'Doesn't play much music.' There were only a handful of CDs, mainly country and western. Some Horton liked and had in his own collection, which was still in his house. He wondered what Catherine had done with them? Probably packaged them up and stuck them in the garage knowing her, out of sight out of mind, which seems to be what she had done with him. 'I'll take a look in his study,' he said.
It was a poky room that could barely take the large old pedestal desk pushed up against the wall and which clashed with the style of the house. He wondered if Culven had downsized from a larger family home bringing with him some heirlooms, or perhaps his ex wife hadn't wanted these things?
He stood at the window to the right of the desk. Jarrett had removed the canvas cover from his motor cruiser, an expensive sleek Sunseeker Portofino 46. Did that mean he was going out for the day or just sun bathing on board? Neither was a crime. He could tackle him about the accident but Jarrett would only deny it. He turned away and sat down in the old leather swivel chair pulling open the desk drawers. Everything seemed to have been shoved in any old how. He picked up an address book and flicked through it, the usual: doctor, a couple of other names, perhaps relatives or friends, and his dentist. Underneath the address book were some bank statements. Horton made to pull them out when Cantelli called him.
'What is it?'
Horton found Cantelli in the lounge sitting on his haunches in front of a display cabinet that had little in it to display except some tired looking ornaments and a few dusty glasses; obviously Miss Filey's cleaning didn't extend this far. The cupboard doors at its base were open.
'Take a look at these,' Cantelli said, handing across two photographs he'd extracted from envelopes.
He could see by Cantelli's expression that he was excited. Horton stared at the man in the photographs feeling his own pulse beginning to race. He was tall, lean, with wispy, grey thinning hair and a rather bemused expression on his narrow face as though the person taking the picture had startled him. He was standing by a silver Mercedes. That had been one of the cars seen in the car park. The other photograph was of the same man on a small motorboat. It was a Sealine 25.
Horton looked across at Cantelli. 'Our victim? Or our killer?'
'That's not all.' Cantelli pulled himself up, smiling broadly. In his hand was a bundle of letters held together by a large paperclip. 'We might also have found our motive.'
H Horton looked at him speculatively.
'They're from Melissa Thurlow and they're not about growing fuchsias.'
CHAPTER 6
Culven's fingerprints matched those of their body on the beach. The forensic team went into Culven's house and officers were deployed to question the neighbours. Now they knew who the victim was the investigation could step up a gear. Uckfield was happy. He thought they might also have a suspect: Roger Thurlow.
Horton wasn't so sure. 'If he killed Culven then why not use his boat to make his escape? Why abandon it like that?'
'As a decoy to throw us off the scent,' Uckfield said. 'He certainly had the motive to kill Culven. He could have used his tender to take the body onto the beach and then dragged Culven along the stones out of the tide's reach.'
But that didn't tie up. 'Both Dr Clayton and Phil Taylor say that Culven was killed on the beach. Thurlow would hardly have needed to put him in his tender.'
'Perhaps Thurlow arranged to meet Culven on the beach, killed him and had his tender already there to make a quick get away after killing Culven.'
'OK. We'll talk to the Harbour Master and the Harbour Conservancy; they have regular night time patrols they might have seen or heard something. But if Thurlow did kill Culven, and then ditched his boat, he could be out of the country by now.' Or dead, Horton thought, reverting to his original theory. Thurlow could still have had an accident. Or maybe he had never made it back to the Free Spirit after killing Culven, which was more likely: navigating a small tender in the dark and fog would have been nigh on impossible even with hand held GPS.
Cantelli had been despatched to Melissa Thurlow to confront her about the letters and obtain a sample of her handwriting. Horton had sent a WPC with him. He didn't think that Melissa Thurlow would need comforting when she learned her lover was dead but two sets of eyes were better than one when it came to observing and gauging reaction. Meanwhile he decided to test out his aching legs and walk the half-mile to Frampton's Solicitors along the busy London Road, which led out of the city. He was quickly ushered into the managing partner's spacious office.
'It isn't like Michael not to show up for work without warning, especially in the middle of a case,' Frances Greywell said, waving him into a seat across her wide desk. Her oval face was serious beneath the short, sleek, bobbed hair and her dark eyes searched his for his reaction. When he gave none she continued, 'When he didn't show for work yesterday we thought he might be ill. He wasn't answering his phone. Then when I read about the body being found on the beach in last night's paper and that you were trying to trace the owner of a silver Mercedes, I spoke to the other partners this morning and we agreed to contact you.'
'So Tuesday was the last time you saw Mr Culven?'
'Yes. He left the office that evening just before me at seven o'clock.' She sat forward in the beige leather chair looking concerned. 'Can you tell me? Is Michael your body on the beach?'
'Yes. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything yet. We need to inform his relatives. I thought you might know who he named as next of kin.'
It was as if she hadn't heard him. 'Who could have done such a terrible thing? And to Michael? I can't believe it, inspector.'
'I'm sorry.'
She pushed a hand through her chestnut hair which swung back exactly into place just like Emma's he thought.
Frances Greywell said, 'It was murder?'
Horton nodded.
She let out a sigh and remained silent for a moment. Then visibly pulling herself together said crisply, 'Sorry, you wanted to know next of kin.' She picked up her telephone and punched in a number. 'Amanda, bring me Michael's personnel file please.'
Horton admired her efficiency. He expected it. Both her appearance and her office said crisp, professional, focused.
'What did Mr Culven do here?' he asked, wondering for a moment whether Ms Greywell and her firm would be a match for Catherine's solicitors if he decided to consult them. For the present he hadn't even opened that blasted letter. 'He is… was our company commercial partner specialising in corporate matters: employment law, management takeovers, mergers and acquisitions that kind of thing. He was clever, a very good lawyer.'
'What about his private life? Friends, hobbies, interests?' Did she know that her fellow partner had been having an affair and that he liked being caned? He doubted it. Why should she?
Frances Greywell pressed her well-manicured hands together to form a triangle as she considered his question. He could see she wore no wedding or engagement ring.
'He was a quiet man, not one for small talk but he did enjoy going out on his boat. It was one of the reasons he moved to Horsea Marina, after his mother died, so that he could have his own berth.'
'Was he married or has he ever been married?'
'Not as far as I'm aware. He once told me that he liked his freedom and independence.'
'Would you say he was attractive to women?'
'I'm sure some women would find him attractive but he wasn't my type.'
She smiled and Horton got the impression that she wanted him to ask her what her type was. He sidestepped that one.
'Has he ever been tempted? Anyone special, at any time?'
'I don't think so.'
The door opened after a perfunctory knock and a small, dark haired woman in her late twenties entered
