DC.
'Then find out. And get me Michelle's mother's address, and a copy of the coroner's report on Michelle Egmont's death.'
Marsden hurried away.
Horton scraped back his chair. 'Barney, take Mickey and Wayne's statements.'
Horton returned to his office and tackled his ever-growing pile of paperwork. After a couple of hours he considered he'd given Dr Clayton enough time to complete the post-mortem on Boston.
'Uckfield's made up his mind that Boston slipped and drowned,' Horton said, as Gaye came on the line. 'What's your opinion, doctor?'
'I suppose Boston could have injected himself with an overdose and then slipped off the pontoon. He was certainly alive when he went into the water, but he wouldn't have been for long-'
'Hang on a minute,' Horton was suddenly still, his mind and body like a pointer with a bird in sight and the scent of blood in his nostrils. 'What's this about injections?'
'It's in my report. Didn't you read it?'
'Uckfield's not confiding in me. He thinks the case is closed.'
There was a pause. He could hear her thinking. 'And you don't?'
'No.'
Again a slight pause before she continued. 'I found a small puncture mark in Boston's neck. I'm waiting for the blood analysis from histology. Mind you, it's a pretty weird place to stick a needle in yourself. He wasn't a drug user?'
Horton recalled Boston's apartment. There was nothing in it to suggest he had taken drugs.
'Could someone have injected him with a drug and then pushed him over the pontoon?'
'That's your province, Inspector, not mine.'
Yes, and he thought it sounded far more plausible than him slipping off the pontoon, killing himself or injecting himself with a substance in the neck. A drug related killing smacked of a professional killer. Could the stolen antiques have been financing a drug-running operation? God, he hoped not.
'Could you call me when you get the results of the blood analysis?'
'Of course.'
Horton didn't confront Uckfield over his failure to tell him about the findings of Boston's post-mortem. He'd only be told it was none of his business now anyway. He spent another few hours at his desk, and dealing with CID matters, before leaving for home where he changed into his running gear. Tomorrow, he would have a copy of the coroner's report on Michelle Egmont's death. He wondered why the poor girl had committed suicide.
As he ran along Southsea promenade he tried to dismiss the thought and let his mind run free. The patterns of the three deaths, Langley's Edney's and Boston's, slipped and faded into each other; like a kaleidoscope they materialized, joined, broke and altered shape. His trainers pounded the promenade to the rhythm of his thoughts and the sound of the waves breaking on to the shore. He let the thoughts dance their way across his mind without analysing them, knowing that presently they would throw up a pattern that he needed and one which had been eluding him. That was the way his mind worked sometimes. He hoped it would give him results on this occasion.
At the Round Tower at Old Portsmouth nothing new had come to him. He paused to catch his breath. The place was deserted. The sudden quiet soothed him. The darkness was clean and cold. The sea air smelt good. The wind buffeted him, pushing him forwards and then trying to reel him backwards like a bad-tempered dog pulling at his lead. The rain had stopped. Only the crashing of the waves on to the pebbled beach and the dragging of the stones as the sea sucked them back in its wake broke the silence.
He jumped down from the promenade and walked slowly towards the sea, stooping to pick up a stone. Twisting his arm back he threw it and watched it skim along the tumultuous tips of the waves. It bounced twice. In the distance he could see a tanker's lights.
As he stared into the dark night, and against the rhythm of the sea, his mind replayed the events of the last few days. So much seemed to have happened to him: sidelined out of the major crime team; Uckfield's treachery; Catherine's hostility and reluctance to allow him to see Emma… Emma's face and her tears; three deaths…
He breathed in the night air slowly and evenly and then turned and ran back. The message on that betting slip was running through his mind: 'Have you forgotten ME?' He swung into the marina and drew up sharply. There, staring at him, was the sign: Marina Entrance designed with fancy capital letters that stood out, and suddenly it clicked. ME. Of course, what an idiot! Why hadn't he realized it sooner? Now it seemed so obvious. The scrawled note on that betting slip, 'Have you forgotten ME?' meant, 'Have you forgotten Michelle Egmont?'
Horton walked on, his mind was spinning. Morville had slipped that betting note to Langley. Why? Because he wanted something from Langley, probably intended to blackmail her. So there had to be a connection between Langley and Michelle Egmont, and he guessed that Marsden would discover they had attended the same school. Though he didn't know how that could lead to blackmail, or what it had to do with Langley's death, Tom Edney's, and Boston's. But tomorrow he was damn sure he was going to find out.
Seventeen
Thursday: 10 A.M.
The next morning he asked for Morville to be brought in. Marsden had left him a copy of the coroner's report on Michelle Egmont. It made sad reading — the tragic tale of a young girl who had taken her own life. What a waste, he thought, glancing at the photograph of Emma on his desk. How could her mother have coped? But then maybe she didn't, perhaps it was this tragedy that had caused her cancer. He read that Michelle Egmont's father was already dead; he'd been killed in an industrial accident at a building firm. The poor woman had no one, only Morville, and he had run out on her when the going got tough. It was time for some answers and Morville might not be so cocky in an interview room.
'You've got no right to do this. I haven't done anything,' Morville protested, rising from his seat as Horton entered. Morville's narrow face was surly and unshaven. His clothes were creased and Horton could smell his musty body odour mingling with tobacco and alcohol.
'Sit down,' Horton commanded.
'I want a solicitor. I know how you bastards stitch people up.'
'Sit down,' roared Horton.
Morville sat.
'That's better,' Horton went on quietly, feeling disgust for this man and not much caring if he showed it. 'You are not being charged with anything. You are here to help us with our inquiries.'
'And if I don't want to?' Morville said cockily.
Horton picked up the evidence bag containing the betting slip and placed it in front of Morville: Have you forgotten ME?
He left a pause, and then said quietly, ' Michelle Egmont.'
Morville was suddenly wary, like an animal that has been relaxed and becomes attentive at the first sniff of danger. His head came up.
Horton continued. 'Why did Michelle kill herself?'
'I don't know.'
'What has Michelle's death got to do with Jessica Langley?'
'No idea.'
Horton scraped back his chair. 'Then I'll leave you until your memory returns.'
'Hey, you can't do that!'
Horton leaned across the desk. 'I can do anything I want, Morville, including charging you with the murder of Jessica Langley when she refused to give in to your blackmailing demands. You had motive and opportunity.' He didn't say that Morville also had an alibi. He was drinking in the ex-forces club at the time. He'd let Morville work that out for himself, if his alcoholic brain could still function, which Horton doubted. 'Think about it. The sergeant here will stay with you and help you to remember.'
