Dead Man's Wharf Part 4

Horton remained doubtful, but Anston had claimed that Ebury was clever. Though, not clever enough to evade the life of a criminal.

'I managed to have a brief chat with a couple of other officers in the staffroom,' Cantelli added. 'They all thought that Peter Ebury was a pain in the a.r.s.e and no one's sorry he's gone.'

'Which bears out what Welton and Anston told me.' Horton quickly briefed Cantelli.

Cantelli pointed the car towards the station. 'I asked if someone could have pinched a set of keys to Ebury's cell, copied them and then put them back, but Staunton looked at me as if I should be carted off to the funny farm. He took great pains to run through the security procedure and the prisoners' routine, and, from what he said, I don't think anyone could have killed Ebury.'

Horton, reluctantly, had to agree that it was looking that way. But he still didn't like it. Unless Walters, Seaton and Somerfield came up with something from the nursing home,

he would have to accept there was no case to answer.

This was exactly what DCI Bliss told him twenty minutes later. He found her in his office.

'This is where you should be, Inspector,' she said, eyeing him like he was a dung beetle. 'Not deploying uniformed resources without approval from the duty inspector and requesting staff from the scientific services department to take fingerprints and photographs without authorization from me. This amounts to nothing more than a whim.'

'It was hardly that,' Horton retorted, thinking why the h.e.l.l doesn't she s.h.i.+ft her narrow backside out of my chair, sitting there like she's the chief b.l.o.o.d.y constable. Less than two months ago she was a DI like him.

'A whim,' she insisted. 'An old lady died. It happens.'

'Her belongings are missing and a resident reported seeing someone suspicious in Mrs Ebury's room-'

'They're dementia patients, for heaven's sake. Everyone is suspicious.'

'Oh, I see. So we can forget it,' he said with heavy irony, stung by her supercilious tone. 'Irene Ebury had dementia and has no one left to care about her or her belongings, which don't amount to much anyway. Her dead son is a criminal so he won't be missed. It's obviously not as high profile as two ponced-up television presenters receiving threatening calls, which you will find are a publicity stunt.'

Bliss stood up, her face flushed with anger. 'You know very well what I mean. It's a question of resources and you don't have them to explore every petty crime-'

'I hardly call someone dying petty,' he replied tautly.

Her colour deepened. 'If you can't prioritize your caseload, then you'd better think again about staying in the job.'

That was well below the belt. It didn't even justify an answer as far as he was concerned. He held her stare which was as cold as an emperor penguin but not nearly so cute and thought how he'd love to see the back of her.

Her voice was like barbed wire when she added, 'I've ordered DC Walters to return to the station immediately, and Seaton and Somerfield to resume their usual duties. You might not like the fact that I got promotion, especially when you didn't, or that I am now your superior officer, but you either work with me or you put in for a transfer.'

Like b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l I will, he thought. And give you the satisfaction of getting rid of me? He could see that he was a great big nasty thorn in Bliss's neatly tended garden of CID. Well, tough, if she didn't like it, then she'd have to pull him out. She'd get her hands scratched trying, though, and he couldn't see Bliss wearing gloves. She wasn't the type.

'Results, Inspector, that's what we're paid to get. C.A.S.E. = Results. See if you can earn your salary.' With a tight frown, she swept out of room. Well, at least now he knew what the initial R stood for.

Cantelli poked his head round the door. 'You're still walking then?'

'My b.a.l.l.s are intact and so is my determination. She told me to forget about Irene Ebury and her stolen belongings, and you know what that makes me want to do?'

Cantelli groaned and rolled his eyes. 'I've sent the photographs off to the photographic unit and I've requested the case notes on the Peter Ebury armed robbery. I'll start looking into Irene Ebury's background this afternoon.'

Horton hesitated. He knew that Bliss's threats wouldn't hold water with Cantelli, but should he tell him about the connection with his mother? He'd never lied to Cantelli and had rarely kept anything from him. In fact, Cantelli was the only person in the station who knew about him being raised in children's homes and with foster parents. But maybe there would be nothing to find. And perhaps he'd explain everything after Thursday when Cantelli had got through the ordeal of his father's funeral. Horton heard the excuses in his mind and shoved them aside.

'Is Walters back?' He glanced at the clock on his desk, seeing with surprise it was almost two o'clock.

'In the canteen. He saw Bliss on the warpath and just kept going straight on.'

Horton didn't blame him for that. Fortunately Bliss's office was in the opposite direction to the canteen. 'Then let's see what he's unearthed.'

FOUR.

With his mouth full of chicken and ham pie, Walters said, 'We managed to speak to all the staff on duty before Seaton and Somerfield had to report back and she she called me in.' called me in.'

'It's all right, Walters, Sergeant Cantelli is keeping an eye on the door.'

Walters stabbed another chip with his fork and conveyed it to his mouth with a look of relief. 'No one claims to have gone to Irene Ebury's drawer in the bas.e.m.e.nt or to have noticed if the drawer was locked or unlocked. They all think Mrs Kingsway saw Dr Eastwood leaning over Mrs Ebury on the morning she died and the old lady's got confused over the dates.'

But it was the night staff that had been on duty so Horton knew they'd have to question them. And without Bliss knowing. He took a bite of his sandwich as Walters continued.

'The fingerprint bureau found some prints on the cabinet in the bas.e.m.e.nt and on the door. They took the staff's prints. Mrs Northwood nearly blew a gasket. But they haven't done the night staff.'

'How many are there?'

'Six, not counting the manager who's off sick.'

Marion Keynes would be at home and hopefully not too sick to answer his questions, which he intended to put to her later.

'Go back tonight, Walters, and talk to the night staff. Ask them to call into the station so we can take their prints.'

'Do I have to?'

'You got a date?'

'No, but...'

A glare from Horton stilled his protest. Polis.h.i.+ng off his sandwich, Horton said, 'How did you get on at Oldham's Wharf this morning?' It seemed ages ago now.

'Nothing was stolen. And there was no sign of a break-in.'

'Then why report it?' Horton asked, puzzled.

Walters shrugged his expansive shoulders and the flesh around his jowl wobbled. 'Ryan Oldham said one of his vehicles had been moved.'

'And that's it?' Horton cried incredulously. 'The driver could have done that!'

'That's what I said. He didn't go a bundle on it. Told me how to do my job. He wants fingerprints, forensics, the lot. I said I'd see what we could do.'

'Which is precisely nothing unless you've got more than that.' He hoped he didn't sound like Bliss. But at least he did have a theft at the nursing home to investigate, not to mention a questionable death, two if you counted Peter Ebury. Sc.r.a.ping back his chair, he said, 'Make an appointment for me to see Dr Eastwood.'

In his office Horton studied the notes he'd made on Irene. She'd been thirty-five when she'd given birth to Peter, which was quite old to have a first child in 1974 when women tended to have them younger. If indeed Peter was her first and only child. Her medical records would reveal this information, but Cantelli would also run a check with the Registrar and HM Revenue and Customs at the same time and get her employment record. He'd also see if could find any record of a marriage.

He looked up as Cantelli and Walters walked into the CID office and settled at their

desks. Bliss's reprimand rang in his ears. They're dementia patients, for heaven's sake. They're dementia patients, for heaven's sake.

Irene Ebury had no one to fight her corner. She deserved more than just becoming another statistic. He'd like to find at least one relative or friend who would stand by her coffin and mourn her pa.s.sing.

And what about his own mother? There was no record to say she was dead, but perhaps her body had never been identified. Gaye Clayton's words about corpses stacked up in the mortuary made him s.h.i.+ver despite the heat from the radiator. Could his mother be lying in a mortuary somewhere, awaiting the day when someone would claim her? Or had she been buried in an unknown grave without anyone to mourn her death? The thought disturbed him, so hastily he pushed it away and began to s.h.i.+ft some of the paper on his desk.

There were three telephone messages waiting for him. He dealt swiftly with one by ringing the person, another by throwing it in the bin, and then paused over the third. It was Mrs Collins again, insisting they investigate her son's death. Daniel Collins had died in a road accident on Christmas Eve. He'd been drunk. No other vehicle had been involved. This was the third time she had rung. On the second occasion he had asked to see the incident report. It might have arrived by now and be buried on his desk somewhere.

He found it and flicked it open. Daniel Collins had skidded off the dual carriage and over Salterns Wharf into the sea. It had been his bad luck the tide had been up. He'd drowned. The autopsy had revealed he had been over the legal drinking limit. End of story. Strange coincidence, though, that it was only about half a mile from Oldham's Wharf.

Horton closed the file. There was nothing they could do, but he wasn't without sympathy for Mrs Collins in her grief. He'd get Walters to ring her back and arrange to visit her.

Cantelli knocked and entered carrying the local newspaper. 'Walters has made an appointment with Dr Eastwood for tomorrow at eleven fifteen. And I thought you might like to see this. Page three.'

Horton found himself staring at a photograph of the two TV divers: Nicholas Farnsworth and Perry Jackson. It had been taken on a location dive from one of the television episodes, though where he didn't know. There were some hills in the background that could have been Dorset, but equally it could have been Cornwall. Farnsworth was smiling into camera, his brow glistening with sea water, while beside him Perry Jackson looked as though he'd just swallowed it. Horton read the headline: TV Diver Shrugs off Death Threats.

'What did I tell you?' Horton said with disgust. 'Those anonymous calls were a pack of lies staged by one of these prats for publicity. And they've got it. Bet one of them went running to the press as soon as we were out of sight. You'll have to buy your own lunches, Barney.' Horton threw the newspaper in his bin and rose, picking up the Daniel Collins file.

'It still could be genuine,' Cantelli insisted, following Horton out of his office. 'I could get that list of contacts from Corinna Denton, just in case.'

'Waste of time.' And there was no need to send an officer around to collect those staff and guest lists. Good, because they had better things to do.

Horton dropped the Collins file on Walters' desk. 'Call Mrs Collins and arrange to see her. But read the file first. We're going to see if we can raise Marion Keynes from her sickbed. I only hope she hasn't got anything infectious. If DCI Bliss asks where we are you don't know.'

'What was all that about?' Cantelli asked, as they headed out of the station.

Horton told him.'Such a waste.' Cantelli shook his head and folded a fresh piece of chewing gum into his mouth. 'That stretch of road's a notorious black spot. Even sober it can be nasty.'

Cantelli lived not far from Salterns Wharf.

'Did you hear anything about the accident?'

'No. Too busy making sure Santa got his mince pie and gla.s.s of sherry. It was tough facing all that stuff this Christmas with Dad going like that, but you can't let the kids down, can you? Poor woman.'

Horton knew he was thinking of Daniel Collins's mother and what her Christmas must have been like. She deserved their sympathy.

Marion Keynes on the other hand didn't. That much was clear from their first encounter, as she glared with open hostility at their warrant cards. When Cantelli asked if they could come in, she shrugged and padded off on fat, splayed feet, leaving them to follow her into a small open-plan room in the narrow terraced house. It stank of stale food, over-stewed tea and cigarettes and looked as though it had been turned over by junkies desperate for a fix. In the midst of the chaos sat two fat boys gazing open-mouthed at a large plasma television screen, where a hyperactive youth in torn clothes was doing an impersonation of someone in excruciating pain. Horton guessed the youth was attempting to sing because there was a microphone glued to his mouth, but he'd heard better sounds coming from a pneumatic drill.

She reached for a packet of cigarettes on the mantelpiece. 'Why are you interested in Irene? She's dead.'

'Could you turn the television down,' Horton said firmly but politely, not much caring for her hard mouth and sharp eyes.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed up the remote control and stabbed at it with a frown. Instantly the two boys howled in protest.

'Upstairs.' She pointed at the ceiling as if her offspring had no idea where their bedrooms were.

Neither child moved. The younger one folded his plump arms across his chest and scowled for the Olympics, whereas the eldest glared at Horton as though he'd willingly stick a knife in him. Maybe a few years from now, Horton thought, he would try. He felt like hauling them up and telling them to do as they were told. Judging by Cantelli's unusually fierce expression and his rapid chewing of gum, Horton guessed he was thinking along the same lines.

Marion Keynes said, 'Take a packet of crisps with you.'

They shot up with a whoop and yell and like two mini tornados whizzed past Horton and into the kitchen.

'Kids!' she said, as the boys returned munching their crisps. 'You give them all these toys for Christmas and they're still bored. You've got to blackmail them into doing everything these days.'

Horton dashed a glance at Cantelli and read in his deep dark eyes, not mine you haven't. A run round the football pitch would do them more good than staring at a television screen, Horton thought, before the gyrating youth started howling above them, as if he'd just taken poison.

'Turn it down,' Marion Keynes yelled, making Cantelli jump. Nothing happened.

As she shook out a cigarette and lit it, Horton quickly glanced at the photographs on the mantelpiece. Marion Keynes was the complete opposite to her husband, who was dark haired with a keen face, and had the body of a cyclist or runner. There was a photograph of the couple on holiday abroad. He was wearing a scuba diving outfit whilst she was decked out in a swimming costume. The expression 'a beached whale' flitted into his head.

They weren't invited to sit, probably because every chair was covered with clothes, toys or magazines. And the room was stifling hot. The gas fire was belting out full blast, and Horton guessed the central heating was also turned up.

'What did Irene Ebury talk about?' he asked.

'How she was once Miss Southsea, but you had to take everything she said with a pinch of salt.'

Horton thought her voice held a trace of spite. And she didn't look to be suffering from any illness that he could see.

'She used to go on and on about the famous men she'd met and dated when she'd been working in the clubs and casinos. Roger Moore, Ronald Reagan, Dean Martin, you name them, she'd had them all. She even claimed her son was the illegitimate child of Frank Sinatra.' Marion Keynes laughed.

Neither he nor Cantelli joined in.

'You stop listening after a while,' Marion Keynes said sharply. 'I've had enough of it. That's why I'm off sick stress. I'm handing in my notice. I'll probably go back to agency work. It pays more.' She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, but Horton wasn't going to take the hint. If Marion Keynes had stress, then he was Dr Freud. Here was a woman who had fancied a few days off and judging by the state of the room, it wasn't to do her housework.

'Why do you want to know about her anyway? She was just an old woman.'

With an unusual edge of steel to his voice, Cantelli said, 'What time did you discover her body?'

'So, that's it, is it? They're saying it's my fault,' she flashed. 'The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds! They're covering their backsides. She was dead when I went into her room, and if anyone says any different then they're lying.'

'Who are they they, Mrs Keynes?' Horton asked wearily. He'd had enough of Marion Keynes already.

'Mr Chrystal and his b.l.o.o.d.y brothers, that's who. They own the Rest Haven and half a dozen old people's homes on the coast. They're probably looking for someone to blame in case the family sue, not that Irene's son is in a position to. Did you know he's in prison?' she said with relish.

Horton disliked her considerably, and he didn't much care if it showed.

'What time did you discover Irene?' Cantelli persisted.