Free Death Lies Beneath by Pauline Rowson

any time while you were there?’
    ‘No. There was no need. The dinghies are kept at the rear, near the club’s slipway.’
    Horton knew that. ‘Did you see anyone on the quayside while you were sailing?’
    ‘No.’
    Horton asked if she’d seen any other craft heading towards the club or the quayside.
    ‘Not that I can remember. There were several heading towards Horsea Marina, some large cruisers, a couple of yachts and a few motoring out into the harbour, but I didn’t really take much notice of them.’
    Horton had two questions left to ask and he wasn’t hopeful that either would draw a positive response.
    ‘Do you know a Daryl Woodall?’
    ‘No.’
    He showed her the photograph. ‘Have you seen this man before?’
    She glanced at the picture and then back at Horton. ‘I’ve seen his photograph in the newspaper. He’s the man who discharged himself from hospital and was found dead. I didn’t come across him while he was here. I’m sorry I can’t help you, Inspector.’
    Horton was too. He hadn’t really expected anything. In the car he told Eames to head for Tipner Quay, drawing a curious look from her. He called Uckfield as she threaded her way through the rapidly building rush-hour traffic. Uckfield’s phone was on voicemail. He must be in his press conference or with Dean. He rang Trueman and reported what they had discovered from Dr Clayton and requested him to get a revised photograph of the victim.
    ‘We’re on our way to the sailing club to get that list of members who were there last night and to interview Richard Bolton, the club secretary.’ It was a good enough reason to call in at the quay but Horton had another one. There was something he wanted to check out.
    Forty minutes later, Bolton, a large, round-faced, bald-headed man in his mid-fifties, had equipped him with a dinghy and a life jacket and Horton was sailing in the harbour. There wasn’t much breeze, but enough. He wasn’t skiving, although Bliss would claim he was, this was research. From here he could see the large brick and corrugated-iron-roofed boatshed. Could the victim have parked her car in front of it? If she had then no one would have seen it from the club or the road leading to the boatyard. The crane barge was still in place and the remains of the wrecked boat had the canvas awning stretched over where the body had lain. But that area had been clear before the wreck had been raised so it was possible that she’d arrived before dark and waited there.
    Taylor and his SOCO team had finished working on the wreck and surrounding area, and the police diving operation was now in progress. Horton wondered if they’d find the victim’s handbag, and the murder weapon. He’d asked Eames to relay a description of the latter to Marsden and the diving team.
    He felt the little dinghy pick up speed as a sudden gust of wind filled the sails. It had been a long time since he’d sailed such a small vessel and, despite the seriousness of the occasion, he was enjoying it. He recalled the days spent on his former yacht,
Nutmeg
, with his daughter, Emma, with a tightening in his chest. He doubted he’d ever enjoy such moments again, and certainly not if Catherine had her way. He couldn’t let her. He had to find time to contact his solicitor, Frances Greywell, for advice on how to gain greater access to Emma without resorting taking it to the children’s court because he didn’t believe he’d get a favourable hearing. Tomorrow he’d make that call.
    That decided he concentrated on sailing. Sergeant Elkins in the police launch could have done this trip much easier and quicker, which was what Bliss would say and Uckfield might agree with her, but it had occurred to him that perhaps their killer had used a dinghy or small sailing boat last night, and slipped in to the quay, silently, catching their victim unawares before thrusting that knife into her back and pushing her into the water. He needed to see if it was possible. And