He did. 'Didn't you tell me you were rammed in the early hours of Wednesday morning?'
'Yeah, maybe I got the time wrong.'
'I'll check with traffic,' Horton said, reaching for his phone. 'I take it you reported the incident to the police like any good citizen.'
Jarrett looked nervous and said hastily, 'I remember now I was on my boat until eleven thirty.'
Horton suppressed a smile and slowly put his phone back in his jacket pocket. His mind was racing. Was Jarrett telling the truth? Did he have a motive for killing Culven? Yes, perhaps the same one he'd voice to Cantelli earlier: Culven had got greedy and wanted a bigger share of the profits and Jarrett wasn't having it.
'Anyone with you?'
'What do you mean?'
Horton remained silent and waited. Jarrett glared at him. After a moment he spat, 'No.' He was lying about that but the traffic accident would be easy to check out. Horton didn't press it. For now. 'How well do you know Roger Thurlow?'
'Who?' It was clear to Horton that he didn't know him. He felt a stab of disappointment.
'Your neighbour.' He jerked his head in the direction of the vacant berth opposite. Jarrett retrieved a packet of cigarettes from the top pocket of his loose fitting shirt and extracted a cigarette. 'Is that his name? I've said the odd thing to him, nice day, you going out.'
Horton watched him light up. Jarrett tossed back his head and let out a thin stream of smoke.
'Was he on his boat on Friday evening?'
'Didn't see him.'
'You were here?'
'Got back from the Isle of Wight about four o'clock, why?'
'And what time did you leave your boat that night?'
'Look what is all this?'
Horton remained silent.
'I don't know. I didn't look at the clock.'
Horton held Jarrett's discontented stare. Then almost causally he said, 'We found Thurlow's boat on the East Winner on Wednesday morning. He wasn't on board. Do you know where he is?'
'No.' Jarrett drew impatiently on his cigarette and then seeming to have got bored with it stubbed it out and flicked the butt into the water with the toe of his leather deck shoes.
'Did you see the boat go out over the weekend, or on Tuesday evening?'
'No.' Jarrett dashed a glance at his watch.
'Expecting someone?'
'No.' But Jarrett looked decidedly uncomfortable.
'Was Roger Thurlow a member of Alpha One?'
An angry flush spread up Jarrett's face. 'Sod off, Horton.'
'What about Michael Culven?'
'Go screw yourself.'
Horton marched down the pontoon feeling Jarrett's hostile glare following him. He'd unnerved Jarrett. Good. Make the bugger sweat. The pieces didn't quite fit together yet but they would.
Marsden was waiting for him when he got back.
'Thurlow's GP says he was suffering from hypertension, hence the Hypovase tablets. His last prescription was issued a fortnight ago.'
So something Mrs Thurlow would have known about. Horton cast his mind back to that first interview. Why did she lie when she said that her husband had no health problems?
'Have we got Culven's telephone records?'
'Yes, sir. I've started to go through them but there's nothing unusual as yet,' Marsden replied.
'Keep looking.'
'The warrant's come in, sir, for Frampton's.'
Horton glanced at his watch. Damn. It was too late now to visit the solicitors. 'First thing tomorrow, Marsden, collect all Culven's client files for the last six months and bring them back here.'
'It's Saturday, sir. There won't be anyone in the office.'
'Then find someone. I want those files on my desk by noon tomorrow.' He was damned if he was going to wait around until Monday.
Marsden dismissed, Horton sat back and stretched out his legs. His back was aching from his accident. The only light in his office now was from the lamp on his desk. He could hear the duty CID officer in the main office talking quietly into the telephone.
There was little more he could do tonight but still he lingered on, pushing bits of paper around his desk, reviewing files and clearing up odds and ends, all the time his subconscious mind working away on something completely different. Finally, he could put it off no longer.
God, how his heart was going! Would Emma pick up the telephone? Would he hear his daughter's voice? And if Catherine answered what was he going to say to her? That he loved her and wanted her back? But it was ringing and ringing. Just as he was about to give up it was answered.
'Hello?'
It was a man's voice. Horton felt his throat go dry and his body tense.
'Hello? Who is it?'
Horton slammed down the receiver so hard that he thought he'd broken the damn thing. He swore softly. Then he sprang from his seat, pulled on his leathers and stormed out of his room, almost colliding with Marsden who jumped back alarmed.
'Inspector!'
'Not now!' Horton bellowed, as he swept through the detention area like a tornado.
He jumped onto his Harley and roared the machine into action, forgetting all about his stiff neck and bruised body. He sped out of Portsmouth like a man possessed. The great rage swept through him just as it had as a child. He didn't know how else to deal with the pain. Then he had wanted to lash out at a world that had hurt him. Now his instinct was just as strong. Catherine had abandoned him. She, like his mother, had tossed him aside like an old dress.
He raced along the motorway oblivious of speed limits, oblivious of the fact that he could kill himself, weaving in and out of cars and lorries, not caring. All he cared about was getting to Emma, getting her away from that man. No other man was going to take his place with his daughter. His mother and Catherine may have betrayed him but he wouldn't let them take Emma from him; he'd die first.
Catherine's car was on the driveway. The windows at the front of the house were shut. He hammered on the door. The neighbours' blinds twitched. He hammered again. 'Catherine, I know you're in there. Let me in, damn you!'
More blinds twitched and he heard a door open somewhere to his right. Fuck them.
'Catherine! Catherine!'
A cough from his right and, 'Andy…'
Horton rounded on the small, bald headed man. Eric Smith, blast him.
'Er.. they're not in…' Eric stammered.
Horton stepped forward and Eric stepped back.
'They went out about fifteen minutes ago.' He licked his lips nervously, his eyes darting about.
His words penetrated Horton's fury and desperately he tried to get a hold on himself. It took all his powers of self-control. He felt a wave of sickness. 'Where?' he croaked.
'I don't know. They were dressed up.'
'They? Who was with her? Who was with my wife?' Horton stepped forward and Eric edged back onto his lawn and nearer the safety of his own front door.
'I don't know-'.
'Damn it, Eric, who was she with?'
Eric looked at Horton's rigid body and clenched fists and swallowed hard. Horton saw Eric glance at his wife, Daphne, who had come out to support him, telephone in her hand ready to summon help. They'd had to once
