Tide of Death dah-1 Page 7

  Political correctness and good taste had by passed this pub; it stank of cigarette smoke and chip fat. There was a large blackboard in the far right hand corner of the bar that advertised Karaoke and curry night on Thursdays. It was the nearest pub to the station, and its style and age were in sharp contrast to the newly built hotel and high technology business centre, with its units to rent by the hour and day. It served one of the poorest parts of Portsmouth, the mean little terraced houses and high rise flats. Horton knew the area well. He'd lived here once with his mother before she had abandoned him.

  Uckfield sat back. 'What does she say?'

  Horton relayed Cantelli's conversation with her but as he did he saw Uckfield's attention wander to two girls entering the bar. Horton frowned following his gaze. The girls were in their early twenties, one bottle blonde with lank hair, a pasty complexion and skinny white legs underneath a tight micro skirt, the other dark, with rolls of fat and a tattoo showing between the gap in her tight Lycra trousers and skimpy T-shirt.

  'I'll take the blonde one,' Uckfield said, as the girls glanced over at them. Horton saw them giggle. He scowled. 'Just joking,' Uckfield said. 'You used to have a sense of humour.'

  'I used to have a lot of things,' Horton quipped. Then added quickly before Uckfield could comment further, 'Cantelli saw a dark blue Ford in Melissa Thurlow's garage.'

  'A clandestine meeting between her and Culven?'

  Uckfield's eyes once again swivelled to the girls and it made Horton wonder if Uckfield ever played away from home? If he did then he was a bloody fool and didn't know when he was well off. He recalled an almost forgotten conversation he'd had with Steve the night he had first met Alison Uckfield. 'I'm going to pull her and secure my chances of promotion into the bargain.' A year later he had married the chief constable's daughter.

  He said a little stiffly, 'Why meet her lover and then kill him? That doesn't make any sense. Anyway there are hundreds of dark blue Fords about, it might have no bearing on the case at all.'

  Uckfield nodded at Walters and a couple of other officers who had just entered the pub. 'I didn't say, good work on Evans' stabbing.'

  'Marsden deserves the credit for that. I told you he was bright.'

  'I hear Mason came at you with a knife and you disarmed him.'

  Horton shrugged. 'All in the line of duty as they say. Mason wasn't very forthcoming at first but Somerfield managed to get Westover to talk. When he knew we had Mason in custody he confessed to knowing him and buying ecstasy from him for the party. He didn't expect Mason to show up there but when he did he couldn't chuck him out. Westover's parents are having a blue fit.'

  Uckfield sighed. 'Yeah, it's hard to believe what your kids are up to sometimes. I'd skin my two girls alive if I found out they'd been mixing with the likes of Stevie Mason.'

  And me, thought Horton if it happened to Emma, but he knew how easy it was for them to succumb to peer pressure. How did you stop them, short of locking them up? He couldn't help thinking of Cantelli and his daughter Ellen. Uckfield's eyes wandered again to the girls who were very conscious of his glances.

  Horton said, 'Once Mason knew that Westover had grassed on him he admitted the drugs but said he didn't stab Evans.'

  'And you believe him?'

  'Do I believe in alien life forms?'

  'Only if they come in the shape and form of toe rags like Mason.'

  Horton smiled. 'He did it all right; we just have to get enough evidence now to prove it. I think we will. Somerfield and Marsden are continuing to work on witness statements.'

  'One down, another one to go. Be nice if we could clear up Culven's murder before my promotion panel, do us both a bit of good.'

  Horton silently agreed. 'Well we've got a week; we'll get him, Steve.' I'll make damn sure I do, Horton thought. 'I've instigated a check on Culven's land line and his mobile phone calls, and I've applied for a warrant to go through Culven's client files but I'll focus on the connection with Thurlow for now, until he or something better shows up. I want to take a look at Thurlow's boat and talk to his staff tomorrow.'

  'Good.' Uckfield drained his glass. 'I'd better be heading home we've got the in laws coming over for dinner. I'll brief Reg on the investigation.'

  Uckfield hesitated for a moment as if trying to make up his mind to speak. When he did Horton almost wished he hadn't. 'Alison saw Catherine yesterday.'

  'Oh?' Horton tried to look unconcerned but he didn't know if he succeeded. His heart skipped a beat as he thought of his wife and he felt his body tense.

  'She thinks Catherine is seeing someone; it was just one or two remarks that she made. Andy, it was bound to happen. She's an attractive woman. And she thinks the marriage is over.' 'Right,' Horton replied. It was all he could do to get that word out. He stared straight ahead seeing nothing, hearing nothing. He tried to concentrate all his energy on remaining calm but it was almost impossible. A great searing fury assailed him.

  'You OK? Andy?'

  Horton forced himself to look at Uckfield. With a supreme effort he pulled himself up. 'Yeah,' he said keeping his voice steady, amazed he could even speak. Through the pain of rejection he registered Uckfield's concerned expression but felt only hatred.

  'Look, I'd stay for a couple of drinks, only I can't…' Uckfield snatched a glance at his watch. 'I'm late. Some other time, eh? We'll go out on a blinder.'

  Horton moved his mouth so that it resembled a smile. 'Yeah, some other time.'

  He walked out with Uckfield and watched him climb into his car. With a toot he drove off. The hatred he had felt sitting in the pub and staring at Uckfield didn't abate but churned his gut. Uckfield had everything, a wife, family, home. And what did he have? A Harley Davidson and an old boat.

  But it wasn't Uckfield he should hate he thought as he turned away. He had to concentrate his fury in the right place. He had to get even with whoever it was had wrecked his life. But he seemed no further forward with his investigations into Alpha One and Colin Jarrett. Still, patience, he urged himself. There had to be something in those files and he had a legitimate reason to go through them and ask Jarrett questions if necessary.

  He wished he had the Harley but Malcolm Hargreaves had called earlier to say that there was a slight delay with it and he couldn't return it until the morning. His footsteps heavy as he thought of Catherine he began to walk through the back streets of Portsmouth, passing the flats and tiny houses where he'd been pushed from pillar to post after his mother had walked out one chilly winter morning and had never returned.

  Shit! He wanted to do a ton. He wanted to roar away into oblivion. Uckfield's words resounded in his head. How long had Catherine been seeing someone? Who was he? How could she pick up with someone so quickly? It was as if their ten-year marriage counted for nothing. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hand, oblivious of where he walked and the fog that enveloped him.

  He had hoped. Even when he'd got that bloody letter he had still hoped. But Uckfield was right; Catherine was a very attractive woman. There had been many on the station that had eyed her up but unless they had rank she wouldn't even smile at them. When he'd got his promotion to inspector she'd been over the moon.

  And what about Emma? The thought of another man taking his place with his daughter made him feel sick. He knew he had to see Catherine, try and reason with her? But what could he say except the same old thing; I didn't do it, you must believe me.

  He tasted the bitterness in his mouth. It stayed with him all the way home, as did the anger. Nutmeg rocked to the tread of his footsteps as he removed the padlock. The hatch screeched as he pushed it back setting his teeth on edge. His sleeping bag was still on the boom it would be damp by now but he didn't care. How could he sleep anyway?

  He lay on his bunk and stretched his hands behind his head. He flicked on the lamp to stare at Emma's photograph, experiencing the dull ache of missing her; recalling how she used to come running into their bedroom giggling and jump all over the bed. How Cather
ine used to scold her and how he would tickle her and jiggle her on his knees, making her screech with laughter for which he would get into further trouble for making his daughter 'too excited'. Now there was just the sound of a dog barking and the water slapping against the boat.

  Then he frowned. Something was wrong. Something was different. His whole body tensed. He lay immobile, hardly breathing. There was no doubting it; Emma was not where she should have been. He always arranged the photograph at the exact angle where Emma's eyes were smiling at his when he awoke and now they looked beyond him to his right. Someone had moved Emma, which meant…Someone had been on his boat.

  He sat bolt upright almost banging his head on the coach roof. Someone had broken in but it had been a very professional job. No lock tampered with, nothing disturbed. He wouldn't have known that anyone had been aboard if it hadn't been for Emma.

  Slowly he swung off the bunk and reaching into a locker pulled out a pair of sailing gloves and began a minute inspection of the boat. It didn't take him long. He found it stowed away underneath his sail cover at the aft.

  He pulled it out and stared at it, frowning; it was a slim, gold cigarette lighter. Who did it belong to? There was nothing on it to identify the owner, or was there? He peered at it wishing he had a magnifying glass. He could see some faint lettering, initials maybe, but they were so worn that he couldn't quite make them out. Someone had planted it with a purpose in mind, and he wasn't about to sit back and wait for that purpose to be revealed.

  He climbed off the boat, taking care to look around. As far as he was aware there was no one watching him but then the fog was pretty thick. If anyone was watching him then they'd assume he was simply going to the toilet, or having a shower, which was exactly what he was doing. The lighter was safely tucked away inside his toilet bag.

  He walked to the end of the pontoon. The fog swallowed up the sounds of the night completely leaving only the reboant foghorns to pierce the silence.

  He slipped into the shower room and toilets. They were empty but swiftly he checked them all just to be certain. Then, entering the cubicle at the far end, he took the lighter out of his toilet bag; it was now enclosed in a sealed plastic bag, opened the top of the toilet and placed it inside the cistern. He then took his time having a shower.

  Outside he stood stock still as though he was savouring the night air, but he was checking for any movement, his ears and eyes straining for any sign that would tell him he was being watched. Nothing. The air was turbid and tasted of salt. He could hardly see in front of him as he made his way slowly and carefully back to his boat.

  He lay on his bunk, staring into the dark. How had his intruder got in? He must have a key. It wouldn't be that difficult to get hold of one. The hatch was only fastened with a simple padlock. There wasn't much on the boat for anyone to steal so he'd never bothered to make it more secure. There were cameras in the marina and a code giving access onto the pontoons. The cameras probably wouldn't reveal much in the fog, always assuming they'd been pointing in this direction, and someone could easily have slipped through the gate along with another berth holder or behind one.

  And why plant something on him now when he'd been here several weeks? But he knew the answer to that. Jarrett didn't want him sniffing around, which meant that he was on the right track. The thought cheered him.

  But how did Jarrett know where to plant the lighter? Who knew he was living on his boat? Not Underwood if he was retired. Someone could, of course, have told him, someone at the station who was still in touch with him like…He frowned. There were only three people who knew, four if you counted Catherine, but why would Catherine want to break in and plant a cigarette lighter on him? No, it couldn't be her. It had to be one of the others and until he found out he could trust no one, not even Cantelli.

  CHAPTER 8

  Friday morning

  'How many people at the station know I'm living on the boat?' Horton asked Cantelli the next morning, as they headed for Oyster Quays and Thurlow's office.

  'I think it's fairly common knowledge. Walters found out. Don't ask me who told him but you know what that means…'

  He did. The whole of the Hampshire Police Service probably knew by now, so bang went his narrow list of suspects, but not necessarily his theory. Glancing at Cantelli he knew he had never seriously considered him one of them. But Dennings was a different matter.

  'Why do you want to know?'

  'No reason,' Horton replied airily and drew a sceptical look from Cantelli, which he chose to ignore. By the look of him Cantelli had spent as restless a night as he had done. 'Ellen still not talking to you?'

  'No. I found out last night that Jaz Corinder told her mother she was on a sleep-over at Sophie's house. Neither girl returned to her own home on Tuesday night. Where the devil were they, Andy, and what were they up to?' Cantelli cried.

  'Maybe Ellen wasn't with them.'

  'Maybe. And that worries the hell out of me. If she wasn't, then where was she?'

  'She'll tell you when she's ready,' Horton tried to comfort him but he could see that Cantelli wasn't convinced. Still, if anyone could get information from Ellen Cantelli, Horton was convinced that Charlotte could. Barney's wife understood children and adolescents better than anyone he knew. 'Let's try and concentrate on the case, Barney.'

  'Yeah, OK.' Cantelli threw him a dubious glance.

  As they made their way down the Plaza towards the sea, Horton could see over the heads of the crowds the masts of yachts crossing the harbour entrance and the top of the Isle of Wight Ferry as it waited to berth. He felt a great deal of sympathy for Cantelli. He tried to imagine how he would feel if it were Emma. The answer was in the tightening of his stomach muscles and the ache around his heart.

  He pushed open the door to Thurlow's office and climbed the stairs to reception where after a couple of minutes waiting they were shown into a modern boardroom with a large glass-topped table and chrome armchairs.

  The room was decorated in pale blue and Horton was immediately drawn to the two large arched shaped windows that overlooked the bustling harbour entrance and the town of Gosport beyond. Below him, moored up against the pontoon were three international race yachts. The Boardwalk was crowded with shoppers and tourists. It was another scorching day but this room, as the rest of the building, was mercifully air-conditioned.

  'Thurlow likes to look at himself,' Cantelli said and Horton turned back to find Cantelli studying the photographs on the walls. There were several of Thurlow with clients at black tie dinners, Thurlow with celebrities, Thurlow on his boat with guests, and Thurlow with an athletic looking man sporting a marathon medal in front of a group of disabled children.

  'Isn't this your father-in-law?' Cantelli pointed to a distinguished looking man in his late fifties standing beside Thurlow at a black tie presentation. Peter Kilton was holding a glass trophy and Roger Thurlow a jeroboam of champagne.

  Horton read the caption underneath the photograph. 'Businessman of the Year 1992.' It was the year he had met Catherine. She had worked for her father then as a secretary and had since graduated to marketing manager for the internationally renowned manufacturer of sailing equipment.

  Cantelli said, 'You heard from Catherine?'

  He must have read his mind. That wouldn't have been difficult given the link. 'Only from her solicitor. She wants a divorce.' He said it evenly but his stomach was churning; now he understood perfectly why she'd filed for a divorce. 'She's found someone else.'

  Cantelli looked shocked and Horton was grateful for that. But before either man could speak the door opened and small man in his mid fifties with overlong greying hair bustled in.

  'I'm so sorry to keep you waiting gentlemen; I got caught on the phone. Charles Calthorpe.'

  He spoke with a slight lisp. His eyes looked wary and there was a line of perspiration on his upper lip.

  'Inspector Horton and this is Sergeant Cantelli.' Horton displayed his warrant card. The dark brown eyes studied him bri
efly and darted away as soon as Horton made contact with them. The handshake was moist and fleeting.

  Calthorpe waved them into a seat and settled himself nervously. He seemed relieved when the door opened and a middle-aged woman, shaped like a pyramid, entered carrying a laden tray.

  'Ah, coffee. Thank you, Mrs Stephens.' Calthorpe's slightly fleshy lips twitched in a half smile.

  Horton caught the woman's eye. 'I understand you're Mr Thurlow's PA.' She started so violently that the coffee cups rattled and some coffee spilt on the tray she placed on the table. She flashed a look of alarm at Calthorpe who spoke for her.

  'Mrs Stephens is very concerned about Roger's disappearance as are we all. I take it that's why you're here, inspector?'

  Mrs Stephens's face flushed a deep pink. She stammered something and scurried away. Calthorpe watched her go like a man who'd just seen the lifeboat roar passed him whilst his boat was sinking.

  'Help yourself to milk, sugar and biscuits,' he said nervously.

  Horton refrained from all three but Cantelli spooned in two sugars and helped himself to a Digestive. He removed his pen from behind his ear and extracted his notebook from his jacket pocket.

  'When was the last time you saw Mr Thurlow?' Horton asked.

  'Last Friday, when I left the office.'

  'And what time was that, sir?'

  'Just after six. Roger was going to his boat.' Calthorpe picked up his coffee and took a sip.

  'Did he say where he was going for the weekend?'

  'No.'

  Calthorpe's eyes darted between them, and Horton got the impression of an insecure man underneath the self-important and agitated manner.

  'Did you ever go with him?'

  'Rarely, only when we were entertaining clients. I prefer wind over motor. I have my own small boat, a Bavaria 33.'