‘So where is it?’ Superintendent Uckfield demanded, feet splayed, camel coat flapping open in the wind, staring across the dark harbour — like bloody Nelson without the eye patch and arm in a sling, thought Horton. He refrained from replying that if he knew that he would have said. He was used to Uckfield’s short temper.
Thankfully it had stopped raining in the time that had elapsed between their discovery of the empty mooring and the superintendent’s arrival, but for how long Horton didn’t know. The air was cold and damp, like him. Cantelli had taken refuge in the victim’s house, where he was showing DC Marsden what they’d discovered; that shouldn’t take him long, and Horton doubted Cantelli would thaw out inside that refrigerator.
Before Uckfield’s arrival, Horton had asked Sergeant Elkins to start a search for the missing yacht. Not that there was much they could do in the dark except ask the marina managers along the coast if it had turned up there, which Horton doubted. He’d quickly briefed Uckfield about his visit here yesterday, the anonymous telephone call and his and Cantelli’s quick search of the house, along with what he knew of Venetia Trotman and her dead husband, which was hardly anything at all.
DI Dennings had listened with a baffled frown on his pugilistic face. Horton had finished by putting forward his theory that her killer could also have seen the postcard in the newsagent’s window and reconnoitred the house earlier by posing as a prospective buyer, returning late last night to rob it. But if so he was a remarkably tidy burglar.
Horton said, ‘If the yacht had broken its mooring in the early hours of the morning and drifted out with the tide, someone would have seen it by now and reported it.’ He knew that officers in the busy commercial ferry port and the naval dockyard to the south-east wouldn’t have let a drifting yacht within yards of their shores without investigating it. ‘The same applies if her killer cast it loose.’
‘It could be the work of the boat thieves,’ suggested Dennings, glancing at Uckfield. ‘There’s been a spate of them over the last month.’
He’s looking for a brownie point, thought Horton, coldly eyeing Dennings’ fifteen stone of muscle. He thought Dennings slow, dull and devious, an ugly bastard with muscles and no brains. What Dennings thought of him he didn’t even bother to consider, but knew it wouldn’t be complimentary. He wasn’t about to lose sleep over that. Last year he’d spent hours with Dennings on surveillance while working in Specialist Investigations and the man had come out smelling of roses, with a promotion and a place on the major crime team to boot, while he’d been suspended over that false rape allegation. But that was the past, he quickly told himself, knowing that the ghosts of his past never tired of haunting him, and they seemed to be going to town today.
Tersely, he said, ‘It doesn’t fit the pattern of the other boat thefts.’ I’ve done my homework too. ‘They’ve all been modern motor boats, like yours, Steve,’ Horton directed at Uckfield. Yes, Dennings, he’s my old buddy, not yours, even though Uckfield had betrayed him by appointing Dennings to his team when the job had been promised to Horton. ‘This is a classic wooden yacht, not at all flash.’
‘Still valuable in the right market, though,’ growled Uckfield.
Unfortunately he was right.
Dennings smirked. ‘There’s a huge black market for boats and outboard motors in Eastern Europe. The victim could have seen or heard the thieves stealing the boat, rushed out to stop them and got killed for her pains.’
But Horton shook his head. ‘You can’t see the boat from the house and I doubt she would have heard the engine being started.’ The latter was a possibility, but Horton would rather have his teeth pulled than admit it.
Uckfield turned away from the shore and as the three of them headed towards the tent now covering the body, he said, ‘She could have been on the boat when the thieves arrived.’
Horton wondered if she might have been. High tide had been at 12.49 a.m. Here, on the upper reaches of Portsmouth Harbour, it meant anyone could have access to the slipway, by boat, two hours either side of high tide, giving them a window of between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. He doubted if Venetia Trotman would have been preparing to go sailing then, but she could have been on the boat for some other reason, though what, he couldn’t imagine. And maybe she had left her sailing jacket there in her haste to escape the boat thieves, who had run after her and silenced her. He put forward his theory.
‘We need to find that boat,’ Uckfield snapped, pulling a toothpick from his coat pocket and working it into his mouth.
‘There’s four ways it could have gone,’ said Horton. ‘Horsea Marina to the east, Fareham Creek to the west, Gosport Marina across the channel, or south out through Portsmouth Harbour, and if it went that way then it could be anywhere. It might even be in France or the Channel Islands by now. Sergeant Elkins will need help to find it and we need to ask the harbour masters, Customs and the Royal Navy Fishery Protection Squadron if they’ve seen it.’
‘See to that, Dennings,’ Uckfield commanded, drawing up at the tent. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Shorena.’
Dennings said, ‘Her killer or killers could have come by vehicle knowing the boat was moored here. They robbed her, killed her, and one of them stole the boat, the other drove away with the loot.’
It was feasible, especially given the advertisement for the boat in the newsagent’s window. Horton had seen no vehicle tyre tracks, but that was hardly surprising given the tarmacked road, though SOCO might find traces. Unfortunately, because the lane was so remote, there weren’t any nosy neighbours to ask. And if the thieves had come by boat, late at night, no one would have seen them. He said as much.
Uckfield nodded and turned to Dennings. ‘Ask Trueman to mobilize the incident suite. I want him working on Venetia Trotman’s background. And I want a team inside the house and combing this garden. Marsden can oversee that.’ Addressing Horton crisply, Uckfield said, ‘Make sure Trueman gets a copy of that anonymous telephone call. We’ll get the experts to analyse it. And write your report up as soon as you get back to the station, and let Trueman have it.’
Horton tensed as he saw Dennings’ smug smile, but he wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing he was annoyed at being excluded, and angry at Uckfield’s curt dismissal. OK, so the Venetia Trotman murder wasn’t his case, but there was no need for Uckfield to dismiss him as though he was a PC.
‘Not wanted on voyage,’ Cantelli said, obviously reading the situation and Horton’s expression as he zapped open the car. ‘It’s a film starring the great Fabia Drake, about-’
‘Not now,’ Horton said testily. Cantelli could wax lyrical on old movies for hours and Horton wasn’t in the mood.
Undeterred, Cantelli continued, ‘That film’s been running through my mind ever since we went inside the house. I guess it’s because the victim lived by the sea. It’s a British comedy about a jewel theft on board an ocean voyage. Jewels — Venetia Trotman — sea.’
‘I get the connection. Did Marsden express an opinion about the house? He’s meant to be bright,’ Horton added caustically. Jake Marsden was Uckfield’s fast track graduate whizz-kid, destined for dizzy heights.
‘He thought it looked like theft. But unless we can get someone to tell us what was in that bedroom to begin with, we’re not going to know there was any jewellery to steal, are we? She could have sold it. And I thought of that, not Marsden.’
‘Then you get a gold star.’
‘I’d rather go home.’
Horton didn’t blame him. It had not been the best of days. And he had that runt Rookley to face yet. Still, he might give him a lead on Luke Felton. And if Uckfield hadn’t been in such a hurry to dismiss him, then Horton would have told him about a possible link with the missing prisoner, though he thought the chances of this being laid at Felton’s door were remote. Still, a lead was a lead. . His mind veered back to Venetia Trotman. ‘I suppose she could have sold the jewellery to pay her bills after her husband died.’
‘Well, she didn’t use the money for her central heating, that house is as cold as a Siberian winter. My toes might have dropped off for all I know. I long ago stopped having any feeling in them. If her husband left her penniless then why not sell up and move into a smaller place?’
‘Perhaps she was in the process of doing that, though she didn’t mention it.’ But there was no reason why she should. Just because there wasn’t a ‘For Sale’ board outside the house didn’t mean it wasn’t on the market. They could check the estate agents, and who had handled her late husband’s probate. It’s not your case, he told himself sternly. Uckfield had made that quite clear. And to be fair, he knew that Sergeant Trueman would probably already be on to it without any prompting from Uckfield or Neanderthal Man. But there were several things bothering Horton.
He said, ‘Did anything strike you about her clothes, Barney?’
‘Not enough of them,’ Cantelli replied promptly. ‘In my experience women have wardrobes full of the stuff. Charlotte even bags things up, labels them and sticks them in the loft. I guess the victim could have done that, we didn’t check.’
‘Marsden’s team will.’
‘But somehow I can’t see it. It was as if she’d had a good clear-out, and not only of her husband’s clothes. So maybe she was selling up, and has somewhere else to live, which is why she was also selling the boat.’
Horton agreed it was possible. Whatever the situation with Venetia Trotman, he hoped Uckfield would get to the bottom of it and find her killer, and so too did the anonymous caller, whoever and wherever he was.
Cantelli dropped him off at the station, again offering to accompany him to his meeting with Rookley, which Horton again declined. ‘No point in us both getting colder and wetter,’ he said.
There was no sign of Walters in the CID office, so he’d probably gone home. There was also, thankfully, no sign of Bliss. He wasn’t going to complain about that. As he reached his office his phone rang. It was the front desk. ‘There’s a Mr Neil Danbury here to see you, sir.’
Horton was surprised and hopeful. Danbury must have information on his brother-in-law, Luke Felton; why else would he have taken the trouble to call in, uninvited?
‘Show him into an interview room. I’ll be down in a moment.’
Horton removed his jacket and swiftly checked his desk for messages. There wasn’t one from Walters, which meant he must have drawn a blank on obtaining any further information on Luke Felton. Horton headed downstairs wondering what Neil Danbury could tell him, and hoping that whatever it was it would be significant.
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 that troubled Horton was, when would he return and what would he do next?