'It's black, isn't it?' he said, glancing down at his leather jacket, drawing a slight rise of her eyebrows.
'The emblem on it isn't.' She pointed at the red Harley Davidson logo.
'I don't think Mr Cantelli will care, Barney won't mind and God, if there is one, won't worry either, if that's the least of my sins.'
'And is it?'
She was teasing him but her face fell serious as the hearse pulled into the car park. 'I've got something to tell you, but later,' she hissed. He stared at her, frustrated at being kept waiting for news that might help him solve the case, but as the crowd around the entrance to the cathedral fell silent, all thoughts of Farnsworth, Daniel Collins and the Eburys evaporated.
Following the hearse were three black limousines: in the first Horton could see Barney, looking pale and drawn. His heart went out to him. Horton had no idea what it felt like to lose a father, never having had one, but he recalled the emotions he'd experienced when Bernard, his foster father had died, and understood something of how Cantelli must be feeling. He looked smaller and older than his brother Tony, who was three years his senior. With them were Barney's sisters: the dark-haired, olive-skinned and practical Isabella and the youngest, Marie. Horton hadn't seen her since she'd finished her postgraduate course in teacher training three years ago, but she hadn't changed much. At twenty-six she had been a raven-haired beauty and she was still a beauty. Beside her was Barney's mother; white-haired with a keen face, looking dignified yet solemn.
In the next car were Tony's wife, Emily, and his thirteen-year-old daughter, Michelle, and with them a young man of about twenty whom Horton recognized as Isabella's son, Johnny. Horton recalled the wild boy of sixteen who had got into trouble with the police after his father's death and how he had secured a place for him on the sailing trust. Now Johnny was skippering a rich man's yacht around the world. Horton was glad it had worked out for him.
In the third car was Charlotte, Barney's wife, wearing a wide-brimmed grey hat with a black felt band over her long dark hair, swept up, he noted, for the occasion. The sight of her always sent a warm glow through him. She was so different from Catherine both in looks and personality and yet to him Charlotte Cantelli personified everything a woman and mother should be and look like: warm, comforting, ample-proportioned, expansive and kind-hearted. A woman who had put her husband and children before her career, which if recalled had been nursing. OK, so the bra-waving feminist brigade would have him hanged, drawn and quartered for such outdated and male chauvinist thoughts, but he didn't care. Deep inside him he knew that Charlotte Cantelli represented something he'd never had, and which still caused an ache in the pit of his heart: a mother's warm and unquestioning love. Beside her were her five children: Ellen, Sadie, Marie and the twins, Joe and Molly.
As the cars drew to a halt in front of the church, Horton made to move forward when Gaye said, 'Here, take this.' She handed over the umbrella. 'You're taller than me and you're getting soaked.'
He held the umbrella aloft, wondering what it was she had to tell him. As the service progressed, Horton's thoughts flirted with the deaths of his final set of foster parents before turning to his mother. Was she dead? He had, of course, checked with the registrar, but there was no record of it. That didn't mean she wasn't dead, just that her body had either never been found or she'd changed her name because there was also no employment or NHS record for her. Had Irene Ebury known more about Jennifer's disappearance than she'd told the police? If so there was no way of knowing now.
He felt a sense of relief when the music finally played and they filed out. He nodded across to Barney, who gave a grim smile in return before climbing into the car. Horton had told Cantelli he wouldn't be attending the committal or the wake. Cantelli had understood.
As soon as the hearse pulled out of the car park, Horton turned to Gaye. 'So?'
'In my car.'
He folded himself into the Mini watching the rain stream down the window as people ran to their cars, doors slamming. One by one they pulled out of the car park, leaving his Harley and Gaye Clayton's Mini the only vehicles there.
'I took another look at the post-mortem report on Daniel Collins,' Gaye said. 'You seemed so certain that his death was suspicious that it bugged me. There is something—'
'What?' he asked eagerly with a quickening heartbeat.
'Take a look at these photographs taken before the autopsy.'
She reached over on to the back seat and retrieved a folder which she handed to him. He was staring at photographs of Daniel Collins on the mortuary slab. The final one was an enlarged picture of the back of Daniel's head.
'Three things,' she said, angling her body to face him. 'One, Daniel wasn't wearing a seat belt.'
Horton knew that from the firefighter's report. It hadn't properly registered with him when he'd read it earlier because that had been before he'd spoken to the people at the sub aqua club and learnt more about Daniel's nature. Now it smacked him in the face. Why would a cautious man like Daniel not put on his seat belt? Because he was too drunk to bother was the obvious answer, but Horton didn't go for it.
Gaye continued, 'Two, there is a large contusion on his forehead consistent with bashing it against the windscreen in the crash.' She indicated the area on another of the photographs.
Horton couldn't see where she was leading him. There was nothing odd about either of these things.
'And three...go back to photograph number two.'
He duly did as she asked. He was once again looking at the back of Daniel Collins head and neck.
'Anything strike you?'
Horton peered at it. 'There's bruising on the neck.'
'Yes, which could be consistent with not wearing a seat belt and being thrown forward hitting his head against the windscreen, which didn't shatter, and then being thrown back to bash his head against the car headrest, maybe as a result of the impact of the car on the seabed.'
'So?' Horton looked puzzled.
'When did headrests make marks like that?' She pointed to the sides of Daniel's neck.
Horton was staring at what looked like blurs on the right and the left almost indistinguishable from the myriad of other bruising. He still couldn't see what she was driving at.
'I've enlarged them on the computer,' she added. And she handed him another image. 'It's quite clear that there are deeper marks either side of that general bruising.'
At last he got it! He was staring at the pressure marks of fingers. His heart was doing somersaults whilst his mind was racing with this new information. He had been right and so too had Mrs Collins.
'Someone pushed his head against the windscreen,' he cried triumphantly.
'Looks like it to me, which means he wasn't alone in that car. Daniel's death was not an accident, it was murder. I'll stake my reputation on that.'
And that was good enough for Horton. Now all Gaye Clayton had to do was find some evidence to say the same for Irene Ebury and her son, Peter.
'Is she sure?' asked Uckfield, later that evening after Horton had told him about Dr Clayton's findings.
Horton lifted his Coke and nodded at Uckfield's sceptical expression. They were sitting in a quiet corner of the bar of the Rudmore Cellars on the edge of the continental ferry port. After studying the photographs again that afternoon and running through his theory until he was happy with it, Horton had gone to Uckfield's office. But Uckfield had forestalled him by suggesting they talk over a swift half in a nearby pub. Horton had been surprised by the invitation. Once having a drink together after work would have been a regular occurrence, but since Horton's suspension on a suspected rape charge and Uckfield's promotion to superintendent, it had been rare. Uckfield's invitation now confirmed Horton's suspicions that Uckfield knew about the Intelligence Directorate's operation and he didn't want anyone else eavesdropping, such as DC Lee who had drawn a blank from her trawl of the antique shops and pawnbrokers close to where Marion Keynes lived. She appeared stoical about her exploits, but Horton could detect frustration simmering beneath the surface. Tomorrow she would start talking to the relatives of the residents of the Rest Haven.
Horton said, 'Certain. Daniel was plied with drink by his killer and then helped into his
car—'
'Into the passenger seat?'
'Yes. The killer then drove the car southwards along the dual carriageway, on to the wharf and into the sea, knowing that it would be high tide and relying on the fact there would be very few people about that late on Christmas Eve.'
'He took a chance on not knocking himself out, or getting seriously injured going over like that?'
'He was wearing a seat belt and braced himself for the impact. He wasn't driving fast. He also had Daniel strapped in. Once underwater, our killer swops places with Daniel; a body is much lighter underwater, and more manoeuvrable.' Horton could see Uckfield eyeing him incredulously over the rim of his beer glass. 'It might have taken a bit of shoving and pushing, but it can be done.'
'Only if our killer has the lungs of a seal.'
'He was wearing an aqua lung.'
'Wouldn't Daniel Collins have thought it odd this bloke getting into his car wearing an aqua lung?' Uckfield said sarcastically.
'I expect Daniel was too drunk to notice or able to speak, but the killer wasn't wearing the aqua lung then. It was on the back seat of the car. And under his normal clothes the killer was wearing a dry suit. When the car hit the water, our killer holds his breath, releases the seat belt, reaches for his aqua lung and regulator and starts breathing. He then struggles into the apparatus knowing he has to act quickly in case anyone saw the car go into the sea. He swims out through the driver's window and around to the rear passenger side and into the car. That's what was bothering me about the photographs taken of the car after the incident, I knew there was something odd about it but couldn't work out what. All the windows were open. At first I thought, like Dr Clayton, it was because Daniel wanted some fresh air to help him sober up but it was because the killer needed access.'
Uckfield was shaking his head, but Horton could tell it was in amazement rather than disagreement. 'This is one hell of a crafty beggar we're up against.'
'Yes and a meticulous planner.' Horton thought of his conversation with Gary Manners. This fitted him perfectly. Hadn't he said that he was a whizz at organization and health and safety? And this needed a mind that would think through every implication and part of the plan to the last detail. The only flaw was Manners said he couldn't dive any more on account of his illness. But Horton only had his word for that.
He said, 'Our killer manoeuvres Daniel into the driver's seat. If he had left it there, he would have got away with it, but he doesn't know that Daniel Collins is dead, and maybe he's the kind that likes to be doubly-sure. So he thrusts Collins's head against the windscreen and back again to make sure the poor man won't regain consciousness. Then he swims off—'
'Where?'
Horton had been giving that considerable thought. 'There are a number of options. He has a boat nearby and is able to reach it. He climbs in, starts the motor and returns to either Eastney or Hayling Island to the south, where his car is parked. Alternatively, on the high tide, he takes the boat to Broadmarsh to the north and the public slipway there, where he hitches it up to his car and drives away.'
Uckfield sunk some more beer. 'I'll get some officers checking.'
Horton continued. 'Or he could have resurfaced further along the shore to the south
where he comes up on the beach, changes into some clothes he's left there behind a bush on Milton Common, and then walks away, returning later to collect his diving gear.'
'So we need to ask if anyone saw a man walking along the dual carriageway in either direction in the early hours of Christmas morning. I'll give a press conference tomorrow, and before you ask, yes, I told Madeleine that it was over between us.'
'How did she take it?'
'Threatened to make a noise. I told her that when it came to noise I could roar a hell of a lot louder than her. It seemed to shut her up. Pity really because I liked her and she was a right little—'
'There is another theory,' Horton interrupted, not wanting to hear about Uckfield's sexual prowess or Madeleine's come to that. 'Our killer took his boat northwards to the sailing centre, next to Oldham's Wharf, where he hitches it to a trailer on the back of his car and drives away, or it could still be there on the shoreline. The sailing centre's CCTV doesn't show any cars in the car park that night though.'
Horton could see Uckfield's mind ticking over. He added, 'I've run the details of Daniel Collins's method of death through the ACR and nothing like this shows up locally, though there have been one or two cases of bodies found in cars in other parts of the country. I've asked Trueman to look into them, but I don't think they're connected.'
'So who have we got in the frame for both Collins and Farnsworth's murders?' Uckfield asked sharply.
Horton sat forward. 'Gary Manners. He claims not to dive any more, has a phobia for it on account of the accident with Farnsworth, but we only have Manners' word for that. He says he acts as coxswain on the dives. Manners would have known about the row Farnsworth had with Oldham, so maybe he thought he could implicate Oldham in Farnsworth's death. It's also worth checking to see if Manners has ever visited Oldham's to carry out a health and safety inspection. Perhaps that's where he got the idea from. And he has good cause to hate Farnsworth on account of screwing up his career.' Horton briefly relayed the conversation he'd had with Manners at the crematorium.