Fatal Catch

by Pauline Rowson

  SEVEN

  The large pizza restaurant was relatively quiet. In fact, compared to where they had been the previous night it was like a monastery. Horton saw her long before he reached there. She was sitting at a table in the window overlooking the harbour. He apologized for being late.

  ‘I was early,’ she dismissed with a smile that made his pulse jump and his blood surge. There was no denying that he found her attractive. But his thoughts dashed to the petite auburn-haired woman he’d turned down tonight and he felt a wave of unease that he recognized as guilt, not that he had anything to feel guilty about, he silently chastized himself.

  He asked her what she’d like to drink and ordered a glass of red wine for her and a non-alcoholic lager for himself. He assumed she was driving but now was not the time to lecture her about the hazards of drink driving. Across the water the lights of Gosport glimmered, which reminded him of why he was here. Perhaps Carolyn Grantham had chosen this place because she knew that Gosport was where he believed Jennifer had been heading on the day she disappeared.

  As Carolyn consulted her menu Horton rapidly and mentally replayed his conversation with Harry Kimber, the former neighbour of his foster parents, Bernard and Eileen Litchfield. Kimber had told him in October that Bernard had served in Northern Ireland as an RAF police officer until 1979 after which time he’d joined the Hampshire Police. He’d been shot in the shoulder in 1978 while patrolling the airfield at RAF Aldergrove and he’d been sent to England to recover, or more precisely to the Royal Navy Hospital at Haslar, Gosport. Horton had no proof that Jennifer had visited Bernard or that she even knew him, or that she had gone to Gosport, except for a set of numbers inscribed on the reverse of a manila envelope bequeathed to him by a dying man, Dr Quentin Amos, who had known Jennifer and those men in the photograph from 1967, when he had been a lecturer at the London School of Economics. Amos had told him that Jennifer had been involved with the Radical Student Alliance and the protest movement. The 1967 sit-in at the London School of Economics, the subject of that photograph, was considered to be the start of that protest movement.

  The numbers, Horton believed, were the grid location of Haslar Marina, a stone’s throw from the hospital. OK, so it had taken some manipulation of them to fit with his theory, and the marina hadn’t existed in 1978, but the hospital had. And situated close to it further south along the shore was the heavily secured Fort Monckton, allegedly a communications training centre for MI5, and that brought him right back to Lord Richard Eames. Had Jennifer gone to meet Eames? Had he killed her?

  ‘I’ll have the Four Seasons Pizza,’ Carolyn’s voice interrupted his thoughts. He plumped for the American, Pepperoni, Mozzarella and Tomato.

  After the waiter had taken their order, Horton said, ‘I suppose you’ve done some research on me.’

  ‘Of course. Joined the Hampshire Police nineteen years ago, rose fairly rapidly to Detective Inspector, now in CID after spending time on various other units including vice, drugs and the Intelligence Directorate. Accused of raping a girl while working undercover, suspended, but cleared eight months later.’

  And who had given her that information. As though reading his thoughts she said, ‘I got it from the media coverage. As I said the media and its reporting of crime is one of my specialist areas, usually focusing on missing persons cases but I have been known to conduct other research projects.’

  OK, he’d give her that. He said, ‘So I gather from my research.’

  ‘And you’ll probably have run my details through the Police National Computer and discovered that I have no previous convictions.’

  He had done so before leaving the station. ‘Doesn’t mean you haven’t committed a crime,’ he said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ she answered brightly as their drinks arrived. ‘I could be a serial killer for all you know.’

  Or someone sent to check out what he’d discovered about Jennifer’s disappearance. When the waiter had left she said, ‘I also know that you’re married with a daughter, how old?’

  ‘Nine, and I’m divorced. The media didn’t report that, can’t think why,’ he added facetiously. ‘And you?’

  ‘Single, no kids. There was a cohabitee but I gave him the elbow two years ago. We grew apart.’

  The restaurant door swung open and a man in his late forties with close-cropped grey hair entered. He was shown to a table some distance behind them.

  ‘Why the interest in missing persons?’ Horton asked.

  She sat forward and met his eyes with a calm steady gaze. They were shrewd and enquiring with a gravity in them that he hadn’t quite expected. With enthusiasm she said, ‘Over three hundred thousand people go missing every year, but then you probably know that. It’s an incredible number. Over a hundred thousand of them are adults. Until recently there was no research into why adults choose to go missing, how they disappear, where they go and what they do, or why some of them choose to come back and others don’t, and the effect on the lives of those they leave behind. The emotional and economic cost is huge and if we can understand some of the reasons behind people wanting to vanish then perhaps we can ensure we have the right processes in place to tackle it more effectively, quickly and empathetically. I’m also fascinated to see what constitutes a missing person, many don’t even consider themselves missing. Many come back after a very short time, a week or ten days. And as I said I’m keen to see how much attention the media pay to those who are missing, do they emphasize certain cases and not others, why? What gives the case an emotional pull? Does media coverage help or hinder the investigations.’

  ‘That’s a very wide area of research.’

  She sat back reaching for her wine glass. ‘It is but it’ll all come together at some point.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound a very methodical approach for a researcher.’

  ‘Oh, believe me I have methodology.’

  He looked into her eyes. He believed her all right. He said, ‘Most of those missing have mental health problems, stress, depression, financial or marital problems.’ And he wondered if that applied to Westerbrook. Perhaps fishing that hand out of the sea had been the last straw for him. Jennifer though hadn’t had any of those problems, or had she? How did he know? Admittedly they hadn’t had much money and perhaps the strain of working nights and raising a child on her own had become too much for her, but that didn’t explain why there was no employment record for her after working at the London School of Economics, why she didn’t show up on any census and neither did he, why their flat had been emptied of her possessions, why he had never been officially adopted and why Ballard had left that photograph on his boat.

  ‘You’re right,’ Carolyn answered. ‘I said I wouldn’t ask you about your experiences but do you think Jennifer disappeared because she was depressed?’

  He shrugged an answer and drank his beer. If she’d been contemplating suicide why put on her best clothes and make-up.

  ‘What got you into this research?’ he asked, not only because he was curious but because it would steer her away from asking him further questions.

  ‘Criminology, missing persons or the media?’

  ‘All three.’

  She thought for a moment as she composed her answer. ‘I’ve always had a fascination for what makes people tick, their personalities and motivations, hence the criminology degree and the PhD in Investigative Psychology. The media has also been an interest of mine because I grew up with it. My dad was senior crime reporter on one of the national tabloids.’

  She made to continue but their pizzas arrived. Horton’s mind churned over what she had said while the waiter made sure they had all they needed. Horton asked her if she wanted another drink but she shook her head. He ordered some mineral water for them both.

  She said, ‘Mum and Dad used to discuss the cases he reported on. He covered the Brenda Myers story. I thought why not pick up where he left off.’

  Did he believe her?

  She continued. ‘I wanted to know more ab
out how the media manipulate and distort a story. I saw how someone missing could be made a victim, a hero, a vandal, whatever they choose.’ She cut into her pizza and took a large bite. ‘I’m hooked on missing persons research.’

  All this could be checked and he would check it. The waiter returned with their water and glasses. Horton poured her a drink.

  ‘Dad’s retired now, taking his pension and spending most of his time fishing, for the wet variety not juicy news stories.’ The mention of fishing brought Horton’s thoughts back to Clive Westerbrook. Where was he on this freezing cold night? Had he returned his boat to Fareham Marina by now? The restaurant door opened and a noisy crowd of six entered.

  ‘We’ve got a missing person at the moment, a man,’ Horton said.

  ‘Really? Tell me.’

  He did without going into details about the hand and that Westerbrook had fished it up. He simply said that Westerbrook was a yachtsman in poor health who’d had a shock and had not returned to the marina when he had said he would.

  ‘Not a suspect then.’

  Horton didn’t answer but ate his pizza.

  ‘Maybe he needs time to think things through, recover from whatever shock he’s received,’ she said, ‘The geography of where he’s gone could be important, it is with many missing people.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, interested, thinking not only of Westerbrook but of Jennifer.

  ‘He could have gone to a place where he has happy memories, or somewhere he always feels calm when he’s stressed.’

  Horton thought of the Solent, it was where he always went but Westerbrook hadn’t gone there, or if he had then he’d gone on somewhere else because his boat hadn’t been reported as being seen. He wondered where Jennifer might have chosen to go when stressed or happy. A flash of memory returned to him. It was one he’d experienced in January when walking across the Duver, at Bembridge Harbour on the Isle of Wight. It was now a nature reserve but it had once been a golf course and he’d walked across it as a child with his mother and a man. She’d been very happy. Had they arrived there by boat? He had no recollection of that.

  He brought his attention back to Carolyn who was saying, ‘It’s similar to how some people respond when a loved one dies. The bereaved return to the place where they were happy with their loved one as a means of trying to reconnect with them. Sometimes the bereaved will only go back once and find it’s not the same, it didn’t work and return home. Others will find great comfort from it and return many times. The missing person is also searching for relief from pain and anguish.’

  Horton didn’t know which places were special to Westerbrook, and he wasn’t sure that asking Westerbrook’s former wife would reveal that information either.

  The waiter cleared away their plates. He asked Carolyn if she would like a dessert. She refused. ‘How about coffee? At my place. I’ve taken a rented apartment.’

  He held her eyes. They were dark, beguiling and inviting. He should say no but he found himself saying, ‘Sounds good.’

  While she visited the cloakroom he paid the bill, dismissing her protest that it was meant to be her treat, and trying to ignore the adrenalin that was coursing through his veins. It was just coffee, nothing more. But his body was saying something else.

  Her car was parked in the underground car park where he had left his Harley. Outside the air struck chill against his face and she tucked her hand under his arm and nestled against him as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and as though she’d known him months instead of hours. His surprise swiftly turned to pleasure and roughly he dismissed his misgivings that she’d been sent to get information from him. It had been ages since he’d experienced so warm a gesture. And an eternity since he’d been this close to a woman. Her perfume sent his blood pumping and the feel of her soft body underneath her coat warmed and thrilled him.

  When they reached her car she gave him her address, which he noted wasn’t far from the marina where he lived. Her apartment was in the converted marine barracks overlooking the sea. He watched her climb into her car and drive off before heading for his Harley. There he put on his helmet scanning the car park and there again was the man in his late forties with short-cropped grey hair who had been in the restaurant. He was climbing into his car. It meant nothing, he told himself crossly. He was too cautious, too paranoid. He pulled away, registering another man he’d seen before with collar length fair hair in his early forties. He’d been in The Reef the previous night, talking with a group of students.

  Horton reached Carolyn’s apartment and waited for her to arrive. She let them into the wide vestibule saying, ‘I’m on the top floor. The view is lovely but I don’t think you’ll see much of it tonight.’

  He wasn’t sure if she meant because of the weather or that they’d have other things to occupy themselves with, like drinking coffee. As she unlocked the door to her flat Horton couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to Gaye Clayton. He had a strange feeling that he was betraying her by being here, which was nonsense because there was nothing between him and Gaye. But there had been that moment not long ago when she’d stood so close to him that he’d felt intoxicated by her proximity. Hastily he pushed all thoughts of Gaye from his mind as he followed Carolyn through the narrow hall and into a large and tranquilly decorated and furnished lounge. She was right, wide windows looked out southwards across the Solent but there was nothing to see.

  ‘I’ve only got the flat for another month. I’m on the move at the end of January. Another research project but this time at the Center for Studies in Criminal Justice, University of Chicago.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’ He pulled off his jacket. She took it from him but didn’t make any move to hang it up.

  Instead she put it on the sofa beside her without taking her eyes from him. ‘I’ll be sorry to go. Now.’

  She smelt intoxicating. He kissed her softly and gently while he pushed aside the silent nagging voice that she was using sex as a means of getting close to him. Maybe he was wrong. She responded warmly.

  ‘Will you be here for Christmas?’ he asked, pulling back, his eyes devouring her.

  ‘No. I’m going to Scotland to stay with my parents.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not for another ten days.’

  ‘Time enough then.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Coffee.’

  ‘It’ll keep you awake.’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘Might be a good thing.’

  He kissed her again long and lingeringly. She responded hungrily.

  ‘Stay,’ she said throatily.

  He knew he shouldn’t. Every instinct screamed at him not to. But his body was playing another tune. And why the hell shouldn’t he stay? What had he to lose? This last year had taken its toll on him, he was getting paranoid about people watching him, people following him, people feeding him duff information about Jennifer. He was getting paranoid about Jennifer. So what if Carolyn had been primed to find out how much he had discovered about Jennifer’s disappearance. He had told her nothing. Did it matter if Jennifer had worked for British Intelligence? So what if she’d run off with Zeus or some other lover? She was dead. He was alive, very much so, and so was the woman in his arms.

  He stayed.

  EIGHT

  Friday

  ‘My God, Andy, you look like something the cat’s dragged home.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He sipped his coffee trying to pretend he didn’t have a headache, not caused by alcohol, he hadn’t touched a drop, but by lack of sleep and too much thinking. Too much sex probably he thought too, uncomfortably, not because of Gaye’s presence although that didn’t help but because of his own emotions surrounding the night spent with Carolyn Grantham.

  ‘Bad night?’

  Her words jolted him upright. He winced inwardly. It had been anything but bad. On the contrary … He eyed Gaye over his coffee, as she tucked into her breakfast, he’d arrived late, but his thoughts returned to the woma
n whose bed he had left four hours ago and who might still be lying in it less than half a mile away. It had been four o’clock when he’d climbed out of it trying not to wake her but she’d stirred and propped herself up on one arm as she’d eyed him dressing.

  ‘You don’t have to leave.’

  ‘I do. Work.’

  ‘At this hour?’ She pushed a hand through her tousled dark hair and he almost capitulated and climbed back into that warm, sweet-smelling bed. His body ached with longing but he steeled himself and leaned over to kiss her, wondering if he’d be strong enough to resist as her lips connected with his. She responded hungrily and his body screamed at him to stay but his instinct told him otherwise. This time his instinct won.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he’d said, pulling away.

  ‘I’ve heard that one before,’ she’d replied, lying back. ‘I’ll call you. Come for dinner. I’m an excellent cook.’

  ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment.’

  He had kissed her again before pulling away with a smile which had faded the moment he’d closed the door behind him and walked down the empty corridor. As he’d ridden home along the deserted promenade he couldn’t shake off the impression that her smile had also faded the moment he’d left. But he had no reason to believe that. He was just being neurotic.

  When he’d reached his yacht, he’d flicked on the heaters, taken a shower and had sat with a black coffee staring into nothing and trying to think of nothing, but the memory of the night had run before him in cinematic images moulding and merging together until all he could remember was the feel of her soft voluptuous body, the smell of her skin and the taste of her lips. They had spoken little and he’d divulged nothing about his background. It had been a passionate night full of longing and hunger and hers had been as rapacious as his. It didn’t have to be more than that, and she had made it clear that it wasn’t going to be, certainly on her part, because she was leaving for America in a few weeks. That suited him fine but even as he told himself that he knew it didn’t and maybe it was that which was bugging him. But no, what also nagged at him was the fact that she’d taken the apartment for three months and only had a month left to run on the lease, so why hadn’t she contacted him in November?