‘Just after seven thirty.’
‘Did you see anyone when you left?’
‘No. There were a few cars outside the sailing club, though: a Range Rover, a Mercedes, a Ford and a red Mini.’
‘Can you remember the registration numbers?’
‘My days of collecting car numbers are long gone,’ Manley said with disdain.
No matter. They’d get them from the club.
Horton managed to extricate himself from a disgruntled Manley, leaving Somerfield to soothe him, and headed back to the rotting hull. Had the killer hoped the body would sink and then float later and wash up miles away too late to help them track him down? But only if he hadn’t heard or read the local news. Either the killer was stupid, which Horton sincerely hoped because it would make their job easier (and that fitted the profile of many of Woodley’s so-called mates), or he wasn’t local and that would make it far more difficult to trace him. Or perhaps the killer simply didn’t care if the woman’s body was recovered.
He thought of the propeller theft in a boatyard further up the harbour to the west. That had occurred on Monday night, and he wondered if the thieves had been out and about last night. They might have believed there was valuable metal lying around. The victim had arrived and surprised them and they’d killed her and made off in her car. But that didn’t answer why she was here, why she had been at the crematorium and why she was still dressed in her funeral clothes.
Horton arrived at the hulk at the same time the SOCO van drew up inside the inner cordon with Dr Price in his battered Volvo behind it. It took Price a couple of minutes to wriggle his bony frame into a scene suit, a couple more to climb gingerly onto the wreck and one more to declare in his usual alcoholic fug that life was extinct, probably from the knife wound in the back that Horton could see.
Horton had then called the pathologist, Dr Clayton. He wasn’t sure what she’d be able to tell them with the body in situ but he knew it would be a darn sight more than Price even sober could.
‘Fortunately you’ve caught me early, before I’m deep into a cadaver,’ she said brightly. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour, traffic permitting.’
He rang off to see Uckfield’s car pull up.
‘So who the devil is she?’ Uckfield bellowed as he stormed across the boatyard towards Horton.
No idea wasn’t the answer Uckfield wanted but it was the only one Horton had to give. He recalled she’d been carrying a small black handbag with a gold chain on the video and he hoped that it was lodged under her body and contained some ID. He said as much to Uckfield, adding, ‘Did you notice anything suspicious about her on Clarke’s video?’ He hadn’t except for that fact that when Clarke’s camera had surveyed the crematorium after the Woodley crowd had left there had been no sign of her.
‘I haven’t even seen the bloody video,’ Uckfield exploded. ‘Too busy wasting my time reporting to DCS Sawyer and Wonder Boy.’
Horton interpreted that as Assistant Chief Constable Dean.
Uckfield continued, ‘I haven’t told Sawyer yet and Dean’s going to roast my balls over a slow heat if this is connected with Woodley’s murder.’ He leaned over the wreck without touching it and peered at the body, frowning. Straightening up he said, ‘No woman is mentioned on the files I’ve seen connected with Stapleton?’
‘Perhaps that was why she was sent.’
‘If she was then why show up late? And why come at all?’
Exactly. But Horton had been mulling both questions over and now expressed one of the two ideas that had occurred to him. ‘To pay off whoever attacked Woodley and took him to the marshes.’
Uckfield brightened up at that. ‘Reggie Thomas.’
‘He doesn’t own a car, or have a driving licence, but we both know that wouldn’t stop him stealing a vehicle. But his alibi for then is rock-solid. When Woodley left the hospital, Reggie was with his probation officer. His alibi for when the assault occurred though is definitely suspect.’
‘Yeah, lying for the likes of Sholby and Hobbs is as natural as breathing.’
‘One of them could have attacked Woodley and one of them could have taken him to the marshes in his shiny new car. On the other hand,’ Horton swiftly continued, ‘there is the possibility that she was at the crematorium for the funeral following Woodley’s. Perhaps she recognized one of Woodley’s mourners as the person who left him for dead at the marshes.’ He recalled her slightly puzzled expression. ‘She might have been walking her dog in the area where Woodley was found.’
‘We interviewed all the dog walkers.’
‘Only those the mobile incident unit picked up over the following week,’ corrected Horton. ‘She might have been on holiday when you gave your appeal for witnesses. She was suntanned. Then seeing Woodley’s mourners something clicked with her. Woodley’s killer, or rather the person who left him for dead, recognized her and couldn’t take a chance that she might eventually be able to identify him.’
‘Bloody bad luck for her then to attend a funeral at the same time,’ scoffed Uckfield, leaving Horton in no doubt what he thought about that theory. OK, so it wasn’t brilliant but it was possible. Clearly though Uckfield favoured the Reggie Thomas version.
‘We’ll re-interview all Woodley’s mates and this time we won’t be so ruddy soft on them.’
Horton didn’t think they had been the first time but he agreed they needed re-interviewing, whether they’d get anything out of them was another matter altogether. ‘They’d certainly know this boatyard,’ he said. ‘But if the victim was Marty’s paymaster then why agree to meet whoever killed Woodley here? Where’s her car? What did she do between the time she was at the crematorium and the time she was killed? Why is she still wearing her funeral clothes? And why kill her?’
‘How the bloody hell should I know? I’m not psychic,’ Uckfield exploded. Horton remained silent. After a moment Uckfield added more evenly, ‘We’ll ask the scumbags when we re-interview them. Get a unit over to the crematorium to check for any cars left in the car park overnight and ask them to collect a copy of their CCTV footage. About time,’ Uckfield declared as Clarke’s estate car pulled in through the inner cordon. The photographer unfurled his six foot four inches and crossed to them. Before he’d even drawn level Uckfield was on to him. ‘What time did she arrive at the crematorium?’
Clarke peered across at the body, clearly confused. Horton quickly explained who it was while Uckfield waited impatiently. ‘Er, I don’t know, sir,’ Clarke replied.
‘Did you see her park a car?’
‘Cars were arriving just after Woodley’s service began but I wasn’t filming them or taking any notice of them.’
‘Pity,’ Uckfield sneered.
With an injured tone, Clarke said, ‘I was looking at the chapel entrance for anyone who might have slipped in after the service had begun, and then I was waiting for Woodley’s mourners to emerge from the rear, as instructed, Superintendent.’
‘OK, no need to get your underpants in a twist. Do the business.’ Uckfield jerked his head in the direction of the body. He stepped away and reached for his phone, presumably to call Dean. Horton saw the uniformed officer he’d instructed to check out the sailing club return and crossed to him while Clarke slipped into a scene suit and began to film the body. His SOCO colleagues, Taylor and Beth Tremaine, waited patiently nearby.
‘The club secretary’s details were on the door; a Richard Bolton, sir.’
Horton jotted them down. He rang Trueman and relayed Uckfield’s instructions and the club secretary’s details, then he called Walters. ‘Is DCI Bliss there?’
‘Just left, guv. She muttered something about seeing Superintendent Reine when I told her where you were.’
And Horton could guess why she’d gone running to their boss; to complain about his total disregard for proper procedure. He should have reported the incident to her and not Uckfield. But that would only have prolonged matters and besides the victim was connected with one of Uckfield’s investigations. Reine wouldn’t see it like that, though. Both he and Bliss were sticklers for procedure.