Pauline Rowson - Tide of Death

'So Uckfield is right? And she also killed Culven?'

'Why aren't her fingerprints and DNA in Culven's house? Why aren't they on those letters? Get a team in here, Barney. See if we can find any evidence that Culven came here, though I think it unlikely.' Horton slipped the birth certificate into an evidence bag. It might have no bearing on the case but it was one of those oddities. He was interested to see what she would have to say about it.

'They had separate bedrooms,' Cantelli said. 'But his room is like a hotel bedroom. There's nothing personal in it. No papers.'

'And there are no papers here belonging to Thurlow either. There might be a safe. I'll get Marsden to ask her.' Horton pulled out his mobile and rang the station.

They continued their search and had almost finished it when Marsden rang back.

'There's no safe,' Horton told Cantelli.

'So where did he keep his cheque book, bank statements, passport?'

'Where indeed? Let's ask her.'

She said she didn't know. 'Or won't say,' Cantelli ventured, later.

'We need to cherchez la femme.'

'Or l'uomo!'

'Judging by the clothes Thurlow was found dressed in, you could be right.'

Tuesday

'Mr Calthorpe's at a client meeting,' Mrs Stephens managed to blurt out in between sobs. Clearly she had taken the news of her boss's death badly. Far worse than his wife, Horton thought, as he looked at her red, swollen eyes. She led him into Thurlow's office, Cantelli following behind.

'Is Mr Parnham in?'

'I'll tell him you're here.'

Horton threw himself into Thurlow's large black leather swivel chair and gazed around the spacious and immaculately tidy office. Thurlow had been too important to have filing cabinets in here; they were in Mrs Stephens' adjoining one where he could hear her quiet sobbing.

When he had questioned Melissa about the birth certificate, she had been surprised he'd found it, then fearful and finally relieved, as if it had only just dawned on her, he thought, that her husband was no longer around to verbally torment her. Her reasons for hiding it had been as he had suspected.

He recalled their conversation.

'Do you know who your birth father is?'

'No and I don't care,' she had replied fiercely. 'I was illegitimate, as you now know, but when my mother met Randall Simpson and learnt from him that he couldn't have children, I was taken from the Barnados home. I was only two years old, so I don't recall anything about my time in the home.'

Lucky you, Horton thought, her words conjuring up unpleasant memories of his time spent in a home.

'Did your mother ever tell you anything about your father?' All he could recall his mother saying was 'your father was a waste of space'.

'Only that he gave her double trouble. When

I asked her what she meant she hinted that I hadn't been her only illegitimate child.'

'Older or younger? Brother or sister?'

'I don't know.'

Horton picked up one of the executive toys on Roger Thurlow's desk and turned it. As the liquid inside ran down he pulled at the desk drawers and began to poke around inside.

Cantelli took the sideboard on the far wall. 'Not much here. Just drink and some glasses.' 'Nothing here either, stationery, the odd letter, nothing important.'

The door opened and a man swept into the room. He reminded Horton of an actor on Gala night his manner was confident and self-assured. The eyes were intelligent and assessing behind the small John Lennon type spectacles. Uckfield would have approved of that suit. Horton recognised Parnham from the photograph on Thurlow's Boardroom wall: the runner with the medal and the disabled children.

'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, inspector. This is dreadful news. I simply can't believe it. Roger dead!'

'Won't you sit down, Mr Parnham?' Horton gestured him into the chair opposite.

He sat. 'How was Roger killed? Oh I've read about it in the local newspaper and the press have been hounding us ever since but no one's told me what actually happened. I've tried calling Mrs Thurlow but there's no answer. Is it true you've taken her in for questioning? One of the reporters told me. You can't honestly think she has anything to do with this dreadful business?' He removed his glasses and gave them a quick polish before replacing them. The sun glinting off his spectacles made his expression difficult to read.

Horton said, 'When did you last see Mr Thurlow?'

'Friday before last, when he went to his boat.'

'Did he leave the office before you?'

'Yes. He left at about six thirty. I locked up at seven and went straight to the ferry port. I was catching the eight thirty ferry to St Malo. I have a cottage in north Brittany, a beautiful part of the world. It's just outside Cancale, a village famous for its oyster beds much as Emsworth used to be. That's where I live.'

'And you were in France all weekend?'

'Yes. I returned on Wednesday evening.'

'Did you hear from Mr Thurlow at any time over the weekend?'

'No. Mrs Stephens phoned me on the Monday morning when Roger didn't return. She thought he might have taken his boat across to France to meet me. Then she called me again early on Wednesday morning. I told her to call Mrs Thurlow.'

'How did Mr Thurlow seem to you the last time you saw him?'

Parnham hesitated. For the first time in the interview he looked ill at ease. 'He was OK.'

Parnham was keeping something back, that much was clear to Horton but what and why? Perhaps it was out of loyalty to his late boss? He decided not to press it for the moment. 'Mr Parnham, can you think of anyone who would want to harm Roger Thurlow?'

'No, I can't. He was a very popular man, well liked, especially by his clients.'

Horton fell silent. A telephone was ringing along the corridor; he could hear someone's footsteps hurrying passed.

Parnham cleared his throat but just as he made to speak, Horton said, 'Can you tell us why, when we found Mr Thurlow, he should be dressed in women's clothes?'

'Ah.' Parnham showed no signs of being shocked.

'You knew about this?'

'About his dressing up, yes. I found some photographs in his desk. It was about three months ago. I was looking for something else. I asked Roger about them. Of course it was none of my business what he got up to in his spare time but I told him he should either keep that sort of thing away from the office, or at least keep his desk locked. I didn't want to know about it, but I suppose he was relieved to have someone to talk to. He couldn't explain why he did it but he said it, er, gave him a kick.'

'He told you this?' Horton asked surprised.

Cantelli's pen hovered over the notebook.

'We didn't labour over it.'

'He was a transsexual?'

'I wouldn't go as far as to say that. I don't think he went out in the clothes, only dressed up in them in private and…' Parnham hesitated. Horton waited.

Parnham shrugged, 'Well I suppose you might as well know it all now, inspector. There seems no point in keeping anything back. He went to parties; you know the sort of thing I'm sure. Apparently these people advertise in magazines. Sex magazines. I also found one of them in Roger's desk.'

Horton knew all right.

Parnham leaned forward, his expression earnest and concerned. 'Now you can see why I had to confront Roger with it. Can you imagine what would have happened if Mary Stephens, or one of the younger members of staff, had found it?'

Horton thought the younger staff would probably have had a good laugh over it. Mrs Stephens he wasn't so sure about.

'Is there anything else that Roger Thurlow told you about these parties, Mr Parnham?' Horton asked hopefully. Uckfield's conviction that he had found the killer had distracted him. This stank of Jarrett and his blasted club.