'Not righteous enough. He's worked in the vice squad.'
'That explains it.'
'What?'
'Never mind.' She turned away and then almost instantly turned back again. 'Oh, how's Sergeant Cantelli's dad? Dave Trueman told me.'
'He's not doing too badly.'
'Good.' She held his eyes for an instant, and he found it difficult to interpret what she was thinking, only that whatever it was it made the blood once again rush to his loins. She had reached the plastic curtained door before she called out, 'Give the sergeant my love.'
'Which one?' Horton shouted back, then wished he hadn't as his voice ended on a squeak.
'The dark romantic one.'
That had to be Cantelli, didn't it? And, surprised, Horton found himself feeling mildly jealous before she said, 'And look after that throat, Inspector.'
Thirteen
By the time Horton reached his office it was early evening. It had been a long day with a painful chest and a sore throat that hadn't improved as the hours had sped by. Marsden had drawn a blank at the cemetery, and Cantelli, who had been scouring the CCTV recordings for the last couple of hours for signs of Brundall's car in and around that area, had had no joy either. Walters was still trying to track down the muggers, as well as handle a spate of afternoon burglaries in Southsea where thieves had targeted Christmas presents, and DCI Bliss looked as though she was about to have a seizure unless she got some extra officers, or they managed to clear up one case, at least.
Trueman told him there had been words between her and Uckfield behind the closed door and shuttered blinds of the super's office, and he'd heard DCI Bliss had complained to Superintendent Reine. Horton wasn't sure what that would achieve; every department was stretched at this time of the year, and Reine was notoriously weak when it came to fighting his corner with Uckfield. Thankfully Bliss had left the station to attend a community meeting. Horton had half expected her to delegate the task to him, which was usual, but perhaps she'd taken pity on his throat. Either that or there was some prestige in her being there, which he suspected was nearer the truth.
He felt emotionally drained as well as physically tired as he closed his door and shut the blinds behind his desk on the wet, cold and windy December night. His prophecy had come true and it was sleeting heavily. He powered up his computer and called up the missing persons' database. He'd had all day to consider this from the moment this morning when he had been interviewing Sebastian Gilmore; it had come to him that Brundall and Gilmore might have killed his mother.
He'd modified his opinion since then, but now that his curiosity was well and truly fired he wouldn't be able to rest until he found out more.
His hands were sweating and his heart was racing as he tapped her name into his computer keyboard: JENNIFER HORTON.
He felt cold even though his radiator was belting out the heat. It was the first time he had spelt her name since he was eleven when in desperation he had written a letter to her and posted it to the tower block they'd taken him from in the vain hope that she might have returned there, found him gone and was looking for him.
The thought made his heart somersault even now, as the long ago emotions flooded back: searing optimism, excitement at the sound of the doorbell ringing in the children's home, hope at the sight of the postman, all to be followed by disappointment, hurt, bewilderment and finally anger. That had been the first time he had run away.
He steeled himself to look at the screen. Suddenly she was there, smiling at him. The breath caught in his throat. She looked so young, barely out of her teens. If she were still alive how would she look now? Maybe he could get the technical people to produce a computer-generated picture of her. Was it possible she was still in the area and he'd actually walked past her or seen her? But, no, if she had stayed or returned to Portsmouth, surely she would have tried to find him? His guts twisted at the thought that maybe she didn't want to.
He turned his attention to the details on the screen. She was born on 25 November 1950 and had been reported missing on 30 November 1978. That meant she had disappeared on her twenty-eighth birthday. He didn't know that, or maybe he'd forgotten it. Was it significant? Had she arranged to meet someone, a friend or lover perhaps, for a meal and a few drinks?
It took a conscious effort to keep his breathing steady as he read on. Mentally he called on his police training to consider this as a case like any other; he needed to distance himself from the emotions, but it wasn't easy. Beyond his office he could hear nothing. It was as though only he existed in the station.
She was five feet five inches tall, slim build, about nine stone, with shoulder-length, wavy blonde hair and blue eyes. She had no distinguishing features or birthmarks. There was one child, a boy. At the time of her disappearance she had been working for a year as a croupier in the casino opposite the pier. It was now a nightclub and caused the uniformed officers a great deal of trouble at kicking-out time.
On the morning of her birthday she had waved her son off to school, but hadn't shown for work in the evening. No one had bothered to find out why, they had simply assumed she'd gone sick and later, when she still didn't show, that she had walked out on them. The last sighting of Jennifer Horton had been that morning when a neighbour had seen her leave the flat just after one o'clock. She had seemed, the neighbour said, to be in high spirits and was dressed smartly and wearing make-up. She had no family, except the boy, or so it said on the screen.
Horton sat back deep in thought. The policeman in him was asserting itself quite strongly. His mother had been meeting someone, of that he was certain, but who? Was it the sharp-featured man he recalled? Or someone else he'd forgotten about, or never met? Could it have been Rowland Gilmore, who by then was married to Teresa, or maybe Tom Brundall? At least if Gutner was correct it couldn't be the remains of his mother in that blessed air- raid shelter. What attempts had the police made to find her? Had they interviewed his mother's friends or work colleagues?
He rose, restless and angry with himself and the organization he worked for. But hundreds of people went missing in a month, thousands in a year. The police were busy, he reasoned; there had been no suspicion of foul play so why should they spend time on it? But now he wanted to know. He could not go back to where he had been before and forget her. No matter how long it took, he had to find out what had happened to her.
He sat and began to enter an online request for the case notes, which he hoped would be with him either late Monday or early Tuesday morning, when his door was suddenly and violently thrust open making him start guiltily. Uckfield stomped in with an angry expression on his craggy features. Horton quickly tapped his keyboard and his mother's face vanished from the screen as Uckfield sank heavily in the seat opposite him.
'Dennings has drawn a blank finding anyone travelling to and from Guernsey by boat,' Uckfield declared.
Horton had been expecting it. It wouldn't be that simple. This killer was clever. Horton had spoken to John Guilbert earlier about his theory that the killer could have travelled by boat and Guilbert knew as well as he did that he would be difficult to find. To someone like Dennings it would be impossible.
'It's a waste of time him staying there. He'll be back on Monday morning.'
'You'll want me off the case?'
'What did you get from the post-mortems?'
Horton noted the evasive answer and wondered at it. Perhaps Uckfield and Bliss were fighting over him. The thought pleased him. He hadn't yet spoken to Uckfield directly about Gaye Clayton's findings so he briefed him quickly and succinctly.
Uckfield listened but he appeared uneasy, shifting in his seat and letting his eye contact drift. Horton was puzzled by his manner, and why he was here in Horton's office. When he had finished, there was silence. Horton knew Steve Uckfield of old. There was something he wanted or needed to say. Horton found himself tensing. He wasn't sure he was going to like this. He had stopped trusting Steve in August when he had resumed duty after his suspension and Uckfield had actually believed him capable of murder.
