‘So you tricked Luke on to your father’s boat in 1997, where you drugged him. How did you get the heroin?’
Chawley smiled reminiscently. ‘I’ve always done charity work. I think it’s important to give something back.’
No, Horton thought, you need it to feed your overinflated ego and satisfy your craving for attention. Did Duncan Chawley know that his son had a serious personality disorder? He guessed so.
‘I worked for a time helping drug addicts,’ Gavin said. ‘It was easy to get the stuff and know how much to use. Once I had Luke on my father’s boat, I stripped him and put on his clothes and shoes. I was the same build then, and while I wasn’t exactly the same shoe size I could manage wearing his trainers for a while. It was perfect. I pressed his fingers on a water bottle, carefully preserving his prints, cut some of his hair and then drove to Hayling where I’d already arranged to meet Natalie. I strangled her and then hit her to make sure I got her blood on Luke’s clothes, and I planted the evidence. Then I drove back to the boat. It was dark then. No one saw me.’ He spoke as though it was a routine affair, something anyone might have done.
Horton said, ‘When did your father know it was you?’ He watched Chawley play with the wood in his hands, and tensed in preparation for an attack that he knew must come. Chawley wouldn’t let him live to tell this tale. He’d killed three times; another death wouldn’t matter to him. Now, Horton thought, would be a good time for Cantelli to arrive.
‘Dad found Luke on the boat just as I returned from Hayling. I had to tell him. He said he’d take care of things on condition that I marry Julia, though I didn’t want to. He said she’d be a steadying influence on me. She was in love with me of course but, well, she’s not exactly my equal. You’ve seen her, she’s a timid little thing and dull as ditchwater. But it turned out OK in the end because her father died soon afterwards and left her the house and the boat building business, which I sold to start this charity. So you see, some good came of it.’
As if that justified killing someone, Horton thought with anger. And not just three people, five if he counted Sonia and Neville Felton. Horton imagined what kind of life poor Julia had suffered, and those very quiet children. He recognized a bully when he saw one, the kind that gradually and relentlessly chips away at a person’s self-esteem and confidence. He’d also like to know exactly how Julia’s father had died. But that was for another time.
‘Dad was pleased I’d made something of my life. He could see it would have been a waste to sacrifice that for the sake of Natalie Raymonds.’
Barely containing his contempt for the man in front of him, Horton said, ‘Venetia Trotman wasn’t a tart. How do you justify killing her?’
Chawley started with surprise. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said briskly.
‘Oh, I think you do, Gavin. You needed her yacht to dispose of the bodies.’
Chawley’s lips tightened but he made no comment.
Relentlessly, Horton continued. ‘I suppose you must have seen it on her slipway when you were walking along the shore, or perhaps when you were out sailing with friends. When did you decide it would be useful for getting rid of Luke Felton and Ronnie Rookley?’
Still Chawley remained silent.
‘Why didn’t you just steal it in the early hours of Friday morning like you did on Tuesday night, when you took it out with Luke’s body on board? Or did Venetia Trotman see you with Rookley’s body on Friday night? Is that why you had to kill her?’ Horton could see by Chawley’s annoyed expression it was.
Chawley’s hands gripped the wood and his face screwed up with anger. ‘If she had been in bed like she had been on Tuesday night she would still be alive, but she was in the garden. She must have heard the engine of the safety rib where I’d put Rookley because she called out. Then she saw me and ran away. I had to kill her.’
And Horton’s mind was now doing cartwheels putting together what he knew about Venetia, the Georgian and Jay Turner.
He said, ‘Then you tied the safety rib to the yacht and took it out into the Solent, where you scuttled the yacht.’
But Chawley was shaking his head and looking shocked. ‘No. I couldn’t do that to such a lovely boat. It’s a classic, made of wood, like this.’ He indicated the wood his fingers were caressing. ‘I dropped anchor in Southsea Bay, climbed into the rib and threw Rookley overboard. Then I took the yacht round to Chichester Harbour and picked up a buoy.’
But they hadn’t found it. ‘You changed the yacht’s name,’ Horton said.
‘Yes, just as I did the first time, when I took Luke Felton’s body out on it. Then I returned the yacht and removed the sticker.’
Horton had been right about that.
‘With Rookley though I couldn’t return the yacht, because the woman was dead,’ Chawley was saying. ‘I thought the police would assume boat thieves had killed her. So after ditching Rookley I motored to the Hayling shore in the safety rib, and walked home from there. It was a long walk but I didn’t mind. I returned to the boatyard by car the next morning, Saturday, just before high tide and moved the yacht into the Hayling boatyard. It’s there now.’
Horton should have known; in among other classic boats in various states of renovation.
‘I hitched the safety rib on to a trailer on my car and brought it back here.’
Horton said, ‘How did you know the yacht wouldn’t be used on Tuesday night when you lured Luke Felton to it?’
‘I’d seen the woman return on it, alone, some weeks ago, at the end of February. It was a couple of hours before the high tide. It was dark and windy and she was struggling to moor it up, so I gave her a hand. She didn’t say much but I thought it strange for her to be sailing on her own. She looked frightened. She told me she had been out sailing alone and had got caught out by the bad weather. Then I saw the boat advertised for sale in the newsagent’s window in Portchester a week ago last Monday.’
That would have been on 9 March, thought Horton. ‘After Luke had visited your father.’
‘Yes. I arranged to view it that day and she told me her husband had died. She wanted to sell it. I said I would think about it and let her know by the end of the week. It was perfect for dealing with Luke.’
And if Venetia had told Horton this, would he have been able to save her? He doubted it. He certainly wouldn’t have been able to save Luke Felton.
‘So you arranged to meet Luke at Portchester Castle on Tuesday evening and walked with him around the shore towards the yacht. It was dark so no one would see you. You invited him on board, pretending it was your yacht and Willow Bank was your house. I suppose you told Luke you had only been visiting your father. You killed Luke, but not with a knife.’
Horton had been over that yacht viewing it on Thursday and he would swear there wasn’t any evidence, and certainly no blood.
‘I strangled him. Took the yacht out, dumped his body and brought the boat back again. It was so simple. I’d been prepared to take an impression of the boat keys to get another set cut but I didn’t need to. When I returned to the house, after viewing the boat, there was a set hanging on a nail just inside the door to the utility room. I took them and placed the keys she’d given me there while pointing to something in the garden. She seemed rather distracted and nervous and didn’t notice.’
And she’d said nothing to Horton about missing a set of keys. Even if she had, he and Uckfield would have assumed her killer had taken them along with the yacht.
The sound of a movement outside caught Horton’s attention, but he didn’t turn to investigate. He was more concerned about what Chawley might do with the piece of wood he was holding, and ducking out of its reach. But Cantelli had arrived. Good. Horton witnessed a flicker of surprise in Chawley’s eyes and braced himself for Chawley to make a swing at him with the wood. Then suddenly a blow from behind struck Horton on the side of his head. For a split second he wondered why Cantelli had hit him, before the deck of the steamer rushed up to meet him and his world went
dark.
TWENTY-SIX
His head hurt. That was a good sign. If he felt pain he couldn’t be dead. He tried opening his eyes but the pygmy inside his skull was using it as a drum. He was vaguely aware of someone moving, and he could hear voices. They didn’t sound like Cantelli and neither did they sound very heavenly.
He concentrated on opening his eyes and hoped his head wouldn’t explode. This time he succeeded. Gradually the light filtered in. His eyes travelled up two pairs of legs, one sitting and the other standing. His heart leapt into his throat as he found himself staring at Gavin Chawley’s terrified face. Chawley was pressed on to a hard chair, his feet bound tightly with the chain that had stretched across the gangplank and his arms wrenched behind him and tied with something Horton couldn’t see. But it was the man beside him with a knife pressed to Chawley’s throat that concerned and horrified Horton. He stared into the hollowed, lined, dirty face and knew he was looking at the man responsible for scratching the emblem on his Harley. It was also the hooded figure he’d glimpsed in the boatyard — the Georgian.
He staggered up. The Georgian shouted, ‘One step and I kill him, like he killed my Eliso.’
‘Reason with him, for God’s sake,’ Chawley choked, his face contorted with terror.
Like you reasoned with Venetia, or rather Eliso, her real name, Horton felt like saying but didn’t. It wouldn’t help matters. As he stared into the Georgian’s deep-set dark eyes full of hatred and anger, he rapidly searched his brain to find a way of resolving this without anyone getting hurt or killed, which was looking increasingly unlikely. And where the hell was Cantelli? His heart somersaulted so violently that he felt sick. Surely the Georgian couldn’t have killed him. But no, Cantelli wouldn’t have come alone. But if he had. . Horton went cold inside. He had to resolve this and rapidly. Cantelli might be hurt and in need of urgent help. Horton didn’t even want to contemplate that he might be dead.
Urgently Horton addressed the Georgian. ‘I’ll see that he is tried and convicted for Eliso’s murder.’
The Georgian spat vehemently on the floor, making it perfectly clear what he thought of that. Chawley’s eyes stared, wide and frightened. Speedily, Horton recalled his hostage-negotiation training courses. Hostage takers fell into three categories: terrorists, criminals and the mentally disturbed, or the mad, bad and sad as they were generally referred to. Horton thought he was staring at all three in one man. OK, so. . build rapport, keep an even temper, show empathy and self-assurance. Shit, how did he do all that before the Georgian plunged that knife into Chawley’s neck?
Though his mouth was dry and his palms damp he said evenly, ‘Was Eliso your girlfriend?’
‘My sister.’
Chawley gave a strangled sob as the Georgian clasped a big rough hand around his throat, forcing his head back while the knife pricked at its side.
‘You thought I’d killed Eliso at first, didn’t you?’ Horton quickly said. Get him talking, show patience, build a bond and hope to God Cantelli is still alive. ‘You were inside Eliso’s house when I arrived to look over her boat. Then while I was on the boat you waited for me somewhere out of sight along the lane and followed me to the police station.’ Horton hadn’t seen him, but then he hadn’t expected to be followed. ‘You then followed me to the marina and scratched that symbol on my Harley to warn me away from Eliso, but when you returned to her house in the early hours of the morning you found her dead.’
Chawley stared at Horton, terrified.
Horton continued steadily, though his heart was racing. ‘You decided to follow me so that I could lead you to her killer.’ And he’d been very expert at that. Horton recalled seeing a motorbike the day he and Cantelli had followed Rookley into the cemetery, and he’d heard one when he’d been pushed in the lock. He’d also seen one when with Cantelli a couple of times, and with Uckfield, but he hadn’t noticed anything following him to Rowlands Castle or here, though two had overtaken him and one, which must have been the Georgian, had waited in a side street and watched him turn into the industrial estate. Following him to the paddle steamer, he’d patiently waited and listened until he knew the whole truth.
Chawley was pleading with Horton with his petrified eyes. Horton pressed on. ‘When you thought I wasn’t doing my job in looking for Eliso’s killer you left another message, this time on my yacht. You’ve waited a long time to find your sister.’
‘What’s that to you?’ he demanded roughly. Chawley’s eyes popped in his terrified face as the hand squeezed tighter.
‘I’d like to understand,’ Horton said, praying that he sounded genuinely interested. He was, but not half as interested as he was in resolving this rapidly and without anyone getting killed. ‘Please tell me about Eliso,’ he prompted, willing the Georgian to reply.
The man eyed Horton sceptically. There were several seconds before he replied, but they seemed like minutes. Gruffly the Georgian said, ‘I’m from the region of Shida Kartli, part of South Ossetia.’
That explained the Kartli coat of arms, thought Horton.
‘I was captured by the Georgians two years ago in the fighting and escaped to Poti, where the captain of a container ship took me to Istanbul. He told me he had taken my sister out of the country some years ago and put her on board a cargo ship sailing to Naples. She told him she was going to live with an Englishman near a castle by the sea.’
Poor Eliso, thought Horton. She thought she was going to live a fairytale existence. Some bloody fairy tale.
‘I got the name of the cargo ship captain who had taken Eliso to Naples and waited in Istanbul for him to arrive. In January he came. He told me that Eliso had sailed from Naples with a man in a boat. He was taking her to a place called Portsmouth. I came with this captain to Southampton.’
And Horton guessed he had stolen the motorbike there.
‘I went in search of this castle by the sea, and there was Eliso walking down the street. I followed her.’
Eliso had been unlucky to the end. Fate, or sod’s law, whatever you liked to call it, had played its card. But even if she hadn’t been in the street that day, Horton knew that the Georgian wouldn’t have given up his search until he found her. Locating that house by the sea and the castle would have been easy.
‘Now I will kill him.’
Chawley squawked.
Hastily Horton recalled what Gaye Clayton had relayed to him about the symbol. He had an idea. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but anything was worth trying. Quickly he said, ‘The Lion on the Kartli coat of arms stands for courage and strength, and the Unicorn for purity and virtue. Surely killing this man must go against that.’
Hesitation flashed across the rough unshaven features. It was a start. ‘You need courage to kill a man.’
‘You need even more courage not to, especially when he has hurt you and someone you love,’ responded Horton.
The Georgian’s eyes narrowed.
Horton pressed home his advantage. ‘You also need strength to let a man live to face his punishment, and to make sure that the truth is exposed. Isn’t that what Eliso would have wanted and what she’d expect from you?’
Horton held his breath as he saw the thoughts running through the Georgian’s mind. Quickly he pressed on, speaking earnestly. ‘The man you are holding a knife to has ruined many lives, not only Eliso’s. Killing him is too quick and easy a punishment for what he has done. He values his reputation. In prison he would lose that. He would feel the punishment and he would suffer.’ Horton sincerely hoped that was true. ‘Let him go,’ he added gently, ‘and he’ll go to prison for what he’s done, for a very long time.’ Horton could see the Georgian considering it. ‘If you kill him now he won’t suffer and you will go to prison, not him.’
Horton held the Georgian’s steely gaze, trying not to show any emotion. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, stretching out his hand.
‘Give me the knife,’ he said calmly, though his heart was in overdrive. He stood his ground with his han
d outstretched. He didn’t look at Chawley but kept his eyes steadfastly on the Georgian, catching the flicker of hesitation behind the exhausted eyes. He prayed now that no one would enter, not until he had the knife in his hand.
‘Eliso wouldn’t want him killed,’ Horton said softly, easing another step forward. He could feel the sweat on his back, and the thumping in his head was matched by the pounding of his heart. ‘She’d want you to tell her story. Don’t you think she deserves that?’
The Georgian’s eyes held fatigue beyond weariness. His roughened hand came down a fraction. He paused. Then, flicking the knife round so that the hilt faced Horton, he stretched it across. Horton grasped it. But his relief was short-lived.
‘I can still break his neck with my bare hand,’ the Georgian cried, squeezing Chawley’s throat. Chawley’s eyes popped as the pressure increased.
‘That would be too quick a death,’ Horton cried hastily. ‘Better to let him suffer the humiliation of everyone knowing he’s a murderer. He’s not worth killing,’ he urged, praying he wouldn’t need to attack the Georgian. If he did, Chawley might be saved but the knife in Horton’s hand could be used against him, or end up in the Georgian.
Suddenly, with disgust the Georgian pushed Chawley so violently that the chair crashed over, leaving Chawley lying on his side trussed up tightly, his midriff exposed. The Georgian’s leg came up and he kicked his boot hard into Chawley’s stomach. Chawley screamed in pain. And again, as the boot struck out. Horton threw the knife out of reach and leapt into action, charging at the Georgian. He staggered, as his foot was raised in the act of striking Chawley again. They fell, and suddenly there were uniforms swarming all over the boat and the Georgian had his hands behind his back in cuffs. Chawley was howling with pain. A uniformed police officer bent over to release him.
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