PACE at him. He entered the youth's flat. It was filthy. It smelt of dirt, tobacco smoke, sweat and urine and he made sure to be careful where he trod. Discarded take-away trays littered the two-bedroom hovel along with heaps of clothing, newspapers and cigarette ends. There were pornographic magazines on the bed, along with some items of girls' clothing and numerous beer and lager cans.
He crossed to the television and switched it off feeling a sense of sadness. Such a waste. Mason, he guessed, was beyond helping; perhaps he didn't have the brains, or perhaps he'd never been given a chance like he had. Horton's last foster parents had been the saving of him, the only couple who had recognised a young frightened boy, whose frustration at not being understood had found an outlet in violence. But even then, as Horton surveyed this despicable room, he knew his violence had never spilled over on to others, only inanimate objects and sometimes himself. He had also been the opposite of this; obsessively tidy and clean, controlling his environment and, as he grew older, controlling his body through physical exercise, fearful that if he let go, if he showed he cared, he'd be punished or hurt.
He'd come a long way since then and had finally learned to love only to have that denied him. His body went rigid. He told himself that he was strong, that he needed no one, it helped a little but inside him he knew it wasn't true and never would be.
'You all right, sir?' Marsden's voice broke through his thoughts.
He spun round. Yes, he was all right. He had to be. What other choice was there? 'Let's get back and see what the little scum bag has to say for himself.'
CHAPTER 7
Two hours later Horton and Cantelli were sitting in the corner of a dinghy pub near the police station. Horton was washing the taste of Stevie Mason from his throat with a large diet coke and Cantelli was thawing out with a non alcoholic lager after a spell in Mrs Thurlow's greenhouse.
'I felt like Humphrey Bogart in The Big Sleep,' Cantelli said. 'My shirt's only just drying out.'
'Mrs Thurlow didn't try and sit in your lap while you were standing?' Horton said, recalling one of the most famous lines from the film.
Cantelli grinned. 'No, and I didn't come across Lauren Bacall either, more's the pity. When I told Melissa that the dead man was Michael Culven she looked surprised but not upset. She knew he was her husband's solicitor and that's about it, or so she says.'
'You believe her?'
Cantelli sipped his drink as he thought for a moment. 'I don't know. She strenuously denies any affair and when I said her husband could have killed Culven in a jealous rage I thought she was going to burst a blood vessel laughing. Yeah, the ice lady melted. She insists that she hardly knew Culven, had only met him a couple of times. She appeared to be telling the truth, but how could she be with those letters?'
In front of them were copies of Melissa Thurlow's handwriting and the letters she had written to Michael Culven. Horton gazed at them. To him the handwriting was identical but he was no expert. It was being checked out by those who were. They already knew there were only Culven's fingerprints on the love letters. But what about in Culven's house?
They could lift Mrs Thurlow's fingerprints from the photograph of her husband that she'd given them earlier but her prints might not be the only ones on it, discounting Horton's and Cantelli's, so tomorrow an officer would go out to Briarly House to take her fingerprints and then they'd see if they matched any in Culven's house. It was too early to say how many sets of prints there were in Culven's house but Horton didn't envy the officer taking Miss Filey prints.
Cantelli said, 'She claims they're forgeries.'
'Then they're bloody good ones.'
'I challenged her about not being concerned over her husband's disappearance. She said that sitting inside the house weeping and wailing was not her style.'
Horton could believe that. 'Where was she on Tuesday night?'
'At home, alone, except for the dog.'
'Pity he can't talk then.'
'And there's something else…'
Horton waited.
'She didn't answer the door so I walked around the side of the house, past the garage. Inside was a dark blue Ford.'
The same make and colour of a car seen in the car park the night Culven was killed. Cantelli said, 'I made a note of the registration number.'
The door opened and Uckfield scanned the dim interior. Spotting them he made a cupped gesture with his right hand, Horton nodded, Cantelli shook his head and rose.
'I'll leave you to brief the DCI. I'd like to get home, unless there's anything else.'
'No. Give my love to Charlotte, and Barney… good luck with Ellen.'
Uckfield put a pint of diet coke and half a bitter on the small round table. 'The letters?' he asked, after taking a long draught at his HSB, the local brew.
Horton pushed them over and glanced down at one of them again as he considered Cantelli's feedback.
I can't give up my home and garden and I don't want to, darling. If I can only get Roger to agree to leave. I'm working on it but he has become so unpredictable that I am growing concerned. Oh not about me but for him.
Roger is drinking too much. I've begged him to see a doctor but of course he won't. When he's drunk he is more violent than ever and, darling, I am getting really worried. He's threatening all sorts of things against you. I don't think he'll actually do anything, you know Roger, all talk, but we must be careful. I've told him our affair is over. It's the only way to stop him. Be patient my love. We'll do as we agreed, we must stick to that no matter what.
Horton looked up leaving Uckfield to flick through the rest of the letters. A couple of middle-aged men in ill- fitting suits lingered over their drinks, their backsides spread over the narrow stools, the seats of their trousers shiny with wear. An old man peered at him from the far corner through rheumy eyes and a gnomelike woman with frizzled grey hair and hunched shoulders, sucked on a cigarette, like a baby sucking on its bottle, as she avariciously fed coins into a games machine that had been rigged rarely to pay out.
Political correctness and good taste had by passed this pub; it stank of cigarette smoke and chip fat. There was a large blackboard in the far right hand corner of the bar that advertised Karaoke and curry night on Thursdays. It was the nearest pub to the station, and its style and age were in sharp contrast to the newly built hotel and high technology business centre, with its units to rent by the hour and day. It served one of the poorest parts of Portsmouth, the mean little terraced houses and high rise flats. Horton knew the area well. He'd lived here once with his mother before she had abandoned him.
Uckfield sat back. 'What does she say?'
Horton relayed Cantelli's conversation with her but as he did he saw Uckfield's attention wander to two girls entering the bar. Horton frowned following his gaze. The girls were in their early twenties, one bottle blonde with lank hair, a pasty complexion and skinny white legs underneath a tight micro skirt, the other dark, with rolls of fat and a tattoo showing between the gap in her tight Lycra trousers and skimpy T-shirt.
'I'll take the blonde one,' Uckfield said, as the girls glanced over at them. Horton saw them giggle. He scowled. 'Just joking,' Uckfield said. 'You used to have a sense of humour.'
'I used to have a lot of things,' Horton quipped. Then added quickly before Uckfield could comment further, 'Cantelli saw a dark blue Ford in Melissa Thurlow's garage.'
'A clandestine meeting between her and Culven?'
Uckfield's eyes once again swivelled to the girls and it made Horton wonder if Uckfield ever played away from home? If he did then he was a bloody fool and didn't know when he was well off. He recalled an almost forgotten conversation he'd had with Steve the night he had first met Alison Uckfield. 'I'm going to pull her and secure my chances of promotion into the bargain.' A year later he had married the chief constable's daughter.
He said a little stiffly, 'Why meet her lover and then kill him? That doesn't make any sense. Anyway there are
