Deadly Waters dah-2

by Pauline Rowson

  Horton called Sergeant Trueman as Cantelli pulled out of the school. He got Boston's address and told Cantelli to head along the seafront to Fort Cumberland Road. Boston lived just a stone's throw from Horton's marina.

  He stared at the foaming green sea as it broke on to the pebbled beach in a flash of white. The wind was getting up strength ready to fulfil the prophecy of gale warnings later in the week. Ahead, Horton could see the distant shores of Hayling Island. There were still so many gaps in this complex case. He hoped soon they'd be able to get some answers from Boston to fill them.

  Cantelli turned into a cul-de-sac that was lined with three-storey houses and apartments, and pulled up halfway down, outside a block of flats. Climbing out, Horton scrutinized the line of bell pushes on the wall, found the one he wanted and pressed his finger on the buzzer. There was no answer.

  'Looks as though we'll have to come back with a warrant,' he said, disappointed. Then the front door opened. A thin man in his early fifties wearing a smart suit man stepped out.

  Horton glanced at the badge on his lapel and the briefcase in his hand. He was due for some luck and he wondered if this could be it.

  'Are you the managing agent?' he asked, showing his warrant card.

  'Police? I hope there's nothing wrong.'

  'Does Mr Boston rent his apartment from you?'

  'Well, yes, he does.'

  'We are concerned about Mr Boston, and he is not answering his bell.'

  The thin man paled, and glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to the apartments.

  Horton pressed his point. 'It would save a great deal of time and fuss if we could just take a look inside. Otherwise we'll have to request a search warrant and that means making it official with several police cars not to mention the press-'

  'He's on the third floor. ' The managing agent was steering them inside before Horton finished speaking. He pressed the lift button. 'I've got a viewing on that floor in five minutes. Do you think you could be quick?'

  'Sergeant Cantelli will go with you in the lift.'

  Horton knew that Boston's apartment was number eighteen. He leapt up the stairs two at a time until he came to the third floor, and saw with satisfaction at his level of fitness that he'd beaten the lift. He pressed his finger on the bell.

  'Mr Boston, I'd like a word. Police.' There was no response. Cantelli and the agent stepped out of the lift.

  'Mr Selsmere has a key,' Cantelli said, and the agent reached into his briefcase.

  Great! When luck was with you, you rode it until you wore it out, thought Horton.

  Closing the door on Selsmere, Horton stepped inside a small lobby listening to the silence. It was complete. He gestured at the room on his left and Cantelli slipped into it whilst Horton took the room straight ahead. It was the lounge. There was no sign of Boston.

  Cantelli called out. 'He's not here.'

  No, but was he coming back and if so when? Horton gazed around the lounge; none of the stolen antiques were here, but Horton hadn't expected them to be. It was expensively decorated: lush cream carpet, glass coffee table between two cream leather sofas which looked as though they had never been sat on; open bookshelves without a single book on display but with a few strategically placed glass objects that would have done justice to an art gallery; and a couple of large giant seascape watercolours on the wall. The room reminded him of Catherine. Her taste was strictly modern: clean lines, no clutter.

  He crossed to the large glass doors that gave on to a patio. Beyond he could see the boats in the marina and there was the wooden mast of Nutmeg, his gaff-rigged Winkle Brig: old, cramped, untidy, lived-in and much loved. His. He didn't want to give her up, but he'd have to if he was to stand any chance of Emma staying with him for the weekend or holidays. His heart skipped a beat at the thought of spending time with his daughter, and for one wild moment he envisaged her living with him permanently, then dismissed the idea as impossible. Catherine would never let her, and how could he raise a child with the demands of his job?

  Beyond the marina was Langstone Harbour and from here he could see the mulberry. Had seeing the mulberry from here given Boston the idea of dumping her body there? Perhaps the nursery rhyme had nothing to do with her death. Perhaps Boston had never even heard of it.

  He turned away as Cantelli called out. 'Beds made up and he's got some nice suits in the wardrobe: designer stuff.'

  'How would you know? Most of your clothes are bought from the chain stores.'

  'Hey, nothing wrong with that!'

  Horton smiled and made his way into a second bedroom, which Boston had made his study, and promptly stopped in his tracks. He gazed in amazement. Hundreds of photographs covered three walls and they were all of Timothy Boston.

  Cantelli came up behind him and drew up sharply. 'Wow!'

  Horton couldn't have put it better himself. In the pictures, Timothy Boston appeared in various guises, and with a variety of actors. These were obviously stills taken from film and television programmes. And there were photographs of Boston, as himself, alongside actors whom Horton recognized, which was quite a feat for him because he rarely watched television and never had time to go to the pictures or theatre.

  'Is Boston famous? Should we know him?' asked Horton.

  'I wouldn't unless he was acting in the thirties and forties.'

  Horton began to rummage in the desk, which wasn't locked. He pulled out a pile of large spiral bounds books. There were six in total. 'Scrapbooks.'

  Horton gave a couple to Cantelli and flicked through the remainder himself. He was staring at pages of press cuttings. Boston had by all accounts been a successful stunt man before becoming an actor; only he wasn't called Boston but Timothy Mellows. A headline caught Horton's attention, quickly he scanned the article: Boston had once been tipped as a possible James Bond, and he'd ended up teaching drama! What had gone wrong? The press cuttings didn't say. But Horton was beginning to wonder if Timothy Boston had previous form as Mellows, and that little fact had slipped through his security clearance at the school. Something registered in Horton's brain. He'd seen the name Mellows before. With a racing pulse he pulled out his phone and called the station.

  'Dave, check the list of registered boat owners for a Tim Mellows. No, I'll hold.'

  Cantelli said, 'There's an article here that says Mellows suffered multiple injuries whilst performing a stunt: broke both legs, his pelvis and arm. After that it says he turned to acting.'

  'And didn't make it, according to what he's doing now,' Horton rejoined, just as Dave Trueman came back on the line.

  'There's a boat called Soap Opera registered to Mr Timothy Mellows and berthed at Gosport Marina.'

  Yes! Horton wanted to punch the air with joy. Instead he said, 'Ask Elkins to check if it's in the marina, but not to alert Mellows. Call me back.'

  Mr Selsmere wasn't very happy when Cantelli asked to keep the keys and gave him a receipt, but he seemed a little mollified when he heard that an unmarked police car with two plain clothes officers, rather than uniformed officers in a patrol car would keep a watch on the apartment for Boston's return.

  Horton's phone rang. It was Trueman. 'Mellows' boat is in the marina. Sergeant Elkins thinks there might be someone on board.'

  'He's to do nothing. We're on our way. Get Elkins to pick us up at the Town Camber.'

  It had started raining heavily and the wind was whipping itself into a fury as Cantelli headed back along the seafront to Old Portsmouth and the Town Camber. The sergeant didn't look very pleased.

  As they clambered on board the police launch, Horton tried to reassure Cantelli. 'You'll be OK, we're only going across the harbour.'

  'That's far enough,' Cantelli muttered, pulling up his collar and stepping inside the cabin. 'You wouldn't want me to have a relapse.'

  'Perish the thought. Charlotte would skin me alive.'

  Horton stayed on deck. He didn't know what to expect, but disappointment featured in it somewhere. It couldn't be this easy.
Boston wouldn't be sitting on his boat in October, sipping wine, and waiting for them, only to say, 'It's a fair cop, guv.'

  Horton's adrenalin began to pump as Elkins pulled into the marina. Horton jumped off and secured the boat to the pontoon. Elkins silenced the engines. With Cantelli, Elkins and PC Ripley following behind him, Horton hurried along the pontoon. The rain was sheeting past him, driving in his face and the wind was rattling the halyards against the masts. Boston had to be there. Boston was their man. He was the mastermind behind the antiques thefts. And he was a killer. He'd killed Langley, perhaps it now occurred to Horton, because he was sick of her cruel taunts about how he'd failed as an actor. Both Ranson and Daphne Edney had said how cutting she could be. And he'd killed Edney, because the poor man had suspected him. This couldn't be another blind alley.

  As soon as he turned on to the pontoon Horton could see a light in the cabin. He guessed this was how Boston had taken the stolen antiques out of the country, and he wouldn't mind betting that on his other robberies he had moored Soap Opera in Town Camber for a quick get-away.

  Gesturing Elkins to the aft, Ripley at the bow and Cantelli amidships, with his heart beating fast and furious, Horton climbed carefully into the cockpit. The large glass door leading into the cabin was open. There was no sign of Boston, but he wouldn't fail to feel the boat rock to Horton's tread. Horton waited to be hailed, but no one stirred. The hatch was open. He could see no shadows and there was no sign of any movement. There was a coffee cup on the table to Horton's left and a used plate in the small sink to his right. A kettle was on the hob next to it. Horton tensed. He felt the boat move gently as someone came on board behind him. It was Cantelli.

  'Police. It's over, Boston. We know all about the robberies,' Horton shouted.

  Silence greeted him. Horton tensed.

  'We're coming down.' He heard Cantelli suck in his breath, and knew what he was thinking. He hoped Boston wasn't waiting with a knife or even a gun in his hand.

  He wasn't. In fact Boston wasn't waiting at all.

  'Empty,' Horton called up, disappointed.

  'Must have got wind we were after him,' Cantelli said.

  Horton frowned, puzzled. 'If he's gone, why not take his car?' Elkins had told him it was in the marina car park.

  Horton gazed around the interior. There wasn't much to see, just one main cabin and a cubicle with a toilet and washbasin. The boat wasn't designed for a long stay away; it was more suited for one day or weekend fishing excursions. Ideal for Boston who just needed a boat with a powerful engine that could get him across to Guernsey, Jersey or France so that he could pass on his stolen antiques. There was a navy blue holdall on the bunk. Delving into it Horton retrieved a passport. 'He won't get far without this.'

  'Perhaps he's got another one.'

  Cantelli could be right. Horton opened it. 'This is in the name of Timothy Boston; perhaps he also has a passport in the name of Tim Mellows. Come on, there's nothing here for us.'

  Horton climbed back on deck. 'Elkins, keep watch for him and call for back-up the moment he shows. I'll keep a unit watching his car. Let's get out of this bloody awful weather.'

  He climbed off the boat, and Cantelli followed suit. Horton gazed across the harbour to Oyster Quays wondering where Boston had gone. The boat was well secured. The deck was dirty and the marina manager had confirmed it had been taken out that morning and had not long returned. If Boston had been warned that the police were on his trail then why come back here? Why return to Portsmouth at all? Why not take his passport and his car and drive to the airport?

  Irritation mingled with his frustration. Once again they were going round that sodding mulberry bush. He glanced down as he made to turn away and a movement in the water caught his eye. He could have sworn he had seen something in the murky depths swirling around the edge of the pontoon. Yes, there it was again. It looked like an old piece of rag except it was too large for that. His heart leapt into his throat.

  'The boat hook,' he commanded sharply.

  Ripley grabbed it from Boston's boat and handed it to Horton.

  'What is it?' Cantelli asked, leaning over and looking into the black pool of swirling water.

  'There's something caught under the pontoon.' Horton threw himself on to the wet wooden decking, and with the rain beating down upon him, twisted his body round so that he could stretch the pole under the pontoon. 'Yes, here it is,' he grunted, as he got a hook on something. 'It's heavy. Ripley, Elkins, give me a hand. Cantelli, stay there.'

  'Sod that.' Cantelli threw himself down beside Horton and stuck his arms in the water. 'Shit. It's freezing.'

  'What do you expect in October?' Horton replied through gritted teeth.

  Elkins, with another pole, had come up beside them. 'I'll push it from the other side of the pontoon,' he shouted above the roar of the wind.

  'It's probably a dead dog.'

  'Sarge!' Ripley shouted indignantly at Cantelli's remark.

  But Horton didn't think it was a dead animal. His heart hammered and a cold sweat trickled off his brow. He plunged his arms deeper into the icy-cold water.

  Gradually with Elkins prodding from one end and him pulling from the other, and with Cantelli's assistance, they managed to dislodge it.

  'Christ, it's a body!' cried Cantelli, almost losing his grip.

  Yes, thought Horton, his heart beat quickening. Had Boston done it again? Was this victim number three?

  He struggled to keep hold of the body. A boat came into the marina cutting through the water and causing a wash. The body rolled over. Behind him Horton heard Elkins swear, and an intake of breath from Cantelli. He himself was numb with shock. The face that stared up at him was no longer clean-cut, eager-eyed and handsome, but Horton recognized it nevertheless. He was looking at the bloated face of Timothy Boston.

  Sixteen

  Wednesday: 7.30 A.M.

  After snatching a few hours' sleep Horton headed into work along the seafront. The area around Boston's boat had been sealed off and Boston's body had been removed to the mortuary. Temporary arc lights had been erected overnight and under their glare Phil Taylor and his scene of crime officers had quietly and painstakingly gone about their work. When Horton had left there in the early hours of the morning no evidence had been discovered to indicate how Boston had died, and his body hadn't borne any obvious marks of death, such as stabbing or shooting. It looked as though he had slipped, fallen in and drowned.

  Dr Clayton had been called out to examine the body after Price had certified him dead. She couldn't say how Boston had been killed, not until she had him undressed on the mortuary slab and had conducted the post-mortem. Horton smiled to himself at the memory of Uckfield trying to bully her into 'making an educated guess'. Her frosty reply had been, 'I'm a scientist not a clairvoyant. But if you would rather use the services of Mystic Meg, please go ahead. I'm sure she'll be a lot cheaper and quicker; she might even throw in a horoscope or two.'

  Uckfield had grunted and, after Gaye had left them, said, 'Touchy, isn't she?'

  No one replied. Horton was very interested to see what the results of the post mortem would bring, especially as Uckfield had expressed two opinions as to the cause of death. The first was that Boston, having killed Jessica Langley and Tom Edney, had been overcome with remorse and had decided to end his life by drowning himself — Horton had asked why wait until he'd moored up when he could have thrown himself overboard anywhere in the Solent? And as far as Horton could see, he didn't think Boston was the type to suffer from remorse.

  The second of Uckfield's theories was that Boston had killed Langley and Edney, had gone on a jaunt to flog his stolen antiques, and on his return had slipped on the pontoon and fallen into the water. With no buoyancy aid he'd got sucked under, his clothes had caught on something and that was it.

  It was convenient. Too bloody convenient, thought Horton.

  He pulled into a parking bay by the Pitch and Putt and stared out to sea. It was still dark, but the mo
rning had a fresh, crisp feel about it. There was a lull in the wind, but yesterday's gales had left a swollen sea and large waves crashed on to the pebbled beach and exploded in a foaming white mass.

  He thought back to his conversation with Uckfield last night. They was no evidence yet that Boston was their antiques thief, but Horton instinctively felt he was. Later that day, and in the days to come, they would go through Boston's affairs with a comb so fine that not even a nit could get through. In the meantime, however, Uckfield had adopted the idea that Horton had originally espoused that Langley had recognized Boston when he was on one of his antiques raids. He'd lured her to his boat at Sparkes Yacht Harbour, punched her, and then suffocated her. He'd placed her on the mulberry, adding the little touch with the money and honey for good measure. After which he'd taken his boat back to Gosport Marina. After Langley's death Edney put two and two together. He had confronted Boston and as a result had to die.

  It sounded plausible enough, yet for Horton there were still too many loose ends. Such as why had Boston bothered to put on his drunken act, if he was the drunk? Why had he shopped Mickey Johnson and the athletic youth, or set them up in the first place, if he was the mastermind behind the robberies? Where were Jessica Langley's foul weather clothes: the leggings and jacket she was wearing in the photograph? And where were her laptop, briefcase, jacket and mobile phone? Which brought him to another question — what did the note found in Langley's pocket have to do with her murder?

  Uckfield had said, 'It doesn't figure in the case at all. She just picked up a piece of paper and absentmindedly stuffed it in her trouser pocket.'

  Horton had disagreed. Why would Langley do that? And why had Boston (if he was the killer) stripped her of all other means of identification, but left that note in her trouser pocket?

  Uckfield clearly wasn't interested. He wanted the case wound up.

  Horton watched the thin wafers of little black clouds drift in an otherwise clear sky that was growing red with the rising sun. He thought of the weather prophecy: 'Red sky in the morning shepherds' warning.' Well, there weren't any shepherds in Portsmouth anymore, but he'd heed their advice he thought, as he throttled back the Harley and headed for the station. By evening it could be blowing a gale and pouring with rain. October was as unpredictable as March, or April; or, come to that, as any month of the year in Britain. Still, the weather was the least of his concerns. Boston's death was top of the list and despite what Uckfield said, Horton wanted those questions answered.