles and past the courtyard where he stepped aside to allow a sombrely dressed elderly man to pass. But Horton knew the temperature had little to do with Uckfield’s foul mood but more to do with the fact that ACC Dean had been constantly on the Super’s back carping about the lack of progress in the Woodley investigation.

‘Just look at them with their bling, beer guts, tattoos and tits,’ Uckfield exploded. ‘Bloody villains the lot.’

Horton didn’t think he was referring to the small crowd of mainly elderly mourners gathering outside the waiting room for the next funeral, or the attractive suntanned woman in her mid-forties in the figure-hugging black dress, high-heeled court shoes and a wide-brimmed black hat standing a short distance away from them. He watched her scan Woodley’s mourners with, he thought, an air of puzzlement, but then, as Uckfield had pointed out, they were enough to cause anyone bewilderment.

‘And what’s that bloody press photographer still doing here?’ Uckfield continued, as Wesley turned his camera towards them. ‘Hasn’t he got enough pictures by now?’

Horton would have thought so. Leanne Payne crossed to Wesley and they huddled over his camera, obviously examining the digital images Wesley had shot. Horton turned his gaze on Woodley’s mourners as they made for their cars. With surprise he saw Wayne and Maureen Sholby climb into a new Mercedes and Darren Hobbs into a new Audi. Either benefit payments had increased massively or they’d won the lottery, and as he considered neither was likely he was curious to know how they could afford to drive such expensive new motors.

Uckfield turned to Marsden, ‘ If you can tear yourself away from ogling Leanne Payne’s tits it’s time we got back to solving crimes that deserve it.’ He stomped off leaving Marsden to scurry after him.

Horton decided to follow suit. There was nothing more to see here, though he took one final look around. His glance again fell on the woman with the large-brimmed black hat. She hadn’t joined the elderly mourners congregating outside the chapel entrance but stood for a moment looking at them, then Leanne Payne caught his eye and seemed about to make a beeline for him. It was definitely time to leave.