Footsteps on the Shore Read online

  He pushed open the door, but his lips could barely form a smile, let alone manage a greeting, before the well-built man in his mid-forties leapt up, fury contorting his swarthy face and blazing from behind his modern, heavily rimmed spectacles.

  ‘What gives you the right to force your way into my house and accuse my wife of harbouring a criminal?’ Danbury roared. ‘She has nothing whatsoever to do with that scum of a brother.’

  Horton stifled a sigh. He might have known that Friday the thirteenth hadn’t finished with him yet. He noted the immaculate dark suit, crisp white shirt and yellow tie, along with the expensive gold watch.

  Wearily he said, ‘I understand your—’

  ‘No you don’t,’ Danbury roared. ‘Luke’s a killer, a violent, nasty piece of work. Why they let him out God alone knows. I don’t trust him not to kill again. He might already have done so again for all we know.’

  Was he referring to Venetia Trotman? If so the news had got out quickly, but then Horton knew it only took a couple of occupants in the houses opposite the entrance to Shore Road, which had been cordoned off, to alert the media.

  ‘No woman is safe while he’s on the loose,’ Danbury continued to rage. ‘Including my wife.’

  Now Horton saw the reason for Danbury’s anger. Fear was provoking it. ‘You think he might attack his own sister?’ he asked, concerned.

  ‘God knows what he’d do for drugs.’

  ‘The prison authorities say he’s clean.’

  ‘But he’s not in prison,’ sneered Danbury.

  Quite. Horton couldn’t fault that.

  Angrily Danbury said, ‘Find him. And when you do, lock him up and throw away the bloody key. And don’t bother my wife again. I won’t have her worried and upset.’ And with that Danbury swept out.

  Horton decided he needed sustenance. Uckfield would have to wait until tomorrow for his report and his mobile phone.

  As he ate his lasagne and chips in the canteen, he wondered if Trueman had located Venetia Trotman’s next of kin. He also wondered if SOCO had found anything around her body. It was probably too early for the search teams to have discovered much, but Dr Price must have given Uckfield an estimated time of death. And that reminded him of his rotting corpse in the harbour.

  Quickly pushing away the image before it could ruin his appetite, he stabbed another chip and reached for his mobile. He might not be involved in the Venetia Trotman investigation but there was no rule preventing him from speaking to Sergeant Elkins.

  ‘We’ve checked with all the marinas, including those on the Isle of Wight, and there’s no sign of Shorena,’ Elkins said. ‘It’s too dark to search for her now but I’ve put out an alert across all coastal waters around the UK. Not much more we can do tonight. I was just knocking off – unless you’ve got any other ideas, Andy?’

  ‘None that spring to mind.’

  It couldn’t simply disappear, Horton thought, ringing off with frustration. But then perhaps it could if it had been scuttled, and he didn’t think diving the Solent to try and locate it was a viable option.

  He put his tray where the canteen staff wouldn’t scold him and returned to his office, where he collected the file on Natalie Raymonds for further reading later on the boat, and headed for Milton Locks.

  It was 8.52 and still raining when he pulled up outside the pub at the end of the road leading to the lock. Leaving the Harley in the car park he hurried down a narrow track away from the comforting lights of the pub and the street lights towards what was left of the disused lock, cursing Rookley for choosing such an exposed rendezvous and himself for being stupid enough to agree to it. When he could go no further, except into the mud of the harbour, Horton reached for his pencil torch and shone it over the sign by the side of the lock while trying, without success, to avoid the slanting rain that drove into his face. He read that the lock was the last remains of the Arundel to Portsmouth Canal, abandoned in 1832 and recently given a makeover in the name of the environment. He surveyed the area but the intense darkness of the black expanse of Langstone Harbour in front of him seemed to swallow up the meagre light from his torch, and he could see nothing the other side of the lock except a tangle of bushes.

  The sound of the wind and rain, plus the faint hum of traffic on the dual carriageway to the north, filled the air. He glanced impatiently at his watch. It was three minutes past nine and no sign of Rookley, but that wasn’t surprising. He could be in the pub taking Dutch courage. Perhaps he should join him. After a day like today he thought he could do with a drink, only he didn’t drink, and hadn’t since August.

  His fingers curled around the paper in his pocket bearing the symbol that had been etched on his Harley, recalling Cantelli’s words. Did it mean death? Was he in danger? More worrying, could Emma be in danger? Cantelli could be wrong about the interpretation of the symbol, and probably was, but he was right about one thing; he needed to consult an expert.

  The sound of a car drawing up caught his attention. Rookley? But Rookley didn’t own a car. Too late it occurred to Horton that Rookley might not be alone, and he could be a sitting target out here, which was no doubt why Rookley had suggested this place and time.

  He quickly scanned the dark horizon for a vantage point where he could take cover and yet still see Rookley approach. There was only one and it was behind the bushes on the opposite side of the lock. Horton hurried across to it. The pub door opened, bringing with it a snatch of music and the sound of voices calling goodbye and returning cries. Foolishly he turned in its direction, and just at the same time a small voice whispered ‘Danger’ and he sensed a shape looming out of the undergrowth. He swung round, but too late. A searing pain shot across his shoulders as a heavy blow struck him. He struggled for balance, lost it and was flying through the air with the ground rushing up towards him. Next he was spitting mud and water from his mouth with a pain in his shoulder and the throb of a motorbike in his ear. It sounded remarkably like a Harley.

  With a grimace he hauled himself up. His leathers were filthy, but he was alive and no broken bones. Whoever had attacked him hadn’t finished the job. Thank God. Had that bastard Rookley shoved him in the mud? If so he’d have his bollocks on a skewer. But from the brief glimpse he’d caught of the figure it had seemed taller and bulkier than Rookley. There was no point pondering it now; his priority was to get out of the lock, hope that his Harley was still where he’d left it, and get back to his yacht.

  Fifteen weary minutes later he drew up at the marina and squelched his way down to the pontoon and the yacht, thankful his Harley hadn’t been stolen and with eager thoughts of a hot shower, a change of clothes and the chance to bathe his grazed and bloody face. But as he climbed on board he froze. There was something pinned to the hatch. Who the blazes was leaving him notes? Then surprise gave way to a cold grip of fear as he found himself staring at the same symbol that had been etched on his Harley, only this time executed in a thick black pen on paper. Rapidly, through the sheeting rain, he scanned the marina and the car park, but there was no one in sight.

  He ripped off the drawing, noted that the lock on the hatch was still intact, and descended into the cabin where, flicking on the light, he studied the symbol: a cross and a funny-shaped circle above it. What the devil did it mean? Who had left it? It certainly wasn’t Ronnie Rookley. Then it occurred to him that maybe the attack had nothing to do with Rookley either. And that meant someone was following him. He hadn’t seen anyone, so whoever it was, he was very good.

  The hairs pricked at the back of his neck. He didn’t like the thought of being stalked and he didn’t like not knowing what his stalker wanted. If the symbol meant death, then why not knife him instead of hitting him across the shoulders?

  He strained his ears, listening for the slightest movement outside that would tell him his persecutor was back, but only the wind whistling through the halyards and the rain drumming on the coach roof answered him. His assailant, the graffiti artist, had gone – for now. But the question th
at troubled Horton was, when would he return and what would he do next?

  EIGHT

  Saturday, 14 March

  ‘What happened to you?’ Walters quickly shoved his Daily Mirror in his desk drawer and eyed Horton’s cut and bruised face with surprise.

  Dumping his jacket and helmet in his office before re-emerging almost immediately, Horton saw Cantelli’s frown of concern. ‘I’ll tell you both over breakfast.’ He hoped he could do so before DCI Bliss put in an appearance, though it was the weekend and that usually meant the senior management team would be conspicuous by their absence. Except for Uckfield, who had a major crime to solve – his car was already in the car park, along with Dennings’ car.

  During the night Horton had done a great deal of thinking about his stalker, not much of it resulting in anything very productive, except to give him an even worse headache than he’d had after the attack. Early this morning he’d once again viewed the CCTV tapes that Eddie in the marina office kept, but there was no sign of any furtive figure in the marina car park or on the pontoons, and no new visitors. Eddie also confirmed that the visiting yachtsman who had been present when Horton’s Harley had been defaced had sailed on to waters new. And no one else had arrived. So who the devil was Horton dealing with? The invisible bloody man? It seemed so. But one thing was clear; he needed to discover what the symbol meant, as Cantelli had urged.

  He bought breakfast for them all, earning himself a brownie point with Walters, and grabbed a table at the window overlooking the station car park. From here he could watch for Bliss’s arrival in case she decided to stick her beaky nose in.

  Cantelli said, ‘So what happened? You look as though you’ve done two rounds with Joe Calzaghe.’

  Horton felt as if he had, though the pain in his neck and head was getting better the more he moved it; either that or the strong painkillers he’d swallowed earlier had kicked in. He gave a succinct account of the previous night, leaving out the bit about the note pinned to his yacht and his growing suspicion that his assailant was out for some kind of twisted revenge. He might confess that to Cantelli later, out of Walters’ earshot.

  Cantelli asked, ‘Do you think Rookley assaulted you?’

  ‘No.’ Horton hadn’t seen his assailant but he’d got the sense of a bulkier man. Plus he couldn’t see a squirt like Rookley having the strength, or the height, to strike him across the shoulders. He added, ‘But Rookley might have seen who did.’ And that could give him a lead on his persecutor.

  ‘Could it have been Luke Felton?’ posed Walters with his mouth full of bacon.

  ‘Why should he want to push me in the lock?’

  ‘Maybe he went there to meet Rookley for drugs and thought you were there to arrest him.’

  Horton considered Walters’ suggestion. Rookley might have told Luke about their rendezvous in order to get Luke off his back and get into Horton’s good books, but Rookley would then have risked being done for dealing. On the other hand Rookley might have known that was where Luke would be and set him up, only Luke realized it, hence the attack. That didn’t explain the note, but it made him feel better about the attack; perhaps that wasn’t his stalker after all.

  Horton pushed his empty plate away and scraped back his chair. ‘We’ll ask him. Let’s disturb his beauty sleep.’ And after that they’d see if Ashley Felton was at home.

  As Cantelli drove through the city streets, Horton checked the wing mirror to his left to see if anyone was following him. He couldn’t see anything suspicious and he could swear no one had followed him to the station that morning.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Cantelli said. ‘Why would Luke risk losing that job, which by all accounts was the best thing since electricity was invented? Was it invented or discovered? I was never any good at science at school.’

  ‘Because he couldn’t stay off the drugs.’

  Cantelli eyed him. Horton knew that look. ‘Go on, cough it up.’

  ‘Well, perhaps the job wasn’t that great. We’ve only got the word of the bearded wonder and that nymphomaniac personnel officer that it was. What if after Luke arrived at Kempton’s he was disappointed to find the job wasn’t all it had been cracked up to be? He begins to think I’m being paid peanuts, I’m stuck in a room with no telephone, no contact with any of the staff, chained to a keyboard, this is worse than prison, so sod this.’ Horton made to speak but Cantelli forestalled him, ‘I haven’t finished yet.’

  ‘Remind me to buy you breakfast more often, it seems to have done your grey cells a power of good.’

  ‘It’s the bacon sandwich.’ Cantelli smiled. ‘Always does the trick. Felton expected more. He was better than the job demanded and maybe someone recognized this: a supplier of Kempton Marine, or a visiting rep. Or perhaps Felton talked to someone about the job over a pint after work and this someone offered him a better deal, more money, higher status.’

  ‘Crooked?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Felton could have been headhunted for a legitimate position.’

  ‘Then why not tell his probation officer? Why just walk out and risk returning to prison?’

  ‘Because he hadn’t told this person he’d been to prison or that he was out on licence.’

  Horton thought about it for a moment. ‘Bit stupid that.’

  ‘True. But perhaps Luke saw it as a fresh start in London or Newcastle, say, or some other large city where he could disappear, and thought, yeah, why not, a chance to make real money and begin again, assuming a new name and identity. No questions, no stigma, no probation officers, just a whizz-kid on a computer.’

  Horton considered this as Cantelli eased the car through the back streets towards Crown House. After a moment he said, ‘It’s possible. In fact it’s a good idea. I want a list of every visitor to Kempton Marine for the last two weeks. They’ve got a visitors’ book in reception. We had to sign in, so see who else has. Make sure you get a copy of the entries when we go for Felton’s computer. We need to check if any of them have spoken to Felton.’

  ‘Just one further thought,’ Cantelli added, as he swung into the car park at the rear of Crown House. ‘Felton could have seen a position advertised on the Internet. He contacted the organization by email, they asked him to call them and when they heard what he had to say they interviewed him and snapped him up.’

  ‘The computer unit will tell us which sites he visited and who he emailed.’ Horton paused as he climbed out of the car and quickly scanned the area. Only two cars passed them; one with an elderly man driving and the other a woman in her twenties, neither likely to be his stalker. ‘You might have been rubbish at science but you’re a damn good sergeant.’

  ‘And I hope to stay that,’ Cantelli answered, as they made their way to the front entrance.

  They found Harmsworth in his office. He showed no reaction to Horton’s cut and bruised face, but then that was hardly surprising given his clientele at Crown House.

  ‘Have you found Luke Felton?’ he said, looking up from his shabby and shambolic desk.

  ‘We want a word with Ronnie Rookley.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky. He’s not been back since after your visit yesterday.’

  Horton considered this, first puzzled, then annoyed. Clearly, Rookley had done a runner. And he’d probably warned the rest of the dealers that the police were sniffing around. Horton didn’t think he was going to be flavour of the month with the drug squad.

  ‘We’d like a look at his room.’

  ‘Be my guest.’ Harmsworth reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. ‘First door on your left at the top of the second floor.’

  Cantelli didn’t bother to knock. There was no need if Rookley wasn’t there, and he’d probably not have bothered even if he had been. He tried the door first before inserting the key and crashing in, shouting, ‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.’ Then he stepped back, almost colliding with Horton. ‘My God, this place stinks! Has something died in here and crawled under the bed?’

  ‘Well, it�
��s not Rookley,’ Horton answered, swiftly crossing to the empty unmade bed and peering under it. He wished he hadn’t. The smell was vile. Rookley must have forgotten where the toilet was. The room was littered with beer cans, foil containers of leftover curry and fast food which appeared to have things crawling in it. ‘He could be hiding in the wardrobe,’ Horton added, straightening up.

  ‘Nope,’ Cantelli replied, holding his nose between the thumb and forefinger of one hand while opening the creaking door with the other. ‘Though something unidentifiable might be.’ He took a chance and peered inside again. ‘Just filthy clothes.’

  Horton gazed around at the discarded newspapers, fag packets, beer cans and whisky bottles among the soiled underpants, socks and clothes. What a contrast to Luke Felton’s pristine room and Venetia Trotman’s immaculate period house, which reminded him that he still needed to give his mobile phone to Trueman so that he could take from it a recording of the anonymous call. He couldn’t see any needles or drugs but he wanted this room searched. And he pitied the poor plods who’d have to do it.

  ‘Lock it up, Barney, before we throw up.’

  Horton knew they could ask the occupants of Crown House if they’d seen Rookley or knew where he was, ditto Luke Felton, but they’d probably get better results talking to a brick wall.

  They left Harmsworth with instructions that he call them the moment Rookley showed up. Outside Horton looked for Hans Olewbo, but there was no sign of his car or the black man, and neither could he see signs of anyone else from the drug squad. That didn’t mean they weren’t there though.

  In the car, he said, ‘When you get the chance, check out Rookley’s background and see if he could have gone to ground anywhere.’

  ‘He might have gone to his sister’s, although, if my memory is correct, she can’t stand the sight of him.’

  ‘Not many can. Circulate a picture of his ugly mug to all units and get a unit to check with the bus drivers for any sightings of the scumbag catching a bus to Milton Locks last night. He shouldn’t have been difficult to spot with those shifty eyes, greasy hair and earrings. I can’t see him walking five miles across town, so you’d better get another unit checking with the taxi drivers in case Rookley was flush after dealing.’