north but he hadn’t been discovered until one in the morning by two students staggering home after a night out in a club at the fashionable waterfront complex of Oyster Quays. On the house-to-house they’d drawn the ‘three monkeys’ syndrome: nobody had seen or heard anything and even if they had they certainly weren’t saying anything. The occupants in that part of town were as closed-mouthed as Woodley’s associates to the north. So what had Woodley been doing there? How had he got there? He didn’t have a car and none of the bus or taxi drivers questioned claimed to have seen him. His mates swore on all they held sacred, their plasma TVs and mobile phones, they hadn’t driven him there, but Horton didn’t set much store by that.
He halted at the traffic lights to Horsea Marina and thought back to the beginning of the investigation. He had believed Woodley had been at the pub to meet a fellow crook with a view to planning a job. Maybe the other villain hadn’t shown, or had decided that after telling Woodley his plans on a previous occasion he was too stupid to risk involving and thought it wiser to remove him from the scene. The weapon used on Woodley had most likely been a sap, more commonly known as a billy club or blackjack, and favoured by bouncers, street gangs, thugs, the military and the police. And although three-quarters of the station considered Woodley’s death retribution for all the harm he’d caused to innocent victims in his evil miserable life, and the other quarter said they’d willingly give the person who had attacked Woodley and left him for dead a medal for doing so, Horton knew that no police officer would go so far as to clobber him, or bother to transport him to the marshes to die. Horton’s money was on the villain. The blackjack was small enough to fit in a pocket and powerful enough to knock a man unconscious, which it had done. Whoever had attacked Woodley hadn’t finished the job, either because they never intended to or they were disturbed. That didn’t explain how Woodley had ended up dead at the marshes though.
The lights changed and Horton made for the motorway leading into the city. The other theory, one that Sergeant Cantelli had favoured, was that Woodley had been attacked by a mugger who had been disturbed before being able to rob him of the fifty pounds benefit money he had in his pocket. Horton recalled his conversations with Cantelli before the sergeant had gone on holiday. After Cantelli had consulted his wife, Charlotte, a nurse, he’d suggested that Woodley had staggered out of the hospital in a dazed and confused state, keen to go back to the time before the attack, a common factor in head-injury cases though they very rarely picked up their bed and walked. Once outside Woodley had been given a lift by a lorry or van driver or a passing sales rep to the marshes where he had passed out and died.
‘But why drop him at the marshes?’ Horton had asked.
‘Because whoever picked him up soon realized he was trouble and said that was as far as he was prepared to go,’ Cantelli had answered.
Then Sawyer had weighed in with his bright idea about Marty Stapleton being behind Woodley’s murder. As Horton pulled into the station car park, he thought that whichever theory might be correct, they seemed fated not to get a result on the case.
He made his way to the overheated CID operations room where he found DC Walters, perspiring and jacketless, munching his way through a packet of crisps staring at a computer screen. It smelt like the back of a bin lorry. God alone knew what Walters had been eating but Horton caught the faint smell of curry, vinegar and eggs, which turned his stomach over.
‘Don’t you ever open any windows,’ he said in exasperation, crossing to one on Walters’ right and pushing it wide. It made little difference. There was no wind and hardly any air.
‘Sorry, guv, got caught up watching these videos, trying to spot our metal thieves on the Hard,’ Walters replied with his mouth full. ‘Nothing doing. I’ve been sifting through the CCTV footage for so long that I wouldn’t spot a masked robber if he stood in front of the camera and waved at me. Extra patrols around the area would stand a much better chance of catching the buggers.’
And Horton had about as much hope of getting that as he did of being able to walk across the Solent to the Isle of Wight. It had started with the theft of a bronze statue from a garden in Old Portsmouth and a fountain from a nearby wine bar eighteen days ago. Five days later two memorial plaques had been taken from benches in the museum grounds and two days ago two brass plaques had been removed from the wall of St George’s Church, just off the Hard. It must have taken a hell of a lot of muscle not to mention noise but no one had seen or heard anything. The fact that there was no forced entry meant the thieves either had a key or an accomplice had let them in, or they’d entered the church during daylight hours when the door was unlocked. But no one had come forward after appeals in the local newspaper for witnesses. Uniform had interviewed the clergy and the regular parishioners without joy. It was hardly big time but the thieves were getting bolder and with the spiralling prices in metal, Horton knew it could escalate, as it had done in other cities across the country, and it might not be long before someone lost their life by trying to steal live cables from electricity pylons or cabling from the railways or the telephone company.
Walters said, ‘Uniform’s done the rounds of the licensed scrap-metal merchants but they all swear blind they’ve not bought any statues or plaques and they’re worried they’re going to be next in line to be targeted by the thieves.’
‘Contact the Environment Agency; see what intelligence they have on any illegal and unlicensed scrap yards.’
He relayed to Walters what had happened at Daryl Woodley’s funeral, which took two seconds and one word, ‘nothing’, and asked Walters to check out the vehicles Sholby and Hobbs had been driving when the video came over from Clarke. ‘Find out how long they’ve had the cars, where they bought them and how they paid. Check if there is any finance on them. I doubt even they’d be stupid enough to drive stolen cars to a funeral, but you never know your luck.’
Horton pushed open his office door wishing that Cantelli wasn’t on holiday. DCI Bliss had only grudgingly let the sergeant go after Horton had lied saying he was needed in Italy for a big family celebration. Cantelli had said, ‘I only hope she doesn’t decide to go camping in the New Forest.’ Knowing Bliss’s desire for status and her almost pathological obsession with neatness, cleanliness and order, Horton thought camping was the last thing their CID boss would ever dream of doing.
His office was like an oven. Wrenching back the blinds he shoved the window open as wide as it would go but only the sounds of bad-tempered traffic filtered in. Slinging his jacket on the back of his chair his hand brushed against the letter in the pocket. For the last hour he’d forgotten about it. He had no need to read it again. Every word was ingrained on his mind. In six weeks’ time he and Catherine would be officially divorced. The decree absolute would be granted and his twelve-year marriage would be finally and legally over.
His eyes flicked to the photograph on his paper-strewn desk of his eight-year-old daughter and his heart felt heavy. He desperately wanted to spend more time with her but now that she was at boarding school that looked less likely than ever. And Catherine seemed determined to keep them apart during the school holidays.
He turned to stare out of the window seeing nothing but the day spent with Emma last Friday with a brief smile which turned to a scowl as the memory of how it had ended encroached on his thoughts. Catherine had agreed to reasonable contact time, only her idea of reasonable was turning out to be different to his. One day at the beginning of the half-term holiday was not enough. And it had not been what they’d agreed. Catherine had conveniently found a reason to take their daughter away from him yet again. At Christmas it had been with her parents to their villa in Cyprus. At Easter it had been a holiday with one of Catherine’s friends and last week she and Emma had gone sailing to the Channel Islands on Catherine’s father’s yacht. He’d protested. Catherine had accused him of being unreasonable in trying to deprive Emma of her grandparents and vice-versa.
‘Have you ever stopped to consider how you’re depriving me,’ he’d hissed, not wanting to upset Emma, who was climbing into Catherine’s car.
‘Emma loves her grandparents. And they deserve to see her. She and they were all we had when you were too busy getting drunk.’
He’d been stung to retort, ‘If you had stood by me during my suspension instead of believing those ridiculous rape allegations I might not needed to have got drunk!’
‘That’s it, blame me. If all you can do is argue and shout when I collect Emma then it’s obviously for the best that she doesn’t come very often.’ Catherine had turned towards the car but Horton had grabbed her. She’d spun round and he’d seen the glint in her eyes. God! He’d played right into her hands. As though stung he’d let her go. With a supreme effort, though his gut was churning with fury, he had leant into the open car window and kissed his daughter, forcing a smile. He didn’t look at Catherine again.
‘I’m glad you’ve got time to gaze out of the window, Inspector.’
Horton spun round to find DCI Bliss on the threshold. Dressed in her customary black skirt and white blouse,
