He said, ‘If Felton didn’t kill her it’s possible she was planning to start a new life with someone she thought was a friend, who in fact was her killer. He then steals the boat and makes off with whatever is in that locker. And without the key I guess he’d just break it open.’ Then he paused, adding after a moment, ‘Or perhaps her secret was on the verge of being exposed. She could already have been threatened by whoever might have been in the house when I was there. He leaves her for a while—’
‘Why?’
Horton didn’t answer but continued with his theory. ‘She seizes the opportunity to leave that night on the high tide, but her killer returns before she can do so.’ He warmed to his idea. ‘Perhaps he left her earlier knowing that she’d try to get away with whatever it is that’s valuable and in that locker. He waits, returns and then kills her, getting the loot and making his escape on the yacht.’
‘Why not simply check the locker was on board after he’d killed her, take the loot and scarper?’ demanded Uckfield, as he swung into the station car park.
‘Because he needed the yacht to get away. He arrived by boat so he had to leave by one. Luke Felton might have known from an inmate about this loot, whatever it is. He can handle a boat, so maybe he took a small motorboat to get to Willow Bank. His brother, Ashley, has a yacht, but I can’t see him aiding and abetting his brother in killing Venetia Trotman. But Felton could be in league with someone he met in prison, someone who knew the Trotmans.’
Uckfield silenced the car engine but neither man made any attempt to alight. Horton continued. ‘Let’s say Felton and his accomplice arrive by sea on the rising tide and in a tender with an outboard motor. The accomplice, who knows Venetia Trotman, claims to be helping her, but when she realizes his real intentions she runs away. He kills her while Felton stickers over the yacht’s existing name with another he’s brought with him. The accomplice jumps on board Shorena, knowing the locker of valuables is there. Towing the tender they set off for the Solent, going through the harbour under a different name in case they’re spotted. When they’re certain they’re safe they turn their attention to the locker only to find they don’t have the key. But that doesn’t matter. They smash it open, remove the contents and then abandon the yacht, or better still scuttle it obliterating any prints and evidence, getting away on the tender they’ve been towing. They return to the shore and into a waiting car.’ Then Horton had another thought. ‘They might not even have bothered to change the name, taking the risk they wouldn’t be seen, and even if they were it would be too late then because they’d already have cleared out the yacht and scuttled it. And if they did it in the Solent then we might never find it.’
‘Shit! I hate these guys,’ Uckfield expelled.
It didn’t explain why Luke had been missing since Tuesday but he knew that Uckfield wouldn’t let that stand in his way. And, as he’d already speculated, Luke Felton might have been in Venetia’s house, or perhaps even shacked up with this accomplice. Horton opened the car door and turned towards his Harley.
Surprised, Uckfield said, ‘Where are you going?’
‘Home. This isn’t my case. But I’ll let you know if I find Luke Felton.’
‘Thanks a bloody bunch,’ Horton heard Uckfield growl after him.
ELEVEN
Sunday, 15 March
The night passed without incident and without much sleep for Horton, who rubbed a fist against his eyes as he viewed the CCTV tapes from the seafront. All he saw were courting couples performing sexual aerobics in the back of their cars, and speeding drivers who clearly thought they were participating in the Southsea Grand Prix, but no motorbikes. And neither had he heard any last night. This was a waste of time. Yawning, he stabbed off the screen and once again let his eyes travel over the list of recently released criminals Trueman had got from the Isle of Wight prison. He didn’t know any of them. He’d have to request a list of those released from all prisons in England, but when he would get it he had no idea. Meanwhile he’d need to keep alert for his graffiti artist.
Sitting back, he again considered the fact that this Zeus – or someone connected with him – wanted by the Intelligence Directorate might be after him. And that brought him back to thoughts of his mother. Had she been involved with Zeus? He’d already discovered that she had mixed with some doubtful characters and criminal types, but that didn’t mean she was crooked.
He stared at his computer for a moment longer before jerking forward in his seat and calling up her missing persons file. And there she was: Jennifer Horton. His heart lurched, as it always did, at the sight of her fair youthful face, and he felt the usual numbing pain of anguish and loneliness. It was a torment to look at her, but one he knew he could no longer ignore or avoid. He had to know what had happened to her, even if the truth was what he had always been led to believe: that she had deliberately abandoned him.
His eyes flicked to the name of the police officer who had briefly investigated her disappearance and who had compiled the missing persons report: PC Adrian Stanley. How old would he be now? Fifty? Sixty? Maybe he was dead. And even if he wasn’t, how much of the investigation would he remember? It was a long time ago and Jennifer Horton had been just one of many missing persons. But he should find out.
Before he could change his mind he quickly typed an email asking Trueman to find out where PC Stanley was living. Trueman wouldn’t ask why he wanted the information and neither would he divulge who had requested it. He pressed send and then let out the breath he’d been holding before picking up his phone and punching in Hans Olewbo’s extension. He’d decide what to do about PC Stanley if and when Trueman located him, he thought, listening to Olewbo’s extension ringing. He was about to give up, thinking Olewbo must be out or off duty, when it was answered.
‘You know Rookley’s gone missing,’ Horton said, without preamble. ‘Any idea where he might be?’
‘No, and if I was you, Andy, I’d think about joining him. You’re not Superintendent Oliver’s favourite cop.’
‘I don’t seem to be anyone’s.’
‘It’s gone rather quiet around Crown House and Belton’s shut up shop.’
‘Or the health people have closed him down. When did the café proprietor go walkabout?’
‘Yesterday. Oliver thinks the route’s been closed.’
‘That’s hardly my fault.’
‘Try telling Oliver that.’
‘I need to see the surveillance tapes and photographs for Crown House,’ Horton said. He hoped they might show if Rookley or Felton had met anyone outside the premises during the last week.
‘Then you’ll need clearance from Oliver.’
And that meant involving Bliss, who was sure to take Oliver’s side that it was his fault the operation had been compromised. He thought about bypassing Bliss and going straight to Uckfield, who could command access to the files by citing Felton’s possible involvement in the Venetia Trotman murder case, but that would not only take time, it would also sideline him from the investigation.
‘Can’t you let me have access without Oliver knowing?’
After a short pause, Hans sighed heavily. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
As Horton rang off a hesitant knock sounded on his door and he beckoned Seaton in. The young PC was in civvies.
‘I’m off duty, sir,’ Seaton quickly explained. ‘But this morning I thought I’d go back to where Luke might have caught the bus on Tuesday evening when he left work.’ He flushed, looking a little uneasy.
Horton guessed Seaton was probably wondering if he’d take the rise out of him for not having a life outside work, like Horton himself. But then Horton had been – and still was – keen, despite all the crap he had to deal with, and he didn’t mean from the scum.
Waving Seaton into the seat across his desk, Horton said, ‘Go on.’
‘As you know, sir, I got no joy from the bus drivers yesterday. We know Luke didn’t return to Crown House in Portsmouth, so maybe he didn’t go to Portsmouth
at all but went in the opposite direction, towards Horsea Marina and Portchester. Perhaps he was meeting someone for a drink, which means he could have called into a pub or café at the marina.’ Seaton’s colour deepened as he went on, ‘I visited them and showed his photograph around.’
And Horton guessed that Seaton had told them he was from CID. So what? Horton didn’t care if he’d told them he was the Chief Constable if it got a result.
‘Nobody recognized Luke. Then at the traffic lights by Paulsgrove Lake, not far from Kempton’s, I wondered if anyone living in the houses opposite might have seen Luke.’
‘And had they?’ Horton asked eagerly, sitting forward, already knowing the answer by Seaton’s expression.
‘Yes.’ Seaton opened his notebook, trying, but not succeeding, to hide his excitement. ‘Mr John Sunnington lives in number twenty-six. He was driving home from work on Tuesday evening and almost went into the back of a car, which pulled over sharply without any indication or warning right in front of him into the bus lay-by to pick someone up. Mr Sunnington sounded his horn, gave the driver a black look and probably a V-sign, before indicating right and turning into a side road behind his house where his garage is. The man picked up was Luke Felton. Mr Sunnington described him to me before I showed him the photograph.’
‘Time?’
‘Just before six thirty.’
Which fitted with when the receptionist had said Luke had left Kempton’s. Luke must have started walking in the direction of Portchester and decided to catch the bus the rest of the way, or perhaps had just been passing the bus stop when this car pulled over. ‘Did Mr Sunnington get the registration?’ Horton didn’t dare hope.
‘He did.’ Seaton again consulted his notebook, but Horton guessed it was for effect. ‘It was a red BMW. Mr Sunnington didn’t get all the registration number but he got most of it. It was a personalized number plate, ES 368.’
Horton started. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Why? You know who it is?’ Seaton asked, surprised.
Oh, yes, he knew all right. It was Edward Shawford, sales manager at Kempton’s, and his wife’s lover.
Horton scraped back his chair. ‘Are you doing anything special, Seaton?’ he asked, grabbing his sailing jacket.
‘Well, no, sir,’ Seaton said, puzzled.
‘You’ve got a car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, then let’s go and interview the owner of the vehicle.’
Horton knew Shawford lived in a flat in Wickham, a village ten miles to the north-west of Portsmouth. Shawford was divorced and had no children, so unless he was with Catherine, Horton hoped they’d find him in. He thought it advisable to have a witness to their interview, otherwise Shawford was bound to go bellyaching to Bliss and twisting everything Horton said to make it sound like a personal vendetta against him, which he had to admit it was. But the fact that Luke Felton had been heading towards the area where Venetia Trotman lived was extremely interesting. Although, Horton silently acknowledged, it was also in the direction of where Luke’s sister lived. Horton was intrigued to know why Shawford had given Luke Felton a lift and impatient to know where Shawford had taken him, but as they swung into the car park at the rear of the five-storey block of modern flats there was no sign of the red BMW. Nor was there any answer to Seaton’s finger pressed on the intercom.
Could Shawford be at Horton’s former home near Petersfield, sitting at the table he had once sat at, lounging in the chair he’d lounged in, watching the television he’d bought, lying in the bed he’d once slept in . . .?
He pulled himself up roughly. Tormenting himself with images like this was a waste of time and energy. It made no difference to Catherine or bloody Shawford, and hurt only him. Before he could suggest to Seaton that they head for Petersfield, the door opened and an elegant, slender woman in her early sixties stepped out.
Seaton said, ‘We’re looking for Mr Edward Shawford, but he doesn’t seem to be in.’
‘He’s probably on his boat.’
Horton hadn’t known that Shawford had one. Catherine hadn’t mentioned it. Though why should she? They’d hardly conversed since she’d thrown him out. Had the fat slob taken Catherine and Emma out on it today? The vision of Emma on Shawford’s boat hurt him badly. His daughter should be with him, on his boat. He didn’t want Emma to go away to school, but for the first time he considered that it might not be a bad thing if it meant getting her away from Shawford.
He brought his attention back to the woman in front of him as she said with a smile, ‘It’s a motorboat. He only bought it a few weeks ago. And he’s never stopped talking about it since.’
Horton said, ‘I don’t suppose you know where he keeps it.’
‘I do. And I could probably tell you the colour, make and size of the engine, if I’d paid enough attention. It’s at Horsea Marina.’
Horton thanked her and they headed for the marina. Seaton remained silent. Horton was grateful for that. It gave him time to prepare for the fact that he might find Catherine with the slimy git. He’d cope with that. But what he knew he couldn’t cope with was seeing Emma there with Shawford, laughing with him, smiling at him . . . just being with him. It wasn’t just Shawford, because Horton knew he’d feel the same about his daughter being with any man that wasn’t her father. He didn’t know what he would do if Emma was there, but the spring of rage inside him warned him it would be something drastic and highly damaging.
When they were approaching the marina he thought he should tell Seaton something about the situation. He didn’t really want to, but Shawford might bring up the fact he was having a relationship with Horton’s soon-to-be ex-wife. And if Catherine were there, then Seaton would quickly cotton on.
He gave a potted version of their break-up, leaving Seaton to fill in the rest himself. Like a good cop, Seaton listened expressionless and without comment. He was too ambitious to remark on it. Horton knew Seaton was single but didn’t know if he was in a relationship. In fact he knew nothing at all about the young PC. And now was not the time to discover it, he thought as they turned into the marina.
While Seaton enquired at the marina office for the location of Shawford’s boat, Horton stepped out of the car and walked down to the shore. He stared across the harbour at the ancient remains of Portchester Castle, trying to get his emotions under the iron control that he’d had to use as a child and teenager to shield himself from being hurt by others’ cruelty and carelessness, whether deliberate or accidental. If Emma was with Shawford then he had to make sure that she didn’t get upset or confused by any display of anger from him. He’d have to pretend that he didn’t mind. It wouldn’t be the first time and he knew it wouldn’t be the last.
He surveyed the scene before him as a distraction from dwelling too much on what he’d lost. Just beyond the castle, but completely hidden from view, was Willow Bank and its slipway where Shorena had been moored. It would have been easy enough to slip out into the harbour from there. His eyes swivelled to the right of the castle, taking in the masts of the yachts and dinghies at the Castle Sailing Club and beyond it the large boat sheds and more yacht masts. Also visible was a red and black funnel, which looked strangely out of place among the sailing boats.
He swung his gaze southwards but Seaton hailed him. A couple of minutes later they drew up in front of one of the pontoons. Their timing was perfect because as Horton climbed out, Shawford punched the release button on the bridgehead and stepped off the pontoon. And, as Horton noted with great relief, he was alone.
Shawford looked up, did a double-take before glancing back at his boat and then, scowling, snarled, ‘What do you want?’
‘A word.’
‘I’ll give you two. Bugger off.’ Shawford pressed the zapper on his key ring and the BMW clunked open.
Seaton quickly said, ‘We need you to help us with our enquiries, sir.’
Shawford started with surprise and eyed them nervously. ‘And they are?’ he said, heaving his sailing bag
into the boot.
His attempt at indifference didn’t quite ring true. Horton answered, ‘Luke Felton’s disappearance.’
‘Didn’t know he had.’
He was lying, of course. Horton said, ‘Strange that, seeing as he works for the same company as you.’
‘Doesn’t mean to say we’re bosom pals.’
‘But you gave him a lift on Tuesday evening at about six thirty.’
Shawford looked up and Horton saw surprise in the light grey eyes, and along with it something else, which looked to him like panic. Shawford turned away and pulled open the driver’s door. ‘So?’
Horton stepped closer and placed a firm hand on the open car door, forcing Shawford to press his body back against the car. Disguising his disgust behind the veneer of amiability that as a police officer he’d perfected over the years, Horton said, ‘We’ll get through this a lot quicker if you cooperate, sir.’ He stressed the last word, making it sound like a sneer, before adding in the same light manner, ‘You see, you might be the last person to have seen Luke Felton alive.’
Shawford’s head jerked back in surprise. ‘You mean he’s dead?’
‘Possibly. Now are you going to answer our questions or do I have to ask you to come to the station?’
Shawford licked his full lips nervously. ‘I saw him beside the road on Tuesday evening. I pulled over and asked if he’d like a lift.’
‘That was very chivalrous of you.’
‘I can do without your sarcasm,’ flashed Shawford.
‘And I can do without your lies,’ snapped Horton. ‘Why did you give him a lift?’
Shawford took a breath but didn’t speak. Horton could see his mind racing, obviously deciding exactly what and how much to tell them. The truth would be nice but Horton doubted he’d get it. He remained silent, keeping his eyes on Shawford, knowing it was only a matter of time and nerve before he cracked, but Seaton’s clear voice broke the heavy silence.
Footsteps on the Shore Page 12