Deadly Waters (6 page)

Horton interjected.

‘Why?’ Edney looked affronted, as if his professional status were under question.

‘I’d rather you wait until we have a formal identification, and I don’t think telling them would help the standards of teaching for the rest of the day.’

After a moment, Edney’s belligerent look softened. ‘You’re right, of course, Inspector. Thank God it’s half term next week.

Can I inform Mr Forrest, the chairman of the board of governors?’

‘Ask him to keep it confidential until we are ready to give a statement to the media. I will appoint an officer to liaise with you, the media and the local education authority.’

He concluded that would be a good job for DC Jake Marsden, their graduate entrant. He quickly scanned the top form in the buff-coloured folder, while Janet Downton called Mr Forrest. What he saw didn’t please him at all. His heart sank. The fickle finger of fate was laughing at his expense all right. Jessica Langley lived in an apartment overlooking the Town Camber in Old Portsmouth, where he had been crouched in that blessed fishing boat with only Mickey Johnson and his holdall of stolen goods to show for it. Shit! Uckfield was going to crucify him if it proved that Langley had been killed in her apartment and taken from there to a boat in the Town Camber. Horton could swear that no boat had been moved whilst he had been there between midnight and one thirty-five a.m., but then, according to Dr Clayton, Langley had been killed sometime between nine and eleven p.m., which was before they had arrived. And she might have met her killer elsewhere, for example here.

He flicked through the rest of the file. There was no next of kin mentioned, just the name of Langley’s solicitors, who Horton guessed must be the executors of her will, otherwise why name them.

‘Did Ms Langley have any relatives?’

‘No.’ It was Mrs Downton who answered him. ‘She told me so herself. No family.’

‘Friends then?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ she replied crisply and with disdain, as if he’d asked her where the local brothel was. ‘Mr Forrest, I have Mr Edney for you,’ she barked into the telephone.

Taking the file, Horton pushed open the interconnecting door into the head’s office. He wasn’t sure what he’d find; perhaps a repeat version of Edney’s office, but the only simi-larity was the furniture and the shabbiness. Where Edney’s office had been neat almost to the extremes of clinical obsession, Langley’s looked as though a tornado had hit it.

He picked his way through the books, files and DVDs stacked on the floor, taking half a glance at them – they all related to educational matters – and headed for a large notice board on the left-hand wall. Alongside a huge timetable was a smattering of photographs. There were several taken with students who were wearing casual clothes rather than school uniform.

He studied Langley, trying to gauge her personality.

Although the portrait on the organizational chart had shown her smiling, it had been a formal head-and-shoulders shot; here though, perhaps the real Langley shone through.

Most of the snapshots appeared to have been taken on school trips to Europe. Langley was always in the middle of a group of fifteen and sixteen-year-olds; her dark unkempt hair was pushed off her forehead and she was smiling broadly into camera. She was dressed casually, but in each picture she favoured a tight, low-necked T-shirt underneath a jacket or cardigan, straining against well-developed breasts, and clearly she wasn’t afraid to show cleavage. Bet the boys loved that, he thought, though on reflection maybe they didn’t. To a young man Langley would probably have appeared ancient and maybe the sight of her tits was a turn-off. Their dads, though, would have appreciated it. Cantelli hadn’t mentioned this aspect of Langley, which was surprising, but then on prospective parent night perhaps Langley had dressed more soberly, not wanting to frighten them off.

Her make-up was rather on the heavy side and in each photograph, save one, lots of gold jewellery adorned her neck and wrists just as he’d seen on her body. The only photograph where these were missing, along with the tight T-shirt, was one taken on board a yacht; here she was wearing a red and blue sailing jacket.

Horton unpinned the photograph and peered at it more closely. He couldn’t make out what type of yacht but it didn’t look pea-green. Interesting. Did she have her own boat? Had she been killed on that? Had it been used to dump her body on the mulberry? He turned the photograph over. There was nothing written on the back. Pity.

He took down the other photographs and glanced at the back of each one. He had been right about the school trips abroad. Langley had written in a flamboyant hand the dates, place and the name of the school, which the students had attended. None of them were from the Sir Wilberforce Cutler, and Horton guessed he would be able to match the school against where Langley had taught by looking at her CV. So why not write anything on the back of the sailing photograph?

Who had taken that and when? It looked fairly recent. Where had it been taken? Unfortunately there was nothing but sea in the background. He slipped the sailing photograph into his notebook and the others into an evidence bag. They could probably get some of Langley’s prints from that, and also from her apartment.

Horton turned his attention to the desk. Langley’s in-trays were piled higher than his and that was saying something.

Either she was very disorganized, which he guessed would really get up Janet Downton’s nose, or she was grossly over-worked. Glimpsing through the memos, letters, reports and printouts they seemed to be full of the same mindless bureau-cracy that burdened him and his fellow police officers. He shoved them back in the tray with contempt, and with the feeling that Langley had done the same. He smiled at the thought, getting the impression that Langley was very much her own woman.

Taking out his mobile phone he rang Walters.

‘There’s no previous on Langley. Not even a traffic offence,’

Walters said gloomily.

Horton wasn’t surprised. He gave Langley’s address to Walters and said, ‘As she’s only been in Portsmouth since Easter there’s a chance she rents her apartment. Her bank should be able to give you the address of the landlord.’ Horton consulted the file. ‘It’s in Wadebridge, here’s the telephone number.’

‘It looks like a call centre number, which means I’ll probably end up speaking to someone in India,’ Walters grumbled.

‘If you can’t get a key, then we’ll force an entry.’ Horton relayed Langley’s car registration details to Walters, and asked him to put out a call for it. Then he said, ‘Phone me as soon as you’ve got access to her apartment.’

Horton tried the desk drawers. There was little in them except some school papers, correspondence and stationery and that was thrown in any old how. Sitting back he glanced around the office, frowning in thought. There were two things missing: a diary and a computer. Perhaps she had kept her diary on her computer. He glanced down at the scuffed skirting boards and under the desk, nothing but a load of old dust and a pair of off-white training shoes. No computer cables. He couldn’t envisage any school or business being without one, so perhaps Langley had used a laptop computer. He’d need to check.

Horton eased himself back into Langley’s swivel chair and opened her file. Her CV was impressive. She was forty-two and single. She held a Bachelor in Education and a Masters in Business Administration. She had started her teaching career in a comprehensive in Cornwall before becoming subject co-ordinator and then had moved to a school in London as head of department. Next came deputy headship and a stint at two inner city London schools as head teacher, where Horton assumed, she had made her mark as a super head before coming here. Neither her CV nor file said where she had been born, brought up or had gone to school.

He rose and turned towards the dusty windowpane, which gave on to the car park. To his left was the building site. How had Jessica Langley got on with her deputy head teacher and sour-faced secretary? They had shown no affection or warmth towards her on the news of her death. Langley and Edney seemed to be as different as chalk and cheese. Sometimes that could work, each person utilizing the strengths of the other, but here? He got the impression not.

And then there was the crisp efficiency that Cantelli had spoken of which somehow didn’t go with the chaos in this room and her lack of responding to official memos. He was getting the impression of a complex woman and a character of contradictions.

His mobile rang. It was Uckfield.

‘I’ve already had the media on my back. Who’s going to make the formal identification? We need it quickly, Inspector.’

Horton explained about the serious lack of next of kin. ‘Dr Clayton should have finished the autopsy by three p.m. I’ll ask the deputy head if he’ll do the honours.’ How would he take that, Horton wondered.

‘That’s a bloody long time to be hanging around.’

Horton couldn’t help that, but he didn’t say so. Instead he told Uckfield where Langley lived. Uckfield made no reference to Horton’s escapade in that vicinity last night. The news hadn’t reached him. There was, after all, no reason why it should. It was strictly a CID matter. Horton added that Walters was tracking down the property’s managing agent. Uckfield agreed with Horton’s decision to appoint Marsden as liaison officer between the media, the school and the LEA, and then rang off. As he did the door opened and a troubled man entered.

‘Mr Edney, do you know where Ms Langley was born and raised?’

Edney looked taken aback for a moment. ‘I’ve no idea where she was born, but I do know that she lived in Portsmouth as a child. The media were particularly fond of labelling her as the local girl made good, returning to her roots, that sort of thing.’

In that case, wondered Horton, did she have any family in the area? If she did they weren’t mentioned on her file, but the media would already have sniffed them out for previous features so he could check the newspaper archives. But Walters hadn’t discovered anything. Still that was hardly surprising, given it was Walters. He probably hadn’t even started on that yet. Horton had detected a slight note of bitterness in Edney’s tone, which was interesting. For now though he decided to ignore it.

‘What was Ms Langley wearing yesterday?’ he asked.

It took a few seconds for Edney to recall. ‘A black trouser suit with a green blouse.’

The clothes she had been found in. ‘Was she wearing a jacket?’

‘Yes.’

She hadn’t been when he’d seen her on the mulberry and it wasn’t here in her office; perhaps they’d find it in her apartment. Perhaps it was in her car. Why hadn’t Langley changed out of her work suit if she’d been killed between nine and eleven p.m? Had she been attacked shortly after leaving the school? Perhaps she had gone on to a meeting or not left here at all.

‘When you left the school last night, was there anyone else still here, apart from Ms Langley?’

‘No. Mr Forrest has asked me to convene an emergency meeting of the governors for this evening, so if you don’t need me, I have a great deal to do—’

Edney was already reaching for the door handle when Horton said, ‘We will need a formal identification. As Ms Langley hasn’t any known relatives, I would like to ask you to do that for us please. We’ll send a car for you at two forty-five.’

Edney started violently and looked horrified at the prospect.

‘I can’t possibly do that. School finishes at ten past three and I need to be on hand to tell the staff.’

‘We’ll get you back in time, sir.’ Horton held his gaze. He saw a frightened man. Was it just the thought of seeing his dead head teacher or was there more behind the fear? If so, he wondered why Edney was afraid.

‘If I must,’ Edney mumbled and scuttled out.

What had Langley made of her deputy head? Horton asked himself. He saw a weak yet methodically minded man. Had Langley seen the same?

Horton’s phone rang. It was Walters.

‘The flat is managed by PMP Limited in London Road.

I’m on my way to pick up a set of keys.’

‘Wait outside until I get there,’ Horton instructed. He locked Jessica Langley’s office and pocketed the key. He didn’t want anyone, including the officious secretary, nosing around inside and removing anything.

‘Did you keep Ms Langley’s diary?’ he asked Mrs Downton.

‘No. She kept her own on her laptop computer and most inconvenient it was too.’

He had been right about that then. Was that in her flat, he wondered. ‘Did you, or did anyone else in the school, have access to it?’

‘No. I had to check with her all the time if anyone wanted to see her.’

And how that must have put your big fat nose out of joint, thought Horton with secret delight. He guessed Langley had sussed out her secretary.

‘How did the staff get to see her?’

‘She held briefings with the senior management team every morning. Ten minutes, on a timer, which she’d set. It would ring when the time was up and it didn’t matter if someone was in the middle of a sentence, Ms Langley would simply walk out of the room. She liked to delegate responsibility.’

It was expressed as a negative quality rather than a positive one. Superintendent Reine would have agreed with Jessica Langley’s methods though. It was what Horton should have done last night with the Mickey Johnson operation: delegate.

But he was never one for sitting behind a desk, though it was a prerequisite of higher management. Maybe he was better off staying an inspector. Though he wasn’t convinced he really wanted that.

‘How did Ms Langley handle staff and parental matters?’

‘She held a clinic for the staff every Tuesday between three and five p.m. and one for parents every Wednesday, between four thirty and six thirty p.m.’

So, last night, Thursday, was free. ‘Do you know if she had any appointments arranged for yesterday after seven o’clock?’

‘As I said, Inspector
. I
didn’t keep her diary.’

More’s the pity, he thought, and went in search of Cantelli.

‘If I’d known I was going to be wading through the battle-fields of the Sir Wilberforce Cutler I would have worn my wellies,’ Cantelli said, staring at his muddy brown shoes.