media.
‘No woman is safe while he’s on the loose,’ Danbury continued to rage. ‘Including my wife.’
Now Horton saw the reason for Danbury’s anger. Fear was provoking it. ‘You think he might attack his own sister?’ he asked, concerned.
‘God knows what he’d do for drugs.’
‘The prison authorities say he’s clean.’
‘But he’s not in prison,’ sneered Danbury.
Quite. Horton couldn’t fault that.
Angrily Danbury said, ‘Find him. And when you do, lock him up and throw away the bloody key. And don’t bother my wife again. I won’t have her worried and upset.’ And with that Danbury swept out.
Horton decided he needed sustenance. Uckfield would have to wait until tomorrow for his report and his mobile phone.
As he ate his lasagne and chips in the canteen, he wondered if Trueman had located Venetia Trotman’s next of kin. He also wondered if SOCO had found anything around her body. It was probably too early for the search teams to have discovered much, but Dr Price must have given Uckfield an estimated time of death. And that reminded him of his rotting corpse in the harbour.
Quickly pushing away the image before it could ruin his appetite, he stabbed another chip and reached for his mobile. He might not be involved in the Venetia Trotman investigation but there was no rule preventing him from speaking to Sergeant Elkins.
‘We’ve checked with all the marinas, including those on the Isle of Wight, and there’s no sign of
‘None that spring to mind.’
It couldn’t simply disappear, Horton thought, ringing off with frustration. But then perhaps it could if it had been scuttled, and he didn’t think diving the Solent to try and locate it was a viable option.
He put his tray where the canteen staff wouldn’t scold him and returned to his office, where he collected the file on Natalie Raymonds for further reading later on the boat, and headed for Milton Locks.
It was 8.52 and still raining when he pulled up outside the pub at the end of the road leading to the lock. Leaving the Harley in the car park he hurried down a narrow track away from the comforting lights of the pub and the street lights towards what was left of the disused lock, cursing Rookley for choosing such an exposed rendezvous and himself for being stupid enough to agree to it. When he could go no further, except into the mud of the harbour, Horton reached for his pencil torch and shone it over the sign by the side of the lock while trying, without success, to avoid the slanting rain that drove into his face. He read that the lock was the last remains of the Arundel to Portsmouth Canal, abandoned in 1832 and recently given a makeover in the name of the environment. He surveyed the area but the intense darkness of the black expanse of Langstone Harbour in front of him seemed to swallow up the meagre light from his torch, and he could see nothing the other side of the lock except a tangle of bushes.
The sound of the wind and rain, plus the faint hum of traffic on the dual carriageway to the north, filled the air. He glanced impatiently at his watch. It was three minutes past nine and no sign of Rookley, but that wasn’t surprising. He could be in the pub taking Dutch courage. Perhaps he should join him. After a day like today he thought he could do with a drink, only he didn’t drink, and hadn’t since August.
His fingers curled around the paper in his pocket bearing the symbol that had been etched on his Harley, recalling Cantelli’s words. Did it mean death? Was he in danger? More worrying, could Emma be in danger? Cantelli could be wrong about the interpretation of the symbol, and probably was, but he was right about one thing; he needed to consult an expert.
The sound of a car drawing up caught his attention. Rookley? But Rookley didn’t own a car. Too late it occurred to Horton that Rookley might not be alone, and he could be a sitting target out here, which was no doubt why Rookley had suggested this place and time.
He quickly scanned the dark horizon for a vantage point where he could take cover and yet still see Rookley approach. There was only one and it was behind the bushes on the opposite side of the lock. Horton hurried across to it. The pub door opened, bringing with it a snatch of music and the sound of voices calling goodbye and returning cries. Foolishly he turned in its direction, and just at the same time a small voice whispered ‘Danger’ and he sensed a shape looming out of the undergrowth. He swung round, but too late. A searing pain shot across his shoulders as a heavy blow struck him. He struggled for balance, lost it and was flying through the air with the ground rushing up towards him. Next he was spitting mud and water from his mouth with a pain in his shoulder and the throb of a motorbike in his ear. It sounded remarkably like a Harley.
With a grimace he hauled himself up. His leathers were filthy, but he was alive and no broken bones. Whoever had attacked him hadn’t finished the job. Thank God. Had that bastard Rookley shoved him in the mud? If so he’d have his bollocks on a skewer. But from the brief glimpse he’d caught of the figure it had seemed taller and bulkier than Rookley. There was no point pondering it now; his priority was to get out of the lock, hope that his Harley was still where he’d left it, and get back to his yacht.
Fifteen weary minutes later he drew up at the marina and squelched his way down to the pontoon and the yacht, thankful his Harley hadn’t been stolen and with eager thoughts of a hot shower, a change of clothes and the chance to bathe his grazed and bloody face. But as he climbed on board he froze. There was something pinned to the hatch. Who the blazes was leaving him notes? Then surprise gave way to a cold grip of fear as he found himself staring at the same symbol that had been etched on his Harley, only this time executed in a thick black pen on paper. Rapidly, through the sheeting rain, he scanned the marina and the car park, but there was no one in sight.
He ripped off the drawing, noted that the lock on the hatch was still intact, and descended into the cabin where, flicking on the light, he studied the symbol: a cross and a funny-shaped circle above it. What the devil did it mean? Who had left it? It certainly wasn’t Ronnie Rookley. Then it occurred to him that maybe the attack had nothing to do with Rookley either. And that meant someone was following him. He hadn’t seen anyone, so whoever it was, he was very good.
The hairs pricked at the back of his neck. He didn’t like the thought of being stalked and he didn’t like not knowing what his stalker wanted. If the symbol meant death, then why not knife him instead of hitting him across the shoulders?
He strained his ears, listening for the slightest movement outside that would tell him his persecutor was back, but only the wind whistling through the halyards and the rain drumming on the coach roof answered him. His assailant, the graffiti artist, had gone — for now. But the question that troubled Horton was, when would he return and what would he do next?
EIGHT
‘What happened to you?’ Walters quickly shoved his
Dumping his jacket and helmet in his office before re-emerging almost immediately, Horton saw Cantelli’s frown of concern. ‘I’ll tell you both over breakfast.’ He hoped he could do so before DCI Bliss put in an appearance, though it was the weekend and that usually meant the senior management team would be conspicuous by their absence. Except for Uckfield, who had a major crime to solve — his car was already in the car park, along with Dennings’ car.
During the night Horton had done a great deal of thinking about his stalker, not much of it resulting in anything very productive, except to give him an even worse headache than he’d had after the attack. Early this morning he’d once again viewed the CCTV tapes that Eddie in the marina office kept, but there was no sign of any furtive figure in the marina car park or on the pontoons, and no new visitors. Eddie also confirmed that the visiting yachtsman who had been present when Horton’s Harley had been defaced had sailed on to waters new. And no one
