'Harrison is ageing the photograph to bring it up to date,' Trueman informed him. 'You know, colouring the hair grey and adding a few lines to fit the description the marina staff gave you. I should have copies in half an hour.'
'Thanks.'
'Glad someone appreciates it.' Trueman jerked his head in the direction of Superintendent Uckfield's office. 'He's like a bear with a sore arse.'
'Don't you mean head?'
'And that judging by the amount of black coffee the super's putting away. It's DI Dennings who can't keep still.'
'I thought he was sick!' Horton said, surprised and annoyed. He didn't intend taking orders from Dennings, or playing second fiddle to the man. And neither did he intend being the DI stuck in the incident room overseeing the case; Sergeant Trueman was quite capable of that. If that was how it was going to be then he'd rather be in CID even if it did mean ploughing his way through DCI Bliss's new reporting system.
Trueman said, 'Dennings must have heard there was something going off. Doesn't want to miss his first big case.'
Bliss hadn't said anything about Dennings being back, but maybe she didn't know. He crossed to Uckfield's office, knocked once and pushed back the door. Immediately he saw that Trueman was right. Uckfield's eyes were bloodshot and his craggy face was grey.
Serve him right, Horton thought; that will teach him to go drinking with Catherine's boyfriend. Dennings didn't look too good either. His moon-like face was pale and his eyes red-rimmed and tired. Horton recalled what Cantelli had said about that film starring Paulette Goddard, and ghosts and zombies.
'Didn't expect to see you, Tony?' he said. 'You look like someone's just woken you up from a night out haunting.'
Dennings opened his mouth to reply but Uckfield got there first. 'I want you to follow up this taxi fare lead, Inspector, whilst Dennings collates things this end and liaises with Guernsey.'
Dennings face was solemn, but Horton could tell he was fuming. Like Horton, Dennings was an action man. Perhaps Uckfield thought Dennings still under par from his flu; he certainly looked it. Horton hoped the bastard wasn't gong to infect them all with his germs. It would be about all they'd ever get from Dennings, he thought cynically. He was notoriously tight-fisted.
But it wasn't like the superintendent to be considerate and it puzzled Horton. There was no time to dwell on it or discuss the matter though, because Uckfield rose and swept out of his office, leaving them to trail in his wake. The incident room immediately fell silent as Uckfield entered it. Horton looked for Cantelli but couldn't see him. Perhaps he was in the CID office.
Uckfield didn't have much to say, mainly because there was so little information. Guernsey were picking away at Brundall's past and still trying to locate a relative. They were hoping to find some papers in Brundall's house that would tell them more about him. Horton hoped so too.
Trueman had arranged for the mobile incident unit to be set up in Horsea Marina car park in case anyone remembered seeing Brundall or his visitor. And Uckfield ordered a team to go into the marina to question the businesses there.
Half an hour later, with still no sign of Cantelli or a message from him, which wasn't like the sergeant, Horton was glad to head out of the station into a clear morning with no trace of fog. It had a crisp bite to it, making it feel more seasonal. He felt rather foolish and annoyed with himself when he remembered his fears last night.
Trueman had given him the address of Acme Taxis but it still took him a few minutes to locate it in a side street just off the main thoroughfare.
A beanpole of a woman in her forties, with short blonde hair, and a sharp pointed face, looked up as he entered.
'Won't be a moment, luv.' She talked into a mouthpiece and tapped information into a computer. Horton heard her send a car to pick up someone from Southampton Parkway railway station. 'Now what can I do for you, dear?'
Horton showed his ID. 'One of your cars collected a fare yesterday morning at about eleven thirty a.m. and drove him to Horsea Marina. I'd like to talk to the cab driver.' Horton had calculated the time. On average, and outside rush hour, it took half an hour to travel from Eastleigh to Horsea Marina and Avril said she had spoken to the man just before midday.
The woman consulted her computer screen. 'That was Peter Kingston. He's on a run at the moment. He'll be back in about ten minutes.'
'Any idea who the fare was?' She checked her computer as Horton stared impatiently around the cramped office with its faded and worn armchairs, coffee machine and newspapers scattered on a low table. He only had to wait ten minutes for Kingston to show, yet that already felt ten minutes too long. You've got time, he told himself, this is no race. Why then did he feel it was important to act swiftly? It wasn't just because DI Dennings had returned to work either. No, there was more to this than feelings of rivalry and professional jealousy. What though? That was the question, and one he couldn't put his finger on. It was bloody irritating to say the least.
'The fare paid cash. I've no idea who he was.'
Damn. Horton could have traced a credit or debit card payment or a cheque.
There was nothing for it but to wait until Kingston showed up. When he did, he was a small barrel of a man in his late fifties, with thinning white hair stretched across his egg shaped head. Horton felt like a giant beside him. He didn't want to question him in front of the woman, and suggested they step outside.
Kingston went one further. 'I'm off the run now. How about a coffee? There's a cafe three doors down on the right. I'll just sign out and meet you there. You can order me a bacon sandwich.'
It was the all-day-breakfast type with steamed-up windows, a good old-fashioned clanging bell above the door and a portly unshaven man behind a tall counter wearing an overall that looked as though it had been rescued off the rubbish tip. Health and safety would have closed this place down, if they ever got within sniffing distance, but clearly its customers loved it. It was crowded.
Horton placed the order and gazed around for a table. Two men in painter's overalls got up from the table near the window and Horton pounced on it. He sipped at his mug of black coffee, which tasted like liquorice, and wished Kingston hadn't ordered bacon because the smell of it frying brought back the picture of those charred human remains and threatened to start his stomach once again practising for the Olympic gymnastics gold medal.
The bell clanged and through a haze of cooking smoke and fried food, Kingston rolled in. Ex navy, thought Horton, studying the gait and the slightly pompous air with which he addressed the man behind the counter. Once he had greeted the proprietor, Kingston settled himself down, and took a gulp of his coffee.
'What do you want to know?'
'Everything you can tell me about the fare you picked up yesterday morning at eleven thirty and took to Horsea Marina.'
'Is it about that boat that caught fire? I heard it on the news this morning.' Kingston had that gleam in his little grey eyes that told Horton he'd bore the pants off everyone for a month retelling the tale.
'How do you know if your fare had any connection with that?' Horton asked, watching Kingston carefully, as he spooned another sugar into his coffee. No worries about getting diabetes there!
'Because he told me to wait for him, and I saw him go on to a pontoon. I just put two and two together. There's something funny about that fire, isn't there? Hey, he didn't do it, did he? He didn't look the type.'
'What was he like?'
Kingston thought for a moment. Horton curbed his impatience. He could tell this man would not be hurried or cajoled. Physically small he may be, but he was a giant in his own estimation and ego. Horton knew he would get the information he wanted. He just hoped that Kingston wouldn't embellish it in an attempt to inflate his own sense of worth.
'He hailed me outside the airport at about eleven twenty-five and got into the back of the cab. Some of them like to sit in the front, but not this guy. I asked him where he'd come from and he said Guernsey.'
Horton was encouraged. This was sounding good.
Kingston continued. 'I told him that me and the missus had got engaged there thirty years ago, and what a lovely place it was, but he just said, 'How much further?' So I thought, OK, Pete, keep your mouth shut and drive.
