Horton said, 'I don't want Dennings to know where I'm living either, or Catherine. And I'd rather you didn't say anything to Catherine or Alison about tonight.' Horton thought if Catherine knew then she would damn well stop him seeing Emma, and he had time yet to clear this up: two days, to be precise. He could sense Uckfield's hesitation and added firmly, 'As I said, Steve, let's keep this low key.'
There was a short pause before Uckfield grunted an acknowledgement.
Horton stretched out on the bunk in the aft cabin feeling strangely out of place in such comfort and luxury — he even had a shower on board — and tried to sleep. He was exhausted but he guessed that sleep would elude him for some time, as a result not only of the after effects of a massive surge of adrenalin and his unfamiliar surroundings, but also because of the thought that he knew what he had to do, and it scared him half to death because now there wasn't any doubt. He had to delve deeper into his mother's past. And he had no idea what he would find. But whatever it would be, he guessed he wasn't going to care much for it.
Eighteen
Monday: 9.15 A.M.
H orton stared up at Jenson House, the tower block where he had lived with his mother on the top floor, and was surprised to find he felt neither the anger nor the pain of rejection that had plagued him for the last thirty years. Was that because he was finally taking action to solve the puzzle instead of letting it hang over his life like a black cloud? Or maybe it was the fact that the photograph and his birth certificate, the last tangible links with his mother, had been burnt in the fire? Had that had some kind of psychological effect on him, forcing him to look at this anew? Now he was getting over-analytical, he thought with a grimace, kicking down the stand on the Harley.
He didn't expect anyone still to be living here who would remember Jennifer, but that wasn't really his purpose in coming. He hoped instead to trigger a long-forgotten memory, or to release a deeply embedded clue in his subconscious that would tell him what had happened to her. Perhaps he'd be able to recall a boyfriend, or her mood, or something she had said. Now he was back to behaving like bloody Freud again. He guessed this was a pointless exercise, and he was wasting valuable police investigation time, but a slight diversion wouldn't hurt, he reasoned, heading towards the entrance. Neither Superintendent Uckfield nor DCI Bliss knew about this. As far as they were concerned he was already speeding his way to Southampton and the offices of the Marine Accident Investigations Branch.
The news of his second escape from death had spread around the station, and he was surprised and touched by the concern of many of the officers. DCI Bliss though was an exception. She made no mention of it; instead he got an ear bashing on when he was going to clear up some of his outstanding CID cases. He reminded her that Sergeant Cantelli was on bereavement leave and he was still an officer short, but she brushed both aside as being of no consequence.
He pushed open the doors of Jenson House and DCI Bliss vanished from his mind. Suddenly he was a young boy again, running across the concourse, kicking a football with the other kids, stealing hubcaps and darting up and down the stairs. He was surprised because in all the years he had been here as a PC and a detective he had never recollected the slightest thing about his short life in this tower block. He guessed he had blotted it out because of the painful memories. But now that he had opened his mind to the past, the ghosts rushed out to greet him.
They had tarted the place up since he'd last been inside, which must have been about five years ago, when he'd been seconded to the drugs squad — he'd been a sergeant then — and certainly since he'd lived here, but he felt as though nothing had changed at all. In his mind's eye he could see the small, blond, cropped-haired little boy swinging into the vestibule whistling tunelessly, ravenously hungry and eager to ditch his schoolbooks for football boots. He felt that same eager anticipation as the child of ten about to arrive home, but it was swiftly followed by the gut-wrenching ache of the moment he had finally realized that his mother had deserted him. He recalled the woman who had told him that she was never coming home; he could see her evil, smug face as she had imparted the news with uncharacteristic relish for a social worker. Maybe that was why he distrusted all social workers.
He pushed that memory away; there was nothing in it for him, and, while he waited for the lift, he concentrated his thoughts on Emma. He had to get this killer by Wednesday. He couldn't let Emma down, because if he did then Catherine was bound to use it as some kind of weapon to prevent him from seeing her again. Her remarks and acid tones last Wednesday night at the Marriott Hotel had made that much clear.
The lift opened with a shudder and a clunk and, pressing the button for the top floor, he thought of poor Rowland Gilmore losing his daughter and his heart missed a beat. He'd rather die himself than allow any harm to befall his daughter.
The lift slid open and he stepped out, surprised to find his heart racing. His feet propelled him forward until he was standing outside his old front door. In his mind he could see his bedroom plastered with posters of football heroes, and his schoolbooks piled on the small chest of drawers under the window. He used to lean out and watch the ships, sailing boats, and hovercraft cross the Solent to the Isle of Wight beyond. Had he been unhappy? He couldn't remember, but now he recalled that the sailing boats had made him think of freedom, escape, and adventure, so maybe he had been.
Bugger. He closed his eyes and instantly saw his mother's laughing face, her blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders. He could feel the texture of her dress, smell her soft musky perfume, and hear her light laughing voice…
'I'm going out, Andy. You get yourself off to bed at nine. If I come home and find you in front of that telly I'll tan your hide and there'll be no football practice for you, my boy.'
'Where are you going, Mum?'
'Where do you think? Work, of course.'
He turned away feeling a heavy sadness within him and almost collided with an elderly woman pulling a shopping trolley. Hastily, he apologized as her lined faced looked alarmed and concerned. Strangers here meant trouble and he guessed one wearing a black leather jacket emblazoned with the Harley Davidson logo was even more suspect.
'It's OK, luv. I'm from the police.' He showed her his warrant card and she visibly relaxed.
'You can't be too sure these days. We get some funny types round here.'
'How long have you lived here, Mrs-?'
'Cobden. Thirty-two years.'
My God, she must have been his neighbour! He had been ten when he had left here; she would have been what — late forties, or early fifties? He couldn't recall her, and clearly she didn't remember him, or recognize the name on his warrant card, though he had only flashed it at her, but she might remember his mother. With a racing heart he said, 'I'm trying to trace a woman who used to live here thirty years ago. Fair, nice looking with a little boy…'
'You mean Jennifer Horton.'
'Yes!' For once he was unable to hide his surprise and there he had been telling PC Johns not to jump to conclusions. It felt strange to hear her name, and uttered so normally. It made her come alive for him; he could almost see her here in this corridor, gossiping to the old woman, and this time he recognized that his feelings of anger and hatred towards her weren't as strong as before. 'I didn't expect you to remember so quickly.'
'She walked out on her little boy, the poor little mite, and he stayed in there — ' she jerked her head at the door — 'waiting for his mother to come home. I had no idea. It broke my heart when the social carted the poor little blighter away.'
Horton ignored the tightening in his stomach muscles. 'Do you know what happened to her?'
'How a mother can up and leave her own child like that I don't know, but there were rumours.'
'What kind?' Horton steeled himself to hear the worst, hoping that his police training would stand him in good stead and he wouldn't betray his turmoil.
She inserted her key in the lock, and looked around as though afraid someone might overhear. Horton thought it would have been comical if it hadn't concerned him. In a low whisper she said, 'Men.'
'Any in particular?' he asked as casually as he could, though even to him his voice sounded strained. His mind went back to the Town Camber and the dark-haired man with the sharp-featured face. He wished he could recall
