‘How long?’ Uckfield asked Dr Clayton as she stepped away from the body, which was now covered by a large canvas tent. Brett Veerman had yet to be informed of his wife’s death. Unless he already knew because he’d killed her, thought Horton, although he had no evidence of that.
‘Difficult to say in these conditions and with that kind of wound.’ Gaye indicated the crossbow bolt in the chest.
Horton studied it again for the hundredth time since discovering the body and although his anger had lessened his revulsion was still as strong. There was remarkably little blood around the small wound on the grey T-shirt. She was dressed in casual dark grey trousers, grey socks, sturdy walking shoes and a navy blue zip-up fleece, which was open. There had been nothing in her hands and no sign of the dog lead. The bolt hardly looked powerful or deep enough to have killed and yet of the six and a half inches that Dr Clayton had said was the size of the bolt that had killed Jasper Kenton there was only about two and a half inches protruding from Thelma Veerman’s chest. Kenton had been shot at close range and the same applied to Thelma Veerman. The theory that she might have shot herself had been quickly quashed by the absence of the weapon. Cantelli had made a search of the area but hadn’t found it. It surely had to be the one that had been used to kill Jasper Kenton, and therefore the same killer. Was that the beachcomber? Should he say something now? But he told himself that Thelma Veerman being killed and being found here must mean there was no connection with Lord Eames, except for Brett Veerman. Could he have killed his wife in such a cruel and callous way, letting her bleed to death? Or was his lover the driving force in these murders? Horton only hoped Thelma Veerman’s death had been quicker than Jasper Kenton’s.
Gaye added, ‘All I can say before I do the autopsy is that rigor mortis appears to be complete. Lividity, as you can see from the blueish colour of the skin, is permanent. I won’t be able to tell if it is all over the body until we get her in the mortuary but if it is then that puts her death approximately sometime between four a.m. and six a.m. But it could be a lot earlier than that. No longer than twenty-four hours certainly.’
Horton rapidly calculated. Twenty-four hours took them back to yesterday afternoon, sometime between two-thirty and four-thirty. He’d been here then and there had been no sign of Thelma Veerman. Had she been lying on the shore bleeding to death when he’d pressed the intercom and walked away? Could he have saved her life instead of heading to the abbey? But there had been no sound of dogs barking, he recalled, so she must have been alive and elsewhere.
He brought his full attention back to Gaye. ‘Because she is lying on her back it indicates that she fell the moment she was shot, but with this method of killing, as I explained before, the exact timing of actual death is difficult to ascertain. There is the possibility that she could have staggered about and then fallen, although she would most probably have done so face down.’ She eyed the corpse and frowned as she thought. ‘I suppose she could have turned in a final effort to get up and fetch help. However with dwindling strength I would have said it was more likely she would have got as far as to her knees and then fallen forward.’
Horton said, ‘Which means if she didn’t die instantly then her body could have been brought here and laid out on the shore.’
‘Just like Kenton,’ Uckfield said, scratching the inside of his thigh.
‘Yes, only this time without the sail as a shroud,’ Horton answered. He and Cantelli had walked along the shore and it became impassable after several yards in both directions because of rocks and dense woods. So unless she had admitted her killer through the gates of her house she must have met him or her coming ashore by boat. And if the person piloting that boat had been Brett Veerman then the dogs wouldn’t have barked. He said as much, drawing a deep scowl of unease from Uckfield.
‘Maybe they were locked up and only managed to get out a few hours ago.’
‘But someone must have locked them up.’
‘Thelma Veerman might have done.’
‘We need to check Veerman’s movements from about two-thirty yesterday afternoon until ten o’clock this morning.’
But Gaye interjected. ‘He was conducting his out-patients’ clinic this morning and was still there when I got the call to come over. I checked. I thought you might want to know.’ She threw a glance at Horton. He saw Uckfield note it and eye him curiously.
Horton said, ‘But we don’t know where he was yesterday afternoon, evening and night.’
Uckfield nodded and asked if they could move the body. Gaye said they could and that she’d conduct the autopsy as soon as it arrived at the mortuary in Newport. With a resigned shrug at Horton she stepped outside. He knew that their dinner date for that night was off. Uckfield followed Gaye out.
Horton stared down at the body with sorrow. Her face was discoloured and her body drenched from the rain rather than the sea. She’d fallen or had been placed just above the high-water mark so there was no seaweed or sea life attached to it. Had she wanted to tell them her husband was a killer and been silenced because of it? Or had Brett Veerman and his lover conspired to kill her? Had Veerman’s lover alone called at the house and drawn her down to the shore to administer the fatal shot in order to secure the love of Brett Veerman?
The canvas tent flap opened and Cantelli entered. ‘Is it OK for the undertakers to come in?’
Horton nodded. Clarke had already taken all the photographs and videos he needed and Taylor had mapped the lie of the land and the location and position of the body. He and his SOCO team would come back inside the tent after the body was removed.
Horton stepped outside, thankful the rain had finally stopped although he and Cantelli were already wet through. Uckfield had returned to his car where Horton could see him on the phone. Gaye broke off talking to Clarke and crossed to him as the undertakers stepped forward.
‘Sorry about tonight. I might finish by eight but you might not. Some other time?’
‘Yes.’
He watched her walk away to a waiting police car then turned and stared across the rough muddy grey sea. At least this location, like that of where Kenton’s body had been found, was private property with no nosy neighbours or sightseers to come gawping. And yet maybe if there had been neighbours they might have got a clue as to who had done this. He made for Uckfield who had come off his phone and was climbing out of his car.
‘The hospital says that Veerman left there two hours ago. Trueman’s checked; he’s on the car ferry. He’ll be here soon.’
And would this be a shock to him or had he timed it so that he could find his wife’s body?
‘And the investigation?’ asked Horton.
Uckfield pointedly eyed Cantelli, who moved away.
‘We wait until after we interview Veerman. Then I’m to report back to Dean.’
‘Steve, we’ve got to do more.’
‘Like what?’ cried Uckfield. ‘Seal off the bloody island?’
‘We can find out if Brett Veerman came here yesterday.’
‘Not by car ferry he didn’t. Trueman’s already checked.’
‘By private boat.’
‘That piddling dinghy in this weather?’ Uckfield cried incredulously, pointing to where it lay beside the boathouse on the grass.
‘No, on someone else’s boat. Elkins’ unit is checking to see if they can find a boat owned by Veerman, or any sightings of him around the marinas, on Thursday night. I’ll get them to extend that to yesterday.’
‘OK.’
‘And we need a search warrant for here.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job,’ Uckfield snapped, turning away as his phone rang. ‘Yes, sir,’ Horton heard him say before he moved out of earshot.
Horton returned to Cantelli and relayed the gist of his conversation with Uckfield and asked him to contact Elkins. Horton looked up at the sound of a car approaching and saw Veerman’s Volvo sweep to a sharp halt in a flurry of gravel in front of the house. Uckfield hastily terminated his call and jerked his head at Horton in a sign to accompany him as he headed towards the car. To Cantelli, Horton said, ‘Here we go. Should be interesting.’
‘What the devil is going on here?’ Veerman demanded. The police officer at the gate wouldn’t have told him. ‘Are you in charge?’ He addressed Uckfield.
‘Can we go inside, sir?’
‘No, we damn well can’t, not unless you’ve got a search warrant. Where’s my wife?’
Was he too angry, thought Horton? Was this role playing?
‘What’s going on down there?’ He pointed to the activity on the shore and then seemed to take in the surroundings: the other cars parked on the driveway, the canvas tent. His skin paled. It didn’t look like an act. He seemed to sway. ‘Thelma. Is she …? Is she …?’ His keen eyes widened as he scrutinized them.
Evenly and quietly Horton said, ‘I’m sorry to say your wife is dead, Mr Veerman. We’re treating her death as suspicious.’
‘There must be some mistake. Are you sure?’ He peered closely at Horton and must have seen confirmation in his eyes because he drew in a deep breath. ‘I’d like to see her.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, that’s not possible.’
‘I am a doctor, for God’s sake!’
‘It’s a crime scene,’ Horton said firmly.
‘She’s been killed! But who? How?’
‘Shall we go inside?’ Uckfield repeated firmly and held out his hand towards the front door, clearly indicating that the matter was not up for debate.
Veerman threw a look at the tent and seemed to be deciding whether to disobey Uckfield’s instructions. This was a man clearly used to having his own way and his instructions followed without question. But then so was Uckfield. Veerman inhaled, ran a hand over his dark hair and threw Horton a slightly hostile look before marching swiftly to the front door. Withdrawing his keys from his overcoat pocket he opened it. No alarm sounded. But Horton could see the house was fitted with one.
‘Did Mrs Veerman usually set the alarm before leaving the house?’
‘Sometimes. Not always. Half the time she left the door open.’ He looked around. ‘Where are the dogs?’
‘The Dog Support Unit has them, sir. They can be returned to you as soon as you wish.’
‘Keep them. They’re not my dogs.’ He marched through the hall to the rear of the house and the kitchen. Uckfield raised his eyebrows at Horton as they followed. Nothing seemed to have changed since Horton had first stepped inside there on Saturday. The doors leading off the hall were closed. Nothing looked to have been disturbed and there had been no forced entry from the front, or from the kitchen. The patio doors were intact and the kitchen as before. But then Horton didn’t think this was a robbery gone wrong and neither did Uckfield.
Veerman crossed to the sink and drew a glass of water. He drank it down in one go, his figure erect, his back to them. Horton wondered what he was thinking and if the gesture had been designed to hide his expression and give him time to think. He turned and removed his overcoat to reveal an expensive grey suit exquisitely cut and hanging perfectly on his lean, fit body. His appearance was as immaculate as the kitchen and the flat at Admiralty Towers. He wore a white cotton shirt underneath the suit and a plain lemon-coloured tie; not an item of clothing or hair was out of place. He waved them into seats at the breakfast bar in the centre of the modern kitchen but they both remained standing. Veerman decided to stand too.
‘Can’t you tell me anything about her death?’ he asked, scouring their faces as though searching for answers.
‘When were you last here, sir?’ Horton asked. He thought he saw a flicker of irritation in Veerman’s eyes at not having his question answered.
‘Monday morning. I caught the eight o’clock sailing from Fishbourne.’
‘And yesterday?’
‘At the hospital of course.
‘Until?’
‘Four-thirty, then I went to the private hospital where I had clinics until ten p.m.’
That could be easily checked and if it was true – and Horton couldn’t see the man lying about something like that – then it meant that Brett Veerman couldn’t have killed his wife.
‘What time did you come home?’
‘I didn’t. I stayed in my apartment at Admiralty Towers both Monday and Tuesday night.’
‘Why come home now?’ In fact Veerman had come home early. It was just on three p.m.
‘Why not? There’s no law against it,’ he said sharply and then seemed to relent. ‘I’ve come home early because my diary was clear for this afternoon and tomorrow, and I thought it time Thelma and I talked things over. Now it’s too late,’ he added in an abstracted tone rather than a sorrowful one, thought Horton. It had been too late a long time ago, he thought, recalling his only conversation with Thelma Veerman. It was clear that she and the man in front of him had stopped communicating years ago. They had been two people living together but separately. And beneath the marriage there was hostility, even hatred for each other – or was that too strong a word? Neither of them had expressed hatred in words, looks or gestures, but he felt it. It wasn’t open aggression but a simmering seething hostility that went so deep they hardly recognized it themselves. And it was dangerous. He’d witnessed it before. So dangerous that Veerman and his lover could have killed for it?
Horton said, ‘When did you last speak to your wife?’
‘Monday morning before I left for the ferry.’
‘You rowed.’
‘We never rowed.’
Horton thought that was the truth. He envisaged a cold silence between them, worse than a row, which had stretched on for years. ‘Do you know what your wife’s movements were yesterday and last night?’
‘She would have taken the dogs for a walk. She did so at least twice a day, usually four times. I take it this is not a random attack and that it has something to do with that private detective who was killed.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Uckfield spoke for the first time during the questioning.
Veerman gave him a withering look. Uckfield didn’t flinch for even a second. ‘I may not be a detective but it doesn’t take much imagination or intelligence to link the two.’
Neither Horton nor Uckfield replied. Horton mentally held his breath and knew Uckfield was doing the same. Was Veerman going to confess to having a lover and being involved in Kenton’s killing? Or would he concoct a highly plausible story – he’d had enough time to do so. But Veerman said nothing. What was he thinking, wondered Horton. Was he behaving how he thought he should or was he looking back down the years at the time he’d spent with his wife and was now envisaging a life without her? Uckfield let the silence stretch on but clearly Veerman wasn’t going to break it. Uckfield made to speak but Horton got in first.
‘Why did you lie about the time you arrived home on Saturday morning?’
‘Saturday? What’s Saturday got to do with Thelma’s death? Oh, I see, of course, the private detective she hired. I didn’t lie. Thelma did.’
And now she couldn’t contradict that.
‘Why would she do that?’ asked Uckfield.
‘Why do you think? To make you query my movements, as you have done.’
‘She believed you had killed Jasper Kenton?’
‘I don’t know what she believed, Superintendent.’
‘Except that you were having an affair. Are you?’
‘No.’
Horton said, ‘Do you have separate bedrooms?’
‘I don’t see that’s any business of yours.’
Horton said nothing, neither did Uckfield.
After a while Veerman said stiffly, ‘Yes.’
‘So you don’t know if she was asleep or awake.’
‘I don’t even know if she was in the house. I didn’t look in to say goodnight but I do know what time I got in and it was just before one a.m.’
Horton watched Veerman carefully. Had he deliberately said that to plant the idea that Thelma might have been out in order to shift the blame away from him? There was bewilderment in his expression but also something else, a kind of arrogance or was it mockery?
‘Where would she have been at that time of night?’
‘No idea, probably walking the bloody dogs.’
‘Why don’t you like them?’
‘Why should I? And I don’t see that that has any bearing on your investigation.’
It didn’t and Horton thought he knew the reason why Veerman didn’t care for the animals. Veerman liked a clean, clinical, neat environment and dogs meant smell, dirt, hairs and mess.
Uckfield said, ‘Could your wife have had a lover?’
Veerman eyed Uckfield with incredulity and in his expression Horton saw exactly what kind of life Thelma must have had with him. Veerman thought his wife incapable of having a lover, or of any man wanting her.
‘I don’t think so, Superintendent,’ he answered with a superior tone.
‘But how can you be sure?’ Horton insisted.
‘I knew my wife.’ It was said matter-of-factly, without bitterness or sorrow.
‘Friends then, perhaps you could let us have names and contact details.’
‘I don’t know them.’
Uckfield cocked a sceptical eyebrow.
‘My wife didn’t socialize.’
‘But you must have done as a couple.’
‘Once, yes. But my wife has become … became more reclusive in recent years.’
‘She didn’t go to the Castle Hill Yacht club with you?’
Veerman looked surprised and then confused at the question. He answered it warily. ‘Not for some years. I hardly go there myself now. Why are you interested in that?’
‘Have you and your wife ever been to Lord Eames’ house?’ Horton asked before Uckfield could prevent him.
‘Yes. Why? Look, what has—’
‘We’ll need to check your movements, sir.’
‘Then check away,’ Veerman snapped.
‘And we need to see your wife’s room and go through her belongings. It could help us to find her killer.’
‘By all means, when you have a warrant to do so,’ Veerman replied icily.
Uckfield eyed him, surprised. ‘It would assist us greatly if we could do so now, sir,’ he said smoothly.
‘My wife has just died. I have a son to inform. Get your warrant and return. Now I’d like you to leave my house.’ He made for the door. ‘I have calls to make.’
And who would he call first, wondered Horton. His lover? His lawyer? His son?
Uckfield nodded at Horton. To Veerman he said, ‘We need a photograph of your wife. We’ll need it for our inquiries,’ he added when Veerman looked set to protest. ‘It will help us to establish her movements before she died.’
‘I don’t want this in the media,’ Veerman said curtly. ‘You’re not to say anything to the press.’
‘We won’t, sir, but the press still have a way of finding out about these things.’
‘Not from me they won’t. And if I believe that anyone in the police has spoken to them I will make a complaint at the highest level.’ Veerman opened the front door.
‘We’ll let you know when we’ve finished here, sir.’
‘I’ll be able to see that for myself. And then those gates will be closed.’ Coolly he added, ‘Where will the autopsy be held?’
He was a doctor after all, thought Horton. ‘At Newport.’
‘Then you’ll need me to make a formal identification.’
‘Tomorrow morning, if that suits you, Mr Veerman,’ Uckfield said pointedly, with a hint of sarcasm.
‘Perfectly. I’ll email you a photograph when I can find one.’ Uckfield handed him his card. Veerman took it and the door closed firmly on them.
‘He did it,’ Uckfield announced, heading for his car.
Changed your tune now, Horton thought but didn’t say.
Uckfield added, ‘You could have told me what he was like!’
Horton opened his mouth to retort that he’d been telling him that since Saturday but then realized there was no point. Uckfield would be deaf to such claims.
Uckfield continued, ‘He killed Kenton and then he killed his wife, or got someone to do it. He wanted shot of her and he’s so bloody confident that he’ll get away with it. Smooth-talking bastard. He’ll make sure there’s nothing incriminating in the house. I’ll post a local officer here in case he’s thinking of having a bonfire. Tomorrow we start talking to everyone who knows him.’
Horton refrained from saying that’s what they should have done to begin with.
Uckfield went on, ‘We’ll find this lover. And maybe we’d better find her quick before he polishes her off because I can’t see Veerman wanting someone with that knowledge hanging round his neck for the rest of his life, threatening to incriminate him in murder. I’ll pull Bliss out of Swallows Agency. No need for her to be there now. This isn’t connected with any of Kenton’s cases except that one back there.’ Uckfield jerked his head at the house.
It had taken him a long time to see it, thought Horton. But he could see another reason why Uckfield had suddenly become so keen on action and Brett Veerman as their main suspect. Thelma Veerman’s body had been found on her own land and not Lord Eames’ property and that, as far as Uckfield was concerned, meant the motive had nothing to do with His Lordship. Furthermore, Uckfield didn’t have to tip toe around the investigation now or kowtow to the Chief Constable.
Uckfield said, ‘I’ll get a warrant tomorrow and we’ll take that place apart. We’ll also go over both of their cars, his and Thelma’s, and that boathouse. Dennings can oversee the search this end and Bliss the search of his apartment in Portsmouth and his consulting rooms and start the questioning of his colleagues. We’ll find this ruddy lover of his.’
Horton said, ‘Thelma Veerman told me Kenton was trawling the Internet looking for reports on the conferences and seminars her husband attended to see if there was any one particular woman who appeared regularly at the same places as Brett Veerman. Kenton was also examining Veerman’s social and professional network website profiles. We should do the same.’
‘I’ll get the Hi-Tech Unit working on it.’ Uckfield made to climb into his car but Horton forestalled him.
‘I don’t believe Thelma Veerman lived such a reclusive life as her husband claims. She must have had friends and we might be able to get details of them from her mobile phone records. Eunice Swallows must have the number. Thelma also visited the abbey frequently. I’d like to question the monks to see if anyone saw her there.’
‘Get on to it now. I’ll get a house-to-house organized here, which shouldn’t take long as there aren’t that many properties.’ Uckfield called out to Sergeant Norris, leaving Horton to head for Cantelli’s car. Horton gave Cantelli instructions to head for Northwood Abbey. On the way Horton brought him up to speed with the interview with Veerman, describing his attitude to his wife’s brutal murder. Cantelli agreed it was defensive and unhelpful but ventured that it might be the result of shock.
‘Doctors see death all the time but don’t always believe it can happen to them or someone close to them,’ he ventured. ‘But I feel sorry for Thelma Veerman if what he says is true. Must have been a hell of a lonely life.’
Horton agreed. The only comfort she had found seemed to have been with her dogs and the monks.