'It's similar to what was found on Woodard, isn't it?'
Jonathan Woodard had been a company director of a thriving business retailing women's clothing. He'd been found with hundreds of pornographic images downloaded from the Internet as well as DVDs and videos depicting rape, mutilation and torture. Woodard had refused to reveal his sources but he had been a member of Alpha One. His arrest had led to Operation Extra.
'You're not following up the Alpha One connection?' Horton said incredulously.
'Why should we?'
'Well, where did he get the stuff from?' Horton jerked his head in the direction of the video.
Dennings' answer was in his silence.
Horton shook his head with disbelief.
Dennings said, 'You know there was nothing to link Jarrett, or his business, with this.'
'Only because of me. Lucy put paid to that. Why did she wait three days before coming forward with that cock and bull story that I had raped her? She knew that by then there would be no DNA evidence; it was her word against mine and we all know who was believed.'
'You know we have to tread carefully.'
'Oh yeah,' Horton replied sarcastically. 'Then why did she take off as soon as the operation was exposed? There has to be something going on, Tony.'
Dennings shrugged his massive shoulders and returned his attention to the video. 'If Jarrett's soiled we'll get him in the end.'
Horton could see he'd get nothing further from the big man but that didn't mean to say that Dennings didn't know anything. On the contrary, reading between the words, Horton guessed there was quite a bit that Dennings did know and had been told not to say. Not for the first time he wondered whether Dennings was involved with Alpha One. Why hadn't Lucy Richardson picked on Dennings instead of him? He had reached the door before Dennings said with a warning note to his voice, 'Leave him, Andy.'
Horton held his eyes for a moment. He thought he saw genuine concern and maybe behind it a silent plea but his suspicion was confirmed: Dennings wasn't telling the whole truth.
He called Marsden into his office and told him to get up to speed with Evans' stabbing. Marsden looked disappointed at being taken off the beach body case but pleased with being given the lead in his own investigation. Horton knew Walters wouldn't like it, being the senior in terms of years of service and age but Walters would have to put up with it. He returned to the incident room and ran through the reports as they came in from the mobile unit and the teams out questioning the nearby residents. There was nothing that looked of immediate interest. Trueman would see that all the information was fed through the computer and cross-matched.
It was late by the time Horton climbed on his bike. The fog wrapped itself around him like dirty cotton wool. Instead of heading back to the boat though he diverted down Queens Street, towards the Historic Dockyard and the harbour entrance. Oyster Quays seemed as good a place as any to eat.
Parking and locking the Harley in the underground car park he surfaced into the plaza and turned left towards the waterfront where most of the restaurants were, picking one out at random. It was fairly quiet being a Wednesday and the fog had deterred many except the die hard partygoers and holidaymakers. Horton ate his pizza, drank his diet coke and paid his bills, then instead of returning to his bike, he struck out in the grey crepuscular world, until he came to the mall that housed Alpha One.
It looked innocuous enough but what went on behind those closed doors? He'd have given anything to find out. He looked up and wondered if the CCTV camera had picked him out. Who sat in there screening the men as they rang the bell and gave their names to be admitted only if they were on that elite list? He had come here for more than just a meal and a drink — whoever it was would recognise him and tell Jarrett he had been there.
He turned and made his way back to the bike. The fog closed in around him rolling off the sea and enveloping the seafront as he headed home. He could hardly see a thing in front of him. He tried to concentrate on the road ahead, squinting his eyes as though it would help him to see where he was going, but his head was full of Jarrett and Lucy and that letter from the solicitors. If he could prove his innocence would Catherine have him back? If he could just talk to her, reason with her…
He turned into Fort Cumberland Road and as he did there was a roar of an engine behind him. His eyes flicked to his mirrors but it was too late. He wasn't prepared. The car screeched past him with a squeal of rubber and cut him up. Instinctively he swerved and as he did he felt the wheels of the Harley slipping. Desperately he tried to bring the bike under control, his heart was hammering against his ribs. He was losing it. The bike slid along the ground and he was catapulted through the air as though ejected from a canon. Through his mind flashed pictures of Emma, a child mourning the loss of her father; then Catherine's smiling face…
He wrapped his arms around his head. As he hit the hard earth it sucked the breath from his body. He was rolling over and over, down and down. His head was knocking against the tight fitting helmet like a cocktail shaker. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the image of Jarrett's mocking face.
CHAPTER 5
Thursday morning
Horton punched in the security code and entered the ugly 1970s station. He could hear someone creating in the cells. The air was blue with abuse and full of the pungent smell of disinfectant mixed with vomit and urine. He nodded at the custody clerk who looked as if he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
'Bad night?' Horton asked.
'Yeah, as bad as yours by the looks of things.'
Horton grimaced. 'You should see the other guy.'
When he'd examined his face in the mirror that morning it looked as though he'd been a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson. He had a bruise the size of a tennis ball on his forehead, one on his chin and he was sure his eye was going to close up by the end of the day. His neck was so stiff that he could hardly move it, which was why he'd taken the unprecedented step of taking a taxi into work. Normally, without the bike, he would have jogged but he didn't think his equally bruised and grazed legs would stand it.
When he'd regained consciousness he'd been lying on the shingle in about the only gap of beach that remained between the houses and the marina. It had been a miracle that he should land there. No one had come to his aid, probably because no one could see him in the fog. Slowly he had pulled himself up. Nothing broken thank goodness, but his head felt as though someone had been kicking it around a football field and his body as though it had been used as a punch bag in Colin Jarrett's gym.
For a while he had drifted in and out of consciousness. He'd had no idea of the time; lifting his arm to check his watch would have been a major operation and crawling along the beach to locate the Harley an expedition as challenging as climbing Mount Everest in the nude. But he had to move or get wet. Groaning and grunting he edged his way along the shingle until he stumbled on the Harley. He found his phone, which was still working, and called Malcolm Hargreaves who arrived fifteen minutes later, with his pick-up truck. After sucking in his teeth at the sight of the damage to the bike, and giving him a lecture on how to ride a Harley, he had finally admitted that it wasn't that bad: some scratches on the silver chassis, a couple of dents and a smashed headlamp.
Malcolm had offered to take him to casualty, but he had refused and eventually after a bit of arguing Malcolm dropped him at the marina with the promise that he'd have the bike 'good as new' by the following evening. Horton had eased himself down on his bunk after seeing to his battered body in the marina showers and then had slept so soundly that he hadn't woken until after nine and knew there was no point hurrying into work. He was late; another hour or so wouldn't make much difference.
He had called into the mobile unit before heading for the station but there was little to report. He made his way to his office trying to ignore his thumping head and the curious looks and raised eyebrows of his colleagues as he went. In the CID room Walters eyed him smugly. 'Chief's been asking for you, guv,' he said with relish, obviously scenting trouble.
'Then you'd better tell him I'm here,' Horton snapped, beckoning to Cantelli and fetching a plastic cup of water from the cooler. He closed the door with his foot. It wasn't a good idea. A pain shot up his leg causing him to groan.
