Horton would ask Trueman. ‘Did Rawly return while you were with your aunt?’
‘No.’
‘So he still wasn’t back when you left at six?’
‘I’ve just said, haven’t I?’
‘Who arranged your aunt’s funeral?’
She looked surprised at the question. ‘I did, obviously.’
‘Why did you choose that date and time?’
‘It was the only one available,’ she said with irritation. Horton raised his eyebrows in surprise, forcing her to add, ‘And convenient. With Gregory at the Isle of Wight Festival it had to be then. His boss wasn’t very pleased when he asked for the time off.’
‘And neither of you asked this woman to your aunt’s funeral?’ He pushed the photograph of Salacia at her.
She didn’t look at it. ‘I’ve already told you, no.’
And the other mourners had confirmed they didn’t know her.
‘Did you know that Daryl Woodley’s funeral was being held just before your aunt’s?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘How should I have known that? I’ve no idea who he is. I’ve never seen him before or heard of him.’
Horton rose. She looked surprised then relieved. But if she thought she was off the hook she was mistaken. ‘Shall we go into the front room?’ PC Allen entered with a slight shake of his head. With a silent command Horton indicated for him to check outside.
With an explosive sigh of exasperation Patricia Harlow marched out of the kitchen. In the shabby front room she crossed to the window and stood frowning at the police car parked beyond the net curtains. Horton quickly checked his phone and saw the call had been from Sergeant Elkins.
‘I wish you hadn’t been so obvious. It’s most embarrassing,’ she said.
‘Is this your aunt and uncle?’ Horton asked, putting his phone back in his pocket and indicating the faded wedding photograph on the mantelpiece. It, along with a handful of cheap ornaments and a sofa and chair, was all that was left in the room.
She spun round and nodded curtly. Horton studied the young couple in their twenties. She was small with a jolly, pretty little face and looked a bit like a sparrow, while he was tall and slim with a slightly superior expression on his lean face. Losing his money and their son’s death must have hit them hard. He thought of the Lomans: a sad thin woman living in a world that didn’t really exist and her husband barely alive in one that did.
‘Did your aunt ever talk about her son’s death?’ he asked, putting the photograph back and staring around the faded, chilly room with its worn carpet.
‘No. It was too painful for her.’
Horton hadn’t read the suicide note but it would be on the case file, if there was one. PC Johnson appeared in the doorway. Horton excused himself and slipped out into the hall. Allen was with him.
‘There are only a few bits of furniture left upstairs,’ Johnson relayed. ‘Everything’s been cleared out. There’s no correspondence or photographs.’
‘Have you checked the loft?’
‘Yes, nothing up there but dust and mice.’
Horton told them they could go and returned to the front room. ‘Where is your aunt’s correspondence?’
‘There isn’t any except the legal papers.’
Horton studied her closely. It was probably the truth. ‘Do you have your aunt’s photographs?’
‘No. I burnt them.’
‘All of them?’ Horton asked, incredulous. OK, so photographs of his childhood had been destroyed but his circumstances had been completely different. People usually kept some pictures of their relatives unless they hated them, and he’d had no indication that Patricia or Gregory Harlow had hated their aunt and her family. So why destroy them? Out of shame because of Rawly’s suicide? Doubtful. Or because Patricia Harlow was one of those women who hated clutter and wasn’t in the least bit sentimental? Probably.
‘Except that picture,’ she answered, gesturing at the wedding photograph on the mantelpiece, ‘and that will go when the last of the furniture leaves. There’s no point in me keeping it. It’s the past. Nobody wants to look back.’
He didn’t but he felt compelled to. Again that shadowy memory connected with Edward Ballard nudged at him.
He said, ‘Do you know where your husband is?’
‘At work, of course.’
‘I’ve just come from the festival and he’s not there. No one has seen him since last night.’
‘Then they’re mistaken.’ She certainly didn’t seem worried or concerned.
‘When did you last speak to him?’
‘I really don’t see-’
‘When?’ barked Horton, making her jump.
Tight-lipped she said, ‘Nine thirty last night.’
That looked and sounded like the truth but it didn’t mean that she didn’t know where her husband was now. She made no further comment and neither did she ask any questions about her husband’s vanishing act, which made Horton think she knew where he’d gone and why. Perhaps he still had that boat, or another one.
Eames offered Patricia Harlow a lift home. She looked as though she wanted to refuse but that would mean either walking or catching a bus or taxi so she grudgingly accepted. When Patricia Harlow was in the car, Horton took Eames aside. ‘What did you get from Harry Foxbury?’
‘He was surprised when I told him about the human remains, but he didn’t look or sound worried. He remembers Ellie Loman as a pretty, friendly young girl. He also remembered her father but claims he hasn’t seen him for years. I asked him for details of the woman he’d been with on Tuesday but he denied being with one. I didn’t press him but he’s lying. And he again denied knowing Salacia.’
‘Did he own a boat in 2001?’
‘Yes. He had two. A small motorboat and a small sailing yacht. He gave me their names but said he sold both of them years ago and he doesn’t remember when or to whom. He was living at Cosham in 2001 and his house didn’t have a swimming pool. I’m still waiting to see if I can get any records on previous employees from 2001.’
He let her go and after she’d driven off he rang Elkins.
‘Ballard has made port in Guernsey,’ Elkins reported. ‘As far as the marina manager in St Peter Port is aware he hasn’t left his boat. He’s told them he’s staying for a couple of nights and the manager wants to know if anything’s wrong. I said we were just keeping a discreet eye on him because of an assault on him in Portsmouth and we wanted to make sure he was OK and not suffering any after-effects. I said he didn’t want any fuss. I didn’t think the manager would buy it but he did. What do you want us to do now, Andy, about Ballard I mean?’
‘Ask the manager to notify you if and when he leaves and if he says where he’s heading. Then let me know.’
Horton rang off. Heading for the station, he wondered if he should call Inspector John Guilbert, a friend of his in the States of Guernsey police, and ask him to keep a prudent eye on Ballard. But that would make it official, unless Guilbert did it on the quiet, and Horton knew he would if he asked him to, and if he had the time, and without asking the reason why. But perhaps he was mistaken and Ballard had nothing to do with DCS Sawyer or Zeus. But if he did, did Sawyer know where Ballard was? Perhaps he should ask him. His Mercedes was in the station car park next to Uckfield’s BMW.
Horton found the Super alone in the canteen tucking into pie and chips. Horton fetched the same and a coffee and sat opposite.
‘Waste of bloody time and petrol going to Wales,’ Uckfield said, forking the pie into his mouth. ‘Stapleton just repeated what he’d told Swansea CID, that he’d never seen Salacia before and he didn’t arrange for anyone to give Woodley a photograph of her. He said he wouldn’t so much as give that bastard a cold. Sawyer said he’d do a deal with him, information on Salacia or Woodley or both, and a hint of where he’d stashed his money and he’d put in a word to the parole board. Stapleton just laughed and said he’d do his time. Still, Sawyer seemed to enjoy the trip,’ he added sarcastically.
‘Where is he?’
‘With Wonder Boy. Don’t know why because I’ve already given Dean an update.’