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.
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 Catherine 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.