Tide of Death dah-1 Read online

  'She hasn't seen him since Friday when he went out on his boat,' Cantelli explained, as they crawled their way through the rush hour traffic. The fog was billowing off the shore to their right making the driving more hazardous than normal and the traffic slower.

  'That's five days ago; it's taken her a long time to report him missing. Who is he?'

  'Roger Thurlow, runs a marketing and public relations agency, at Oyster Quays.'

  Cantelli gave him a swift glance, which Horton interpreted as a warning, but a friendly one. Stay away from Alpha One. From Barney Cantelli, Horton could take it. He was the only one who had believed him when he said he hadn't slept with Lucy Richardson let alone raped her. And that wasn't just out of gratitude for keeping Barney's nephew out of prison five years ago. Barney knew how much his family meant to him and that he would never have risked losing them.

  'Why do you think it's him?'

  'The description Mrs Thurlow gave fits: late fifties, slim build, greying hair, on the tall side,' Cantelli counted off, stabbing his fingers on the steering wheel. 'And, just before she phoned, I took a call from the Marine Support Unit. They were called out to a deserted motorboat this morning stranded on the East Winner bank. And guess who the owner is?

  Horton didn't need to but he said it just to please Cantelli. 'Roger Thurlow.'

  'Yep.'

  Horton stared out of the insect-spattered window with a smile of satisfaction. Uckfield couldn't stop him now. He'd been given a lead and he was damn sure he was going to follow it up. 'How come you put the two together so quickly?'

  Cantelli shrugged and said casually, 'I was walking through reception and heard the desk clerk take the call.'

  'Uckfield doesn't know we're going to see her?' He gave a silent crow of victory. Cantelli must have heard the thrill in his voice. He smiled and there was a smug look on his lean, dark face. It was good to be working with Cantelli again.

  'I'm not sure if the desk clerk heard me say I was on my way and tell the DCI we might have an ID.'

  'Then I'd better tell him-'.

  'Before you do, Andy, there's something else you ought to know.'

  There always was with Cantelli. 'Yes?'

  'Thurlow lives at Briarly House, on the outskirts of Redvins.'

  Well, well! That was where Uckfield lived. Redvins was a small village eight miles to the east of Portsmouth and four miles to the north of the coastal village of Emsworth. Horton recalled Uckfield's words, 'Do you know who he is?' He didn't but the DCI might. He called Uckfield, feeling fired up. God had smiled on him and given him a chance, or rather Cantelli had. He wasn't going to let this slip through his fingers. He quickly explained the situation; Uckfield didn't sound too happy about it but there wasn't much he could do.

  'I'm waiting for the pathologist to arrive,' Uckfield growled. 'Call me as soon as you've finished interviewing Mrs Thurlow. I've got to brief the Super and I'm giving a press statement at ten.'

  Horton switched off and grinned. 'Seems like we just gate crashed the party, Barney.'

  CHAPTER 2

  By the time they turned into the long gravel drive and pulled up outside Briarly House, the sun had burnt away the fog.

  'Nice place,' Cantelli said, climbing out and stretching his hairy forearms into his jacket. 'Can't be short of a bob or two.'

  Horton gazed up at the brick and flint period thatched cottage. He wasn't so sure. The house looked neglected, the thatch was yellowing and loose in places, the wooden window frames in need of replacing, and the paint on the heavy wooden door chipped and faded. It was in sharp contrast to the gardens either side of the drive where the grass, although showing signs of suffering from the long hot August, was nevertheless neatly cut. The borders teamed with colourful fuchsias and at either side of the door stood two standard fuchsia plants, a riot of pinks and purples.

  It took several stout knocks, a call through the black iron letterbox and a finger pressed permanently on a brass bell, which Horton suspected didn't work, before they got a response. Cantelli had been about to set off round one side of the house in search of its owner when the door opened.

  'Mrs Thurlow?' Horton asked.

  'Yes?' she replied guardedly, restraining a golden retriever who looked more welcoming than his mistress.

  Cantelli eyed him warily, as Horton quickly made the introductions and flashed his warrant card.

  'I'm sorry I was in the garden. I must say I didn't expect anyone so promptly. I've not long telephoned.'

  She was quite a handsome woman, Horton thought, with good bone structure and cool green eyes. He guessed she was about mid fifties but her tanned and weathered face made her look older. Her grey hair was untidy and she was dressed in shorts and a faded T-shirt that had smears of earth on it.

  She stepped back and Horton dipped his head as he stepped through the doorway. The dog barked. Cantelli hesitated.

  'It's all right he won't hurt you,' she assured them.

  'I've heard that one before,' Cantelli muttered, following her into the coolness of the hall where she let go of the dog's collar. Horton smiled as the animal pointedly ignored him and sniffed around Cantelli.

  'He likes you,' he said.

  'Glad someone does.' Cantelli reached out a hand and tentatively patted the animal's head. Satisfied the dog trotted off ahead of his mistress and Cantelli heaved a sigh of relief.

  Inside there was the same air of neglect as outside. The house smelt musty, the parquet flooring looked in need of polishing, the rugs had been worn almost to a thread, the floral wallpaper was dated and faded and the paintwork yellow rather than cream. She led them through an untidy kitchen that hadn't seen an upgrade for years judging by its solid oak cabinets and Aga, and into a ramshackle conservatory crammed with fuchsia plants.

  'Please.' She waved them into seats and Horton picked up a pile of magazines, placed them on the wicker table and lowered himself warily on to a wooden chair that looked as if it could hardly cope with the weight of a child let alone twelve and a half stone of solid muscle.

  Although the rather grubby blinds were half drawn and the door open the heat was intense and within seconds Horton could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Cantelli's dark curly hair looked wet with sweat and he wriggled uncomfortably easing his jacket open. Horton was glad he had left his in the car. Mrs Thurlow seemed immune to the clawing heat; there wasn't a single bead of sweat on her brow.

  'I suppose you've come about Roger,' she said offhandedly. Horton thought she might just have well have been speaking about an old umbrella she'd left on a bus rather than her husband.

  'I understand that you haven't seen him since Friday morning, is that correct?'

  'Yes, he went sailing straight from work.'

  'And he hasn't called you since then?'

  'No. Here, Bellman.' She clicked her fingers and the dog left the bowl of water he'd been slurping from and trotted around to her side where he flopped on to the quarry-tiled floor, panting heavily.

  Horton saw Cantelli give the dog an envious look before retrieving the small, stubby pen from behind his right ear and a notebook from his jacket pocket. He wouldn't have minded a drink himself but clearly they weren't going to be offered one.

  'Is that usual?' Cantelli asked.

  Mrs Thurlow looked at him blankly for a moment and Horton elaborated. 'He doesn't call you when he's away on his boat?'

  'Oh, no.' She sounded surprised as if he'd suggested something improper.

  'When were you expecting him back?' he asked, he hoped reassuringly. He needn't have bothered; it was wasted on her.

  She shrugged. 'When he showed up. I'm not my husband's keeper and he's not mine.'

  'Surely he gave some indication?' Horton injected an element of incredulity into his voice. She flushed slightly. Her eyes darted between him and Cantelli, betraying the first sign of unease.

  'Look, I really didn't want to bother you, inspector, but Mrs Stephens, his secretary, insisted. I am sure there's a perfectly g
ood reason why my husband has not returned. Mrs Stephens is a little overprotective when it comes to Roger.' And you're not, thought Horton watching her closely. She held his eyes. If she read his thoughts and was embarrassed by them she didn't show it. She lifted the coffee cup in front of her and took a sip, then pulled a face. Horton guessed it had grown cold.

  'You don't go out on the boat with him?' he asked, lightly.

  She answered as if he'd personally insulted her. 'Certainly not.'

  He wondered if her terseness was a cover for shyness, or guilt perhaps? He got the impression she didn't really care that much for her husband but that didn't mean she had killed him. Their body might not be Thurlow at all, although in a way he hoped it was. It would give him a head start in the investigation.

  He'd seen both a radio and television in her kitchen; sooner or later she was bound to hear the news and might make the connection, better if he told her now. That way he could get something of Thurlow's and make a quick identification. Time was critical and he didn't mean purely in terms of tracking down the killer while the trail was still warm. He couldn't see her going into hysterics. She wasn't the type. Self-contained was perhaps how he might describe her; cold is what others might say. It was a description that had been levelled at him but self-containment, he knew, was a protection against being hurt.

  'Don't you like sailing?' he asked.

  'No I don't, inspector. I can't think of anything more awful than being stuck on a boat in the middle of the sea for hours on end with people I find utterly boring.'

  Including your husband, thought Horton. 'I take it gardening is more to your taste.' He indicated the magazines on the table and the plants crowding the conservatory. Uckfield's wife, Alison, was into flowers; he wondered if she knew Mrs Thurlow.

  Her face brightened making her look at least five years younger. 'Yes. I specialise in fuchsias. Do you know they grow to a height of twenty feet in Brazil?'

  'They always remind me of fairies,' Cantelli interjected. 'My wife likes them. We've got a couple of bushes in our garden but nothing like this.'

  She positively beamed at him. 'Then I must let you have some cuttings, sergeant.' She shifted to the edge of her seat as if she was about to leap up and fetch them at that moment.

  'Do you know if your husband went sailing with anyone last Friday?' Horton said.

  The frown was back; she hovered over the chair. 'He didn't say. Someone at the yacht club might know: that's at Horsea Marina, where he keeps his boat. Now if…'

  Time to be a bit more brutal. Her lack of concern was irritating him. 'Mrs Thurlow, earlier this morning the coastguards found your husband's boat in the Solent, but I'm sorry to say that your husband wasn't on board.'

  If he thought he was going to shock her into some kind of reaction, concerned or otherwise, then he was quickly disappointed.

  'Then where is he?' she said, matter-of-factly.

  'That's what we're trying to find out.' He tried not to sound too cynical. 'Has he had any health problems lately?'

  'Not that I'm aware of.'

  'What about business or financial difficulties?'

  'I don't know anything about the business. You'd have to ask at the office,' she answered impatiently. 'If you're thinking he could have deliberately thrown himself overboard then you're wrong.'

  Why? He wondered. Time to turn up the heat. This would tell him how much she cared. 'There is something else that you should know, Mrs Thurlow. This morning a man fitting your husband's description was found on the beach at Portsmouth.'

  'You mean dead?'

  'Yes.' He held her gaze. Her surprise was genuine, but he saw no grief, even though she had immediately grasped his meaning. 'You think it's Roger and it's not an accident?'

  'He wasn't carrying any identification and we would like to rule out the possibility that it might be your husband. Do you have something of your husband's that will help us to identify him, a comb or brush perhaps, and a recent photograph?'

  'But how was he killed?'

  'It's too early to say yet, Mrs Thurlow.'

  'You don't want me to identify him?'

  'That won't be necessary. We'll be able to check from fingerprints and DNA.'

  She scrutinised him as if trying to see inside his thoughts. He kept his expression neutral. Other women might have gone into shock, or had hysterics, but Mrs Thurlow simply nodded, lifted her chin, and squaring her shoulders set off with Bellman trailing her.

  Horton rose, plucking at his shirt sticking to his back.

  'Stiff upper lip type,' Cantelli muttered, pulling at his tie and undoing his top button. 'Either that or she's made of stone.'

  'Take a quick look round the kitchen, Barney.'

  Horton stepped outside to get a breath of air. It was almost as hot outside as it had been in the conservatory. Here, as at the front of the house, the garden was beautifully tended and landscaped with curved borders and isolated flowerbeds bursting with fuchsias. Under a small clump of trees to his right was a teak garden table and chairs whilst to his left a large greenhouse brimming with colour.

  There was no breeze and the sun was steadily climbing in a milky blue sky. In the distance, covered in a haze, he could see the gentle rising slopes of the South Downs and hear the soft rumble of traffic from the A27 three miles away to the south. Uckfield's house was further down on the edge of the village, a fairly new small and select development of executive styled houses built about eight years ago. Try as he might Horton couldn't prevent his thoughts turning to his own house just outside Petersfield. He'd always hoped to return to it but he guessed that the letter burning a hole in his pocket would put paid to that.

  Cantelli joined him. 'Last Friday has a ring around it on her calendar and the initials SWFS, otherwise nothing. There's a fuchsia society newsletter, some invoices from seed merchants, and the vet's telephone number pinned on her notice board and that's about it.'

  Horton hadn't really expected Cantelli to find anything and certainly not a big circle around yesterday's date with the words 'kill husband!' Still it was always worth having a nose around to get the feel of a place. And this place, with the exception of the garden, said, 'tired'. He turned back to see Mrs Thurlow heading towards them.

  'Will this do, inspector?'

  Horton took the comb and popped it into a plastic evidence bag. He saw her eyes flit to the large greenhouse on his right and she seemed eager to get rid of them. He wondered if they'd disturbed some kind of fuchsia potting out ritual. He glanced at the photograph of a tall, slender man in his fifties standing on the deck of a large motor cruiser. He was wearing navy shorts, a light-blue polo shirt and stained deck shoes. His silver hair was swept back off a suntanned, narrow face and he was smiling into camera. In his hand was what looked like a champagne glass. The boat was in a marina, which to Horton's trained eye looked like Cowes on the Isle of Wight. Who had taken the photograph? Not Mrs Thurlow by her own account, so a fellow crewmember, or a lover perhaps?

  He smiled his thanks and handed the photograph to Cantelli who glanced at it before slipping it carefully into his notebook.

  'What happens now, inspector?' she asked, leading them to the door.

  'We'll let you know as soon as we have any news. Is there anyone you would like us to call? A friend or relative you might want- '.

  'No. Thank you, inspector. I will be fine. I have Bellman.'

  'There is just one more thing. Does your husband have any distinguishing features or scars?'

  She shook her head. 'No.'

  Horton handed over his card and urged her to get in touch if she heard from her husband, which he thought would be difficult unless she was clairvoyant. He was convinced that the body was Thurlow. He was also certain that Mrs Thurlow knew more than she was saying.

  'She's a cool one,' Cantelli said, as he turned the car in the driveway. 'Which is more than can be said for that blessed conservatory and this car. She didn't even offer us a drink. I was nearly tempted to shove the
dog over and slurp from his bowl.'

  Yes, a nice cold glass of water would be welcome, Horton thought as he called Uckfield.

  'Get over to the mortuary,' Uckfield snapped. 'And if Evans has regained consciousness see him too. There's a briefing at midday. Be here.'

  Horton relayed the instructions to Cantelli then called the Marine Support Unit.

  'The boat's as neat as nine pence,' Sergeant Elkins said to Horton's enquiry. 'There's been no fight or struggle. There's a sailing bag in one of the cabins.'

  'Has it been unpacked?'

  'No.'

  'What about a tender? Is there one on board?'

  'No, but there looks as though there should be.'

  'Start the search for one, will you, Elkins? Check out the shores around the area and the marinas. Make sure nothing is touched and that Thurlow's boat is secure.'

  'It's in the compound in the ferry port.'

  As Horton rang off Cantelli said, 'You think she was lying about when she last saw her husband?'

  'Could be. I don't think she much cared for him but that's no crime.'

  'You reckon it's Thurlow then?'

  Horton didn't hesitate. 'Yes.'

  'And could she have killed him?'

  Horton thought about the body laid out on the pebbled beach, the face smashed beyond recognition. Was it a random killing? Had the killer chosen the first person he met as his victim and killed instantly and spontaneously? Mutilation was common in such cases. Or had it been planned and the victim known to the killer? A crime of passion perhaps? Somehow he couldn't see Mrs Thurlow working herself up into a passion about anything except her fuchsias. Or was it a crime of hatred? Horton's fingers curled around the envelope in his pocket. Could he have done that to Colin Jarrett? Was hatred enough? It often was, but in his case certainly not enough to take someone's life.

  He said, 'Why kill him on the beach? Why not closer to home or even on his boat?' And why, Horton thought, lay him out like that? That was bugging him.

  Cantelli said, 'She doesn't go on the boat.'

  'She could be lying.'