Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

‘Anything new?’ Horton asked Trueman, fetching a beaker of water from the cooler.

‘Nobody’s dug any bodies up yet, if that’s what you mean,’ Trueman answered. ‘But it’s early days. I’ve got the results from the few fingerprints taken at the house, which could be the victim’s, but I can’t check if they match yet because we’re still waiting on Dr Clayton.’

Stretching across his mobile phone Horton said, ‘Take a recording of my anonymous caller, Dave, and see what Forensic get on it.’ He should have remembered earlier but it had got overlooked with everything else happening. He was very keen to trace the foreigner, though he judged it was going to be impossible from that one call. Remembering the manner of the call and the man’s disappearance from the scene, Horton thought again that there must be a connection with the victim, or her late husband. Unless he happened to be a delivery driver, or someone calling to cut the trees or clean the windows, or something similar, which was possible, although the tone had conveyed urgency and menace. He said as much to Trueman, who nodded wisely and said they were already looking into that.

‘I’ve also got a list of Felton’s fellow inmates,’ Trueman said, ‘the ones who shared a cell with him, and those released over the last six months, but it’s going to take some time checking if they have any connection with the Trotmans because we don’t have any photographs of Joseph Trotman, and we don’t know his real name. It’s a bit like pissing in the wind.’

Horton agreed. To make any headway they needed to find out who the Trotmans really were, and he wasn’t sure they were going to do that unless Uckfield got a breakthrough from his media appeal.

‘Do you recall anything about the Natalie Raymonds murder?’ he asked, biting into his sandwich.

Trueman didn’t even blink at the change of subject, but then Horton hadn’t expected him to. He said, ‘I wasn’t involved in it but I remember Detective Superintendent Chawley was heading it. He was a clever copper, sharp as a razor, and popular too. It was a good result and quick, one of those cases that was over before it began. Wish I could say the same for this one.’

‘Could you get me his address? I’d like to see what he remembers about Luke Felton.’

‘Sure.’

Horton crossed to study the photographs on the crime board. There were several now of the garden, the house and the lane approaching it, and some of where the boat had been moored. Trueman had also managed to find photographs of a similar make of yacht to the Trotmans’. A thought flashed through Horton’s mind, but before he could express it Uckfield’s office door crashed open and the big man emerged, pulling on his camel coat.

‘Dr Clayton’s finished the autopsy on Venetia Trotman and she’s gone all coy, insists on seeing me. Says she’s got something interesting to show me. I told her I’ve seen a corpse before but she clammed up, won’t tell me on the telephone what she’s found. I reckon she fancies me.’

In your dreams, thought Horton.

‘You can chaperone me in case she wants my body.’

‘For medical science you mean?’ muttered Horton, looking at the remaining sandwich in its packet — he doubted he’d have much appetite for it after another visit to the mortuary. ‘Present for you, Dave,’ he tossed it to Trueman, who caught it, examined it and said, ‘Thanks.’

In the car, Horton asked if anyone had seen the yacht, Shorena , going through Portsmouth Harbour.

Uckfield shook his head. ‘The bloody thing’s vanished.’

‘Perhaps it’s had a change of identity,’ Horton said, voicing the idea that had occurred to him while studying the pictures on the crime board.

Uckfield threw him a glance. ‘You mean while we’ve been fannying around asking about Shorena the bugger’s renamed her. Isn’t it bad luck to change a boat’s name?’

Horton nodded.

‘Good,’ Uckfield replied fervently. ‘I hope our killer gets swept overboard in a ruddy great storm, and gets hypothermia, concussion and his bits chewed off by the sea life before the lifeboat rescues him. How would he have had time to change the name?’

‘Easy. He came prepared with a sticker already made up and simply stuck it over the yacht’s existing name.’

‘A planned job then?’ Uckfield asked, indicating off the motorway. ‘Would Felton have the brains for it?’

Yes, thought Horton, recalling that Ashley Felton had said his brother had won a place at Oxford. ‘It could still be boat thieves who’ve done it a hundred times before, only this time Venetia Trotman surprised them.’

‘I’ll get a picture of a similar yacht circulated, and coppers walking the pontoons, checking every bleeding yacht of that type, and its owner.’

‘It could be in France or the Channel Islands by now.’

‘Then I’ll alert the authorities and the police there.’

They passed the rest of the short journey in silence. Horton wanted to ask whether Uckfield was still keen to get Dennings off his team but didn’t. If he was, then he would have mentioned it.

They found Dr Clayton in her office looking tired. But then, Horton thought, who wouldn’t be after the two thorough autopsies.

She began by confirming the time of death. ‘Between one thirty a.m. and four thirty a.m. on Friday. There was no salt residue on her clothes but there was grass and mud, which is what you would expect to find. I’ve sent her clothes and shoes to the lab along with samples from her skin and hair. I understand you’re having problems confirming her identity, Superintendent, a bit like your body in the harbour, Inspector Horton.’ She flashed him a brief smile before turning her gaze back to Uckfield.

‘Brian will let you have copies of her fingerprints and dental records before you leave and he’ll email them to Sergeant Trueman. All I can tell you for now is that your victim was a petite woman, five foot two and small boned. She’s probably in her mid to late thirties, has never had children or a pregnancy that went to full term, and isn’t a virgin. There are no distinguishing marks or tattoos on her and neither has she had any surgery or suffered broken bones. In fact, she was remarkably healthy. Good muscle tone, particularly in the legs.’

‘A runner?’ Horton asked, interested, as his mind flashed to Natalie Raymonds. Not that that was relevant, except for the possible link of Luke Felton. But Venetia Trotman could hardly have been out jogging in the early hours of the morning wearing her clothes.

Gaye said, ‘Possibly. She certainly liked to keep fit.’

Uckfield removed his finger from his nose. ‘I can’t see her belonging to a gym.’

‘She could have been a dancer.’

‘Or a walker.’ Horton recalled the walking shoes in her house. Perhaps she had kept fit by going for long walks along the shore.

Moodily, Uckfield said, ‘OK, we’ve had the edited highlights, now tell us how she died?’

Gaye rose and beckoned them to follow her to the icy cold room just off the mortuary, where she slid open the drawer. Horton steeled himself once again to study the body.

Pointing, Gaye said, ‘You can see the lacerations where she was bludgeoned across the head, face and neck.’ She pointed to the discoloured and cut skin. ‘Those wounds were inflicted by a heavy round metal object. I’m getting the traces of it analysed. But although the trauma to the face and head could have killed her, they didn’t. They were inflicted after she was dead.’

‘To make us think that was the cause of death?’ asked Horton.

‘Perhaps, but it was a clumsy attempt to do so. It wasn’t a frenzied attack, it was calculated.’