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were the same culprits as those responsible for stealing the bronze statue and the plaques in Old Portsmouth. They were different methods, one set of thefts on land and the other on water, but maybe they’d extended their operational range. Perhaps he should call Bliss and update her for her meeting. But he didn’t.
    He made his way back to the body. The stench of the petrol fumes from the motorway seemed to be sinking lower over them in a smog as the morning grew hotter and more sultry.
    He arrived as Uckfield came off the phone. His mood hadn’t improved.
    ‘Dean’s informing Sawyer. I said it would help if he let me have DI Dennings back instead of allowing him to ponce about on the Isle of Wight at that ruddy music festival with the Border Agency trying to sniff out illegal immigrant workers, but he said that was
impossible
. Anyone would think I’d asked for Sherlock bloody Holmes.’
    Dr Clayton straightened up. ‘Do you want me to turn her over?’
    Uckfield nodded leaving Horton to instruct Taylor to assist her. Horton waited eagerly. It was difficult to see the victim’s face until Dr Clayton brushed away the seaweed. Beth Tremaine dropped it into an evidence bag. Horton didn’t think forensic would get anything from it but they couldn’t take any chances. He studied the dark lifeless eyes, the dirt-smeared face with its high cheekbones, the shoulder-length black hair now free of the hat, which Tremaine had also put into another evidence bag, and although death had stripped the personality from the victim, Horton got confirmation of what he already knew: that it was the woman he’d seen at the crematorium yesterday.
    Extricating herself from the wreckage, Dr Clayton said, ‘Stab wound to the lower back, but I can’t confirm that was the cause of death until I do the autopsy. There are no other obvious signs of physical assault, no marks visible to show that she turned and struggled with her attacker, but I need to examine her more closely on the slab to be certain of that. And there’s no identification on her or under her. No handbag I’m afraid, Superintendent, and there’s no sign of the missing shoe on the wreck.’
    Horton said, ‘Any signs that she was brought here under duress?’
    ‘Not on the surface. I’d say her killer came up behind her while she was standing on the quayside, thrust the knife into her back, then pushed her into the water. At a rough estimate she’s been dead between ten to thirteen hours; some time between nine thirty p.m. and twelve thirty a.m. I can be more precise when I do the autopsy, which I’ll do as soon as she’s brought to the mortuary. But I was here last night.’
    Uckfield eyed her, surprised. The red Mini that Manley had mentioned, thought Horton. He knew that Gaye Clayton was a sailor like him but he hadn’t known she was a member of the Tipner Sailing Club. No reason why he should know, they’d hardly discussed it. Corpses were more their usual topic of conversation.
    Gaye added, ‘I certainly didn’t see her, although I was sailing in the harbour so I might have missed her arrival. But I didn’t see a car parked that I didn’t recognize when I left the sailing club just before ten.’
    ‘Who else was here?’ asked Uckfield sharply.
    ‘Your chief constable, for one; Paul Meredew.’
    Uckfield’s craggy features registered surprise. Horton hadn’t known Meredew was a sailor but then why should he; he’d barely spoken two words to the new chief on his recent tour of the troops. He’d only been in post five weeks.
    Gaye added, ‘Paul Meredew is a new member at the club. The commodore sponsored him; Councillor Dominic Levy.’
    ‘Christ, it gets worse,’ muttered Uckfield. ‘The chair of the Police Committee
and
the Chief Constable. Anyone else I should know about at this club last night? The local MP? The Home Secretary?’
    Gaye smiled. ‘No, just Paul Meredew, Dominic Levy, Fiona Wright, who’s a radiographer at the hospital, and me;