Horton shook his head. 'No point until we confirm our victim is Thurlow.'
'What the hell are Scientific Services playing at? We should have had the fingerprint check ages ago.'
'Computer crash.'
'Bloody things. And where is that pathologist with her report. I thought you said we'd have it this afternoon. Typical bloody woman.'
Horton didn't like to say that Gorringe had been so slow that he made a slug look fast. 'Perhaps she got busy.'
Uckfield already had the telephone in his hand and was punching in the mortuary number. 'Anything more on those cars?'
They'd had an early break, a man walking his dog had called into the mobile unit to report he'd seen four cars in the car park just after nine thirty: a blue Ford, a Toyota, a silver Mercedes and a Mini Cooper. He hadn't got their registration numbers; that would have been too easy, Horton thought.
'Too early, we've only just given it to the local newspaper. They'll run it in tomorrow's edition but the radio station has been pushing it out since just after midday.'
'What do you mean she's left?' As Uckfield barked into the phone, there was a perfunctory knock on the door, and Cantelli poked his head round it.
'Dr Clayton's here.'
'At last.' Uckfield slammed down the phone. 'I was beginning to think you'd forgotten us, doctor.'
'I'm hardly likely to forget you, chief inspector.' There was a glint in her green eyes as she threw herself into the chair beside Horton without waiting to be asked. Horton nodded at Cantelli to stay.
'I believe this is what you've been waiting for.' With a flourish she held out a buff coloured folder.
Uckfield took it and flicked it open. He gave it a cursory glance. 'OK, so tell me what you've found.'
She thrust her short fingers through her spiky auburn hair and said brightly, 'We're obviously still waiting for all the test results but I can confirm our victim died from asphyxiation and that he was beaten after death but not with a stone. A heavy club was used: a thick stick, something wooden anyway. I found fragments of splinters lodged in his brain and his eye sockets.'
Sitting there with her ankle resting over her knee and dressed in combats and t shirt Horton thought she looked more like a PE teacher than a pathologist. And she sounded as if she was discussing a sports injury rather than a post mortem.
'He'd had a meal; I've sent his stomach contents for analysis, but it was only partially digested and hadn't moved to the small intestine. We're still looking at time of death between nine and ten last night. But that's not all…'
She paused and looked at each of them in turn. Horton saw Uckfield glance impatiently at his watch. He could tell Gaye Clayton had noticed it but she was not to be hurried. In that moment he knew what Cantelli had meant earlier about her not being browbeaten.
'He hadn't had sex before he was killed, either straight or anally. But there is something that suggests he likes his sex a little spicier than maybe your average man,' she went on. Now she had all their attention. Horton looked at her eagerly and he saw Uckfield's interest quicken.
'I couldn't see them at first because they were hidden by the marks on his back and legs where he'd been dragged along on the stones, so I enhanced the images on the computer and took another look at the body. That's why I've taken so long to get back to you. I wanted to be sure. It seems your victim was into flagellation. Of course whoever killed him could have beaten him but the marks were not made directly before his death, and they were only on his buttocks.'
Cantelli whistled softly. 'Any idea what he would have been beaten with?'
'I would hazard a guess at a cane, or stick of some kind.' She jumped up. 'Now I must be going. I'm late already.'
No one asked what for.
'His wife?' Uckfield posed, after she'd gone.
Horton considered it for a moment. 'He could have visited a brothel.'
'Check with Vice. And you'd better run the MO through the ACR system, if the computers are working,' he added sarcastically. 'See if there's been a similar murder committed elsewhere in the country.'
'Already done.' What does he think I've been doing all day? Horton wondered. 'There's nothing that matches the way our victim was laid out. Do you want me to talk to Dr Lydeway at the University?'
'No, psychologists are a waste of time.' His phone rang and he snatched it up. 'About time. What? Then whose are they? Bloody great.'
'No match on the fingerprints I take it?' Horton said, disappointed. It wasn't Thurlow. He'd wasted his time at Briarly House this morning. Roger Thurlow, despite his wife's denial, could either have thrown himself overboard or had an accident. Sooner or later his body would be washed up along the south coast. 'No. Whoever he is no one loves him enough to have reported him missing. He's not on criminal records either, so back to bloody square one.'
'We might get something from the DNA unit but that will take a couple of days. I'll follow up this caning lead until we get something better.'
'Yeah, and it had better be soon.'
'Pre interview nerves,' Horton said, when they were out of Uckfield's hearing.
'Do us all a favour if he gets the job. Get him off our backs.'
Horton said nothing about Uckfield's promise to him. 'You telephone Mrs Thurlow with the good news. I'll go and see what Dennings has to say.'
Sergeant Tony Dennings' fifteen stone of muscle seemed to take up the small Vice Squad office on the second floor. He was alone and watching a portable TV and video. He punched the pause button on the remote control and greeted Horton. 'What can I do for you?'
Horton perched himself on the edge of the desk behind Dennings. 'Flagellation, who's into it these days?'
' Anyone, given enough inducement.' Dennings rubbed his large fingers and thumb together.
'Anyone in particular specialise in it?'
Dennings gave the matter some thought. Horton watched his great round face take on a look of deep concentration. There was no hurrying Dennings. He should know because he'd spent some time with him watching Alpha One.
After a while he replied, 'There's a couple of places at Southsea, set back from the seafront, that could be worth a try. Why? Got a taste for it?'
Horton repressed a retort. Maybe Dennings just meant to be funny but it was a bit too close to the mark for him.
'It seems our victim went in for it,' he said evenly, but felt the tightness in his gut that the memories of Lucy and her accusations always aroused. 'Thought it might be worth calling on them to see if they recognise his description.'
Dennings scoffed. 'The only thing they'd recognise apart from his backside is the colour of his money.'
'We've got bugger all else to go on at the moment.'
'If I hear of anything, I'll let you know.'
And that was it. Horton hesitated. Dennings looked at him enquiringly. Time to ask some questions and take a chance of the consequences. If Dennings wanted to squeal to Uckfield or Superintendent Reine then so be it.
'Has there been any word on the street that Jarrett and his exclusive club aren't as squeaky clean as they appear to be.' Horton watched Dennings' reaction closely, but he gave nothing away only shook his great head slowly.
'Not a fucking dickie bird.'
'You are still looking, aren't you?' Horton raised his eyebrows.
'No. Strictly out of bounds.'
'Who says?'
'Our lord and master, Superintendent Reine.'
Reine was in charge of the Vice Squad. He hadn't backed him up and neither had Superintendent Underwood, his boss in the Special Investigations Department. Both had believed Lucy. Why?
'What about Underwood?'
'Retired in May.'
Of course, he'd forgotten.
'Anyway we've got enough trouble out there without going looking for it.' Dennings jerked his head at the video where a woman in her thirties was bound and chained and in the process, it appeared, of having her nipple pierced, very much against her will. 'Picked that amateur video up
from a house in Gosport. And there's more like it, worse in fact.'
'It's similar to what was found on Woodard, isn't it?'
Jonathan Woodard had been a company director of a thriving business retailing women's clothing. He'd been found with hundreds of pornographic images downloaded from the Internet as well as DVDs and videos depicting rape, mutilation and torture. Woodard had refused to reveal his sources but he had been a member of Alpha One. His arrest had led to Operation Extra.
'You're not following up the Alpha One connection?' Horton said incredulously.
'Why should we?'
'Well, where did he get the stuff from?' Horton jerked his head in the direction of the video.
Dennings' answer was in his silence.
Horton shook his head with disbelief.
Dennings said, 'You know there was nothing to link Jarrett, or his business, with this.'
'Only because of me. Lucy put paid to that. Why did she wait three days before coming forward with that cock and bull story that I had raped her? She knew that by then there would be no DNA evidence; it was her word against mine and we all know who was believed.'
'You know we have to tread carefully.'
'Oh yeah,' Horton replied sarcastically. 'Then why did she take off as soon as the operation was exposed? There has to be something going on, Tony.'
Dennings shrugged his massive shoulders and returned his attention to the video. 'If Jarrett's soiled we'll get him in the end.'
Horton could see he'd get nothing further from the big man but that didn't mean to say that Dennings didn't know anything. On the contrary, reading between the words, Horton guessed there was quite a bit that Dennings did know and had been told not to say. Not for the first time he wondered whether Dennings was involved with Alpha One. Why hadn't Lucy Richardson picked on Dennings instead of him? He had reached the door before Dennings said with a warning note to his voice, 'Leave him, Andy.'
Horton held his eyes for a moment. He thought he saw genuine concern and maybe behind it a silent plea but his suspicion was confirmed: Dennings wasn't telling the whole truth.
He called Marsden into his office and told him to get up to speed with Evans' stabbing. Marsden looked disappointed at being taken off the beach body case but pleased with being given the lead in his own investigation. Horton knew Walters wouldn't like it, being the senior in terms of years of service and age but Walters would have to put up with it. He returned to the incident room and ran through the reports as they came in from the mobile unit and the teams out questioning the nearby residents. There was nothing that looked of immediate interest. Trueman would see that all the information was fed through the computer and cross-matched.
It was late by the time Horton climbed on his bike. The fog wrapped itself around him like dirty cotton wool. Instead of heading back to the boat though he diverted down Queens Street, towards the Historic Dockyard and the harbour entrance. Oyster Quays seemed as good a place as any to eat.
Parking and locking the Harley in the underground car park he surfaced into the plaza and turned left towards the waterfront where most of the restaurants were, picking one out at random. It was fairly quiet being a Wednesday and the fog had deterred many except the die hard partygoers and holidaymakers. Horton ate his pizza, drank his diet coke and paid his bills, then instead of returning to his bike, he struck out in the grey crepuscular world, until he came to the mall that housed Alpha One.
It looked innocuous enough but what went on behind those closed doors? He'd have given anything to find out. He looked up and wondered if the CCTV camera had picked him out. Who sat in there screening the men as they rang the bell and gave their names to be admitted only if they were on that elite list? He had come here for more than just a meal and a drink — whoever it was would recognise him and tell Jarrett he had been there.
He turned and made his way back to the bike. The fog closed in around him rolling off the sea and enveloping the seafront as he headed home. He could hardly see a thing in front of him. He tried to concentrate on the road ahead, squinting his eyes as though it would help him to see where he was going, but his head was full of Jarrett and Lucy and that letter from the solicitors. If he could prove his innocence would Catherine have him back? If he could just talk to her, reason with her…
He turned into Fort Cumberland Road and as he did there was a roar of an engine behind him. His eyes flicked to his mirrors but it was too late. He wasn't prepared. The car screeched past him with a squeal of rubber and cut him up. Instinctively he swerved and as he did he felt the wheels of the Harley slipping. Desperately he tried to bring the bike under control, his heart was hammering against his ribs. He was losing it. The bike slid along the ground and he was catapulted through the air as though ejected from a canon. Through his mind flashed pictures of Emma, a child mourning the loss of her father; then Catherine's smiling face…
He wrapped his arms around his head. As he hit the hard earth it sucked the breath from his body. He was rolling over and over, down and down. His head was knocking against the tight fitting helmet like a cocktail shaker. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the image of Jarrett's mocking face.
CHAPTER 5
Thursday morning
Horton punched in the security code and entered the ugly 1970s station. He could hear someone creating in the cells. The air was blue with abuse and full of the pungent smell of disinfectant mixed with vomit and urine. He nodded at the custody clerk who looked as if he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
'Bad night?' Horton asked.
'Yeah, as bad as yours by the looks of things.'
Horton grimaced. 'You should see the other guy.'
When he'd examined his face in the mirror that morning it looked as though he'd been a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson. He had a bruise the size of a tennis ball on his forehead, one on his chin and he was sure his eye was going to close up by the end of the day. His neck was so stiff that he could hardly move it, which was why he'd taken the unprecedented step of taking a taxi into work. Normally, without the bike, he would have jogged but he didn't think his equally bruised and grazed legs would stand it.
When he'd regained consciousness he'd been lying on the shingle in about the only gap of beach that remained between the houses and the marina. It had been a miracle that he should land there. No one had come to his aid, probably because no one could see him in the fog. Slowly he had pulled himself up. Nothing broken thank goodness, but his head felt as though someone had been kicking it around a football field and his body as though it had been used as a punch bag in Colin Jarrett's gym.
For a while he had drifted in and out of consciousness. He'd had no idea of the time; lifting his arm to check his watch would have been a major operation and crawling along the beach to locate the Harley an expedition as challenging as climbing Mount Everest in the nude. But he had to move or get wet. Groaning and grunting he edged his way along the shingle until he stumbled on the Harley. He found his phone, which was still working, and called Malcolm Hargreaves who arrived fifteen minutes later, with his pick-up truck. After sucking in his teeth at the sight of the damage to the bike, and giving him a lecture on how to ride a Harley, he had finally admitted that it wasn't that bad: some scratches on the silver chassis, a couple of dents and a smashed headlamp.
Malcolm had offered to take him to casualty, but he had refused and eventually after a bit of arguing Malcolm dropped him at the marina with the promise that he'd have the bike 'good as new' by the following evening. Horton had eased himself down on his bunk after seeing to his battered body in the marina showers and then had slept so soundly that he hadn't woken until after nine and knew there was no point hurrying into work. He was late; another hour or so wouldn't make much difference.
He had called into the mobile unit before heading for the station but there was little to report. He made his way to his office trying to ignore his thumping head and the curious looks and raised eyebrows of his colleagues as
he went. In the CID room Walters eyed him smugly. 'Chief's been asking for you, guv,' he said with relish, obviously scenting trouble.
'Then you'd better tell him I'm here,' Horton snapped, beckoning to Cantelli and fetching a plastic cup of water from the cooler. He closed the door with his foot. It wasn't a good idea. A pain shot up his leg causing him to groan.
'What happened? You look bloody awful,' Cantelli said.
'A car cut me up in the fog. I came off my bike.' It was the truth. He didn't see why he should burden Cantelli with his problems when the man looked as though he'd been up all night. 'You don't look so hot yourself.'
'I'm all right,' Cantelli muttered uneasily, but Horton could see he wasn't. He wondered if the nephew he had helped keep out of prison was playing up again. Very little troubled Cantelli but his family were a different matter. 'Family all right, are they?' Horton saw that they weren't. 'Sit down.'
As Cantelli obeyed, Horton pushed open the window as far as it would go, but it only let in more stifling heat and the noise of the traffic. Pulling at his tie he closed the slatted blinds and switched on the fan. 'So what's up?'
'It's Ellen.'
She was the eldest of Cantelli's five children; quickly Horton calculated she must be about fifteen.
Cantelli said, 'She came home late on Tuesday night and very drunk. I laid into her a bit, you know out of relief, I guess. She had me and Charlotte almost out of our minds with worry. I grounded her for the rest of the week and the weekend and now she's not speaking to us.'
'She'll get over it.' Then Horton frowned. He could see there was more. 'And?'
'She lied about where she had been. Oh she doesn't know I know that. But I've checked. Sophie Mayhew told her mother she was on a sleep-over with Ellen at Jaz Cordiner's house. Sophie was out all night. Ellen was on no sleep over, so where the hell was she?'
'She came home though and she's OK, isn't she?' Horton asked, concerned. He didn't like to see Barney worried like this. He knew how he'd feel if it was Emma. He hoped to God he'd still be able to see Emma when she was fifteen and be there for her if she needed him. He rubbed his aching head as the thought conjured up Jarrett and his accident last night. He could be mistaken but he was left with the impression of a dark saloon car and the letters PE. It wasn't much, and certainly not enough to run a vehicle check, but it was better than nothing.
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