Footsteps on the Shore dah-6 Page 18

  ‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’

  Horton hesitated, wanting to know more yet eager to get back to see if Olewbo had sent him anything yet. ‘Can’t you tell me over the phone or call Sergeant Cantelli?’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You need to see this, Andy.’

  He could tell by her voice this was big news. He felt a tremor of excitement as he speculated mentally as to who it could be. As the marshalling steward waved him on board, he said, ‘I’ll be with you in fifty minutes.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Gaye Clayton sat back twiddling her pen, looking animated and a little smug. ‘Your body in the harbour is Jay Turner, age forty-nine, reported missing by his employer, the International Development Fund, based in London, on the fourth of March. He’d gone on leave on the twentieth of February and was due back on the second of March. The concierge at his London apartment confirmed he last saw Mr Turner at six thirty when he left his exclusive and expensive riverside apartment. That’s my description, not the report’s. I recognized the address.’ She smiled. ‘Want to see what he looked like before he became breakfast, lunch and dinner for the Solent sea life?’

  Horton walked around to Gaye’s side of the desk and peered at the image on her laptop computer. He found himself staring at a rather ordinary slender-faced man with light grey eyes, short, straight brown hair, a narrow mouth and an honest expression, if there was such a thing. Jay Turner looked like the man you’d meet behind the counter in the post office or council office.

  Quickly he skimmed through the rest of the report. There wasn’t much. Turner was single. The concierge said he hadn’t been carrying any luggage when he’d left and hadn’t said where he was going. Neither had he indicated he’d been going on holiday. Jay Turner didn’t own a car. He had no health problems, or any other problems that anyone knew about. He was a quiet man who was always polite but not overly friendly. Shy, was the concierge’s description. Horton wanted to know more about him, and why he’d washed up on their shore.

  ‘Does he have any relatives?’ he enquired, thinking with relief that some other policeman would need to break the tragic news to them.

  ‘No idea, and I doubt you’ll even get the chance to ask.’

  Horton stared at her, puzzled. She leant across and scrolled down the page until he saw with surprise exactly what she meant and the reason for her excited manner. The record was flagged, which meant that Jay Turner had been someone very important, not so ordinary and maybe not so honest after all.

  Gaye added, ‘The moment he was identified an automatic alert was triggered, but I’ve no idea who it was sent to. No doubt someone will be here soon, or at the station, to ask about your body. They’re probably already on their way.’

  Horton wondered who they were. The Metropolitan Police? Serious Organized Crime Agency? National Intelligence? MI5? MI6? Interpol? Europol? Well, they’d find out soon enough. And this would be one case — if indeed it was murder — neither he nor Uckfield would need to worry about, because they wouldn’t get a look in. Perhaps, though, there was nothing suspicious about Jay Turner’s death either, Horton thought, recalling Dr Clayton’s findings. Turner had probably had a heart attack while out walking and fallen into the sea, or been swept into it by the tide.

  Gaye said, ‘There’s nothing from the lab yet on the analysis of his clothes, skin or organs, but if he’s that important I doubt I’ll get the results anyway. They’ll be whisked away to whoever is on the end of that alert. There’s not much either of us can do about Mr Jay Turner, but there is more we can do on our mystery lady.’

  Gaye punched something into her computer and this time Horton found himself examining a computer-enhanced image of Venetia Trotman before her face had been battered. Short dark hair framed a lean, angular face with high cheekbones, dark brown deep-set eyes, a strong, slightly prominent nose and a wide mouth.

  ‘You’ve done a good job,’ he said admiringly, recalling the woman he’d met last Thursday afternoon.

  ‘Your detailed description helped, plus what I had to work on from the body. I’ve emailed the photograph to DI Dennings but while I was reconstructing her face on my computer, I wondered if one of my colleagues might be able to tell you more about her. John Lauder’s a forensic anthropologist based in London. I’ve sent the photograph over to him asking if he could come up with a biological profile for her through analysing her skeletal attributes, and the reason I say that is because her appearance struck me as being more European than British or American. Of course that might have no bearing on your case whatsoever, or rather Superintendent Uckfield’s case, but in view of the fact she doesn’t seem to exist in this country I thought it might help.’

  ‘I’m sure it will. At the moment we’ve got nothing except that key.’ And the foreign caller, he thought.

  ‘No joy with that?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Although he hadn’t checked with Trueman today, and by now it was possible he might have more information.

  Gaye said, ‘Well, let me know if and when you get more on her. I’m rather curious, and a little sorry for her. Maybe I shouldn’t be. For all I know she could be a mass murderess. But until someone comes to claim her she stays in cold storage. And. .’ Gaye shrugged. ‘I don’t know, call it woman’s intuition, but I rather think she deserves better than that.’

  Her words inadvertently conjured up thoughts of his mother. Horton had wondered many times if she were dead and waiting in cold storage for him to claim. There was no national database of unclaimed bodies in the UK so he couldn’t trace his mother that way. The only time they’d be alerted about an unidentified body was if the DNA or fingerprints matched someone on the missing persons database, which was what had happened with Jay Turner. In his mother’s case, though, there were no DNA or fingerprints recorded and none of her belongings left to take them from. There was only Horton himself. He’d not had his DNA run through the missing persons database; maybe he should.

  He stared at the photograph of Venetia Trotman and wondered if Gaye Clayton could age the photograph of his mother, which he’d stared at yesterday morning on his computer. He didn’t want it done officially because he’d have to reveal his interest. Maybe Gaye Clayton could also take his DNA and search for a match. He knew he could rely on her discretion not to repeat anything about his mother. He hesitated though. Was he ready for that yet? The answer was no. But there was something she might help with.

  Removing from his jacket pocket the piece of paper containing the drawing of the symbol which had been left on the hatch of his boat, he said, ‘Any idea what this means?’

  She took it and studied it from several angles before glancing up at him. ‘Is it connected with Venetia Trotman or Jay Turner?’

  ‘Neither, and I’d rather keep this between ourselves for now.’ That earned him a quizzical raised eyebrow.

  She studied the drawing for some seconds more before saying, ‘I’ve never seen it before, but I have a friend, her name’s Perdita, she’s an expert on symbology. Do you want me to ask her what she makes of it?’

  He did. It would save him making it official. And although he could have asked the lab to analyse the original for prints and other traces, he reckoned anyone clever enough to deface his Harley and get on to the pontoon without being spotted wasn’t going to be stupid enough to leave his traces all over it.

  He headed back to the station, where Walters informed him he had the name of the undertakers who had arranged the funeral last Friday. Horton told him to talk to them tomorrow and visit the cemetery. ‘See if you can find those gravediggers and get a lead on what Rookley was doing in that cemetery, and whether they saw him with anyone.’ To Cantelli he said, ‘Tomorrow we’ll have another chat with Ashley Felton and Matt Boynton. Luke might have said something to them about Natalie’s death, other than what he told Lena Lockhart about it being dark and mentioning water and a gate. He might also have confided in Kelly Masters,’ he added, recalling her sexual appetite and Luke’s enfor
ced celibacy.

  ‘I managed to corner Olewbo in the canteen. He said he’d sent you an email.’

  ‘Good.’

  Horton had just finished briefing them about Jay Turner when Bliss marched in, trailing two well-built men in dark suits. Swiftly Horton registered their grim expressions and recollected his conversation with Dr Clayton. He was surprised the big boys had arrived so quickly, much quicker than he’d expected, which meant they’d probably come by helicopter. If that was the case, Jay Turner must have been someone extremely important. . or extremely dangerous.

  ‘Inspector,’ Bliss commanded, sweeping past him into his office. The men in suits hung back until, with a quick glance at Cantelli, Horton followed her.

  The younger of the men closed the door behind Horton while the older one took up position at Horton’s desk and waved him into the chair the other side of it. Bliss stood beside Horton looking annoyed, probably because he hadn’t told her about Jay Turner immediately he’d returned from the mortuary. Another black mark against him in the rapidly mounting heap of them, and that was even before she knew about his trip to the Isle of Wight.

  Tersely she made the introductions. ‘This is Commander Waverley and Superintendent Harlam from the Serious Organized Crime Agency. They want everything you have on the body found in Portsmouth Harbour last Friday.’

  ‘Jay Turner,’ Horton said, getting no reaction from Waverley or Harlam now beside him. He hadn’t expected one. They were trained not to show emotion. He was intrigued, though, and swiftly considered what Jay Turner might have been involved in: drugs or people trafficking, corruption or kidnapping, or perhaps all four. A natural death was now looking highly unlikely. Could Turner have been rendezvousing with someone on board a yacht in the Solent or English Channel and been disposed of? Horton had no idea what the International Development Fund did, but the mere word ‘International’ coupled with the Serious Organized Crime Agency smacked of an overseas connection.

  ‘There isn’t much to tell,’ he said, and relayed what they knew, which was practically nothing.

  Waverley looked bored before he’d even finished speaking. Rising he said, ‘The body’s being moved to London.’

  That would please Dr Clayton.

  ‘Superintendent Harlam and I will be stationed here for the next couple of days. DCI Bliss will be our liaison officer.’

  She didn’t smile, but Horton could tell she was wetting her knickers with delight, and probably calculating how this might help her climb the greasy pole even quicker than she had anticipated.

  Waverley continued, ‘You can continue with your other cases. DCI Bliss assures me you have many.’

  She threw Horton a final glare before sweeping out behind the two men. He moved around his desk and sat down. Whatever Jay Turner had been involved in he doubted he’d find out unless Bliss decided to tell him, though maybe she would if it demonstrated her importance.

  A tap came on his door and Cantelli entered.

  ‘Big brass?’ he asked, sitting down.

  Horton swiftly relayed what had happened. Cantelli listened then, consulting his notebook, said, ‘Jay Turner was born in Portsmouth, and educated at the University of London where he got a degree in Modern Languages, specializing in Russian. He then joined one of the big firms of accountants, qualified as a chartered accountant and worked there until he became a management consultant in 1992. He joined the Civil Service in 1993, where he worked for the Diplomatic Service until he joined the International Development Fund in 1996. I also accessed his missing persons file but there’s no next of kin mentioned, and I got the three monkey syndrome when I tried to follow it up with the station which recorded him missing, so I called the concierge at his apartment. His job must be a bit lonely because he liked a chat.’ Cantelli smiled. ‘He says Mr Turner was a very nice quiet man, never had any visitors that he’d seen or let into his apartment, but then he was hardly ever there. Not much point in having such an expensive flat, he said, and not using it, but then there were a lot of people like that in London. Mr Turner worked abroad, Europe somewhere, but the concierge wasn’t sure where exactly. Turner was usually away for three to six months at a time then back for four or five weeks, but even then he was hardly ever around.’

  ‘The elusive Mr Turner,’ Horton said thoughtfully.

  ‘Want me to dig a bit deeper?’

  ‘I doubt you’d get very far. We’ll leave Mr Turner to Waverley and Harlam and concentrate on Luke Felton.’ He told Cantelli to go home.

  ‘I think you should do the same, Andy. You look beat.’

  Horton did feel weary. The sleepless nights were catching up with him and his head was aching. He needed time and space to sift through all the information he’d gleaned throughout the day and he couldn’t do that here. A run along the seafront would help.

  ‘I won’t be long. I just want to check what Olewbo’s sent over.’

  Cantelli looked at him in exasperation before leaving. A few minutes later, with full access to the files — for which he silently thanked Olewbo — Horton was scrolling through endless images of the occupants of Crown House coming and going, including the shuffling, suspicious figure of Ronnie Rookley. But there were none of Rookley meeting with anyone. And none of Luke Felton and Rookley together. And there was only one of Luke Felton entering Crown House on Monday evening. Judging by the time, he was obviously returning from work, and he didn’t go out again.

  Horton’s head was thumping and his eyes felt as though they’d dried up and rolled back into their sockets. He rubbed at them with a fist, which only seemed to make them worse. This was pointless. He needed more than pictures, he needed Olewbo’s inside information, and he needed to know who had been big on the drug scene in the area in 1997.

  He might as well call it a day. Then his finger froze, and he blinked hard at the image on the computer. Sitting forward, he scrutinized it closely and then studied the date and time in the top right-hand corner. Puzzled, he sat back and ran a hand over his head. What was Ashley Felton doing at Crown House last Thursday evening? The obvious answer was that he’d gone to visit his brother. He hadn’t said though. Why not? He’d told them that Luke had visited him on 6 March and asked for money, but he’d made no mention of seeing him again just under a week later — or rather trying to see him, because by then Luke Felton had already disappeared.

  Horton printed off the picture then switched off his computer. There didn’t seem any point in briefing Bliss about the developments on the Luke Felton case when she had bigger fish to fry, and talking of fish he rather fancied some, along with chips.

  He bought some after an invigorating run along a blustery, chilly, dark seafront and ate them hungrily on board the yacht, mulling over the Luke Felton case. Every new piece of information they uncovered only seemed to serve up more questions than answers, and still brought them no closer to where Felton was.

  Making a coffee, he took it up on deck in the hope that the fresh night air might provide inspiration, or illumination. The wind had dropped a little and the moon, moving into its last quarter, was visible through a cloud-scudding sky, throwing glimpses of silver light on the boats in the yard above the marina. His eyes flicked up to his Harley as he wondered what Dr Clayton’s contact would make of the symbol. All was quiet. Then his eyes narrowed as a dark shape detached itself from the cover of one of the boats. Horton froze. If the bastard was back and scrawling something else on his Harley he’d have him by the throat. He slammed his coffee mug down, and raced up the pontoon and into the boatyard in time to see a hooded figure moving swiftly through the hulls of the boats towards the road. As though sensing his presence, the figure turned. Horton caught the glimpse of a man’s face, and registered strength and hardness without noting details, before the figure turned back and ran towards the road.

  Horton tore after him. The man glanced back before swerving to the left. Horton followed. He was gaining on him, then suddenly the figure vanished. He must have jumped down on to th
e shore, but when Horton drew up there was no sign of anyone, not even a ruddy seagull.

  Scouring the dark horizon and remaining perfectly still, Horton strained his ears for the sound of footsteps on the shore and the crunching of shingle, but only the hum of traffic and the wind reached him.

  Leaping down on to the shingle, Horton turned eastwards towards the entrance to Langstone Harbour and a row of upended tenders and rotting houseboats. With his heart pumping fast he steeled himself for an attack, his senses heightened. With bated breath he advanced gingerly until he reached the first overturned tender. Stretching out he upended it, springing back, prepared to be met with his knife-yielding graffiti artist. But there was nothing and no one. He repeated the act with the next tender and the following one, his senses so strained that he felt like a rod of steel.

  The man had moved very swiftly and silently, as though he’d had practice at being unobtrusive. He couldn’t simply vanish. Horton stood stock still and listened again, but there was no sound save the gentle wash of the sea on the shore and the hammering of his heart. He walked on towards the semi-derelict hulk of an old houseboat, losing what little light he’d had from the street lights as the shore curved further away from the road. He cursed himself for not having a torch and prayed for the moon to make even the most fleeting of appearances, but the cloud had thickened and the air suddenly felt heavy with the promise of rain. He told himself it would be far more sensible to return tomorrow in daylight, but he knew the man would be gone by then.

  This was foolish. But still he pressed on until he was standing beside the blackened hulk of the houseboat and could push open what was left of the rotting door. Steeling himself for a possible attack, and holding his breath, he crashed the door open with his foot and waited. Nothing. Or at least no one rushed out with a knife to kill him. But that didn’t mean no one was waiting inside.

  The door fell off its tentative hinges and crashed to the floor. The silence after it was deafening. Still no movement from inside. Knowing he was a fool to continue, Horton stepped over it and into a small black interior that smelt of mud, seaweed, rotting wood and decaying filth. The houseboat was empty. Or was it? As his eyes adjusted to the dark interior he caught sight of something in the far right-hand corner. Two steps, avoiding the gaping holes in the rotting wood, took him towards it. The moon made an appearance, sending slivers of light through the gaps in the rotted wood. Horton took a tissue from his pocket and turned over food packets and tins. How long had they been here? They looked recent. Is this where the figure he’d seen was living? Was it a tramp he’d frightened off?