Fatal Catch Read online

  Horton was going to make damn sure that never happened with him and Emma.

  ‘Do you know why Clive would be moored up in the Thorney Channel in Chichester Harbour?’

  Davidson shook his head. ‘Is that where he was found?’

  ‘Yes. I wondered if it had any particular significance for him.’

  ‘Not that I know of. It’s not one of the places he would regularly have fished either.’

  ‘Did he have a boat before he was convicted for fraud?’

  ‘Yes. A large motor cruiser. It got repossessed about the same time as the bailiffs moved in on his house. Clive used to keep it at Haslar Marina, Gosport.’

  Why hadn’t Westerbrook told Tierney that instead of saying Horsea Marina? ‘How long did he stay in the club on Sunday?’

  Davidson screwed up his malleable face as he tried to remember. ‘Must have been about an hour or just longer. Yes, he came over to the bar, said he had to go, that was about one fifteen. Said he’d call me.’

  ‘Did you see him talking to anyone?’

  ‘Les Nugent. Les has been a member for over ten years.’

  ‘So he and Clive know one another.’

  ‘Probably. Les has had his ups and downs, but he’s always enjoyed his fishing.’

  ‘What kind of ups and downs?’ asked Horton interested, wondering why Nugent had lied about not knowing Westerbrook.

  ‘The usual,’ Davidson answered with a hint of regret in his deep booming voice. ‘Divorce. His wife ran off with a sales rep. No kids. Les went to pieces, had some kind of breakdown and lost his job. He was the accounts manager at Smedleys, the builders’ merchants, doing very well until Vera left him. He was out of work for a long time before getting that job at Jamesons.’

  ‘What does Mr Nugent do at Jamesons?’ Horton asked casually, disguising his interest.

  ‘Works in accounts, like he did at Smedleys.’

  Not according to Nugent and Kevin Jameson. But maybe Nugent had lied to Davidson because he was ashamed that he’d been forced to take a job as a meat packer because it was all he could get. But the fact that Nugent had worked in accounts and Westerbrook in finance made Horton wonder if they had been involved in or had been planning some kind of financial or accounting fraud together.

  ‘We’ll need someone to formally identify the body. We could ask Clive’s former wife but is there a relative who lives nearer who might be able to do it.’

  ‘Clive’s brother emigrated to Canada years ago. And I don’t think Karen will want to do it. It’s a long way for her to come, and like I say she cut off all ties with Clive years ago. I’ll do it if it helps.’

  ‘That’s very good of you. Thanks. Would tomorrow morning eleven a.m. be OK?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Would you like a car to take you?’

  ‘No, I’ll go in my own. I take it the mortuary is at the hospital? I’ve never been there before.’

  Horton said it was and that he’d meet him there. Davidson relayed Karen Tempson’s telephone number and address and showed Horton out.

  Outside Horton rang Walters and gave him the details and asked him to arrange for a local police officer to call round. Then he headed back for the station by which time Walters confirmed that Westerbrook had indeed been a gambler.

  ‘His internet browsing history is full of gambling websites.’

  Horton addressed Cantelli. ‘Does Nugent gamble?’

  ‘If he does he’s not winning.’

  ‘Does anyone?’

  ‘No,’ Cantelli firmly agreed. ‘His flat is small and squalid. But if the three of them, Langham, Westerbrook and Nugent, have large gambling debts that gives us a link and a motive. Maybe Langham was silenced and his hand planted on Westerbrook’s boat as a warning to him and Nugent that if they didn’t pay up they’d end up the same way.’

  Horton considered this. ‘I can’t see where Langham would get enough money to gamble with but if he was gambling then he wasn’t doing it online, unless he was using Moira’s phone or she lied about him owning one. I’d say he was more of a betting office gambler.’

  ‘Nugent too,’ agreed Cantelli. ‘I didn’t see a computer in his flat but then I didn’t search it and, like you say, he could have been using his phone to access the gambling websites. But if they were all into gambling then I can think of one man in this city who doesn’t like being owed money.’

  ‘Larry Egmont.’

  Cantelli nodded. ‘He owns betting shops, amusement arcades, and casinos.’

  And one of those casinos was situated near the civic centre, not far from the law courts, where Cantelli had parked on Thursday when they’d talked to Ewan Stringer. There was nothing on Larry Egmont. He’d never been arrested or convicted but perhaps that was because he was clever. If his casino was being used as a front for criminal activity and money laundering then it would be a reason for DCS Adams and the National Crime Agency’s interest. Horton swiftly considered Larry Egmont. He’d inherited the business from his late father-in-law George Warner who had come on the scene in 1961 as soon as the law had permitted betting shops and casinos. Many casinos had quickly become a cover for criminal activity. Warner’s had been no exception. And the one along South Parade opposite the pier, where Jennifer had worked, had certainly entertained some.

  He picked up on Cantelli’s theory, ‘Perhaps Langham was about to inform on Egmont about some illegal activity in his casinos. Something he overheard or learnt about while in prison. Egmont gets wind of it and abducts, tortures and kills Langham and gets one of his boys to leave the hand on Westerbrook’s boat as a calling card, a warning that if he doesn’t pay his debts the same could happen to him.’

  Walters looked up. ‘Perhaps Egmont got Nugent and Westerbrook to kill Langham and dispose of him in return for writing off their debts.’

  ‘But why report finding the hand?’

  Cantelli answered. ‘Only one of them, say Westerbrook, was to do the job and Nugent inadvertently fished up that hand.’

  ‘But why would Westerbrook want someone to go fishing with him? Much simpler to dispose of the body parts when alone. And why draw attention to the hand?’

  ‘Maybe Nugent’s the prime mover in this,’ Cantelli suggested. ‘He could have given Egmont, or one of his boys, access to Jamesons at night where the deed was done and then he was told to dispose of the body parts but to make sure that the hand was found on Westerbrook’s boat as a warning to him.’

  But Horton frowned. It still didn’t add up because why go to all that trouble? How would Egmont or Nugent know that Westerbrook would go to the angling club on Sunday?

  Cantelli added, ‘Westerbrook could have been money laundering for Egmont, and he used some of that money to buy the boat and car in cash. I don’t think Egmont would have been very pleased about that. Maybe he’d only recently discovered it and the fact that Langham was going to inform on him.’

  ‘If Westerbrook was running scared then why not take off for France or the Channel Islands, not the Thorney Channel.’

  ‘Didn’t have his passport on him.’

  Cantelli was correct. But Horton said, ‘He could have headed east to Brighton or west along the coast to Dorset and on to the West Country or Wales.’ He could even have put in at Porthcawl. In fact, thought Horton, he could have travelled around the British Isles, stopping off along the way at many places, and avoided being traced.

  Horton addressed Walters. ‘Is there a list of his contacts on his computer?’

  ‘They could be in his email address book but I can’t access that, it’s password protected. I bet his password is written down though, somewhere in his flat. I could take a look around it on Monday, guv, see if I can find it, or we could approach his hosting company. We’d need a warrant for that.’

  And they’d probably only get that if Westerbrook’s death was suspicious. Horton was convinced it was. Maybe not directly but certainly indirectly. It might not be connected to Langham though. There were, however, too man
y questions that needed answering and too many lies for him to feel comfortable about putting this down to natural causes.

  ‘Do it tomorrow,’ Horton instructed.

  ‘But it’s Saturday.’

  ‘So?’

  Walters sighed heavily.

  Cantelli said, ‘I’ll get in touch with the army at Thorney and obtain the CCTV footage. It might give us some idea when Westerbrook arrived there.’

  Horton agreed but he hesitated. He had no qualms about making Walters work over the weekend but he did in tearing Cantelli away from his wife and children. Not that Barney complained and neither did his wife Charlotte, unlike Catherine who had never come to terms with the unsocial hours his job demanded. She’d accused him of using them as an excuse to get out of family gatherings and engagements connected with her work as marketing executive for her father’s marine manufacturing company. She’d actually been correct, not that he’d ever admitted to it.

  This wasn’t officially a suspicious death so he had no need to authorize overtime, and Bliss certainly wouldn’t. Neither Walters nor Cantelli were duty CID at the weekend. He was, but Cantelli said, ‘It’ll get me out of Christmas shopping.’ Horton smiled his thanks and made for his office hoping that Gaye would have some news for him soon. She rang just before six forty-five as Horton was in the middle of answering a tedious email from Bliss about the recent spate of thefts on business premises. Why didn’t the bloody woman just speak to him about them?

  ‘Clive Westerbrook died of a massive coronary,’ Gaye announced on the telephone.

  Natural causes then. There was nothing to investigate. He felt slightly disappointed. ‘Brought on by shock or overexertion?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t say, except that it was only a matter of time before it happened. His arteries are so clogged I’m surprised the blood pumped through them for as long as it did. His liver was none too healthy either. I think you’ll find that the toxicology tests will reveal he consumed a large amount of alcohol before his death. I’m not sure how many of his heart tablets he took but those and the alcohol, combined with the freezing conditions and his already poor health were certainly enough to finish him off. There were no stomach contents and lividity was well established. His body hadn’t been moved. He died sometime between nine p.m. and midnight Wednesday night.’

  Not long after finding the hand then.

  ‘There is something else though,’ Gaye said.

  Horton’s ears pricked up.

  ‘Although there is no evidence of bruises on the skin I found what appears to be bruising in the deep tissues around the abdomen and the kidneys and on the face.’

  Concerned, Horton said, ‘Are you saying he was beaten up?’

  ‘The facial bruises could have been caused by the fall.’

  ‘But not those to the abdomen and kidneys.’

  ‘No. If they are there. It’s difficult to tell immediately after death, they could be just post-mortem changes. Deep bruises often need between twelve and twenty-four hours to become apparent and some may never do so,’ she explained. ‘I’ll examine them and the rest of the body tomorrow using ultraviolet light in case there are other bruises not immediately visible.’

  ‘When would these bruises have been inflicted?’

  ‘Difficult to say but probably not long before he died.’

  If he’d taken a beating it didn’t mean it was connected with Langham’s death. Horton said he’d appreciate any information she could give him.

  He rang off after informing her that Westerbrook’s body would be formerly identified tomorrow morning at eleven. Then he packed up, left his Harley at the station, and headed on foot for the centre of the city. There was someone he wanted to see and he hoped to find him in one of the town’s public houses.

  ELEVEN

  There was no sign of Billy Jago in the first pub, a run-down poky affair on the edge of the shopping precinct. Horton left without buying a drink and without asking if anyone had seen Jago because that would have been tantamount to announcing to the underworld of Portsmouth that Jago was an informer. Not that those in the pub knew he was a police officer, or hopefully they didn’t, but news of someone asking after the slight man with bad teeth, thinning black greasy hair and a crinkled face was enough to raise suspicion. Strictly speaking Billy Jago wasn’t a police informer, at least not a registered one. Bliss didn’t know about him and Horton had no intention of telling her or letting her discover the fact. By-the-book Bliss would never approve even if Jago revealed Langham’s killer, which Horton thought was unlikely but he could always live in hope.

  He set off through the busy shopping precinct bedecked with Christmas lights and with Christmas music blaring out from every orifice. The Salvation Army were making a valiant attempt to compete with their traditional Christmas carols by the fountain. He put some money in their tin, earned himself a smile, thank you and God Bless from the cheerful sixty-year-old man and made for the next possible haunt of Jago. It was even more decrepit than the last pub with flaky plaster, scuffed paintwork, filthy windows and dirty blinds. It was also one of a dying breed. The clientele looked to be the same, he thought, surveying the gloomy interior which no amount of Christmas decorations could brighten. There wasn’t a man under seventy, and no female in sight unless you counted the brassy blonde of about sixty behind the bar. The decorations looked to be about the same age.

  He remembered this place as a boy. Not that he’d ever been inside then, and he didn’t think his mother had been either, leastways he’d never waited for her outside like some of his fellow schoolmates had done with their parents. But he recalled seeing the dockyard workers coming in here and the smell of the beer in the hot summer when the doors were wide open. He’d been called here many times as a young uniformed copper over trouble between the then very tough regulars and the gays who had made it fashionable for a while. But those days had gone. The nearby polytechnic had become a university and had expanded phenomenally since then and the students demanded cheap booze, music and food and the chain pubs had taken over. The smoking ban had put the final nail in the coffin for pubs like this. They were dinosaurs soon to become extinct and clearly Jago wouldn’t be seen dead in one. Horton didn’t stop to buy a drink.

  On his third attempt, in a more fashionable bar, close to the Guildhall and civic square, frequented by office workers and students, Horton struck lucky. Jago gave only a flicker of recognition as he pumped the one armed bandit machine in the corner by the gents.

  Horton crossed to the bar and ordered a non-alcoholic beer which he drank making a show of looking at his watch as though he was only killing time before going on somewhere. He saw Jago leave and gave him five minutes before he drained his bottle and did the same. Zipping up his jacket he struck out towards the square under the railway bridge knowing that he’d find Jago at the war memorial on his right.

  ‘I can’t stop long, Mr Horton,’ Jago said, sniffing and pulling a cigarette packet from his shabby fleece jacket. His shifty eyes scanned the civic square in front of him. Horton followed his gaze. People, mainly office workers, were hurrying home or to the bars further along the road towards the university buildings. Horton made to turn when he caught sight of a familiar figure striding across the square. His breath caught in his throat. It was Carolyn. She seemed completely oblivious of the cold. Her short black winter coat was open to reveal a clinging, short woollen red dress, black tights, and medium heeled boots. She was hatless and looked radiant. He thought of the previous night spent with her and the evening and possibly night to come tomorrow and his heart hammered against his chest, fire coursed through his veins and he ached with longing and desire. He watched as she raised her hand and her dark features lit up. A broad smile crossed her beautiful face and for an instant Horton thought it was directed at him before reality rushed in. She wasn’t looking at him but ahead. He stiffened as he watched her embrace a man. It was no half-hearted kiss, but a long, lingering and passionate one, something she was very good
at he thought with bitterness. He felt a furious flood of envy, which was swiftly consumed by anger, not because of her deceit, but because he’d been foolish enough to let his loins rule his head. He cursed his stupidity as he watched her tuck her hand under the man’s arm and snuggle up to him in exactly the same manner she’d done with him last night and she turned back towards the bars in Guildhall Walk.

  He’d been an idiot to think the swiftness of their relationship had been the result of a mutual attraction. Even his instinct had been flashing bloody great blue lights at him that it might be some kind of trap but he’d ignored it. Christ, he should have learned by now, but, like an idiot teenager, he’d fallen for it. He’d been feeling lonely and dejected and he had been ripe for the plucking. He’d almost let his guard down. But the trauma of his upbringing had saved him from taking the final step and from making a complete fool of himself by betraying his emotions, and confiding his research findings.

  He’d suspected there had been more to her desire to dine and sleep with him and he’d been correct. And that was what had so troubled him in the early hours of this morning. In his heart of hearts he knew it was a trap. And tomorrow night she was banking on getting what she wanted from him during and after that intimate dinner for two in her rented apartment. Was it possible it was bugged? Shit, he hoped not. Not that any recordings could be used in any way to threaten him but the experience of that false rape allegation made by Lucy Richardson – and all he’d done on that occasion had been to have a drink with her in a hotel reception – sent an icy chill through his veins.

  By now she would have reported to Eames that he’d accepted the invitation and tomorrow night someone would be listening into their conversation. Why was Eames so keen to discover what he knew about Jennifer? What was it that was dynamite? Was Eames keen to know what Antony Dormand had said about Jennifer being involved or informing on the IRA?

  ‘Can we hurry this up, Mr Horton?’ Jago’s whining voice broke through Horton’s thoughts.

  He pushed them aside but not before he had registered that the man Carolyn had been with was the same one he’d seen on their first encounter in The Reef and who he’d seen in the car park at Oyster Quays last night. In his early forties, slender, with slightly too long fair hair. On the first occasion he’d been talking to a group of students and last night heading for his car. One of Eames’ men? Possibly.