He had hoped his visit to Alpha One would stir things up and it certainly had. He hadn't expected Jarrett to take action so quickly or be so violent. He was lucky to be alive. Jarrett intended to silence him, permanently if necessary. The thought should have worried him but it didn't. It cheered him. Now all he had to do was stay alive long enough
to get evidence. He brought his attention back to his mournful DS.
'Sadie says Ellen's been crying a lot. They share a bedroom. Charlotte tells me that's fairly normal for teenage girls but it breaks my heart to think she's unhappy. If someone's hurt her I'll kill the bastard.'
'It'll be all right, Barney. She probably just needs a bit of time.' What else could he say?
'Yeah.' Cantelli didn't look convinced.
'Let's get on with the case, shall we? Might keep both our minds off our personal problems.'
'Yeah, sorry. You're right.'
'So what's new?' Horton took a long draught of water, crushed the plastic cup with one hand and tossed it in the bin.
'We've managed to eliminate two of the cars seen in the car park. The owners of the Mini Cooper and the Toyota have both come forward. They seem pretty genuine. The Toyota owner is a married man having an affair with his secretary. He asked us to be discreet-.'
Horton rolled his eyes. He wished he had a pound for every time he'd heard that.
'The Mini Cooper's owner is single but was with his girlfriend looking at the view.'
'What view? It was foggy.'
'I don't think that was the view he was talking about. Nothing on the dark Ford and the silver Mercedes.'
Horton's phone rang. As he expected, it was Uckfield summoning him. He left Cantelli and headed down the corridor to the open door next to the CID main office.
Uckfield looked up, his anger swiftly changing to surprise. 'What happened to you?'
'Got knocked off my bike last night.'
'Are you fit enough to be at work?' Uckfield said, concerned. He waved Horton into the seat across his desk.
With a wince Horton eased himself down. 'I'm OK.'
'Where did it happen? Did you see who it was? Have you talked to traffic?'
'No. I didn't see who it was. I was too busy trying to stop myself from being killed. It was just one of those things,' Horton said curtly. There was no way he was going to tell Uckfield about his visit to Alpha One or his suspicions that Jarrett had been driving that car. He saw Uckfield's scowl but quickly he brought him up to date with their murder case. Uckfield listened, frowning, twirling his pen in his large fingers like a majorette's baton.
'Dennings has given me a couple of addresses where caning is a speciality. I'm putting some officers on to checking it but it's a bit slender.'
Uckfield puffed out his cheeks. 'This is just what I don't need now.'
Horton thought the opposite. In fact he was rather grateful to their murdered man. If it hadn't been for him he would never have bumped into Jarrett at the hospital and set in motion a chain of events that, OK, could have ended up with him being killed, but could just help him get to the truth quicker than he had anticipated. Sooner or later he had planned to return to Alpha One and confront Jarrett, and the dead man had just made him do it sooner.
Dismissed, Horton returned to his office. His head wasn't getting any better and it wasn't helped by the questions that kept swirling around it, which had little to do with the case and much to do with his past. He pushed some papers around his desk unable to concentrate and was just about to give up and check with the incident room when Cantelli poked his head round the door.
'A Ms Frances Greywell's just phoned. She's a partner at Framptons Solicitors; says her colleague Michael Culven didn't show up for work yesterday or this morning, and he should have done. He's in the middle of an industrial tribunal case. They've tried calling his home, and his mobile, but there's no response.'
'And?' Horton felt his pulse quicken. A thrill ran through him pricking the hairs on the back of his neck. Could this be the break they needed? 'He fits the description of our victim. Not only that, but he drives a silver Mercedes.'
Barely containing his excitement Horton plucked his jacket from the back of his chair his headache had suddenly improved. 'Where does he live?'
'Horsea Marina. Uniform are picking up Culven's cleaning lady now. She has a key.'
The patrol car was already outside Culven's modern three-storied house when they arrived and a skinny young woman was pacing up and down dragging heavily on a cigarette.
'About time,' she said, throwing the still smouldering stub into the gutter. 'I've left Darlene with a neighbour.'
'We won't keep you long Mrs-'.
'Miss Filey,' she corrected Horton with a toss of her long dark hair and a glare of deep brown heavily made-up eyes. She sported three ear studs up each ear lobe and one on the side of her nose. The index finger of her right hand was stained yellow with nicotine and Horton could smell the cigarette smoke on her. She could have been any age between eighteen and thirty.
'Got in a fight beating up some poor suspect, did you?' She glared at him.
'If you could let us in.'
She scoffed before inserting the key in the lock and pushing back the door. She bent to retrieve the post from the mat, but Horton quickly restrained her, placing his hand on her bare arm. She looked at him with hostility before sighing pointedly and moving aside. Horton stepped in front of her and walked along the narrow passageway into the kitchen at the rear of the house. He then nodded at her to follow him, which she did with an elaborate flounce. As she stepped inside he pulled the door too behind her seeing Cantelli slip down and pick up the letters with latex-covered fingers.
Horton could tell instantly there was no one in the house, dead or alive. Death left a place much colder than this, you could smell it, taste it, and sense it. It crept up your flesh, quickened your breath, and sent your pulse racing to cope with the first shock of meeting it. But this house was empty, just a shell.
'How long have you cleaned for Mr Culven?' He moved to the wide patio doors, which opened onto a small courtyard garden and the marina beyond. It was stifling hot and his eyes quickly scanned the kitchen for a key to open the doors. There wasn't one visible. Culven's house, like many on this development, came complete with a berth but Culven's was empty and, from what Horton could see, there were no mooring lines lying on the ground. Culven could, of course, have taken the lines with him on his boat — if he had one — and if it hadn't conflicted with the fact that he'd hardly go sailing in the middle of one of his cases.
Miss Filey said, 'About a year. I come in twice a week. Mondays and Thursdays. Not that it needs much cleaning. He keeps it tidy like.'
Horton could see that. The lime oak kitchen with its shiny appliances looked as though it had come straight out of the showroom. 'Then you would have been here today.' It was a bit late for a cleaner he thought, one o'clock, but maybe she usually came in during the afternoons, or at any time to suit her.
She looked at him suspiciously. 'Yeah, I was just on my way here when you lot showed up at my flat. Nosy bugger neighbours will think I've been nicked.'
'We saved you the bus fare then. Did you see Mr Culven on Monday?'
'No.'
'So when was the last time you saw him?' Horton added, when clearly she wasn't going to be forthcoming.
'As it happens I never sees him. Well, hardly ever. He's gone to work when I come in.'
'How does he pay you?'
'Leaves me money on the breakfast top there, don't he, not that it's worth the bother. Tight fisted old git, minimum wage like it or lump it. Typical bloody lawyer always telling you they're hard up and then charges you a fortune if you so much as fart in their presence.'
Horton couldn't have put it better himself but her words served to remind him that soon he'd have to consult a lawyer. 'When does he pay you?'
'Every Thursday like.' He saw her looking round. 'And it's not here. Well if he thinks I'm going to clean fo
r nothing then he can think again. '
'Miss Filey,' he called out sternly, as she was about to march out.
She stopped, sighed and turned round. 'Now what?'
'Was your money here last Thursday?'
'Yeah, why shouldn't it be? Look what's this all about? He done a bunk with some old bag's money?'
'When did you last see Mr Culven?' he asked wearily.
'I dunno, must be about three weeks ago. He had a morning off or something.'
'Is he married?'
'What him?'
'What do mean?'
'You obviously haven't met him. If you ask me, he's one of them, you know what I mean.' She raised her eyebrows.
'A homosexual?'
'Yeah. Not that I've got anything against them, mind. Not if they keeps themselves to themselves but they don't, do they? They have to keep on ramming it down your throat like.'
Cantelli, returning from his quick initial inspection upstairs, overheard the last remark, spluttered and quickly turned it into a cough. She looked at him as if he'd grown two heads. 'What's up with him?'
'He's not been well. Have you ever seen any evidence of a man living or staying here, Miss Filey?'
'No, can't say I have. But a man wot lives alone, and don't have no female friends, well he's gotta be a bit weird, hasn't he?'
She'd just described him! Maybe like him Culven didn't live alone by choice. Perhaps somewhere there was an ex Mrs Culven. 'I've got to get back. Here's the key.' She thrust it at him. 'You can bring it back for me for Monday, if I've still got a job to come to and you buggers haven't banged him up.'
She didn't seem to care if they had, he thought. She flounced out, the cheeks of her neat backside showing just beneath her tight shorts. The door slammed behind her. The patrol car would drop her back home.
'Right little madam, that one,' Cantelli said.
Horton pulled on his latex gloves. 'Find anything upstairs?'
He opened the fridge. It was well stocked so Culven had had no intention of disappearing. He sniffed but nothing seemed to have gone off so he couldn't have been gone long. There was also bread in the wooden bread bin, which wasn't mouldy, and plenty of tins in the cupboards.
'There's some dirty washing in the linen basket in the bathroom, usual medicines in the cabinet; looks like he suffers from migraine and indigestion.'
'And he likes microwave dinners.' Horton pushed his foot on the pedal bin and peered inside. 'Check the garage. That looks like the key on the hook over there.'
Cantelli lifted it from the corner cupboard and disappeared into the hall. Horton had found the key to the patio doors in one of the drawers and stepped out into the courtyard. A hot humid breeze did nothing to cool the temperature but instead seemed to suck in all the air. The sky was like a field of pale blue flax. The sun glinted off the sea so that it sparkled like a million pieces of shattered glass. He hoped to God that this time they'd found their victim and that this wasn't going to be one of those frustrating cases. The first few days in an investigation were vital and if they couldn't even identify their victim then they wouldn't be able to begin to understand the profile of their killer or the motive.
Cantelli returned with a shake of his head. 'No car, just usual stuff: some tools, a sun lounger, a couple of old chairs and packing cases. I couldn't see anything inside them but I didn't like to touch too much in case Culven's our victim.'
Horton stepped back inside and followed Cantelli up the stairs to the middle floor. A swift tour showed him a lounge with a balcony overlooking the marina, a small dining room, a room that Culven clearly used as a study, and a toilet and shower room. There were no pictures on the magnolia-painted walls and no mirrors. Clearly Culven was not interested in his environment, neither was he vain.
'Looks like he's just moved in,' Cantelli said.
'He's been here a year at least, according to the delectable Miss Filey.'
'Not the homely sort then.'
But I am, or rather I was, Horton thought with bitterness. Living with Catherine and Emma had been the first real home he'd had. After being raised in children's homes and then shoved from foster parent to foster parent he thought he had found utopia.
He pushed open the plate glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony, trying to push away unhappy memories. Here he had a better view of the boats in the marina; he could look down on them spread out in neat rows behind their pontoons until he could see, in the distance, the lock gates. On the other side of the marina there were more houses and apartments. To his left was the Boardwalk and beyond that towards the lock, the chandlery and yacht club.
Cantelli said, 'Didn't Mrs Thurlow say her old man's boat is kept here?'
'Yes and the DCI's.' He broke off as his eyes alighted on a man walking down one of the pontoons. He couldn't mistake that figure or that face, now minus its sticking plaster. He watched Jarrett climb aboard a large motor cruiser and disappear from sight. It appeared he was alone.
'Come on let's take a look around.' He turned abruptly hoping Cantelli hadn't seen Jarrett. The warning from Uckfield wasn't going to put him off confronting Jarrett but he didn't want to involve Cantelli, or put him in a position where he might have to lie to cover up for him. The sergeant had enough on his plate.
Cantelli began poking about the videos and DVDs in a bookcase. Horton scanned the room with its faded furniture, which looked as though it had come as a job lot from a second-hand shop. The pale blue Dralon sofa had threads hanging loose from it. A single chair of the same material was placed at an angle in front of the television and, judging by its state, was the one that Culven favoured of a night as he sat eating his TV dinners. Horton got the impression of a sad, lonely man who'd either given up on life, or who was too mean to refurnish his new home.
He crossed to the bookcase to the left of the fireplace. 'Interesting reading matter,' he said, craning his neck at the various titles haphazardly placed: Robert Jordan and Terry Brooks, Witch War by James Clemens, and Stephen King. 'Fantasy and horror.'
'His videos and DVDs look the same. He's awfully keen on Emma Peel by the looks of it. Man's gone up in my estimation.'
'Doesn't play much music.' There were only a handful of CDs, mainly country and western. Some Horton liked and had in his own collection, which was still in his house. He wondered what Catherine had done with them? Probably packaged them up and stuck them in the garage knowing her, out of sight out of mind, which seems to be what she had done with him. 'I'll take a look in his study,' he said.
It was a poky room that could barely take the large old pedestal desk pushed up against the wall and which clashed with the style of the house. He wondered if Culven had downsized from a larger family home bringing with him some heirlooms, or perhaps his ex wife hadn't wanted these things?
He stood at the window to the right of the desk. Jarrett had removed the canvas cover from his motor cruiser, an expensive sleek Sunseeker Portofino 46. Did that mean he was going out for the day or just sun bathing on board? Neither was a crime. He could tackle him about the accident but Jarrett would only deny it. He turned away and sat down in the old leather swivel chair pulling open the desk drawers. Everything seemed to have been shoved in any old how. He picked up an address book and flicked through it, the usual: doctor, a couple of other names, perhaps relatives or friends, and his dentist. Underneath the address book were some bank statements. Horton made to pull them out when Cantelli called him.
'What is it?'
Horton found Cantelli in the lounge sitting on his haunches in front of a display cabinet that had little in it to display except some tired looking ornaments and a few dusty glasses; obviously Miss Filey's cleaning didn't extend this far. The cupboard doors at its base were open.
'Take a look at these,' Cantelli said, handing across two photographs he'd extracted from envelopes.
He could see by Cantelli's expression that he was excited. Horton stared at the man in the photographs feeling his own pulse beginning to race.
He was tall, lean, with wispy, grey thinning hair and a rather bemused expression on his narrow face as though the person taking the picture had startled him. He was standing by a silver Mercedes. That had been one of the cars seen in the car park. The other photograph was of the same man on a small motorboat. It was a Sealine 25.
Horton looked across at Cantelli. 'Our victim? Or our killer?'
'That's not all.' Cantelli pulled himself up, smiling broadly. In his hand was a bundle of letters held together by a large paperclip. 'We might also have found our motive.'
H Horton looked at him speculatively.
'They're from Melissa Thurlow and they're not about growing fuchsias.'
CHAPTER 6
Culven's fingerprints matched those of their body on the beach. The forensic team went into Culven's house and officers were deployed to question the neighbours. Now they knew who the victim was the investigation could step up a gear. Uckfield was happy. He thought they might also have a suspect: Roger Thurlow.
Horton wasn't so sure. 'If he killed Culven then why not use his boat to make his escape? Why abandon it like that?'
'As a decoy to throw us off the scent,' Uckfield said. 'He certainly had the motive to kill Culven. He could have used his tender to take the body onto the beach and then dragged Culven along the stones out of the tide's reach.'
But that didn't tie up. 'Both Dr Clayton and Phil Taylor say that Culven was killed on the beach. Thurlow would hardly have needed to put him in his tender.'
'Perhaps Thurlow arranged to meet Culven on the beach, killed him and had his tender already there to make a quick get away after killing Culven.'
'OK. We'll talk to the Harbour Master and the Harbour Conservancy; they have regular night time patrols they might have seen or heard something. But if Thurlow did kill Culven, and then ditched his boat, he could be out of the country by now.' Or dead, Horton thought, reverting to his original theory. Thurlow could still have had an accident. Or maybe he had never made it back to the Free Spirit after killing Culven, which was more likely: navigating a small tender in the dark and fog would have been nigh on impossible even with hand held GPS.
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