Tide of Death dah-1 Page 6

  Cantelli had been despatched to Melissa Thurlow to confront her about the letters and obtain a sample of her handwriting. Horton had sent a WPC with him. He didn't think that Melissa Thurlow would need comforting when she learned her lover was dead but two sets of eyes were better than one when it came to observing and gauging reaction. Meanwhile he decided to test out his aching legs and walk the half-mile to Frampton's Solicitors along the busy London Road, which led out of the city. He was quickly ushered into the managing partner's spacious office.

  'It isn't like Michael not to show up for work without warning, especially in the middle of a case,' Frances Greywell said, waving him into a seat across her wide desk. Her oval face was serious beneath the short, sleek, bobbed hair and her dark eyes searched his for his reaction. When he gave none she continued, 'When he didn't show for work yesterday we thought he might be ill. He wasn't answering his phone. Then when I read about the body being found on the beach in last night's paper and that you were trying to trace the owner of a silver Mercedes, I spoke to the other partners this morning and we agreed to contact you.'

  'So Tuesday was the last time you saw Mr Culven?'

  'Yes. He left the office that evening just before me at seven o'clock.' She sat forward in the beige leather chair looking concerned. 'Can you tell me? Is Michael your body on the beach?'

  'Yes. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything yet. We need to inform his relatives. I thought you might know who he named as next of kin.'

  It was as if she hadn't heard him. 'Who could have done such a terrible thing? And to Michael? I can't believe it, inspector.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  She pushed a hand through her chestnut hair which swung back exactly into place just like Emma's he thought.

  Frances Greywell said, 'It was murder?'

  Horton nodded.

  She let out a sigh and remained silent for a moment. Then visibly pulling herself together said crisply, 'Sorry, you wanted to know next of kin.' She picked up her telephone and punched in a number. 'Amanda, bring me Michael's personnel file please.'

  Horton admired her efficiency. He expected it. Both her appearance and her office said crisp, professional, focused.

  'What did Mr Culven do here?' he asked, wondering for a moment whether Ms Greywell and her firm would be a match for Catherine's solicitors if he decided to consult them. For the present he hadn't even opened that blasted letter. 'He is… was our company commercial partner specialising in corporate matters: employment law, management takeovers, mergers and acquisitions that kind of thing. He was clever, a very good lawyer.'

  'What about his private life? Friends, hobbies, interests?' Did she know that her fellow partner had been having an affair and that he liked being caned? He doubted it. Why should she?

  Frances Greywell pressed her well-manicured hands together to form a triangle as she considered his question. He could see she wore no wedding or engagement ring.

  'He was a quiet man, not one for small talk but he did enjoy going out on his boat. It was one of the reasons he moved to Horsea Marina, after his mother died, so that he could have his own berth.'

  'Was he married or has he ever been married?'

  'Not as far as I'm aware. He once told me that he liked his freedom and independence.'

  'Would you say he was attractive to women?'

  'I'm sure some women would find him attractive but he wasn't my type.'

  She smiled and Horton got the impression that she wanted him to ask her what her type was. He sidestepped that one.

  'Has he ever been tempted? Anyone special, at any time?'

  'I don't think so.'

  The door opened after a perfunctory knock and a small, dark haired woman in her late twenties entered carrying a file. She smiled rather nervously at Horton but he could see the curiosity and excitement shining in her eyes. Even if Frances Greywell said nothing, he knew the news would spread around the firm like a bush fire by tomorrow morning, probably had already.

  Frances Greywell thanked her. After consulting the file she said, 'Michael has a sister, Maureen Brinkwell, she lives in New Zealand.' She handed a form across to Horton who quickly flicked down the details. Culven was fifty-three, born 8 September, a bachelor and non-smoker who had joined the firm's personal health care plan five years ago. Wouldn't do him much good now, Horton thought.

  'Could I have a copy?' he asked.

  'Of course.' She made to rise but Horton forestalled her.

  'Could I also see Mr Culven's diary?'

  'I'll call it up for you. Everyone's diary is on our computer system,' she explained, punching something into her keyboard. 'If you'd like to…'

  He rose and moved around the desk to stand next to her. He could smell her soft perfume: light enough to state her femininity without compromising her professionalism.

  'Just scroll up or down if you need to see more,' she said, swivelling her face to look up at him. She was very close. She held her position for a moment before straightening up. 'I'll get this copied for you.'

  As he sat in her chair he wondered what element of law she specialised in. There was nothing on her desk to give him any clue. What if it were matrimonial? How would he feel telling her about Lucy Richardson? The answer was in the involuntary tensing of his body.

  He quickly moved the curser over the diary. There was nothing of interest in it for this week, except the industrial tribunal case, so he went back, an entry caught his eye. Yes! Culven had had a lunchtime appointment with Roger Thurlow at the yacht club at Horsea Marina on Friday, the last day that Thurlow had been seen. He went back further through July and June. There were several appointments with Thurlow, but what also interested him was the number of appointments with Jarrett. Before he had time to digest this the door opened.

  Frances Greywell handed him the photostat copy, which he folded and placed in the pocket of his jacket.

  'Was Mr Culven, Thurlow's solicitor?'

  'Yes.' She tried to hide her surprise and curiosity at the connection.

  'And Colin Jarrett's?'

  She nodded, now even more perplexed. 'I believe Michael's done… did a lot of work for Mr Jarrett. His business interests have expanded rapidly over the last five years.'

  Tell me about it! Hotels, restaurants, gyms and health clubs all along the south coast. He could see that she wanted to ask him why he wanted to know. Before she could he said, 'I'd like a copy of this diary?'

  'Of course.' Once again the lawyer she said crisply, 'Which months do you want, inspector?'

  'June onwards.'

  She moved back into her own seat brushing against him as she went. He thought it was intentional but maybe he was just kidding himself. She was attractive, but he was off women, except for one and she wanted nothing to do with him.

  'The printer's in Amanda's office.'

  He followed her through, admiring her slender but shapely figure. She had a way of walking, of doing things that said I know who I am, I know what I'm doing and I know what I want.

  He said, 'Mr Culven had an appointment at Thurlow's on Friday lunchtime. Any idea what that was about?' He could see that she wanted to ask him about this obsession with Thurlow. She didn't though, probably because she knew he would only blank her out.

  She said, 'Janet might know, Michael's secretary, but she only works part time. I'm afraid you've missed her. I can find out for you.'

  'Please. I'd also like the paperwork of all the cases that Mr Culven had been working on, say, in the last six months.' That should give him an insight into Jarrett's business affairs. Not that he expected to find anything brazenly illegal but he hadn't spent three years in SID without knowing how to read between the lines. A warm glow of satisfaction spread through him. It had been a good move coming here instead of going to Melissa Thurlow's.

  'That's confidential, inspector.'

  'I can return with a warrant.'

  'Then I suggest you do.'

  She handed him the printout of diary dates. A
fter a moment she said, her tone softer, 'You think Michael's death could be work-related?' Now she looked really worried.

  'It's too early to say.'

  'Of course.' She gave a small frown of irritation at his stock answer.

  'Could you lock his office and touch nothing. I'll send a couple of officers along tomorrow, with a warrant.'

  She sighed in capitulation. 'When can I announce it to the staff?'

  'We'll let you know as soon as we've spoken to his next of kin.'

  The heat was intense, as he struck out for the station but he hardly noticed it. He felt buoyed up with optimism. His fingers itched to get hold of Jarrett's files. He wished he could start now. He should have expected her to ask for a warrant, being a solicitor. Still, he could have one by tomorrow.

  He turned his mind to the case. By both Frances Greywell's and Miss Filey's accounts of Michael Culven, and judging from what he'd seen of his house, he seemed a very ordinary man, fairly innocuous, certainly not the type to get himself brutally murdered like that. But then there was evidence that he liked being caned and if the letters from Melissa Thurlow were anything to go by he had been a passionate and energetic lover. So perhaps there was a lot more to Michael Culven than met the eye. And the evidence of those letters and Thurlow's disappearance suggested this was a crime of passion, a jealous husband outraged at his wife's infidelity.

  Cantelli wasn't back but Marsden was and waiting for him. Horton could see immediately that he'd made a breakthrough on Evans' stabbing. His body was vibrating with excitement. Horton knew the feeling. He'd missed that over the last eight months. Soon though he would experience it again, and he didn't just mean nabbing Evans' attacker, or even Culven's killer though both would be enough to send the adrenaline rushing through his body.

  'I think I've tracked down the gatecrasher, sir,' Marsden said. 'The drug squad got hold of some names and I've been checking them out. Stevie Mason fits the description given by those kids who can remember being at the party. I'm just going round to ask John Westover if he knows him, or can recall seeing him.'

  'What's Mason's form?' 'Arrested and fined for drug dealing five years ago outside the Sir Wilberforce Cutler Comprehensive. Served two years for assault in a young offenders' institution, released a year ago. Prior to that, in and out of trouble since the age of nine.'

  'OK, let's go bring him in.'

  Marsden looked surprised. 'I thought I'd see what Westover has to say first.'

  'And give Mason time to do a bunk?'

  Marsden's fair good-looking face flushed. 'I don't think I've got enough on him yet.'

  'And by the time you've got it the whole of the drug network will be buzzing with the news and Mason will have blown. Probably has already.'

  'No, he's still in his flat off Queen Street. Somerfield is watching it.'

  Horton glanced at his watch. 'Come on then. We'll take a couple of uniformed lads with us. I've got a feeling Mason won't come quietly.' He didn't. With the sixth sense of the criminal fraternity Mason seemed to smell them coming from about six hundred yards away, certainly by the time they stepped out of the lift into the echoing corridor. But on the nineteenth floor of the tower block there was no way out of the flat except through the front door. The lifts and stairs, including the emergency stairs, were blocked by Horton, Marsden and two very large police officers.

  Mason, a skinny young man in his early twenties, with bad skin and broken teeth, eyed them with alarm, dashed a panicky glance over his shoulder, saw there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead and came charging at them with a great bellow and a flash of steel in his left hand. But Horton was prepared for it. Sidestepping, he grabbed him roughly, swiftly disarmed him, threw him to the floor, pinned his arms behind him and rubbed his face in the ground.

  'He's all yours, Marsden,' he said, leaving the two officers to take over the restraint and Marsden to quote PACE at him. He entered the youth's flat. It was filthy. It smelt of dirt, tobacco smoke, sweat and urine and he made sure to be careful where he trod. Discarded take-away trays littered the two-bedroom hovel along with heaps of clothing, newspapers and cigarette ends. There were pornographic magazines on the bed, along with some items of girls' clothing and numerous beer and lager cans.

  He crossed to the television and switched it off feeling a sense of sadness. Such a waste. Mason, he guessed, was beyond helping; perhaps he didn't have the brains, or perhaps he'd never been given a chance like he had. Horton's last foster parents had been the saving of him, the only couple who had recognised a young frightened boy, whose frustration at not being understood had found an outlet in violence. But even then, as Horton surveyed this despicable room, he knew his violence had never spilled over on to others, only inanimate objects and sometimes himself. He had also been the opposite of this; obsessively tidy and clean, controlling his environment and, as he grew older, controlling his body through physical exercise, fearful that if he let go, if he showed he cared, he'd be punished or hurt.

  He'd come a long way since then and had finally learned to love only to have that denied him. His body went rigid. He told himself that he was strong, that he needed no one, it helped a little but inside him he knew it wasn't true and never would be.

  'You all right, sir?' Marsden's voice broke through his thoughts.

  He spun round. Yes, he was all right. He had to be. What other choice was there? 'Let's get back and see what the little scum bag has to say for himself.'

  CHAPTER 7

  Two hours later Horton and Cantelli were sitting in the corner of a dinghy pub near the police station. Horton was washing the taste of Stevie Mason from his throat with a large diet coke and Cantelli was thawing out with a non alcoholic lager after a spell in Mrs Thurlow's greenhouse.

  'I felt like Humphrey Bogart in The Big Sleep,' Cantelli said. 'My shirt's only just drying out.'

  'Mrs Thurlow didn't try and sit in your lap while you were standing?' Horton said, recalling one of the most famous lines from the film.

  Cantelli grinned. 'No, and I didn't come across Lauren Bacall either, more's the pity. When I told Melissa that the dead man was Michael Culven she looked surprised but not upset. She knew he was her husband's solicitor and that's about it, or so she says.'

  'You believe her?'

  Cantelli sipped his drink as he thought for a moment. 'I don't know. She strenuously denies any affair and when I said her husband could have killed Culven in a jealous rage I thought she was going to burst a blood vessel laughing. Yeah, the ice lady melted. She insists that she hardly knew Culven, had only met him a couple of times. She appeared to be telling the truth, but how could she be with those letters?'

  In front of them were copies of Melissa Thurlow's handwriting and the letters she had written to Michael Culven. Horton gazed at them. To him the handwriting was identical but he was no expert. It was being checked out by those who were. They already knew there were only Culven's fingerprints on the love letters. But what about in Culven's house?

  They could lift Mrs Thurlow's fingerprints from the photograph of her husband that she'd given them earlier but her prints might not be the only ones on it, discounting Horton's and Cantelli's, so tomorrow an officer would go out to Briarly House to take her fingerprints and then they'd see if they matched any in Culven's house. It was too early to say how many sets of prints there were in Culven's house but Horton didn't envy the officer taking Miss Filey prints.

  Cantelli said, 'She claims they're forgeries.'

  'Then they're bloody good ones.'

  'I challenged her about not being concerned over her husband's disappearance. She said that sitting inside the house weeping and wailing was not her style.'

  Horton could believe that. 'Where was she on Tuesday night?'

  'At home, alone, except for the dog.'

  'Pity he can't talk then.'

  'And there's something else…'

  Horton waited.

  'She didn't answer the door so I walked around the side of the house
, past the garage. Inside was a dark blue Ford.'

  The same make and colour of a car seen in the car park the night Culven was killed. Cantelli said, 'I made a note of the registration number.'

  The door opened and Uckfield scanned the dim interior. Spotting them he made a cupped gesture with his right hand, Horton nodded, Cantelli shook his head and rose.

  'I'll leave you to brief the DCI. I'd like to get home, unless there's anything else.'

  'No. Give my love to Charlotte, and Barney… good luck with Ellen.'

  Uckfield put a pint of diet coke and half a bitter on the small round table. 'The letters?' he asked, after taking a long draught at his HSB, the local brew.

  Horton pushed them over and glanced down at one of them again as he considered Cantelli's feedback.

  I can't give up my home and garden and I don't want to, darling. If I can only get Roger to agree to leave. I'm working on it but he has become so unpredictable that I am growing concerned. Oh not about me but for him.

  Roger is drinking too much. I've begged him to see a doctor but of course he won't. When he's drunk he is more violent than ever and, darling, I am getting really worried. He's threatening all sorts of things against you. I don't think he'll actually do anything, you know Roger, all talk, but we must be careful. I've told him our affair is over. It's the only way to stop him. Be patient my love. We'll do as we agreed, we must stick to that no matter what.

  Horton looked up leaving Uckfield to flick through the rest of the letters. A couple of middle-aged men in ill-fitting suits lingered over their drinks, their backsides spread over the narrow stools, the seats of their trousers shiny with wear. An old man peered at him from the far corner through rheumy eyes and a gnomelike woman with frizzled grey hair and hunched shoulders, sucked on a cigarette, like a baby sucking on its bottle, as she avariciously fed coins into a games machine that had been rigged rarely to pay out.