years spent fending for himself after his mother had left him when he was only ten hadn't made him a quitter.
Cantelli said, 'This place gets worse every time I see it.'
Horton agreed. Corton Court exuded a damp aroma of desolation and neglect. It had been built in the sixties and it looked as if it hadn't been touched since. The small communal front garden had long ago given itself up to nature and rubbish. He picked his way through the lager cans and cigarette packets littering the stairs, and could hear the blare of the television long before he reached Eric Morville's front door on the third floor. It took a few stout knocks to get an answer.
From inside came, 'If you're selling something I don't want it, and if you're Jehovah's Witnesses you can bugger off. I'm Catholic.'
'Police. We'd like a word, Mr Morville,' Cantelli shouted.
After a moment Horton could hear shuffling footsteps and the scraping and jingling of a door chain. The door was opened a crack, just wide enough for Cantelli to insert his warrant card.
'What do you want?' came the surly reply.
Did he already know, thought Horton, pushing back the door and saying, 'A word.' Had Elaine Tolley told him? 'I take it you are Mr Eric Morville.' Horton eyed the thin man in his early sixties in a red-and-white striped pyjama jacket and a pair of grubby trousers and wondered if he could be the father or brother of the dead woman on the mulberry. Could he be her killer? Morville didn't look as though he had the strength for it.
'Yeah, that's me. What's it to you?' Morville's anger shifted to wariness. Behind his bloodshot light-brown eyes Horton could see his mind racing as he tried to think what he might have done to bring the law down on him. Horton revised his opinion that Elaine Tolley might be involved with this man. If by some remote chance she was, then she badly needed a new pair of spectacles he thought, taking in the gaunt face, unshaven chin, lank hair and the yellowing telltale skin of a heavy drinker.
'Can we come in?' Cantelli asked, easing past him.
'Looks like you already have,' grunted Morville.
Horton stepped through the small hallway and into a room on his right. He'd seen many flats like this: shabby, dirty, and minimally equipped. The smell of fried food, tobacco and stale sweat clawed at his throat, making him want to retch. There were two very worn and grubby armchairs in front of a large television screen showing a chat programme, and between them was a stained coffee table, on it a mug of coffee, a half empty bottle of whisky and a tobacco tin. On the wall to the right of the electric fire was a sideboard that looked as if it dated from the same time the flats had been built; like the room it was in it was devoid of photographs and ornaments. Only a rickety lamp and a clock adorned it.
'Had your fill?' Morville asked harshly, crossing to one of the chairs. Lifting the television remote control, he punched down the volume only to let the loud music from below thud up through the floor. 'I suppose you'll tell me what this is about in a moment.'
Cantelli extracted the betting slip from his pocket. 'Is this your handwriting, sir?'
Horton watched Morville carefully as he scrutinized it. The slightest of starts betrayed that it was.
Morville sat down. 'Who wants to know?'
'We do.' Horton forced himself to speak gently despite the fact that he'd taken an instant dislike to Morville. He told himself this man could just have lost his daughter or younger sister. He could, of course, be the killer. 'Did you write that?' he repeated the question Cantelli had asked, but with more force.
Morville picked up his tobacco tin and began to roll a cigarette with hands that were steady, yet he avoided direct eye contact. Horton had the impression of an arrogant man whom alcohol and laziness had made surly and bitter.
'The manager of the betting shop claims it's your writing,' Cantelli persisted, taking out a handkerchief and blowing his nose.
'Does she?' Morville replied airily, still not looking at them.
He was beginning to get on Horton's nerves. 'Perhaps we should conduct this interview at the station. If you'd get dressed-'
'OK, it's my writing. Satisfied?' Morville glanced up.
Far from it, thought Horton. 'Why did you write that note?'
'None of your business.'
Horton leaned closer to Morville, despite not really wanting to; the man smelled. 'It is our business, Mr Morville, because we found that scrap of paper this morning on the body of a woman.'
Morville's eyes widened. 'You're having me on. This is a trick…' He glanced at each of them in turn, must have seen that they weren't kidding him, and poured a generous measure of whisky into the earthenware cup, which he knocked back in one go.
'You know who she was?' Horton asked sharply.
'No. Why should I?' The surliness was back and along with it an increased nervousness that Morville was doing his best to disguise.
'How did it get on to her body then?'
'How the bloody hell should I know? You're the detectives.'
He took a drag of his cigarette, his eyes flicking up at Horton. In them Horton thought he saw guilt, but then maybe he just wanted to see something that would give him a quick lead in this case.
'When did you write that note?'
'Can't remember. Tuesday. Wednesday.'
'Do you have any family?'
'No.'
'Have you ever been married?'
'No, and I've got no kids either, least, ones that I know about.'
Cantelli said, 'What about brothers or sisters?'
'I had a sister. She died ten years ago, massive stroke.'
So the dead woman wasn't a relative.
'How long have you lived here?' Horton asked.
'Long enough.' Horton felt like shaking him.
'Mr Morville, why won't you co-operate with us? Is there something you're hiding?'
Morville stubbed out his cigarette. He poured himself another whisky. Horton glanced at the clock. It was barely ten. The gesture was lost on Morville.
'About fifteen years,' Morville said pointedly.
'And before that?'
'I was in the navy for twenty years.'
That made Horton think of the sea and in particular Langstone Harbour where their victim had been found. But being in the navy didn't mean that Morville could sail or even pilot a boat, though it probably meant he was aware of the rhythm of the tides. Time to increase the pressure. His voice harsher, Horton said, 'What does the note mean?'
'Probably the name of a horse or greyhound.'
''Have you forgotten ME?' It doesn't sound like a name to me.'
'Some of them greyhounds have funny names.'
Then why hadn't Elaine Tolley recognized it? 'Which race was it in?'
'I can't remember. I didn't bet on it. Just wrote it down. I liked the sound of it.'
'I think you'd better get changed-'
'All right, so I wrote that on the betting slip and was going to give it to Elaine.' Morville shifted nervously. 'She's the manager of the betting shop. We went out a couple of times and I was going to ask her for a date again. The note was a joke, a tease.'
Again, why didn't Elaine Tolley tell them this? Morville must have read Horton's thoughts because he added: 'She's married. I don't expect she wants anyone to know about us.'
No, and who could blame her, thought Horton? No wonder she had looked worried.
Morville continued, 'I must have dropped it.'
That didn't explain how it came to be in the victim's pocket. And, if Morville was telling the truth, then why hadn't he jumped to the conclusion earlier that the dead woman could be Elaine Tolley? Horton hadn't described the
