Footsteps on the Shore

by Pauline Rowson

  She glared at him. ‘No,’ she snapped.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I have never let him do anything like that,’ she spat. ‘And if you think I’d do anything to upset or expose Emma then you’re mad.’

  Horton saw the fury in her eyes and along with it was fear, because she knew what he was leaving unspoken. He didn’t have to threaten her with what the courts would make of it. Catherine wasn’t stupid. Again thoughts of the boarding school sprang to Horton’s mind. It might save Emma from being exposed to her mother’s boyfriends.

  Crisply he said, ‘There’s a prospective parents’ evening at Northover School next Saturday.’ He recalled what the headmistress had told him: tea, a tour of the school, a chance to meet the teachers and the pupils, and the opportunity to ask questions. ‘I suggest we both be there with Emma.’

  ‘I . . .’ She made to protest then gave a curt nod.

  ‘And it’s Emma’s decision whether she goes or not. Isn’t it?’ he insisted, when she glared, tight-lipped, at him. ‘And if she wants to go I will pay her school fees.’

  Again she nodded.

  He turned and walked swiftly to the door. He could hear her following. At the door he turned to face her. ‘Just be careful who you sleep with next time.’

  The door slammed on him. He was surprised to find he was shaking slightly. He rode into Petersfield and bought a coffee, hoping it would calm his jangling nerves and soothe his inner turmoil. Three cups later he found he was ready to return to work, and that meant talking to ex-Superintendent Duncan Chawley about Natalie Raymonds.

  THIRTEEN

  Removing his helmet, Horton stared up at the address Trueman had given him, thinking the former superintendent had done well for himself. The modern, two-storey brick-built house, with neat blinds at the windows and a sturdy enclosed porch tacked on to the front, was set in landscaped grounds of about two acres amid rolling fields on the borders of West Sussex and Hampshire. To the left, and attached to the property, was a single-storey brick-built extension with a large double-glazed bay window, and to Horton’s right was a detached double garage block.

  His observations were curtailed by the sound of a car pulling up behind him and he turned to see a silver Saab convertible draw to a halt. A man in his late thirties with cropped black hair and a sun-weathered complexion climbed out. He studied Horton with a wary frown. Horton noted the chinos, deck shoes and red sailing jacket. This was so obviously not Duncan Chawley that either Trueman had given him an old address, which was highly unlikely, or this man was related to Duncan Chawley.

  ‘Can I help?’ the man asked in a well-modulated voice, but with a hint of suspicion.

  ‘Are you the occupant?’

  ‘Yes, and you are?’

  Horton introduced himself with a show of his warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Mr Duncan Chawley.’

  ‘He’s my father. I’m Gavin Chawley.’

  Horton took the outstretched hand, returning the firm grip. ‘Why do you want him? Only my father’s not well,’ Chawley said with concern.

  ‘I need to talk to him about one of his old cases. It is important,’ Horton pressed, wondering what was wrong with Duncan Chawley.

  ‘Then you’d better come in.’

  Horton stepped into a porch, where Chawley hung his jacket before entering a large hall. He offered to take Horton’s leather jacket and was hanging it up when a blonde woman hurried towards them with an anxious look on what must once have been a pretty face, thought Horton, but now looked jaded. She froze, somewhat startled at Horton’s appearance.

  ‘He’s a policeman,’ Chawley explained. ‘He’s come to talk to Dad. This is my wife, Julia.’

  The woman tossed Horton a shy smile before addressing her husband. ‘Is it OK if I take the children out now, Gavin? Only we’re late. They’re going to a friend’s birthday party,’ she explained to Horton, again with that hesitant smile. From the lines around her eyes and mouth, Horton thought she looked too tired for birthday parties. He wondered how many children the Chawleys had, maybe several, though he couldn’t hear any.

  Gavin Chawley gave his wife a smile and a nod and she slid past them and up the stairs.

  ‘My wife and I take it in turns to go out at the weekends, because of Dad’s illness,’ Chawley explained, leading Horton through the tiled hall into a sunny and expansive modern kitchen and breakfast room at the back of the house. ‘It puts rather a strain on things.’

  And just as he’d seen the strain on Julia Chawley’s faded features, Horton now noticed them on Gavin Chawley’s more rugged ones.

  ‘It’s particularly hard on Julia,’ Chawley continued, ‘because she’s at home with Dad and the children all week. I try to relieve her at weekends but it’s not always possible. It’s not that we resent it,’ he added hastily. ‘It’s just difficult sometimes, particularly with the children at that age when they need to go to classes and friends’ parties. My mother died some years ago and when Dad got ill we had an extension built so that he could live with us. He hates being dependent and I can’t say I blame him; I’d hate it too, especially when he’s always been such a fit and independent man. Did you know him before he retired in 2001?’

  ‘I’d met him but I didn’t work with him.’

  Gavin smiled. ‘He had quite a reputation. If you wait here a moment I’ll see if he’s up to speaking to you.’

  Horton gazed around the kitchen but there wasn’t anything much to see, so he crossed to the glazed doors which gave on to a patio and immaculately tidy, almost regimentally landscaped gardens, which seemed to stretch on for ever. The daffodils were tossing about in the light March wind and slowly setting sun. He’d go for a run tonight; a blast of sea air would help to banish those visions of Shawford and Catherine.

  Craning his neck to his right he saw the children’s swings and climbing frame and thought he’d give anything to push Emma on a swing. He heard the children’s voices, then the front door closing. A door led off the kitchen to his right. He made towards it when Gavin Chawley returned.

  ‘My father said he’d be pleased to talk to you, Inspector, but he tires very quickly, so please don’t be too long.’

  Horton assured him he wouldn’t. Gavin Chawley led him through a utility room to a door, which he knocked on before opening, and Horton stepped into a sweltering hot but comfortably furnished lounge with wide patio doors overlooking the expansive grounds. The room had the smell of sickness and death about it and the thin, bald man sitting in the reclining chair did too. He bore no resemblance to the healthy, vibrant man Horton remembered, or to the slick, clever copper with superb eloquence. Horton couldn’t help thinking, what a sad end for the detective with a reputation like a razor.

  As Gavin Chawley announced him, Horton could see what was ailing ex-Superintendent Chawley; no one was that yellow. It had to be a liver disease.

  ‘Will you be all right, Dad?’ Gavin said anxiously.

  ‘Of course. For heaven’s sake stop fussing,’ his father sniped.

  Horton watched Gavin silently slip out of the room. He couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for him. OK, so it wasn’t nice being an invalid and dependent on others, but it was also a thankless task being the carer of an embittered and ungrateful one.

  Duncan waved him into a seat.

  ‘Luke Felton’s gone AWOL,’ Horton said without preamble. ‘He’s been let out on licence.’

  ‘Bloody typical. I take it you’re here in the hope I can tell you where to find him?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Horton tried hard not to mop his perspiring brow or be shocked at such a change in the former police officer. He had no idea how old Chawley was but he guessed about mid to late sixties, only he looked more like mid eighties.

  ‘Sorry to disappoint. I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You remember the case, sir?’

  ‘Can hardly forget what he did to that young woman.’

  Horton could hear the anger in his voice
. The case had obviously touched a nerve, as was still apparent after all these years. But then he knew some cases affected you like that more than others. He tugged at his shirt, which was already sticking to his back. ‘Did Luke Felton know Natalie Raymonds?’

  ‘No. We checked right back to kindergarten. No connection whatsoever between them. The poor girl just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  Horton nodded. ‘And Luke Felton happened to be on that coastal path on that day. Why?’

  ‘No idea. He never said because his brains were scrambled by the drugs. Does it matter?’ Chawley asked, eyeing Horton keenly.

  ‘I guess not. It’s just one of those points that bug me. I expect you know what that’s like, sir.’

  He saw Chawley digest this. After a moment he said with a frown, ‘It bugged me too, and Felton couldn’t tell us. We could only assume he’d arranged to meet a dealer, who either didn’t show, or legged it after handing Felton his stuff. There were no signs of anyone else having been at the scene around Natalie’s body, except for the dog walker who found her. And we didn’t trace anyone on that path at the time of her death, although there was one witness who saw Felton.’

  ‘Peter Bailey.’

  Chawley looked surprised, then nodded knowingly. ‘You’ve been reading the file.’

  ‘Was he reliable?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’ Chawley eyed him with suspicion. ‘This sounds more than trying to find a killer who’s gone AWOL. Are you reinvestigating the case?’

  ‘No,’ Horton said hastily. ‘I thought Luke Felton might have known someone on Hayling Island from that time and that’s where we’d find him.’ He didn’t see any need to tell Chawley about a possible connection with Venetia Trotman’s murder.

  He could see that Chawley didn’t believe him. But it was partly the truth. Horton wasn’t reopening the case; he had no authority or need to do so. And Felton could have nothing to do with Venetia Trotman. He might still have been headhunted for a job or left the area for one, as Cantelli had posed. Or he could be hanging out with some old junkie mates. Or lying dead somewhere having been killed by a dealer.

  He said, ‘How did Felton get to Hayling?’

  Chawley took a few breaths before answering. ‘No one on the buses recognized him and we checked the trains to the nearest station, the same. There were no sightings of him walking from the railway station to the coastal path. All we can assume is that someone gave him a lift, either this dealer who handed over the drugs just across the bridge on to the island and then kicked him out of the car, or someone he knew. Otherwise he must have hitched a lift, just as he must have done leaving the scene of the crime, and the driver went on somewhere not knowing what Felton had done. I put out an appeal but no one came forward, except Peter Bailey.’

  ‘Could Bailey have been mistaken and Felton caught the ferry from Portsmouth to Hayling?’

  But Chawley was shaking his head. ‘Checked. The ferry master didn’t take Felton across. Felton’s DNA was on Natalie’s body, and her blood was on his clothes. He couldn’t remember killing her but he listened to his lawyer, thank God, pleaded guilty while under the influence of drugs and saved us all a lot of time, not to mention the taxpayer a great deal of money. Pity they didn’t lock him up and throw away the key. Scum like that are a waste of breath,’ he added with bitterness.

  His words reminded Horton of Neil and Olivia Danbury, who clearly shared the same opinion. Horton didn’t see there was much more to be gained here. ‘Did Julian Raymonds’ alibi check out?’

  Chawley eyed Horton suspiciously. ‘Yes. Witnesses knee deep came forward to say he was selling boats at the boat show all day and propping up the bar in a nearby hotel until the small hours of the morning. There was no hint of any marital problems between him and Natalie and nothing to suggest he hired someone to kill his wife. And before you ask, we found no evidence that Natalie Raymonds was playing the field either.’

  And that seemed to be that. Horton thanked him for his time and stretched out a hand. Chawley’s grip was still firm. Releasing his hand, Chawley said, ‘Let me know when you find Felton.’

  Horton promised he would and, feeling sad that Chawley had come to this, found his son Gavin waiting a little anxiously in the kitchen with a mug in his hand.

  ‘Was my father able to help you?’ he asked, putting the mug down carefully on the sink drainer and escorting Horton back to the hall.

  ‘He cleared up a couple of questions. Does he ever talk about his cases?’

  ‘No. When he retired he said that’s it. He wasn’t one of those policemen who have an urge to write their memoirs, or dwell on the past. Will you need to come back?’ Chawley asked anxiously.

  ‘Only when we find Luke Felton. Your father asked to be kept informed,’ he added quickly as Gavin Chawley looked concerned.

  ‘I remember him, or rather the case. Dad was very obsessed by it, but then he was like that with every major investigation. He loved the job. Lived, ate and breathed it.’

  The comment caused Horton an uncomfortable jolt at the memory of Catherine’s angry words, You think more of that bloody job than you do of me. Had it been true? Well, stuff it, the job was all he had, and a daughter who he wasn’t going to give up at any cost.

  He returned to the station mulling over what Duncan Chawley had told him, seeing again in his mind the gaunt, yellowing figure of the former detective superintendent and finding it difficult to rid himself of the smell of sickness. He reckoned they would never know why Felton had been on the coastal path that day, because even when or if they found him he wouldn’t remember. And it didn’t really matter anyway. That case was closed. The Venetia Trotman one was wide open, unless there had been any new developments.

  Uckfield said not. There was no sign of Dennings in the incident suite, so Horton assumed he must still be with the team digging up Venetia Trotman’s garden although it was now dark.

  ‘You got any more on this Luke Felton?’ Uckfield asked. ‘Because Trueman’s not getting very far with proving a connection between him and the victim, or Felton being pally with any inmates or ex cons.’

  Swiftly Horton told Uckfield about Shawford giving Luke Felton a lift to the castle, but said nothing about his subsequent interview with the man and his trip to Petersfield. He finished by adding, ‘I’ve applied for a warrant to search Shawford’s boat, maybe he’s lying and took Felton there, but that might just be my suspicious mind working overtime.’

  ‘And the fact you hate his guts.’

  ‘The feeling’s mutual.’

  ‘Shawford giving Felton a lift doesn’t connect him with Venetia Trotman.’

  ‘I know, but it is the last sighting of Felton, and in the vicinity of the victim. I’ll take a look around there tomorrow with Cantelli. PC Seaton’s also going to ask around in the area.’

  Uckfield sniffed. ‘I’ll wait to see if we get anything from the search of Shawford’s boat before questioning him.’

  Horton addressed Trueman. ‘Any news on the key found in the victim’s hand?’

  ‘It opens a portable locker, the type that’s sold in any hardware store or on line. I’ll be able to check suppliers tomorrow. We might be able to find out where and when it was bought but that probably won’t get us much further.’

  No wonder Uckfield looked so bad-tempered, thought Horton, returning to his office, and even Trueman looked glum. Clearly it was one of those frustrating cases that looked set to drag on. Horton hoped the disappearance of Luke Felton wasn’t going to be the same.

  He glanced at the clock and saw it was too late to do more tonight. Heading for the boat there was no sign of anyone following him, but then why should his graffiti artist bother to do that when he knew where he lived? His mind returned to Shawford. He’d given them a lead and tomorrow they would see where it took them. And in a week’s time, he thought with a smile, he’d get to be with his daughter.

  FOURTEEN

  Monday, 16 March

&nb
sp; ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ Cantelli said.

  Horton stared across the moat at the flint walls of the Roman castle and agreed. It was.

  ‘We brought the kids here last summer,’ Cantelli added, falling into step beside Horton as they headed eastwards towards the shore, keeping the castle wall on their right. ‘Marie was doing the Romans at school. Did you know that the earliest Roman fortification was built here between 285 and 290 AD and the first Norman castle in 1086?’

  ‘I’m more interested in what Luke Felton was doing here last Tuesday,’ Horton replied.

  ‘Philistine,’ Cantelli joked. ‘Have you no feel for history?’

  Too much, Horton thought, but of his own rather than any Roman soldier stationed here in a perishing north-easterly watching for marauders in Portsmouth Harbour. To his left was a picnic area and beyond that a path that led northwards along the shore. He could hear the drone of the cars on the motorway, about four miles to the north, even though the wind was in the opposite direction.

  Cantelli continued. ‘Being so close to the harbour the castle was also a great favourite of the medieval kings. King John was a regular visitor, Henry the First stayed here before travelling to France and Henry the Second made several visits in 1163 and 1164.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were a historian,’ Horton rejoined with a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘I have hidden depths. For example, I also know that Henry the Fifth sailed from Portchester Castle in 1415 for the Battle of Agincourt, and Queen Elizabeth the First was a guest at the castle in 1601.’

  Horton threw him a pitying glance. Cantelli grinned. ‘I know, not the kind of useful background you had in mind. Still, you never know when it might come in handy.’

  ‘I doubt Luke Felton came here to soak up the castle’s history.’ But what did he come for? Was it more than a coincidence that Luke had wanted to be taken to the same location as where the murdered woman lived?

  Cantelli slipped a fresh piece of chewing gum into his mouth before turning up his jacket collar against a stiff breeze that was blowing up Portsmouth Harbour. ‘Must have been a bit draughty for those Roman soldiers in their skirts and sandals.’