berth but Culven's was empty and, from what Horton could see, there were no mooring lines lying on the ground. Culven could, of course, have taken the lines with him on his boat — if he had one — and if it hadn't conflicted with the fact that he'd hardly go sailing in the middle of one of his cases.
Miss Filey said, 'About a year. I come in twice a week. Mondays and Thursdays. Not that it needs much cleaning. He keeps it tidy like.'
Horton could see that. The lime oak kitchen with its shiny appliances looked as though it had come straight out of the showroom. 'Then you would have been here today.' It was a bit late for a cleaner he thought, one o'clock, but maybe she usually came in during the afternoons, or at any time to suit her.
She looked at him suspiciously. 'Yeah, I was just on my way here when you lot showed up at my flat. Nosy bugger neighbours will think I've been nicked.'
'We saved you the bus fare then. Did you see Mr Culven on Monday?'
'No.'
'So when was the last time you saw him?' Horton added, when clearly she wasn't going to be forthcoming.
'As it happens I never sees him. Well, hardly ever. He's gone to work when I come in.'
'How does he pay you?'
'Leaves me money on the breakfast top there, don't he, not that it's worth the bother. Tight fisted old git, minimum wage like it or lump it. Typical bloody lawyer always telling you they're hard up and then charges you a fortune if you so much as fart in their presence.'
Horton couldn't have put it better himself but her words served to remind him that soon he'd have to consult a lawyer. 'When does he pay you?'
'Every Thursday like.' He saw her looking round. 'And it's not here. Well if he thinks I'm going to clean for nothing then he can think again. '
'Miss Filey,' he called out sternly, as she was about to march out.
She stopped, sighed and turned round. 'Now what?'
'Was your money here last Thursday?'
'Yeah, why shouldn't it be? Look what's this all about? He done a bunk with some old bag's money?'
'When did you last see Mr Culven?' he asked wearily.
'I dunno, must be about three weeks ago. He had a morning off or something.'
'Is he married?'
'What him?'
'What do mean?'
'You obviously haven't met him. If you ask me, he's one of them, you know what I mean.' She raised her eyebrows.
'A homosexual?'
'Yeah. Not that I've got anything against them, mind. Not if they keeps themselves to themselves but they don't, do they? They have to keep on ramming it down your throat like.'
Cantelli, returning from his quick initial inspection upstairs, overheard the last remark, spluttered and quickly turned it into a cough. She looked at him as if he'd grown two heads. 'What's up with him?'
'He's not been well. Have you ever seen any evidence of a man living or staying here, Miss Filey?'
'No, can't say I have. But a man wot lives alone, and don't have no female friends, well he's gotta be a bit weird, hasn't he?'
She'd just described him! Maybe like him Culven didn't live alone by choice. Perhaps somewhere there was an ex Mrs Culven. 'I've got to get back. Here's the key.' She thrust it at him. 'You can bring it back for me for Monday, if I've still got a job to come to and you buggers haven't banged him up.'
She didn't seem to care if they had, he thought. She flounced out, the cheeks of her neat backside showing just beneath her tight shorts. The door slammed behind her. The patrol car would drop her back home.
'Right little madam, that one,' Cantelli said.
Horton pulled on his latex gloves. 'Find anything upstairs?'
He opened the fridge. It was well stocked so Culven had had no intention of disappearing. He sniffed but nothing seemed to have gone off so he couldn't have been gone long. There was also bread in the wooden bread bin, which wasn't mouldy, and plenty of tins in the cupboards.
'There's some dirty washing in the linen basket in the bathroom, usual medicines in the cabinet; looks like he suffers from migraine and indigestion.'
'And he likes microwave dinners.' Horton pushed his foot on the pedal bin and peered inside. 'Check the garage. That looks like the key on the hook over there.'
Cantelli lifted it from the corner cupboard and disappeared into the hall. Horton had found the key to the patio doors in one of the drawers and stepped out into the courtyard. A hot humid breeze did nothing to cool the temperature but instead seemed to suck in all the air. The sky was like a field of pale blue flax. The sun glinted off the sea so that it sparkled like a million pieces of shattered glass. He hoped to God that this time they'd found their victim and that this wasn't going to be one of those frustrating cases. The first few days in an investigation were vital and if they couldn't even identify their victim then they wouldn't be able to begin to understand the profile of their killer or the motive.
Cantelli returned with a shake of his head. 'No car, just usual stuff: some tools, a sun lounger, a couple of old chairs and packing cases. I couldn't see anything inside them but I didn't like to touch too much in case Culven's our victim.'
Horton stepped back inside and followed Cantelli up the stairs to the middle floor. A swift tour showed him a lounge with a balcony overlooking the marina, a small dining room, a room that Culven clearly used as a study, and a toilet and shower room. There were no pictures on the magnolia-painted walls and no mirrors. Clearly Culven was not interested in his environment, neither was he vain.
'Looks like he's just moved in,' Cantelli said.
'He's been here a year at least, according to the delectable Miss Filey.'
'Not the homely sort then.'
But I am, or rather I was, Horton thought with bitterness. Living with Catherine and Emma had been the first real home he'd had. After being raised in children's homes and then shoved from foster parent to foster parent he thought he had found utopia.
He pushed open the plate glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony, trying to push away unhappy memories. Here he had a better view of the boats in the marina; he could look down on them spread out in neat rows behind their pontoons until he could see, in the distance, the lock gates. On the other side of the marina there were more houses and apartments. To his left was the Boardwalk and beyond that towards the lock, the chandlery and yacht club.
Cantelli said, 'Didn't Mrs Thurlow say her old man's boat is kept here?'
'Yes and the DCI's.' He broke off as his eyes alighted on a man walking down one of the pontoons. He couldn't mistake that figure or that face, now minus its sticking plaster. He watched Jarrett climb aboard a large motor cruiser and disappear from sight. It appeared he was alone.
'Come on let's take a look around.' He turned abruptly hoping Cantelli hadn't seen Jarrett. The warning from Uckfield wasn't going to put him off confronting Jarrett but he didn't want to involve Cantelli, or put him in a position where he might have to lie to cover up for him. The sergeant had enough on his plate.
Cantelli began poking about the videos and DVDs in a bookcase. Horton scanned the room with its faded furniture, which looked as though it had come as a job lot from a second-hand shop. The pale blue Dralon sofa had threads hanging loose from it. A single chair of the same material was placed at an angle in front of the television and, judging by its state, was the one that Culven favoured of a night as he sat eating his TV dinners. Horton got the impression of a sad, lonely man who'd either given up on life, or who was too mean to refurnish his new home.
He crossed to the bookcase to the left of the fireplace. 'Interesting reading matter,' he said, craning his neck at the various titles haphazardly placed: Robert Jordan and Terry Brooks, Witch War by James Clemens, and Stephen King. 'Fantasy and horror.'
'His videos and DVDs look the same. He's awfully keen on Emma Peel by the looks of it. Man's gone up in my estimation.'
