Deadly Waters dah-2 Page 10

'Even the colour of his eyes varies. He obviously disguised himself and wore coloured contact lenses.'

  'So we have an accomplished con man on our patch. We know how he got the alarm combinations, but how did he get into the houses without forcing an entry? How did he get their keys? None of the victims has reported having their key stolen.'

  Somerfield frowned in puzzlement. 'No. There is another common factor. All the victims are over sixty, all retired and well off. Only Mr Martin owns a boat, but I wondered if they might all belong to the same club, where chummy could gain access to their keys.'

  Club? Somerfield's words brought him back to Eric Morville, the note and the fact that Morville's flat backed on to a club where there had been a break-in. He couldn't see the wealthy and well-to-do victims of Old Portsmouth visiting such a down-at heel club in Landport, but Somerfield's idea was a good one.

  'Check it out, but before you do let's see if the descriptions spark a reaction from Mickey Johnson.'

  Horton didn't hold out a great deal of hope that they would, but it was time he pressed Mickey harder. Mickey was, however, remaining obstinately silent. Horton tried for an hour to extract something from the weedy little runt. He couldn't trip him up. Even when Horton mentioned that Mickey could find himself in the frame for Langley's murder, the man simply demanded to see his solicitor.

  Frustrated, Horton gave the order for Johnson to be returned to the cells. Then, scribbling on a note pad, he handed a piece of paper to Somerfield. 'Trace that car registration. Tomorrow will do. You get off home.' He could do with going home himself, but there was still too much to do.

  She looked puzzled. 'Is it connected with the robberies, sir?'

  'No.' Somerfield refrained from asking further questions, probably because she knew he wouldn't answer them anyway. He wasn't quite sure what he'd do with the information when he got it, but he had a right to know what type of bastard was sleeping with his wife and playing with his daughter. The action made him feel a little better.

  He headed for the incident room where he learnt that they had called a halt on taking statements at the school an hour ago. Trueman told him they had got about halfway through the hundred-odd staff.

  'Flicking through them,' he said, 'no one has a bad word to say about Jessica Langley. Give them a couple of days though, and we'll probably get something nearer the truth.'

  'Anyone tell you you're a cynic, Dave,' Horton said.

  'Aren't we all? Goes with the job.'

  'I've just been having a rather one-sided conversation with Mickey Johnson. The scumbag is enough to make anyone cynical. He's determined not to co-operate on this one. Someone's masterminding these antique thefts, Dave, and I don't think it's the youth that was with him. Has anyone occurred to you?'

  Trueman scratched his neck. 'No. Cantelli asked me to check with specialist investigations for anyone who fits the pattern, but there's no one in Hampshire. I could widen the search.'

  'Leave it for now. We've got enough to do. It was just an idea, but if you hear of anything.'

  'I'll let you know. Any sign of Johnson's accomplice?'

  'Not yet. Where's Cantelli?'

  'Haven't seen him, but the big man's in the canteen.'

  Uckfield was nursing a coffee.

  'You look like shit,' were his first words as Horton sat in front of him with a coffee and a plate of eggs, bacon, chips and beans.

  'So would you if you'd be up for thirty-six hours.'

  'You're no good to me half dead.'

  'It seems I'm no good to you alive.'

  Uckfield's head came up. Horton saw that he had scored a point. Uckfield glowered.

  'Go home, Inspector.'

  'Is that an order?'

  'Yes. I've sent Cantelli home too. His mouth was open more often than it was closed. Looking at him was enough to make us all long for our beds or visit a dentist. He told me what had happened at the school. Nothing's come to light so far, just what a bloody great head teacher she was.'

  'That's not what Tom Edney says.'

  'Sour grapes.'

  'Possibly.' Horton stabbed at a chip and conveyed it to his mouth. 'Anything from the lab?'

  'Langley's fingerprints have checked out and the lab has confirmed it was honey on that bundle of notes found stuffed in her knickers. No fingerprints on them.'

  'What about on the betting slip?'

  'Not come in yet.'

  'I'll chase them up.' Horton glanced up at the clock on the canteen wall and saw it was too late: it was after seven thirty. It would have to wait until the morning. 'What's the background on Langley so far?' He dipped a chip into his fried egg.

  'She was an only child. Her parents died when she was sixteen. They were killed in a motor collision on the M1. Her father was a lorry driver and her mother was with him. Nasty one, it was a multiple pile-up, closed the motorway for hours. Seven people dead: the Langleys, a husband and wife in the car in front of Langley's lorry — he careered into the back of them, almost through them and out the other side — a man, woman and child behind Langley in a sports car. Five others were injured, two seriously. Langley's lorry caught fire. Their bodies were badly burned. They were identified from their dental records.'

  'Where was Jessica?'

  'At school, here in Portsmouth. It was a small girl's school in Milton. It's now a junior school. We haven't yet traced anyone from school who knew her. Her A-level qualifications were gained at Chippenham Technical College, so we're searching there for a connection: a relative or friend.'

  'Was she born in Portsmouth?' Horton cleared his plate and felt better for having eaten. The canteen was warm and he was incredibly tired. Maybe he would go home.

  'Her birth certificate says Cardiff. And so far records show that she didn't come to Portsmouth until she was twelve. We're also checking her contacts and background in Cardiff.' Uckfield looked over Horton's shoulder and frowned with annoyance. 'Sergeant Cantelli, I thought I told you to bugger off home. Doesn't anybody do as they're told around here?'

  'Langley's car has been found, ' Cantelli said, as he reached their table.

  'Where?' Horton sat up.

  'Sparkes Yacht Harbour, Hayling Island.'

  That was at the opposite end of Hayling Island from where Langley's body was discovered.

  'I thought DI Bliss's team at Hayling were checking the marinas,' Horton said, frowning, wondering why they hadn't found it sooner.

  Uckfield glowered at the implied criticism. 'They are. That's why they've found the car.'

  'It's taken them a long time.' It would have been one of the first places he would have visited. 'Come on.' He was already striding across the canteen with Cantelli in tow.

  Uckfield shouted. 'You're off duty, Inspector.'

  Horton spun round and held Uckfield's angry stare. 'After I've seen the car.'

  Nine

  Friday: 8.15 P.M.

  Horton could see DI Lorraine Bliss's lean figure on the far side of the marina car park as Cantelli swung into it from the residential street. She was scouring the ground with a deep frown as though she'd lost a diamond earring and her life depended on her finding it. Maybe she was just looking for clues though he doubted she'd find any after this time and the appalling weather. He could see the red TVR and beside it the police vehicle recovery truck.

  Her head shot up as Cantelli drew the car to a halt. Horton had only met her once, at a conference before his suspension and then not to talk to. Nevertheless he recalled her sharp-featured face and intense expression. Most of all he remembered her as the woman who had asked intelligent and incisive questions of the speaker, a senior police office from the Met, which had him fumbling for the answers.

  She hadn't mixed with the other delegates. He didn't know whether that was because she lacked the skill to make small talk, or if she just preferred it that way. Her reputation was certainly that she didn't suffer fools gladly (a considerable handicap as a police officer, he thought wryly) and that she was a woman of few words.
He'd also heard that she was very ambitious.

  He saw instantly that she wasn't pleased to see him. Was that because she considered his appearance interference or because she didn't like what she had recalled about him either at the conference or since? It made no difference to him, he thought, heading towards her.

  'There's nothing to see,' she said pre-empting him, and brushing back a strand of hair with an impatient gesture, tucking it into her scraped-back ponytail.

  Maybe not, but he still wanted to see it. It was raining heavily and her long raincoat was soaked like her hair. He hadn't asked her to stand about in the rain waiting for him. It irritated him as he strode towards the TVR. The car was facing on to the marina. Beyond it were rows of motorboats and yachts, and across the black expanse of water he could see the small pinpricks of lights at north Hayling and further away to the east, those of the waterside village of Emsworth. In less than two hours it would be low tide. To his right, just past the main harbour office, were the lights of Marina Jaks, the restaurant. The wind was whistling and roaring through the masts. Not a night to be out to sea, thought Horton, with some sympathy for the fishermen.

  He peered inside. There was nothing on the back seat or on the passenger seat. 'Anything in the boot?' he asked.

  'Spare tyre and tools.' DI Bliss replied shortly. He could feel the energy and anger radiating from her.

  'No suit jacket, laptop or briefcase?'

  'I would have said if there were.'

  He locked eyes with her. There was a slight tilt of her chin and a determined set to her mouth that told him Lorraine Bliss was a fighter. She would get to the top no matter whom she had to walk over to reach it. Uckfield had better watch out and he smiled at this secret pleasure.

  'It looks as though everything personal has been stripped from the car,' he said, straightening up from opening the glove compartment. 'Either that or she was very tidy.' And he knew she wasn't by the state of her office and her apartment.

  Bliss said, 'Most of the boat owners seem to live in London, but there are some local ones; my officers are interviewing them, as well as residents and the holiday makers near Langstone Harbour, but it will take time. I haven't got the manpower.'

  Horton detected a note of defensiveness and resentment in her crisp tone. He guessed that Uckfield had called her to tell her they were on their way, and had expressed his dissatisfaction that the marina hadn't been checked earlier.

  'Did any boat leave the marina last night between nine p.m. and four a. m?'

  'We're still checking,' she snapped. 'Now if you've seen all you need to, I'll get this towed away for examination. I'll keep Detective Superintendent Uckfield informed.'

  She turned her back on him and headed across to the breakdown truck.

  Cantelli yawned. 'Let's go home, Andy. I'm knackered. I can't think straight.'

  There was nothing they could do here. DI Bliss was a competent officer. He was treading on her patch. He didn't blame her for being hostile. He'd be seething if someone did the same to him. Cantelli was right.

  'I wasn't able to check out the boats moored in Town Camber,' Cantelli said, starting up the car and swinging out of the marina. 'By the time I called them, they'd closed for the day. I'll do it first thing tomorrow. How did it go with Catherine?'

  There had been two people Horton could talk to about Catherine: Steve Uckfield and Barney Cantelli. Now there was only one.

  'She brought the boyfriend along.'

  Cantelli's mouth fell open. He threw a glance at Horton. 'She didn't!'

  'Well, he was in the car outside, waiting for her, and she ran straight into his arms.'

  'Bit insensitive that.'

  'You know Catherine.'

  'So it's over between you?'

  'Looks like it.' The memory of that kiss now made him feel sad rather than angry. 'But she's not going to stop me from seeing Emma. I'll have to go to a solicitor.'

  'About time,' Cantelli muttered. 'You got anyone in mind?'

  'I'll find someone. Did you question Neil Cyrus?'

  'He claims that no one saw him on the school premises after Langley left and at ten p.m. he went straight home to his bedsit in Southsea. He lives alone and he didn't speak to anyone. He doesn't own a boat, can't stand being on the water and hardly ever spoke to Langley so doesn't have any feelings about her one way or the other.'

  'You believe him?'

  'Yes.'

  'Anything from Janet Downton?'

  'The only people she saw going into Langley's office yesterday were Tom Edney, Susan Pentlow and that architect fellow, Leo Ranson. But as Downton says,' Cantelli mimicked her, 'I am not chained to my desk, Sergeant. Someone could easily have gone in when I was out of my office.'

  'Times?'

  'Edney went in just on the morning break at eleven twenty a.m., Pentlow at about three p.m. and Ranson shortly after at three thirty p.m. But I did discover that Langley left her office at twelve thirty p.m. and didn't return until just after two p.m. A couple of teachers saw her drive off in her car, and Neil Cyrus saw her return. No one seems to know where she went though.'

  Horton doubted it had anything to do with her death. But the information that Edney had gone to see her was interesting. She could have disciplined him, hence the dark suit, and if she had done so formally then it would be on the deputy head teacher's file. Horton made a mental note to check. But perhaps Langley had torn him off a strip unofficially, or warned him about conducting his affair with Janet Downton. That could have been the proverbial straw that had broken the camel's back and made Edney flip. He'd deal with that tomorrow.

  Cantelli dropped him at the station, where he collected his Harley and managed to resist the temptation to check into the incident room. At his marina, Horton stopped by the office to ask if Eddie had seen any boats leave last night. He hadn't and no one had logged out. Neither was there any record of Jessica Langley keeping a boat there.

  Horton climbed on board Nutmeg, unlocked and slid back the hatch and dropped down into the single cabin. Switching on the light he surveyed the dim and cramped interior with its tiny stove and thought of his large, warm, comfortable house near Petersfield. It filled him with anger and sorrow and hastily he tried not to think of it.

  He stretched out on his bunk listening to the water slapping against the hull and the rain drumming on the decks. He didn't intend sleeping, but fatigue overcame him. When he awoke it was still dark and he was very cold. He removed his shoes, threw on another sweater and climbed into his sleeping bag. The boat was too small and too cold to live on for the winter. He would have to find a bedsit or a flat. He didn't want to. It reminded him too much of being trailed around with his mother before the council tower block had become their home.

  He closed his eyes and despite trying not to he once again saw his lovely detached house just outside Petersfield where he should have been now with his wife and daughter. Was that bastard in bed with Catherine? In his bed!

  He leapt up, and flicked on the light. It was twelve thirty a.m. He knew then he wouldn't be able to return to sleep. He pulled on his leathers and set out for Petersfield, wondering what the devil he was going to do when he got there.

  A light was on in the front bedroom: his and Catherine's. His stomach knotted at the sight of the red BMW on the driveway. He tried not to let his mind conjure up the vision of their naked bodies intertwined. He didn't succeed. Why was he tormenting himself like this? He was mad. Yet he couldn't stop.

  The front door opened and Catherine was kissing good-bye to lover-boy. Horton stepped back behind the cover of the bushes on the opposite side of the road. The man climbed into his car and drove off. Horton hesitated: should he follow him and then beat him to a pulp? But what would that achieve? It would only alienate Catherine further, and get him on a charge of aggravated assault. Besides he'd know soon enough where lover-boy lived when Somerfield had checked him out.

  The light in Catherine's bedroom went off. There was nothing more to see. It was
one forty-five a.m. It would be best to go home and get some sleep. Yet he stayed. He was cold and wet. But his physical discomfort was nothing to the pain he felt inside as he gazed at what had once been his home. He felt like the child once again being left out in the cold, looking in on other people's happiness, never to be a part of it. It was then that he decided what to do. No matter what Catherine said, he had to see Emma. He'd been patient long enough.

  He turned away and found an all-night cafe where he drank several cups of coffee and ate another plate of egg, chips and bacon, not tasting it. He splashed his face in the Gents and returned to Catherine's house. It was now half five in the morning, and it was Saturday. In two hours' time he would be able to knock on the door and demand to see his daughter. He felt a flutter of excitement inside him, then panic. What if Emma rejected him?

  He steeled himself. Catherine's light came on, then Emma's.

  It was time. He'd almost called it off several times as he had waited through the long, cold hours of the early morning, but the thought of holding his little girl in his arms had kept him there. He walked steadily forward. These were some of the most frightening steps he'd ever taken.

  He pressed a finger on the bell and drew himself up. The door opened and there, staring up at him in her pink pyjamas, was his beautiful bright-eyed little girl with her shining dark hair and laughing face; she was clutching a doll under her right arm. God, he thought he was going to die. His whole body was swamped with a love so strong that it made him ill. He couldn't breathe. His world spun. He felt dizzy. He thought his heart had stopped beating. Then recognition dawned in her face and a great beam of a smile filled her tiny being. She shot into his arms, shouting, 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.'

  He lifted her up and swung her round. Holding her tightly, he buried his face in her hair as he fought back the tears. He smelt her shampoo, felt the smoothness of her cheek against his own rough skin. Jesus! How could he have left her for so long? How could he go through the rest of his life not being a part of hers?

  After a while he became aware that she was struggling a little. Smiling he put her down and crouched down besides her, ruffling her hair. 'I hope I haven't made you all wet, pumpkin.'