Footsteps on the Shore

Ah, so Kempton was playing dirty, and so was Bliss by the sounds of it. Well, two could play at that game, but in order to succeed, Horton knew he had to be smarter than he’d been this morning.

‘Well, Inspector? I’m waiting for an answer.’

Crisply, Horton said, ‘Luke Felton had access to the Internet and email. We need to check his computer to see if he made contact-’

‘That is not what I meant,’ she raged, flinging her hands on his desk and leaning across it to stare at him. Horton didn’t budge an inch or bat an eyelid. ‘What are you going to do about Mr Kempton?’

‘Get a warrant as he insists.’ Horton contrived to look bewildered, which seemed to really get up her nose.

Straightening up she said tautly, ‘Are you being deliberately obtuse and insubordinate? You owe him an apology for barging in and interviewing his staff without his permission.’

Technically she was correct, but he wasn’t going to let a small matter like that get in his way. And he had a feeling that Kempton would have stalled him.

Bliss was clearly waiting for a response. Eyeing her steadily he said, ‘Luke Felton is missing. His sister claims she hasn’t seen or heard from him and his last known movements are leaving Kempton’s at just after six o’clock on Tuesday night. He might even be dead, though we have no positive ID on the body found in the harbour yet.’

‘Body? What body?’ she screeched.

Horton gave a silent groan. He might have known he’d pay the price for not calling her. Swiftly he gave her the facts, watching her grim expression.

‘Good of you to tell me,’ she sneered, eyeing him contemptuously. ‘From now on, Inspector Horton, you will inform me the moment you have any news of Felton and the body in the harbour. And you will also apologize to Mr Kempton. Is that clear?’

He nodded curtly. She turned and marched out. A few seconds later a tap came at his door and Horton beckoned Cantelli in.

‘I gather DCI Bliss is not best pleased with our efforts today,’ he said, sitting opposite Horton.

‘Mine, not yours. I can handle it.’

‘Not sure I caught the bit where you told her about Rookley?’

Horton shrugged a response. He knew if he had done so, Bliss would have insisted that uniform accompany him and that he bring Rookley in.

Cantelli continued. ‘The warrant for Felton’s computer should be with us first thing tomorrow. Matt Boynton says Luke didn’t have a mobile phone and I’ve checked with the phone company, who confirm that the payphone at Crown House has been out of order for three weeks and they’ve had no request to repair it. I’ve also done a quick search on the Internet for that symbol.’

‘And?’ For a moment Horton had forgotten all about that.

‘It doesn’t look good, Andy. The nearest resemblance I could find is the pagan symbol of death.’

Horton glanced at the sergeant in surprise.

Hastily Cantelli added, ‘I’ve only checked it on a couple of web sites. I could be wrong.’

Horton sincerely hoped so.

‘You should ask someone in the Scientific Services Department to look into it for you,’ Cantelli pressed.

‘I will,’ Horton replied, drawing a sceptical look from Cantelli before he left.

If the symbol was a death threat, then why not kill him last night when the perpetrator had the chance? A lighted match would have done it, and almost had not very long ago. He’d just managed to leap off his beloved boat Nutmeg before it had gone up in flames. He shuddered at the memory. Since then he’d been living on a yacht belonging to a friend of Sergeant Elkins of the Marine Unit. But the friend was returning from abroad at the end of April, which reminded Horton about the yacht he was hoping to buy and had viewed yesterday. The owner might be at home now. He made to call her when another thought occurred to him, one that sent cold shivers up and down his spine; obviously his graffiti artist didn’t want him dead — not yet anyway. He wanted first to torment him, like a cat playing with a mouse. Perhaps whoever was responsible was saying, ‘See what I can do to something you cherish. Next time I’ll hurt something you really love.’ Horton’s heart leapt into his throat. Emma. If that was so then he had to find this maniac urgently. But how?

The trilling of his mobile phone sliced through his thoughts. Horton saw it flash up as an anonymous caller. It might be Rookley, or someone else with information about Luke.

‘Yes?’ he answered it eagerly.

‘Willow Bank, Shore Road, Portchester,’ a foreign accent announced abruptly.

Horton started in surprise. He didn’t recognize the voice but he recognized the address. It was the home of Mrs Trotman, the woman he’d been trying to get hold of all day to tell her about the survey he’d arranged on her boat. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, puzzled, wondering if perhaps she’d changed her mind about selling it to him.

‘The lady who lives there is dead.’

Horton stared at his phone. This was a joke, it had to be, and a very sick one. Harshly, he said, ‘I don’t think this is-’

‘Your business?’ interjected the caller with hostility, misinterpreting what Horton had been about to say. ‘Find her killer.’

The line went dead, leaving an ‘or else’ vibrating in the air.

Horton punched in Mrs Trotman’s number, drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk, recalling the gentle, dark-haired, attractive woman in her mid-thirties. No answer. Shit. Lifting his coat from the stand he hurried into the CID office.

‘Cantelli, you’re with me. Walters, send a car to Willow Bank, Shore Road, Portchester. Someone’s just reported a murder, and I hope to God he’s wrong.’

SIX

Horton stared with disbelief at the body lying on the grass of the windswept garden and felt a deep weariness settle over him. Two corpses in one day were enough to sadden and sicken any copper, but the body in the mud — horrific though it was — was far less upsetting than this. This death he took personally and with complete bewilderment; who on earth could have wanted the slender woman with the lean face and sad, deep brown eyes dead?

Yesterday he’d smiled and spoken to Venetia Trotman, now she was lying with the right-hand side of what was left of her barely recognizable and battered face pressed against the wet grass. Her right arm was crumpled under her body, her left arm outstretched, slim fingers clenched. She was wearing the same clothes he’d seen her dressed in yesterday: a navy blue cardigan over a white jumper, navy blue trousers, socks and blue deck shoes. But no coat. Yesterday, when he had left her just after five thirty, she had been wearing a red and blue sailing jacket.

She was facing her home; a substantial brick and tiled period house that Horton knew by its design had to be at least two hundred years old. Had she been returning there from the boat, which was moored at the bottom of a concrete slipway at the end of this extensive garden, when her assailant had attacked her? He couldn’t see the boat from where he was standing because the house and garden were on a raised bank above the shore, which was screened by a tangle of trees and bushes. Or had she gone into the garden from the house to investigate a noise or someone suspicious lurking in the shrubbery and surprised her attacker? But why no coat? Perhaps she’d been in too much of a hurry to investigate the disturbance to put it on, though it had been a cold night. And depending on her time of death she would also have got wet. It had started raining at about 5 a.m. He’d laid on his bunk, after yet another fitful night’s sleep, listening to it hitting the deck.

Dr Clayton and SOCO might be able to tell them more, or rather tell Superintendent Uckfield because this was definitely murder, unlike the body in the harbour, which could be suicide or an accidental death. Horton had already rung the head of the major crime team. Soon Uckfield and the great useless hulk, DI Dennings, would be clodhopping all over the place. Horton had asked for a tent and arc lights, the day was drawing in and in less than an hour it would be sunset. Cantelli had called Dr Price who was on his way.