hundreds of dark blue Fords about, it might have no bearing on the case at all.'
Uckfield nodded at Walters and a couple of other officers who had just entered the pub. 'I didn't say, good work on Evans' stabbing.'
'Marsden deserves the credit for that. I told you he was bright.'
'I hear Mason came at you with a knife and you disarmed him.'
Horton shrugged. 'All in the line of duty as they say. Mason wasn't very forthcoming at first but Somerfield managed to get Westover to talk. When he knew we had Mason in custody he confessed to knowing him and buying ecstasy from him for the party. He didn't expect Mason to show up there but when he did he couldn't chuck him out. Westover's parents are having a blue fit.'
Uckfield sighed. 'Yeah, it's hard to believe what your kids are up to sometimes. I'd skin my two girls alive if I found out they'd been mixing with the likes of Stevie Mason.'
And me, thought Horton if it happened to Emma, but he knew how easy it was for them to succumb to peer pressure. How did you stop them, short of locking them up? He couldn't help thinking of Cantelli and his daughter Ellen. Uckfield's eyes wandered again to the girls who were very conscious of his glances.
Horton said, 'Once Mason knew that Westover had grassed on him he admitted the drugs but said he didn't stab Evans.'
'And you believe him?'
'Do I believe in alien life forms?'
'Only if they come in the shape and form of toe rags like Mason.'
Horton smiled. 'He did it all right; we just have to get enough evidence now to prove it. I think we will. Somerfield and Marsden are continuing to work on witness statements.'
'One down, another one to go. Be nice if we could clear up Culven's murder before my promotion panel, do us both a bit of good.'
Horton silently agreed. 'Well we've got a week; we'll get him, Steve.' I'll make damn sure I do, Horton thought. 'I've instigated a check on Culven's land line and his mobile phone calls, and I've applied for a warrant to go through Culven's client files but I'll focus on the connection with Thurlow for now, until he or something better shows up. I want to take a look at Thurlow's boat and talk to his staff tomorrow.'
'Good.' Uckfield drained his glass. 'I'd better be heading home we've got the in laws coming over for dinner. I'll brief Reg on the investigation.'
Uckfield hesitated for a moment as if trying to make up his mind to speak. When he did Horton almost wished he hadn't. 'Alison saw Catherine yesterday.'
'Oh?' Horton tried to look unconcerned but he didn't know if he succeeded. His heart skipped a beat as he thought of his wife and he felt his body tense.
'She thinks Catherine is seeing someone; it was just one or two remarks that she made. Andy, it was bound to happen. She's an attractive woman. And she thinks the marriage is over.' 'Right,' Horton replied. It was all he could do to get that word out. He stared straight ahead seeing nothing, hearing nothing. He tried to concentrate all his energy on remaining calm but it was almost impossible. A great searing fury assailed him.
'You OK? Andy?'
Horton forced himself to look at Uckfield. With a supreme effort he pulled himself up. 'Yeah,' he said keeping his voice steady, amazed he could even speak. Through the pain of rejection he registered Uckfield's concerned expression but felt only hatred.
'Look, I'd stay for a couple of drinks, only I can't…' Uckfield snatched a glance at his watch. 'I'm late. Some other time, eh? We'll go out on a blinder.'
Horton moved his mouth so that it resembled a smile. 'Yeah, some other time.'
He walked out with Uckfield and watched him climb into his car. With a toot he drove off. The hatred he had felt sitting in the pub and staring at Uckfield didn't abate but churned his gut. Uckfield had everything, a wife, family, home. And what did he have? A Harley Davidson and an old boat.
But it wasn't Uckfield he should hate he thought as he turned away. He had to concentrate his fury in the right place. He had to get even with whoever it was had wrecked his life. But he seemed no further forward with his investigations into Alpha One and Colin Jarrett. Still, patience, he urged himself. There had to be something in those files and he had a legitimate reason to go through them and ask Jarrett questions if necessary.
He wished he had the Harley but Malcolm Hargreaves had called earlier to say that there was a slight delay with it and he couldn't return it until the morning. His footsteps heavy as he thought of Catherine he began to walk through the back streets of Portsmouth, passing the flats and tiny houses where he'd been pushed from pillar to post after his mother had walked out one chilly winter morning and had never returned.
Shit! He wanted to do a ton. He wanted to roar away into oblivion. Uckfield's words resounded in his head. How long had Catherine been seeing someone? Who was he? How could she pick up with someone so quickly? It was as if their ten-year marriage counted for nothing. He dug his fingernails into the palms of his hand, oblivious of where he walked and the fog that enveloped him.
He had hoped. Even when he'd got that bloody letter he had still hoped. But Uckfield was right; Catherine was a very attractive woman. There had been many on the station that had eyed her up but unless they had rank she wouldn't even smile at them. When he'd got his promotion to inspector she'd been over the moon.
And what about Emma? The thought of another man taking his place with his daughter made him feel sick. He knew he had to see Catherine, try and reason with her? But what could he say except the same old thing; I didn't do it, you must believe me.
He tasted the bitterness in his mouth. It stayed with him all the way home, as did the anger. Nutmeg rocked to the tread of his footsteps as he removed the padlock. The hatch screeched as he pushed it back setting his teeth on edge. His sleeping bag was still on the boom it would be damp by now but he didn't care. How could he sleep anyway?
He lay on his bunk and stretched his hands behind his head. He flicked on the lamp to stare at Emma's photograph, experiencing the dull ache of missing her; recalling how she used to come running into their bedroom giggling and jump all over the bed. How Catherine used to scold her and how he would tickle her and jiggle her on his knees, making her screech with laughter for which he would get into further trouble for making his daughter 'too excited'. Now there was just the sound of a dog barking and the water slapping against the boat.
Then he frowned. Something was wrong. Something was different. His whole body tensed. He lay immobile, hardly breathing. There was no doubting it; Emma was not where she should have been. He always arranged the photograph at the exact angle where Emma's eyes were smiling at his when he awoke and now they looked beyond him to his right. Someone had moved Emma, which meant…Someone had been on his boat.
He sat bolt upright almost banging his head on the coach roof. Someone had broken in but it had been a very professional job. No lock tampered with, nothing disturbed. He wouldn't have known that anyone had been aboard if it hadn't been for Emma.
Slowly he swung off the bunk and reaching into a locker pulled out a pair of sailing gloves and began a minute inspection of the boat. It didn't take him long. He found it stowed away underneath his sail cover at the aft.
He pulled it out and stared at it, frowning; it was a slim, gold cigarette lighter. Who did it belong to? There was nothing on it to identify the owner, or was there? He peered at it wishing he had a magnifying glass. He could see some faint lettering, initials maybe, but they were so worn that he couldn't quite make them out. Someone had planted it with a purpose in mind, and he wasn't about to sit back and wait for that purpose to be revealed.
He climbed off the boat, taking care to look around. As far as he was aware there was no one watching him but then the fog was pretty thick. If anyone was watching him then they'd assume he was simply going to the toilet, or having a shower, which was exactly what he was doing. The lighter was safely tucked away inside his toilet bag.
He walked to the end of the pontoon. The fog swallowed up the sounds of the night completely leaving only the reboant foghorns to pierce the silence.
He slipped into the shower room and toilets. They were empty but swiftly he checked them all just to be certain. Then, entering the cubicle at the far end, he took the lighter out of his toilet bag; it was now enclosed in a sealed plastic bag, opened the top of the toilet and placed it inside the cistern. He then took his time having a shower.
Outside he stood stock still as though he was savouring the night air, but he was checking for any movement, his ears and eyes straining for any sign that would tell him he was being watched. Nothing. The air was turbid and
