say, 'It's a fair cop, guv.'
Horton's adrenalin began to pump as Elkins pulled into the marina. Horton jumped off and secured the boat to the pontoon. Elkins silenced the engines. With Cantelli, Elkins and PC Ripley following behind him, Horton hurried along the pontoon. The rain was sheeting past him, driving in his face and the wind was rattling the halyards against the masts. Boston had to be there. Boston was their man. He was the mastermind behind the antiques thefts. And he was a killer. He'd killed Langley, perhaps it now occurred to Horton, because he was sick of her cruel taunts about how he'd failed as an actor. Both Ranson and Daphne Edney had said how cutting she could be. And he'd killed Edney, because the poor man had suspected him. This couldn't be another blind alley.
As soon as he turned on to the pontoon Horton could see a light in the cabin. He guessed this was how Boston had taken the stolen antiques out of the country, and he wouldn't mind betting that on his other robberies he had moored Soap Opera in Town Camber for a quick get-away.
Gesturing Elkins to the aft, Ripley at the bow and Cantelli amidships, with his heart beating fast and furious, Horton climbed carefully into the cockpit. The large glass door leading into the cabin was open. There was no sign of Boston, but he wouldn't fail to feel the boat rock to Horton's tread. Horton waited to be hailed, but no one stirred. The hatch was open. He could see no shadows and there was no sign of any movement. There was a coffee cup on the table to Horton's left and a used plate in the small sink to his right. A kettle was on the hob next to it. Horton tensed. He felt the boat move gently as someone came on board behind him. It was Cantelli.
'Police. It's over, Boston. We know all about the robberies,' Horton shouted.
Silence greeted him. Horton tensed.
'We're coming down.' He heard Cantelli suck in his breath, and knew what he was thinking. He hoped Boston wasn't waiting with a knife or even a gun in his hand.
He wasn't. In fact Boston wasn't waiting at all.
'Empty,' Horton called up, disappointed.
'Must have got wind we were after him,' Cantelli said.
Horton frowned, puzzled. 'If he's gone, why not take his car?' Elkins had told him it was in the marina car park.
Horton gazed around the interior. There wasn't much to see, just one main cabin and a cubicle with a toilet and washbasin. The boat wasn't designed for a long stay away; it was more suited for one day or weekend fishing excursions. Ideal for Boston who just needed a boat with a powerful engine that could get him across to Guernsey, Jersey or France so that he could pass on his stolen antiques. There was a navy blue holdall on the bunk. Delving into it Horton retrieved a passport. 'He won't get far without this.'
'Perhaps he's got another one.'
Cantelli could be right. Horton opened it. 'This is in the name of Timothy Boston; perhaps he also has a passport in the name of Tim Mellows. Come on, there's nothing here for us.'
Horton climbed back on deck. 'Elkins, keep watch for him and call for back-up the moment he shows. I'll keep a unit watching his car. Let's get out of this bloody awful weather.'
He climbed off the boat, and Cantelli followed suit. Horton gazed across the harbour to Oyster Quays wondering where Boston had gone. The boat was well secured. The deck was dirty and the marina manager had confirmed it had been taken out that morning and had not long returned. If Boston had been warned that the police were on his trail then why come back here? Why return to Portsmouth at all? Why not take his passport and his car and drive to the airport?
Irritation mingled with his frustration. Once again they were going round that sodding mulberry bush. He glanced down as he made to turn away and a movement in the water caught his eye. He could have sworn he had seen something in the murky depths swirling around the edge of the pontoon. Yes, there it was again. It looked like an old piece of rag except it was too large for that. His heart leapt into his throat.
'The boat hook,' he commanded sharply.
Ripley grabbed it from Boston's boat and handed it to Horton.
'What is it?' Cantelli asked, leaning over and looking into the black pool of swirling water.
'There's something caught under the pontoon.' Horton threw himself on to the wet wooden decking, and with the rain beating down upon him, twisted his body round so that he could stretch the pole under the pontoon. 'Yes, here it is,' he grunted, as he got a hook on something. 'It's heavy. Ripley, Elkins, give me a hand. Cantelli, stay there.'
'Sod that.' Cantelli threw himself down beside Horton and stuck his arms in the water. 'Shit. It's freezing.'
'What do you expect in October?' Horton replied through gritted teeth.
Elkins, with another pole, had come up beside them. 'I'll push it from the other side of the pontoon,' he shouted above the roar of the wind.
'It's probably a dead dog.'
'Sarge!' Ripley shouted indignantly at Cantelli's remark.
But Horton didn't think it was a dead animal. His heart hammered and a cold sweat trickled off his brow. He plunged his arms deeper into the icy-cold water.
Gradually with Elkins prodding from one end and him pulling from the other, and with Cantelli's assistance, they managed to dislodge it.
'Christ, it's a body!' cried Cantelli, almost losing his grip.
Yes, thought Horton, his heart beat quickening. Had Boston done it again? Was this victim number three?
He struggled to keep hold of the body. A boat came into the marina cutting through the water and causing a wash. The body rolled over. Behind him Horton heard Elkins swear, and an intake of breath from Cantelli. He himself was numb with shock. The face that stared up at him was no longer clean-cut, eager-eyed and handsome, but Horton recognized it nevertheless. He was looking at the bloated face of Timothy Boston.
Sixteen
Wednesday: 7.30 A.M.
After snatching a few hours' sleep Horton headed into work along the seafront. The area around Boston's boat had been sealed off and Boston's body had been removed to the mortuary. Temporary arc lights had been erected overnight and under their glare Phil Taylor and his scene of crime officers had quietly and painstakingly gone about their work. When Horton had left there in the early hours of the morning no evidence had been discovered to indicate how Boston had died, and his body hadn't borne any obvious marks of death, such as stabbing or shooting. It looked as though he had slipped, fallen in and drowned.
Dr Clayton had been called out to examine the body after Price had certified him dead. She couldn't say how Boston had been killed, not until she had him undressed on the mortuary slab and had conducted the post-mortem. Horton smiled to himself at the memory of Uckfield trying to bully her into 'making an educated guess'. Her frosty reply had been, 'I'm a scientist not a clairvoyant. But if you would rather use the services of Mystic Meg, please go ahead. I'm sure she'll be a lot cheaper and quicker; she might even throw in a horoscope or two.'
Uckfield had grunted and, after Gaye had left them, said, 'Touchy, isn't she?'
No one replied. Horton was very interested to see what the results of the post mortem would bring, especially as Uckfield had expressed two opinions as to the cause of death. The first was that Boston, having killed Jessica Langley and Tom Edney, had been overcome with remorse and had decided to end his life by drowning himself — Horton had asked why wait until he'd moored up when he could have thrown himself overboard anywhere in the Solent? And as far as Horton could see, he didn't think Boston was the type to suffer from remorse.
The second of Uckfield's theories was that Boston had killed Langley and Edney, had gone on a jaunt to flog his stolen antiques, and on his return had slipped on the pontoon and fallen into the water. With no buoyancy aid he'd got sucked under, his clothes had caught on something and that was it.
It was convenient. Too bloody convenient, thought Horton.
He pulled into a parking bay by the Pitch and Putt and stared out to sea. It was still dark, but the morning had a fresh, crisp feel about it. There was a lull in the wind, but yesterday's gales had left a swollen sea and large
