Footsteps on the Shore

by Pauline Rowson

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Inspector Horton is leaving.’

  Horton turned to Toby Kempton and said evenly, ‘I suggest you talk to Kelly Masters. I’m sure she’s discreet, but you never can tell what she might let slip when pressed.’ He knew that was below the belt and he had no evidence to suggest Toby Kempton had slept with Kelly Masters, but sod it, it was worth a try. He held Kempton’s fuming eyes long enough to see a flicker of unease in them, which sent a warm glow to his cold heart, before he swept through the door. He felt Catherine staring after him. He wanted to say something to her but he was too tense and besides, there wasn’t any point. He didn’t know what to say that hadn’t already been shouted, snarled or hurled. And this wasn’t the time or place to discuss the only thing they now had in common: Emma. By the time Cantelli had zapped open the car door, both Toby Kempton and Catherine had disappeared from view.

  ‘That went well,’ Cantelli said with heavy irony as he started the car.

  Horton didn’t reply. His gut was still churning. Kempton had always been an egocentric, pompous prick at the best of times and had obviously taken his daughter’s side in the break-up of their marriage, which Horton had to grudgingly admit was only natural. He couldn’t help wondering, though, exactly what Catherine had told her father about him; he’d probably been made out to be Saddam Hussein, Stalin, Mussolini and Hitler all rolled into one.

  But there was one thing for sure. Whatever Kempton said, did or felt about him there was no way on this earth his father-in-law was going to pay Emma’s school fees and take the place that was rightfully his. And if he had to blackmail, bully and threaten him to prevent it then he would. And he needed to act soon, because he had a terrible feeling that between them Catherine and Toby were going to poison Emma against him so much that he would never get to see his lovely daughter again. That thought chilled him to the bone and beyond. It simply wasn’t an option.

  ‘Lunch?’ Cantelli said hopefully.

  Not without effort Horton pulled himself together. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard; it was almost two thirty and an age since breakfast, which he hadn’t eaten because of that damn etching on his Harley and DCI Bliss’s sudden return to duty. He still didn’t know why she had returned from her secondment earlier than planned, and it didn’t matter now, because she was back and there was nothing he could do about it. He found he had no appetite though, the bloated body in the harbour and Toby Kempton had put paid to that.

  ‘Turn right,’ he instructed Cantelli. ‘We’ll see if Olivia Danbury’s in.’

  Cantelli threw him a pleading look.

  ‘Perhaps she’ll give us a cup of tea,’ Horton added, punching in Mrs Trotman’s telephone number with a feeling of desperation that he had to get the yacht he’d viewed yesterday as quickly as possible so that he had somewhere for Emma to stay. And yet even then he could almost hear the family court judge crying incredulously, ‘A yacht! You intend letting a child sleep on board a yacht!’

  ‘It’s solids I need, not liquid,’ Cantelli grumbled, as Horton listened to the phone ringing.

  Getting no answer he hung up, saying, ‘Then let’s hope Mrs Danbury gives you a biscuit.’

  FIVE

  Olivia Danbury didn’t even offer them a smile, let alone any refreshments. Horton reckoned the skinny blonde woman in her mid-thirties didn’t have much to smile about, unless you counted the large detached modern house set behind electronic gates in landscaped gardens, the sweeping driveway, tennis courts and panoramic views over the harbour across to the Isle of Wight. A deep frown crossed her suntanned face as Cantelli made the introductions. Horton mentally compared her to the picture Harmsworth had given them of Luke Felton and thought she was younger than her brother, but apart from the colour of the hostile blue eyes, there was no similarity between them.

  ‘How many times do I have to say it?’ she declared angrily. ‘I have not seen Luke and I don’t want to see him, ever.’

  Reluctantly, she had let them in but kept them standing in a black-and-white tiled hall with an elaborate marble staircase and wrought-iron balustrade that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Hollywood movie. Horton wondered who Cantelli was imagining gliding down the staircase given his love of old movies.

  He said, ‘Has Luke been in touch since he was released on licence?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about while he was in prison?’ The gaze she bestowed on Horton was about as friendly as the one Rookley’s mate in the café had given him.

  ‘No. Now is that it? Because I’ve got to go out.’

  Horton doubted that. She just wanted shot of them. He said, ‘Has your brother, Ashley, been in contact with Luke since his release?’

  ‘No.’

  He didn’t know if that was the truth. They’d speak to Ashley Felton anyway.

  Cantelli held out his business card. ‘Will you contact us if Luke attempts to get in touch?’

  Horton thought she couldn’t have shown her disgust more if Cantelli had been holding a pile of dog shit. The sergeant’s hand remained resolutely outstretched until, with an explosive sigh, strong enough to turn a windmill, she snatched the card from him. Horton reckoned she’d tear it into tiny shreds and drop it into a bin with her nicely manicured fingers as soon as their back was turned. Still, he could understand her anger, which perhaps disguised her shame and emotional turmoil. It wasn’t very nice having a convicted killer in the family. He saw no need to tell her about the body in the harbour, not when they didn’t know if it was Luke Felton.

  Gently he said, ‘We understand your distress and anger, Mrs Danbury. We’ll do our best to find Luke and, because he’s broken the conditions of his licence, he’ll be sent back to prison.’

  ‘And long may he rot there.’

  Horton studied her for a moment longer than necessary, but the lady was not for breaking her eye contact, and neither did he see in her eyes any hint of compassion. If Luke was dead then he didn’t think Olivia Danbury would shed any tears for him.

  There didn’t seem much point in hanging around. Horton thanked her and in the car, Cantelli said, ‘Seeing as we didn’t get a biscuit, can we grab a burger? My stomach’s rattling like a snake in a cage. There’s a mobile café along the top of the hill.’

  Horton nodded.

  ‘Could she be hiding her brother in that mansion?’ Cantelli said, indicating right on to the hill road.

  ‘I don’t see why she should,’ Horton replied, thinking the house was big enough to hide a whole regiment. ‘If Luke Felton did visit her then how did he get there? He doesn’t have a car and her house is hardly on a bus route.’ People who lived in places like the Danburys didn’t need buses.

  ‘Someone could have given him a lift.’

  That was possible, although judging by Olivia Danbury’s reaction, Horton guessed that visiting his sister was the last thing Luke Felton would have wanted to do. And if Olivia Danbury was lying then he thought her a damn good actress. Besides, why should she lie? Unless Luke had committed a crime and she was shielding him. But that looked about as likely as the Queen harbouring a known villain.

  As Cantelli pulled into the car park and dashed across to the burger stand, Horton wondered what Olivia Danbury’s husband did for a living. Whatever it was, it was clearly very lucrative. He also wondered if they had children. There had been no signs of any. And, he thought, there would be no sleeping aboard yachts for the likes of them, not unless it was the floating gin palace kind of boat; the type that resembled a small ferry. He wasn’t envious; not of that. Just of anyone who could be with their child.

  He watched the rain sweep in from the sea across the city and called Dr Clayton. Expecting her voice mail, he was surprised when she answered. He asked if she’d got anything from the body to help identify it.

  ‘Not a thing,’ she answered in an annoyingly bright tone. ‘Brian’s removed what was left of the clothing and sent it off to the lab. It appears to be some kind of T-shirt, original colou
r beige, or white; a light colour certainly.’

  ‘Grey?’ asked Horton, thinking about Harmsworth’s description of Luke’s clothing, which Cantelli had confirmed with the receptionist and other staff.

  ‘Could be. There was no manufacturer’s label. The small amount of trouser material we managed to salvage is cotton, possibly dark grey or green – again no label.’

  This was sounding more like Luke Felton every minute.

  ‘There was no jewellery on the corpse,’ Dr Clayton added. ‘I’ll check for tattoos, scarring and birth marks when I conduct the autopsy but the condition of the body might make that difficult.’

  And that reminded Horton they needed Luke Felton’s medical records urgently. Cantelli slipped back into the car, bringing with him a blast of damp chill wind and the smell of fried onions. Horton took his burger.

  He said, ‘Dr Price said the corpse had probably been dead between sixty and seventy-five hours. Is his assumption anywhere near correct?’ He took a bite of his burger.

  ‘Putrefaction is usually slower in water than in air and even slower in cold water, which is what the sea is this time of year: very cold,’ she said. ‘If he fell in, or was pushed, he wouldn’t have lasted longer than ten minutes. His body would have sunk until the putrefactive gases pushed it to the surface and allowed it to float. Generally, at this time of year, in the sea, that could take anywhere between three to five days, and putrefaction is, as you saw, well advanced.’

  Horton stared at his hamburger with a distinct lack of appetite. He wished he hadn’t asked. It couldn’t be Luke Felton then.

  ‘But it’s possible,’ Gaye Clayton continued, making him wonder if he’d have to reconsider, ‘that instead of sinking, his body got wedged under water where it was attacked by fish, sea lice and other fauna. And in that case the time of death could certainly be considerably more recent. Once removed from the water putrefactive changes advance considerably, which could be what has happened here. The body could have become dislodged and then been washed up.’

  Horton pushed his half-eaten burger back in the bag. He had no idea how long the body had been in the harbour, but surely not that long, because someone would have discovered it before Mr Hackett. He guessed they had no option but to question all the boat owners in the harbour to establish who had last been on that part of the causeway before Mr Hackett.

  ‘Any idea how he died?’ Horton asked hopefully.

  ‘Not yet. I’ve scheduled a full autopsy first thing tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Can’t you do it sooner?’

  ‘No, busy afternoon.’

  Horton would have to be content with that. ‘It is a man then?’

  ‘Yes. Though there’s not much left of his external organs.’

  Horton suppressed a shudder. ‘Can you give me any indication of his age?’

  ‘Not yet I can’t.’

  Frustrated at the delay and lack of information, Horton rang off and relayed to Cantelli what Dr Clayton had said as they headed down into Portsmouth. By the time they drew up outside Ashley Felton’s apartment the rain had stopped and a watery sun was breaking through.

  There was no answer to Cantelli’s persistent finger on the bell. Horton gazed up at the art deco building on the Old Portsmouth waterfront and envied Ashley Felton his spectacular views over the busy entrance to the harbour. Of course Luke Felton could be hiding inside, but somehow Horton doubted it, although it didn’t escape his attention that this wasn’t far from where their body had washed up this morning. He said as much to Cantelli, adding, ‘Ashley Felton could have pushed his brother over the edge of the quay on an incoming tide. The currents are very strong here.’ He stared across the narrow harbour towards the shores of the town of Gosport opposite.

  ‘Wouldn’t someone have seen that?’

  ‘Not in the dark. Or perhaps they did but they don’t want to get involved.’

  ‘But why would Ashley Felton want to do that?’ Cantelli eyed him incredulously.

  ‘To preserve the family name or out of anger, shame . . .’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘No.’ Horton gave a brief smile as the Wightlink ferry glided slowly out of the harbour. He turned back to the car.

  ‘Do you want me at your meeting with Rookley tonight?’ asked Cantelli, swinging the car round and heading back to the station.

  ‘Thanks, but no. I can handle him, if he turns up, and I’m not banking on it.’ But what he did hope was that Walters would have unearthed some information on Luke Felton that could help them find him, and quickly, or identify him as the body in the harbour.

  Walters greeted them in CID with the news that the prison had emailed a list of Felton’s prison listeners, volunteers who were there to help Luke and other inmates through their sentence.

  ‘There were three,’ Walters said,‘and I’ve spoken to each of them on the phone. They claim they haven’t seen or spoken to Luke. They all live on the Isle of Wight where Felton served his sentence.’

  Horton thought they could be lying, and Luke could be hitched up with one of them. He’d ask the local police to call on them to make sure. He said, ‘What did they tell you about Luke?’

  ‘Said he was reserved and not that interested in seeing them. The last one visited him over a year ago. I’m still waiting for his medical notes to come through.’

  ‘Chase them up. And find out who else was released from prison around the same time as Felton and if he formed special relationships with any inmates. He might be hiding out with an ex-con.’

  Horton turned but Walters hailed him. ‘The case notes on the Natalie Raymonds murder have been sent over.’ He tapped the top of a box file on his desk with a podgy finger.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘It’s all they’ve sent.’

  Horton picked up the box and headed for his office, where he cleared a space among the paper on his desk. He checked his voice mail. Phil Taylor had left a message to say he was emailing over the photographs of the body in the harbour and would follow it up with hard copies and the video shortly. Horton quickly ran through his emails, most of which seemed to be from Bliss asking him to file some inconsequential report or other. Ignoring these he found the photographs Taylor had mentioned. The sight of the body almost made the couple of mouthfuls of his burger come back up, but there was nothing more they could tell him that he didn’t already know. Which was precious little.

  He turned his attention to the Natalie Raymonds file. He doubted it would throw any light on where Felton might be but he didn’t like working in the dark. He read that Detective Superintendent Duncan Chawley had been in charge of the investigation. Horton hadn’t really known him because Chawley had been stationed at Havant CID for most of his career. On the occasions Horton had met him he recalled a clever, confident man with a dry wit and a reputation for getting results. Bliss would have liked him. Maybe she’d even worked with him at Havant before transferring to Portsmouth on her promotion to DCI, although calculating Chawley’s age Horton doubted it. Chawley had been in his mid-fifties at the time of the Luke Felton case.

  Horton read that Natalie Raymonds had been born Natalie Mather in 1970. She had been twenty-seven when she was killed on Friday 19 September 1997 and from her photograph she’d been a stunner: a brown-eyed brunette with shoulder-length hair and a wide smile that looked as though she had loved life. She had married Julian Raymonds in October 1996.

  He dug deeper into the file until he located Julian Raymonds’ statement. Raymonds had met Natalie when she had been working for a corporate hospitality company during Cowes Week in August 1996. It had been a whirlwind romance as well as a short marriage. Raymonds, a yacht broker, had been selling expensive yachts and had taken a group of customers and prospective customers to Cowes. At the time of his wife’s murder, he had been at the Southampton Boat Show.

  During the night of Friday 19 September, and throughout the 20th, Raymonds had tried several times to contact his wife at home and on her mobile pho
ne and had grown increasingly worried when he got no answer. At 7.30 p.m. on the twentieth he had returned home to find no sign of his wife and had officially reported her missing. It was dark by then and too early in the investigation to conduct a search, but there had been no need to mount one because the following day her body had been found by a man walking his two Golden Retrievers in the undergrowth of a small copse close to the shore of Langstone Harbour and just off the Hayling Coastal Path.

  The pathologist’s report stated that Natalie had been killed sometime between 3 p.m. and 10 p.m. on 19 September. Quickly checking Raymonds’ statement, Horton saw he had been staying at a small hotel near the docks in Southampton, even though he could easily have travelled to Southampton, some thirty miles away, each day. But Raymonds said the evenings were spent entertaining customers and prospective customers, or more likely boozing, thought Horton. And possibly playing the field, though he had no reason to believe that, just his suspicious mind.

  Raymonds had been on the stand all day, every day, and there must have been several witnesses to that, namely clients and other boat show exhibitors. Horton wondered if that had been checked, before pulling himself up; he wasn’t reinvestigating the Natalie Raymonds murder, only trying to find her killer: Luke Felton. Raymonds said that Natalie regularly ran along the coastal path, which wasn’t far from where they lived.

  Horton read that Natalie had been wearing white running shoes, black track suit bottoms, with a short tight V-neck white T-shirt. A black bum bag – empty – was found beside her body, along with a small bottle of water. Her husband later confirmed the bag usually contained Natalie’s mobile telephone and occasionally money. Felton’s prints had been found on the bottle, and his DNA from his hairs on her body. He was already on record for drug offences, theft and an assault on a pensioner in 1995. The matching of his prints instigated a search for him. His parents claimed not to have seen him since Wednesday night, and Felton was picked up in Southsea on Monday 22 September at 11.15 p.m. suffering withdrawal symptoms from heroin and with blood on his clothes. Natalie’s as it turned out. The testimony of a witness, a Peter Bailey, who came forward to say that he’d seen Luke Felton at the northern end of the coastal path at about 4 p.m. on 19 September heading south, clinched it.