'Pretty nasty piece of work then. Not like Cary Grant at all.'
Horton gave a tired smile. 'No.'
'And Tom Edney? I can't help feeling sorry for him. He sort of got caught up in it all.'
Horton agreed. He still felt a pang of conscience when he thought of Edney. If only he had pressed him more than last time. If only he had taken him in for questioning…but it was too late for that now. 'Edney saw Thornecombe outside Langley's flat on that Thursday night. As our questioning progressed he began to get worried. He wasn't sure if he ought to tell us. On Saturday he called Thornecombe not realizing that he was putting his life in danger.'
'Bloody fool.'
'By then he wasn't thinking very straight. He was too upset and worried that we believed him to be the killer. Thornecombe met Edney in the toilets by the D-Day museum and cold-bloodedly slit his throat. He trained as a doctor and has a MBBS, like his wife — a conjoint degree in Medicine and Surgery. All those other initials after his name blurred the issue: BD: Bachelor of Divinity; DD: Doctor of Divinity; MBBS we know, then BEd: Bachelor of Education and MBA; Master of Business Administration.'
'What a busy boy! Makes me feel positively stupid. And the blood after slitting Edney's throat? He must have been covered with it.'
'You weren't far wrong, Barney, when you suggested overalls were used. Thornecombe wore sailing jacket, boots and leggings, which were his wife's. It was dark, he went behind the toilets, stripped them off, bundled them into a large, black plastic bag, stuffed that into a sailing holdall and walked back along the seafront to Old Portsmouth where he lives until he could return them to his wife's yacht by that time back at Gosport Marina. Thornecombe thought he was in the clear but Boston wrote to him, blackmailing him. So Thornecombe had to think quickly. He cut off the top of the letter that was addressed to him and sent it to his wife so that she believed that Boston was threatening her. And she went to meet him not Thornecombe. Boston had to die and Thornecombe got his wife to do it for him.'
Cantelli sat back with a heavy sigh. 'It beggars belief. The lengths people go to and the harm they do to each other.'
Yes, thought Horton, it does. And it never ceased to amaze him, and very often saddened him.
Cantelli hauled himself up. 'I'll give you a lift home when you're ready to go?'
The Harley was still at Gosport Marina. Horton would leave it there until he'd had some sleep. He plucked his socks off the radiator. 'No time like the present.' His eyes travelled beyond to the CID room where DI Tony Dennings was talking to Walters. 'Especially now the new boy's here.'
Dennings looked up and caught his eye. He broke off his conversation and without knocking pushed open Horton's door. Cantelli nodded at him, raised his dark eyebrows a fraction at Horton and left.
'Good result last night,' Dennings said.
'Yeah.' Horton put his shoes on. 'Thought I'd leave you with a clean slate.'
Dennings' fifteen stone of muscle loomed large in Horton's tiny office. His broad smile in a round face didn't deceive Horton; behind it he knew was a hard man. He was wearing a suit, which looked wrong on a man Horton had only seen before in jeans and a T-shirt. With his shaven head and too tight collar, Dennings looked more like a nightclub bouncer than a detective.
'Has Uckfield sent you along to find out what I'm doing?' Horton said, straightening up. 'He'll have you following me home next. Aren't there any major crimes or have I solved them all?'
Dennings eyes narrowed slightly. 'I was surprised to get the job, Andy.'
'Yeah.'
Dennings shrugged his massive shoulders. He had reached the door before Horton said, 'Congratulations.'
Dennings looked as though he doubted Horton's sincerity. Well, that was his problem.
He found Cantelli waiting for him in the car. They didn't speak until they had reached the statue of the marine on the seafront.
'Pull over, Barney.'
The promenade was deserted. Horton climbed out and sniffed the air. It smelt sweet. There had been a time last night when he thought he would never stand here again and gaze out across a calm pale-grey sea to the hills of the Isle of Wight. It was a crisp, autumnal day. Tomorrow night the clocks would go back and the days would draw in. Christmas would soon be on them. On Monday he would see the solicitor, Ms Greywell, and begin his fight to gain access to Emma.
'You heard the news?' Cantelli broke into his thoughts. For a moment Horton thought he was talking about Emma, then he realized Cantelli meant station news.
'Don't tell me, Walters has been made a superintendent and Uckfield, chief constable.'
'Wouldn't be surprised. No, we got ourselves a new DCI and you'll never guess who it is.'
'Go on, astonish me.' Horton said, climbing back into the car.
'Lorraine Bliss from Havant CID.'
Horton was surprised. He hadn't realized that she was in the running for the job, but then he hadn't had Dennings in the frame for his post either. He recalled Bliss's intense expression, the fervour in her eyes and that ambitious tilt of her chin. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about her promotion. Maybe he was too tired to think. But one thing was clear; he didn't feel resentful and wondered why. Perhaps he was still basking in the glow of catching two killers. Or perhaps it was because he was just glad to be alive.
He said, 'That should pep things up a bit.'
Cantelli smiled and pointed the car in the direction of the marina.
Horton needed sleep. He was exhausted. And despite the personal upheaval that was about to come his way there was a small glimmer of hope inside him, which he hadn't experienced for a long time. Soon he would get to be with Emma.
'I think I'll go sailing tomorrow,' he announced.
Cantelli groaned. 'I would have thought you'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.'
Horton smiled. That was one thing he could never have enough of.
