Footsteps on the Shore Read online

  And surely Luke Felton was too young for that, thought Horton, though a cocaine overdose could certainly cause a heart attack. Or if this wasn’t Felton then it could have been a natural death. Perhaps the man was out walking by the sea, suffered a heart attack and fell into the water.

  Horton said, ‘Any indication of where this might have happened?’

  ‘None at all,’ she replied brightly. ‘Everything’s been sent to the lab for analysis, including clothes – what is left of them – skin, organs, fragments of sea life, grit, gravel, sand and anything else I could find in and on him. You might get more from that. There’s not a lot more I can tell you at present.’

  ‘What about fingerprints?’ asked Cantelli.

  ‘Not enough skin left to lift any complete ones. We’ll have to rely on DNA. It’s being run through the database, but I doubt you’ll get an answer, if there’s a match of course, until sometime next week.’

  Horton felt irritated by the delay. ‘Isn’t there anything you can tell us about the identity of the victim?’ he asked, exasperated.

  She eyed him keenly. ‘You sound a tad desperate, Inspector.’ He opened his mouth to reply but she held up her hand to silence him. ‘I know; it’s a matter of life and death. OK, here’s what I’ve got. Got your notebook ready, Sergeant?’

  Cantelli waved it at her with a grin and plucked the pencil from behind his right ear.

  She began. ‘He was five feet eleven inches tall, size nine shoe, aged mid to late forties, dead for at least two weeks, maybe more. What’s wrong, Inspector? Have I disappointed you?’

  She had. Clearly this was not Luke Felton. Two weeks ago Luke had been alive and kicking around Crown House. The body was also the wrong age, the wrong height and probably the wrong shoe size. And once again that raised the question of whether Luke had anything to do with Venetia Trotman’s death.

  ‘I did have someone in mind,’ he said, glancing at Cantelli, who gave a resigned shrug. They’d have to wait to see if they got a DNA match and if the lab came up with anything from the samples Dr Clayton had sent them.

  Gaye crossed to the mortuary. ‘Are you staying for the autopsy on Venetia Trotman?’

  Horton declined. Although he was eager to know how Venetia Trotman had died he wasn’t keen enough to witness Dr Clayton’s ritualistic disembowelment, and neither was Cantelli.

  ‘It doesn’t answer where Luke Felton is, or Rookley,’ Horton said glumly, as they drove back to the station. ‘We’ll have to circulate Felton’s photograph and put out an all-ports alert for him.’ And he’d need to tell Uckfield that Luke Felton could be in the frame for Venetia Trotman’s murder. They desperately needed to track his movements since Tuesday evening.

  Cantelli broke the news over the phone to Ashley Felton, who said he’d let his brother-in-law know. Then, armed with a warrant, Cantelli took himself off to Kempton’s to collect Luke’s computer, informing Toby Kempton he was on his way. Horton had decided not to accompany him. Not because he was concerned about Toby Kempton’s threats – his father-in-law’s bullying wasn’t going to prevent him from speaking to Kempton’s employees again – but he had an itch to see where Natalie had been killed. He didn’t mention it to Cantelli, who would only roll his eyes at him again and shake his head. First though, Horton called Sergeant Warren and asked if PC Seaton was on duty. He was, and as luck would have it was in the station. A few minutes later there was a tap on Horton’s door and he beckoned Seaton in.

  ‘Take Luke Felton’s photograph to the bus station, Seaton, and ask if any drivers on the route past Kempton’s in both directions, towards Portchester or Portsmouth, remember seeing Luke Felton on Tuesday evening after work.’

  Seaton looked pleased at being given the task. Horton knew he was keen to get into CID and he would be just as eager to take him, if he was ever granted more manpower, which seemed about as likely as him being given the freedom of the city. Collecting his helmet and leather jacket, he detoured to the main incident suite on his way out of the station and was surprised to find a dejected major crime team and a room silent of ringing phones, bustling with about as much activity as a slug.

  ‘Has your pen run out?’ he asked Trueman with surprise, eyeing the crime board. On it were the photographs of the battered body of Venetia Trotman, her name, details of where she was found, when, and the estimated time of death. And nothing else.

  ‘No, our information,’ Trueman replied. ‘You look a bit the worse for wear, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ll survive. Didn’t you find anything in the house?’ He didn’t mind telling Trueman what had happened at the lock but he wasn’t going to mention it while others were present, especially Dennings. He didn’t trust the bastard not to blab it to Bliss and get him into trouble. Thankfully she still hadn’t put in an appearance.

  ‘There’s not a bloody thing in it to tell us who she is,’ Uckfield grouched, stomping across to the crime board and glaring at it. ‘No photographs, no personal papers, no next of kin, and Trueman can’t trace her anywhere.’ Uckfield spun round and redirected his angry stare towards the stoical sergeant, as if it was his fault.

  Trueman didn’t take it personally. ‘There’s no register of birth, or marriage. She has no credit card or bank account. No tax record and no national insurance number. She simply doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Not any more she doesn’t,’ Horton said, puzzled and intrigued.

  Uckfield threw himself down on a chair with an explosive sigh and spread out his short fat legs. ‘It seems she didn’t in the first place, except for the fact we have a body and you saw and spoke to her when she was alive. The phones are silent even after my TV appeal, which makes me think the buggers have cut us off. We’re waiting on Dr Clayton for fingerprints, dental records and DNA. Taylor confirms the victim was killed where she was found. There are some faint shoe prints around the body and the area leading from the boat, and we might get some traces left by our killer on the victim’s clothes or skin, but might’s no bloody good to me.’

  ‘What about her late husband?’ Horton asked, baffled.

  Uckfield threw an exasperated glance at Trueman.

  ‘The house is registered to Joseph Trotman, who purchased it in March 1997. There’s no mortgage on it. All the utility bills are in his name and have always been paid in cash.’

  Did that explain why the central heating had been switched off, Horton wondered, because Venetia Trotman had run out of cash and was afraid she wouldn’t be able to pay the bill when it arrived? Perhaps she had sold the jewellery, as he and Cantelli had discussed, and had been using the money to live.

  Trueman was saying, ‘The late Joseph Trotman also had no credit card or bank account. No tax or national insurance records. But that’s not all. Neither his birth nor his death have been registered.’

  Horton was surprised. ‘She told me he died three months ago.’

  ‘Well, she was telling you porky pies,’ bellowed Uckfield.

  Evenly Trueman continued. ‘I’m checking with the post office to see what mail’s been delivered and I’ve asked the phone company for a complete record of calls.’

  Horton considered what he’d learnt. ‘It’s clear she must have destroyed all the papers in the house, which gave their real names.’

  ‘I think we managed to work that out ourselves,’ Uckfield said sarcastically, drawing a smug glint from Dennings.

  Horton ignored them both. ‘There are two reasons why she’d do that. One, because either one or both of them are wanted for a crime and needed to conceal their identity. Or two, they were on the run from someone criminal and powerful, who’s finally caught up with them. Or perhaps who first caught up with Joseph Trotman and killed him and Venetia was trying to escape this person the night she was killed.’ Which made Horton recall his anonymous caller; did the man with the foreign accent know or suspect who that killer might be? But if he did, then why not stick around and help them? The answer had to be because he was a criminal himself.

  Uck
field sniffed and scratched the inside of his left thigh. ‘You met her. What was she like?’

  Horton refrained from saying, You should have asked me last night instead of sending me away like PC Plod. Instead he considered his encounter with the victim, as he had done several times since finding her body, but this time in light of what he now knew. Was there something he’d missed? A hint as to Venetia Trotman’s true identity in what she’d said and done? He couldn’t see it.

  Aloud he said, ‘She was softly spoken, no accent, or rather middle England, reserved. She seemed a little nervous but that could have been her natural manner. She met me at the front of the house coming from the rear of the building, as though she’d been waiting for me.’ He paused as an idea struck him.

  ‘Go on, or is this a new party game and we have to guess what happened next?’ grumbled Uckfield.

  ‘Perhaps her killer was already in the house.’ And could that have been Luke Felton? Horton wondered. But how could Luke have known Venetia Trotman? Then a thought occurred to him. Could Felton have met someone in prison who had told him about the Trotmans?

  Horton continued. ‘Her visitor could have arrived unexpectedly. She couldn’t cancel my appointment because I hadn’t then given her my mobile number, so she had to go through with it. But she didn’t want me in the house. Whoever was inside could have been a criminal, or possibly someone on the run, and it explains why the place was wiped clean.’

  Surely Luke Felton, stoned or not, wouldn’t have bothered to wipe the house of his prints. Then Horton recalled Felton’s room at Crown House, neat, tidy and clean to the point of clinical obsession. But why would Luke Felton risk losing his job, go on the run and kill a woman? The answer could be drugs. But that didn’t explain why he had been missing since Tuesday and Venetia killed in the early hours of Friday morning.

  Swiftly his mind ran over the things he’d learnt about Luke Felton since yesterday. Having been refused money by his brother, Luke Felton had been on his way to his sister’s house on Tuesday evening after leaving work when he remembered someone had told him about the Trotmans. He diverted to Willow Bank, and found Venetia alone. He threatened her with exposure over her secret, whatever it was, unless she gave him money. He bought drugs, and then when he needed more he returned to Willow Bank late Thursday night, but Venetia refused him money. She tried to run away from him. He killed her. That didn’t explain the caller with the foreign accent, but nevertheless Horton relayed his ideas to Uckfield, watching his expression change from incredulity to hope and then indignation.

  ‘Why didn’t I know about this Luke Felton before?’ he thundered.

  ‘Because until an hour ago I thought we might have his body in the mortuary.’

  Uckfield grunted. ‘Can Felton sail a yacht?’

  ‘I can check with his brother. No sign of Shorena, I take it.’

  A sullen-looking Dennings answered. ‘No, and it’s not registered with the harbour master.’

  Horton knew that, unlike a car, there was no legal requirement for registration, or any kind of documentation, tracking the ownership of a boat, although the sensible and responsible boat owner always kept records. Dennings was eyeing Horton malevolently. Horton knew what he was thinking – why involve him when it wasn’t his case? And perhaps Uckfield wouldn’t be doing so, apart from having Luke Felton in the frame and the fact that Horton was the only person who’d met the victim. That, and the lack of information on the victim, had changed Uckfield’s mind.

  Uckfield hauled himself up. ‘Right. We start work on Luke Felton.’

  But Horton halted him. ‘That’s just one theory.’

  ‘You’ve got more?’ Uckfield replied, rolling his eyes.

  ‘Perhaps Joseph Trotman’s not dead at all, but living under another name somewhere, and she was about to join him. Maybe she needed the money quickly for them to get away, but when I didn’t buy the boat there and then she decided to cut loose and leave, which was why she was dressed in outdoor clothes at that time of night. But as she was making her escape she was attacked and killed by whoever it is who is after them.’ Uckfield eyed him doubtfully, made to reply, but Horton continued. ‘Or perhaps she killed her husband and was frightened of being found out, so she was running away.’ There was a short silence before Horton added, ‘Or she could have been a squatter and just posing as Joseph’s wife, and the real Venetia Trotman was already dead.’

  ‘Bloody hell, I think your imagination’s on overtime. Must be something to do with that bang on the head.’

  Horton guessed his last idea was a bit on the wild side. ‘What about the GPs in the area? Were either of the Trotmans registered as patients?’

  Grudgingly Dennings answered. ‘We can’t get on to that until Monday because the surgeries are closed over the weekend.’

  ‘Hard bloody luck if you’re sick,’ growled Uckfield, transferring his scratch to his armpit.

  Horton said, ‘What did the shop owner say about the advertisement for the boat?’

  Uckfield nodded at Marsden.

  ‘She placed it a week before she was killed,’ Marsden answered brightly, sitting up – like a Springer spaniel about to be tossed a bone, thought Horton. ‘He’s no idea who responded to it. If anyone did they would simply have seen it in the window, jotted down the details and called her direct, like you did, sir.’

  And the card hadn’t given her name or address, just a telephone number.

  Marsden added, ‘The newsagent can’t remember seeing her before she showed up with the advertisement, and he didn’t deliver newspapers to the house. I’ve sent the card to Forensic, but I’m not sure they’ll get anything from it other than the shopkeeper’s fingerprints, which were taken today, though there might be traces of the victim’s on it. I’ve requested copies of the CCTV tapes from the shopping precinct in case we can identify anyone who is looking at the advertisements in the shop window, other than Inspector Horton, but they’ve only got the last few days.’

  It was better than nothing.

  Addressing Trueman, Uckfield said, ‘Liaise with DC Walters and get all you can on Luke Felton. See if you can unearth any connection between Felton and the Trotmans. And so we don’t ignore your other theories, Inspector Horton, Dennings you can organize the search of the garden to see if Venetia Trotman buried her husband there and was intending to sail off into the sunset with their life savings. Get the scanning equipment in. Oversee the operation personally. I don’t want anything missed.’

  Horton could see that Dennings didn’t look too happy about being pushed outside for the day, but Horton prayed for rain and gale force winds. He called Ashley Felton’s mobile number. It was answered almost immediately, as though he was expecting a call. Horton asked if Luke was an experienced sailor.

  There was a short pause before Felton answered. ‘Yes. A very good one. You think he could have stolen a boat?’

  It was a logical conclusion given his question. ‘Do you?’

  He heard Ashley take a deep breath. ‘I suppose it’s possible, but he hasn’t taken mine, it’s still at the Town Camber. I’m on it now.’

  Horton thanked him, promised to keep him updated and rang off. He relayed the information to Trueman and then took his leave for Hayling Island, and the place where Natalie Raymonds had met her death.

  TEN

  Horton stared across the ebbing tide in Langstone Harbour to the opposite shore of Portsmouth. The weather had clouded over after a promising start and now the sky was a patchwork of dark scudding clouds which threatened rain, and the wind was bringing with it the smell of mud and salt and the cry of the seagulls. He’d left his Harley at the end of Julian Raymonds’ road, a cul-de-sac that culminated in a field, which he’d walked across to reach the shore. Climbing down on to the shingle beach he headed south until he came to the rear of the Raymonds’ house. There didn’t seem to be any signs of life inside. He’d been tempted to call there, but had decided against it. He didn’t want to upset Julian Raymonds any more
than was necessary, and he couldn’t see how Raymonds could tell them where Luke Felton might be.

  There was an old wooden pontoon at the bottom of the property but most of it had fallen into the sea. Horton could see buoys in the harbour and a handful of boats moored to them, but not Shorena it seemed, according to Elkins. If Luke Felton was Venetia Trotman’s killer then it was possible he’d taken her yacht out through Portsmouth Harbour in the early hours of Friday morning, which meant he couldn’t have been pilled up or he wouldn’t have got far without having an accident.

  Horton again eyed Raymonds’ house. He could see no rear entrance from it leading on to the shore, though there could have been in 1997 when Natalie Raymonds had begun her fateful run that September day.

  Turning his gaze across the harbour he saw the tops of the yacht masts in his marina and where the channel turned in to enter the lock at Milton. His mind flitted to his attacker and then away again, there didn’t seem any point in speculating on who it might or might not have been, but he made a mental note to get a record of recently released criminals to see if any names on the list might have a personal vendetta against him.

  He thought about the body found in the harbour. Should he make a media appeal about it? But what could he say? They had no photograph to show, and if someone had seen that rotting corpse before Mr Hackett then surely they would have said. He could put out a general description based on what Dr Clayton had given them, he supposed, in case it prompted any memories, though something so vague was bound to pull in the loonies and the desperate. Still, it might prompt a lead. He’d do it when he returned to the station.

  He headed back the way he’d come until once again he climbed up on to the path that skirted the field. It was rapidly crumbling into the sea, with withered dead oaks leaning drunkenly over on to the shingle. Continuing northwards for half a mile he came to a small copse of trees, bushes and brambles. At this time of year he could see right through them to the sea beyond, but in September the foliage would have been dense enough to hide Natalie’s body until the dogs had sniffed it out two days after she’d been killed.