He said, 'Did Boston punch her?'
'Punch?' She spun round to face him and in that glance he knew instantly that he had got it wrong. Her words flitted through his brain as he saw her eyes go beyond him. A true alpha male. A reputation to uphold. This is the way we go to school… This is the way we come out of school…a wise old owl, a series of initials… MBBS…a throat expertly cut… Boston had used a stage name…
The cabin door creaked. Horton swung round but already he was too late. Something struck him a stunning blow and he fell into a deep pit of darkness.
Nineteen
It was still dark when he opened his eyes. And he was very wet, although not as wet as he would have been if he hadn't been under the spray hood, he noticed. The rocking movement of the boat and the soft drone of the engine told him they were at sea. A quick glance showed him that the sails weren't raised. The rain was beating against his legs, the salt spray stinging his face. His head felt as though it had been split in two. He made to reach out a hand to touch the damp sticky mess that covered the left hand side of his face when he realized they were tied in front of him. He shifted a little trying to straighten up. It hurt like hell.
'You must have a very thick skull, Inspector.'
Horton looked up from the floor of the cockpit and saw the man he had expected to see at the helm: Dr Simon Thornecombe. Thornecombe was wearing a foul-weather suit of jacket and trousers, the ones that Langley had borrowed, Horton guessed. He had only his leather jacket to guard him against the elements. It was doing its best, but that wasn't nearly good enough.
Here was Woodford's alpha male, her husband. She knew he had been in the rear cabin listening to her confession. She had wanted him to hear it. It saved her telling him to his face.
'It's a pity you had to arrive when you did, Inspector. If you think I am going to allow all that filth to come out at a trial and make me a laughing stock, then you have badly misjudged me.'
'Where is she?' Horton shouted, alarmed.
'She's rather tied up at the moment, like you.'
Horton wondered why she hadn't made a run for it while Thornecombe was bashing him over the head. But, of course, he knew the answer to that: she didn't care what happened to her now her lover was dead.
Above the roar of the wind and sea, Thornecombe shouted, 'By the time they discover her body the rope marks will have worn off, if there is anything left of her by then. And it will be the case of a simple accident, swept overboard in the storm. I'll report it of course, distraught.'
Horton's heart skipped a beat. He was staring at a ruthless, driven man. 'You'd go to those lengths to protect your reputation?' he shouted, incredulously.
'Of course.'
'And me?'
'You make things a little more complicated, but the same fate will befall you, Inspector, unreported by me, of course.'
So that was it, Thornecombe intended getting far enough out into the Solent, before throwing him overboard. He had to get out of this. Could he distract Thornecombe and take over the helm? But how? His hands were tied. He heaved himself up on to the seat in the cockpit. Even though Thornecombe was motoring and not sailing, the yacht was still rocking in the heavy seas.
Horton scoured the deck, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness. Was there something that might help him? Even if he managed to get Thornecombe out of the way could he get to the radio? He noted that Thornecombe had closed the hatch down to the cabin.
'They'll be out looking for us,' he shouted, thinking of the marine unit. All he had to do was hold out. Would they get to him on time, though? The wind was rising. It must be a Force 6 and building. Thornecombe was wearing a life jacket. He had no such luxury.
Thornecombe seemed untroubled by the weather and to be a competent helmsman. He said, 'I'll hear and see them coming. It will give me enough time to dispose of you. No one can last long in the sea in October, especially if they're unconscious. All they'll find is me, out sailing on my yacht. Bit eccentric, I grant you, on an October night and with a storm brewing, but then most sailors are a little mad.'
Thornecombe was pushing it, but it was possible. He might have a struggle to get his wife on deck and into the sea, before any kind of rescue reached them, but by then Horton wouldn't be in a fit state to worry. He'd be dead. Think, man, think, he urged his aching head.
'You'll be arrested when you return.'
'Without any evidence? I don't think so.'
Despite negotiating the rough seas and appalling weather Thornecombe still managed to throw him a pitying glance.
Horton thought quickly, which was difficult when his head was throbbing and he was soaked to the skin. 'My colleagues know I came to see you. I asked the man in the marina office where your boat was berthed.' And he thought of that message he'd left on Cantelli's mobile. Had he listened to it yet? Had he reported it to Uckfield, or driven round to Gosport Marina when he had got no answer to Horton's mobile?
He saw Thornecombe frown before his expression cleared.
'You mean my wife's boat. I have no connection with it. My wife lured you here and then pushed you overboard. If I am found on board then I will say that I tried to stop her, and she fell.'
'And all this just because your wife has admitted to having a lesbian affair!' Horton goaded, whilst searching the deck for a way out. Then he saw Thornecombe stiffen. Yes, at the word lesbian, but there was more to his reaction. God! How stupid he had been. Suddenly everything became clear. Dr Woodford had denied killing Langley. She had been telling the truth. Boston hadn't killed her either.
'You killed Jessica Langley,' he shouted above the storm. He saw instantly that he was right. Leo Ranson's words came back to him. She liked adventure and variety. 'You were having an affair with Langley, and you discovered she had betrayed you with your wife.' Keep him talking, look for a moment of weakness, a distraction, a sudden gust in the wind, anything that might give him an opportunity. 'You saw them together.'
'Yes.'
Thornecombe's knuckles tightened on the helm. The sea was breaking over the boat, flooding the cockpit. Oh, how Thornecombe's vanity must have been wounded when he found out about his lover and his wife! Here was Boston's wise owl and Langley was the pussy-cat. Boston had known about their affair.
The rain was coming down in sheets. The yacht was dipping and rising alarmingly in the mounting waves. Surely they must be up to a Force 7 gale by now! They should be clipped on. Thornecombe wasn't. They were too far from anywhere to seek shelter. Thornecombe had no choice but to ride out the storm. Would it sweep them overboard before it died down, though? Horton was worried it might and he'd stand little chance of survival with his hands tied.
He had to find a way out of this. Raising his voice against the wind, he shouted, 'Langley enjoyed sex, didn't she, no matter who it was with?' If he could goad him enough Thornecombe might make a mistake. 'That's probably what excited her, the fact that she was screwing you and your wife.' Horton saw him tense.
'I have a large sexual appetite, Inspector, and I needed her. I also loved her passionately and desperately. She was the only woman I had ever met who really understood me and knew what I needed. I saw her at lunchtime on that Thursday, as I told you, but she didn't want to make love then. Oh, we'd done it before in my office. That day was different though. It was strictly business. I knew that as soon as I saw what she was wearing.'
'The black trouser suit.'
Thornecombe smiled. 'It was a code between us. She had different colours for different types of sex.'
Bloody hell!
'She told me then that she couldn't see me that night. Said she was busy. It was the first time she had refused me. I was angry, and decided to pay her a visit.'
Horton wondered if he could ram Thornecombe with his head and wind him. But, no, the helm was in the way. He had to get Thornecombe away from there. Horton shuffled forward away from the semi-protection of the
