His head hurt. That was a good sign. If he felt pain he couldn’t be dead. He tried opening his eyes but the pygmy inside his skull was using it as a drum. He was vaguely aware of someone moving, and he could hear voices. They didn’t sound like Cantelli and neither did they sound very heavenly.
He concentrated on opening his eyes and hoped his head wouldn’t explode. This time he succeeded. Gradually the light filtered in. His eyes travelled up two pairs of legs, one sitting and the other standing. His heart leapt into his throat as he found himself staring at Gavin Chawley’s terrified face. Chawley was pressed on to a hard chair, his feet bound tightly with the chain that had stretched across the gangplank and his arms wrenched behind him and tied with something Horton couldn’t see. But it was the man beside him with a knife pressed to Chawley’s throat that concerned and horrified Horton. He stared into the hollowed, lined, dirty face and knew he was looking at the man responsible for scratching the emblem on his Harley. It was also the hooded figure he’d glimpsed in the boatyard — the Georgian.
He staggered up. The Georgian shouted, ‘One step and I kill him, like he killed my Eliso.’
‘Reason with him, for God’s sake,’ Chawley choked, his face contorted with terror.
Like you reasoned with Venetia, or rather Eliso, her real name, Horton felt like saying but didn’t. It wouldn’t help matters. As he stared into the Georgian’s deep-set dark eyes full of hatred and anger, he rapidly searched his brain to find a way of resolving this without anyone getting hurt or killed, which was looking increasingly unlikely. And where the hell was Cantelli? His heart somersaulted so violently that he felt sick. Surely the Georgian couldn’t have killed him. But no, Cantelli wouldn’t have come alone. But if he had. . Horton went cold inside. He had to resolve this and rapidly. Cantelli might be hurt and in need of urgent help. Horton didn’t even want to contemplate that he might be dead.
Urgently Horton addressed the Georgian. ‘I’ll see that he is tried and convicted for Eliso’s murder.’
The Georgian spat vehemently on the floor, making it perfectly clear what he thought of that. Chawley’s eyes stared, wide and frightened. Speedily, Horton recalled his hostage-negotiation training courses. Hostage takers fell into three categories: terrorists, criminals and the mentally disturbed, or the mad, bad and sad as they were generally referred to. Horton thought he was staring at all three in one man. OK, so. . build rapport, keep an even temper, show empathy and self-assurance. Shit, how did he do all that before the Georgian plunged that knife into Chawley’s neck?
Though his mouth was dry and his palms damp he said evenly, ‘Was Eliso your girlfriend?’
‘My sister.’
Chawley gave a strangled sob as the Georgian clasped a big rough hand around his throat, forcing his head back while the knife pricked at its side.
‘You thought I’d killed Eliso at first, didn’t you?’ Horton quickly said. Get him talking, show patience, build a bond and hope to God Cantelli is still alive. ‘You were inside Eliso’s house when I arrived to look over her boat. Then while I was on the boat you waited for me somewhere out of sight along the lane and followed me to the police station.’ Horton hadn’t seen him, but then he hadn’t expected to be followed. ‘You then followed me to the marina and scratched that symbol on my Harley to warn me away from Eliso, but when you returned to her house in the early hours of the morning you found her dead.’
Chawley stared at Horton, terrified.
Horton continued steadily, though his heart was racing. ‘You decided to follow me so that I could lead you to her killer.’ And he’d been very expert at that. Horton recalled seeing a motorbike the day he and Cantelli had followed Rookley into the cemetery, and he’d heard one when he’d been pushed in the lock. He’d also seen one when with Cantelli a couple of times, and with Uckfield, but he hadn’t noticed anything following him to Rowlands Castle or here, though two had overtaken him and one, which must have been the Georgian, had waited in a side street and watched him turn into the industrial estate. Following him to the paddle steamer, he’d patiently waited and listened until he knew the whole truth.
Chawley was pleading with Horton with his petrified eyes. Horton pressed on. ‘When you thought I wasn’t doing my job in looking for Eliso’s killer you left another message, this time on my yacht. You’ve waited a long time to find your sister.’
‘What’s that to you?’ he demanded roughly. Chawley’s eyes popped in his terrified face as the hand squeezed tighter.
‘I’d like to understand,’ Horton said, praying that he sounded genuinely interested. He was, but not half as interested as he was in resolving this rapidly and without anyone getting killed. ‘Please tell me about Eliso,’ he prompted, willing the Georgian to reply.
The man eyed Horton sceptically. There were several seconds before he replied, but they seemed like minutes. Gruffly the Georgian said, ‘I’m from the region of Shida Kartli, part of South Ossetia.’
That explained the Kartli coat of arms, thought Horton.
‘I was captured by the Georgians two years ago in the fighting and escaped to Poti, where the captain of a container ship took me to Istanbul. He told me he had taken my sister out of the country some years ago and put her on board a cargo ship sailing to Naples. She told him she was going to live with an Englishman near a castle by the sea.’
Poor Eliso, thought Horton. She thought she was going to live a fairytale existence. Some bloody fairy tale.
‘I got the name of the cargo ship captain who had taken Eliso to Naples and waited in Istanbul for him to arrive. In January he came. He told me that Eliso had sailed from Naples with a man in a boat. He was taking her to a place called Portsmouth. I came with this captain to Southampton.’
And Horton guessed he had stolen the motorbike there.
‘I went in search of this castle by the sea, and there was Eliso walking down the street. I followed her.’
Eliso had been unlucky to the end. Fate, or sod’s law, whatever you liked to call it, had played its card. But even if she hadn’t been in the street that day, Horton knew that the Georgian wouldn’t have given up his search until he found her. Locating that house by the sea and the castle would have been easy.
‘Now I will kill him.’
Chawley squawked.
Hastily Horton recalled what Gaye Clayton had relayed to him about the symbol. He had an idea. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but anything was worth trying. Quickly he said, ‘The Lion on the Kartli coat of arms stands for courage and strength, and the Unicorn for purity and virtue. Surely killing this man must go against that.’
Hesitation flashed across the rough unshaven features. It was a start. ‘You need courage to kill a man.’
‘You need even more courage not to, especially when he has hurt you and someone you love,’ responded Horton.
The Georgian’s eyes narrowed.
Horton pressed home his advantage. ‘You also need strength to let a man live to face his punishment, and to make sure that the truth is exposed. Isn’t that what Eliso would have wanted and what she’d expect from you?’
Horton held his breath as he saw the thoughts running through the Georgian’s mind. Quickly he pressed on, speaking earnestly. ‘The man you are holding a knife to has ruined many lives, not only Eliso’s. Killing him is too quick and easy a punishment for what he has done. He values his reputation. In prison he would lose that. He would feel the punishment and he would suffer.’ Horton sincerely hoped that was true. ‘Let him go,’ he added gently, ‘and he’ll go to prison for what he’s done, for a very long time.’ Horton could see the Georgian considering it. ‘If you kill him now he won’t suffer and you will go to prison, not him.’
Horton held the Georgian’s steely gaze, trying not to show any emotion. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, stretching out his hand.
‘Give me the knife,’ he said calmly, though his heart was in overdrive. He stood his ground with his hand outstretched. He didn’t look at Chawley but kept his eyes steadfastly on the Georgian, catching the flicker of hesitation behind the exhausted eyes. He prayed now that no one would enter, not until he had the knife in his hand.
‘Eliso wouldn’t want him killed,’ Horton said softly, easing another step forward. He could feel the sweat on his back, and the thumping in his head was matched by the pounding of his heart. ‘She’d want you to tell her story. Don’t you think she deserves that?’
The Georgian’s eyes held fatigue beyond weariness. His roughened hand came down a fraction. He paused. Then, flicking the knife round so that the hilt faced Horton, he stretched it across. Horton grasped it. But his relief was short-lived.
‘I can still break his neck with my bare hand,’ the Georgian cried, squeezing Chawley’s throat. Chawley’s eyes popped as the pressure increased.
‘That would be too quick a death,’ Horton cried hastily. ‘Better to let him suffer the humiliation of everyone knowing he’s a murderer. He’s not worth killing,’ he urged, praying he wouldn’t need to attack the Georgian. If he did, Chawley might be saved but the knife in Horton’s hand could be used against him, or end up in the Georgian.
Suddenly, with disgust the Georgian pushed Chawley so violently that the chair crashed over, leaving Chawley lying on his side trussed up tightly, his midriff exposed. The Georgian’s leg came up and he kicked his boot hard into Chawley’s stomach. Chawley screamed in pain. And again, as the boot struck out. Horton threw the knife out of reach and leapt into action, charging at the Georgian. He staggered, as his foot was raised in the act of striking Chawley again. They fell, and suddenly there were uniforms swarming all over the boat and the Georgian had his hands behind his back in cuffs. Chawley was howling with pain. A uniformed police officer bent over to release him.
‘What kept you?’ Horton said to Cantelli, heaving an enormous sigh of relief at the sight of the sergeant and in the rudest of health.
‘We took the scenic route.’
‘Next time try the motorway, it’s quicker.’
‘It’s blocked in both directions, an accident. We couldn’t get through and had to come over the hill.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re here.’ Chawley was on his feet. Horton reached into his pocket and clapped his cuffs on him.
Chawley began to protest. ‘You’ve got no right. I’ve been attacked. I need to go to hospital.’
‘What’s that noise?’ Horton asked, waggling a finger in his ear.
‘I think it’s the wind,’ answered Cantelli.