Thursday morning
'W here's Cantelli?' Horton asked, trying to hide his annoyance that it was Walters who was collecting him from the Hayling Ferry, Portsmouth side.
'Problems at home,' Walters said, almost with relish.
Damn, he had been planning on Cantelli dropping him off outside Lucy's flat, but now he'd have to postpone his visit. He couldn't ask Walters to take him there, because he'd go running back to Uckfield.
Walters sneezed out of the car window and Horton was glad he'd remembered to let it down. He would collect his Harley from the station and bike back to Southsea as soon as Walters dropped him off. He dashed a glance at his watch. It was early yet just after nine. Lucy was probably still in bed, but whose? Had she eventually returned home?
For the first time in a week there was no sign of fog. The day had dawned sticky hot and humid. There seemed to be no air and the heavy blue grey sky was pressing down on them 'Culven's Mercedes has been found.'
'Where?' Horton was torn between excitement at the news and annoyance that it would delay him seeing Lucy.
'Stansted Woods.'
Not far from Briarly House. Blast, just one more factor that helped to point towards Melissa. 'There's not much of it left; it's been flashed up.'
'Not much point in going out there then. Leave it to the forensic team and head for the station. Anything more on Randall Simpson's past?'
'Not a dickie bird and there's no sign of this biography either. I reckon it was just a con.'
Horton thought so too. He opened his window to try and catch some breeze and dispel the body odour that was emanating from Walters. He also hoped it would help keep him awake. He hadn't slept apart from that first hour or so before his intruder had tried to roast him. He rested his arm on the windowsill wondering about Cantelli and his problems — must be Ellen. He hoped it wasn't too serious.
His mind turned, as it had most of the night, to his attacker. He had been too tall for Jarrett. The only conclusion he could draw was it must be one of Jarrett's employees.
The radio crackled into life. It was Trueman.
'I don't think you're going to like this much, sir,' he began warily, 'We've had a report of a woman found dead in suspicious circumstances.'
Horton's blood ran cold. His hand gripped the radio so hard that his knuckles went white. 'Where?' he asked, his throat tight. He already knew the answer. He just hoped he was wrong.
'Fourteen St Ronald's Road.'
Christ they'd killed her! When? After they had tried to kill him or before?
Trueman was saying something about the DCI, but Horton rang off.
'Turn her round, Walters. St Ronald's Road.' Walters gave him a look that said, on your head be it, and dodged into a side street of terraced houses that would take them back to Southsea. Uniform had the area cordoned off and a small crowd had already gathered. Walters parked in the middle of the road and a constable lifted the tape, which they ducked under and headed up the steps through the open door and into number fourteen.
Horton climbed the stairs with Walters trailing behind him. He steeled himself for what he was going to see, trying to repress his anger and frustration. Now he might never get to the truth.
'Who found her?' he asked, pausing in the doorway. Her naked body was sprawled on the bed. Her eyes were open. Her long blonde hair was spread out on the bed behind her; he could see its dark roots. Her throat was livid with the marks of strangulation.
Marsden was watching him carefully from the far side of Lucy's bed. His back was to the window, which led out on to a fire escape; his fair, angular face was pale. He looked a little shaken and also a little afraid of him, Horton thought.
'Jane Staveley; she's waiting in the flat next door,' Marsden replied. 'She ran there as soon as she discovered the body. The flat belongs to a man called Simon Howgate. I think he's Jane's boyfriend but she says she doesn't live there with him. He left before we showed up. Do you think I ought to put a call out for him, sir?'
'Let's get some facts first.' Behind him he could hear Walters' laboured breathing. 'Who's with Jane Staveley now?' He wondered if his voice sounded as tense as he felt.
'Somerfield.'
He should have prevented this. Had Lucy already been dead last night when he had knocked on her door? If so, then the girl opposite could give a description of him. Had the attempt on his life been designed to stop him getting to Lucy before she could be silenced forever?
Now his first sense of shock and outrage was beginning to ease, he felt pity for her. She looked so young, so innocent, even though he knew she wasn't the latter. For the first time he wondered who her parents were. Where had she come from? What was her background?
He peeled his eyes away from the bed and gazed around the pathetic little room: the dirty curtains hanging limp in the sun; the smell of months — no years — of dust and fluff accumulating in corners and under the sagging, stained mattress; the threadbare square of a once red carpet that didn't reach the walls with dirty linoleum protruding from it, and the shabby, second-hand furniture probably picked up in cheap fly-by-night shops in the seedier parts of town; it still smelt of the old dead people whose houses it had come from.
He said, 'I'll talk to Jane Staveley. Let me know when the doctor arrives.'
Jane Staveley was the girl he'd seen with Lucy at Oyster Quays. Her very short skirt showed off well-shaped calves and over-large thighs. A skimpy top had slipped off her narrow hunched shoulders displaying a large tattoo in the shape of a flower on her right shoulder. She didn't look any more than twenty. Her mascara had run where she had been crying and she sniffed into a sodden tissue. He saw hostility in her muddy brown eyes as he entered.
He began gently. 'Jane, I know this must be very upsetting for you, but do you think you could tell me what happened?'
He perched down on the unmade bed beside her. The duvet cover had been thrown back, revealing a dark blue polyester sheet that didn't look too clean. This room was a replica of Lucy's with its cheap furniture and soiled curtains. In the left hand corner was a small sink, cooker and fridge whilst opposite in the far right hand corner was a large and very expensive hi fi system. Clothes were scattered all over the floor along with unwashed plates and mugs, and take-away foil containers, some of which still had the remains of curry and Chinese food in them. The window was shut and the smell of the shabby bed sitting room clawed at Horton's throat making him want to retch. He didn't blame Kate Somerfield for hovering in the open doorway.
Jane took a deep breath. 'We were going to the beach. When she didn't show by the pier like we'd arranged I came to see why. I thought she might have changed her mind and gone out with her flash boyfriend.'
'Who's that?'
Jane brushed her limp hair off her face. Her gold bangles jangled noisily. 'I don't know; I never saw him and she wouldn't say. She just told me he had loads of money and was dead posh.'
'Did she describe him at all?' It couldn't be Jarrett, could it? He had money but Horton wouldn't describe him as posh.
Jane shook her head. 'No. She had a date with him last night.'
'When did she first meet him?'
'About a week ago, I think, soon after…'
'After what?'
But Jane had clammed up. She pressed her lips together, put the tissue to her mouth and glared at him defiantly.
'When did Lucy come back to Portsmouth?' has asked casually, though he felt far from casual.
'Two weeks ago. Why?'
'How did you get into Lucy's flat?'
'I've got a key.'
'And when you went in you found her exactly as she is? You didn't touch anything?'
'No. I called you lot straightaway,' she gulped. He was glad she had. Girls like Lucy and Jane usually didn't. Tears looked set to spill again only she sought refuge in her anger. 'I hope you get the bastard who did this to Lucy
