already killed again and was in hiding, or lying somewhere in a drug-induced stupor.
Horton pushed open the door to the CID room leaving Boynton to trail in after him. Walters had returned from the canteen and Horton swiftly made the introductions, and brought Cantelli and Walters up to speed. Even before he’d finished speaking he could see that Cantelli recollected the case, which didn’t surprise him; what Cantelli didn’t remember wasn’t usually worth putting on the back of a postage stamp.
Cantelli said, ‘The murder of Natalie Raymonds wasn’t Felton’s first offence. He was convicted of assault and robbery on an elderly woman collecting her pension in August 1995, for which he received a community sentence. He was a middle-class, well-educated young man in his mid-twenties whose parents couldn’t believe it of their respectable son until they were told he was a druggie.’
Horton was even more impressed by Cantelli’s complete recall and must have shown it, because Cantelli quickly added, ‘I wasn’t working on either case but Charlotte, my wife,’ he explained for Boynton’s benefit, ‘knew Luke’s mother, Sonia. They trained as nurses together and worked on the same ward before Charlotte gave up work completely when Sadie was born. They kept in touch until Sonia Felton died, which wasn’t long after Luke was convicted for Natalie’s murder.’
Horton turned to Walters. ‘Any reports of violent assaults last night?’
‘Nothing with Felton’s MO on it.’
‘Get the case notes on the Natalie Raymonds murder, and apply to see Luke Felton’s prison files, including his medical records. Find out who visited him inside and start checking to see if he’s contacted any of them. Cantelli and I will talk to the sister and brother.’ To Boynton, Horton said, ‘Did Felton have any girlfriends
‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’
Again Horton turned to Walters. ‘Call the hospitals in the area to see if he’s had an accident. I take it you haven’t already done that?’ Horton tossed at Boynton.
‘I didn’t even think of it. I suppose it’s a possibility.’ Boynton looked concerned.
‘A remote one, unless he had no ID on him and has got amnesia or is unconscious. Do you have a recent photograph of him?’
‘On file.’
‘Email it to DC Walters the moment you return to your office. Walters, when you get it, circulate it to all officers.’
Walters nodded. Horton again addressed Boynton. ‘If you hear from him, or learn anything about his whereabouts, let us know immediately.’
With a flick of his hair and a sniff, Boynton nodded agreement before slouching off. Horton glanced down at the paper on Cantelli’s desk containing the drawing of the symbol etched on his Harley. That would have to wait. Stuffing it in his pocket he said, ‘Let’s see what the hostel supervisor can tell us about Luke Felton.’
TWO
Not a great deal, it transpired. Harmsworth had last seen Luke Felton on Tuesday morning at about eight thirty when Luke had been on his way to work. But one thing was certain, thought Horton, following the hostel supervisor’s eighteen-stone frame up the narrow stairs in the gothic-style Edwardian building, which was as out of place in the middle of the run-down council flats and seedy second-hand shops as a pensioner in a night club, Harmsworth wouldn’t have been a regular visitor to Luke Felton’s room on the third floor. Horton doubted he’d even checked to see if Felton had been in his room when Matt Boynton had called him.
‘I would have thought Felton would have been under curfew,’ Cantelli said.
‘This isn’t a prison,’ Harmsworth wheezed over his shoulder.
More’s the pity, thought Horton. ‘Do you live on the premises?’
‘I’ve got a flat on the ground floor just behind the office, but officially I only work during the day. I’m not their nursemaid,’ he panted defensively. ‘They’ve got a key to the front door and to their own rooms. Luke was one of the better ones though. Polite, friendly, no drink and no drugs as far as I could tell,’ he added hastily. ‘He was grateful to be free, and swore he’d never do anything to risk being sent back to prison.’
‘They all say that,’ Cantelli said wearily.
‘No, Luke was different,’ Harmsworth answered vehemently. ‘You could tell he meant it.’
Luke Felton had certainly got his probation officer and this man wrapped around his little finger. They climbed the rest of the stairs in silence, or rather with Harmsworth panting like a rhino in childbirth. At the top he reached for his keys and unlocked the door.
Stepping inside, Horton was immediately struck by how clinically tidy the room was. Luke Felton obviously observed prison routine here. Its furnishings were plain and spartan; along with the wardrobe, there was a three- drawer chest and a single made-up bed. There were no dirty underpants or sweaty socks lying on the grey tiled floor; no clothes hanging out of the cheap melamine wardrobe; no books and no technology, not even a television set. Horton wondered what Felton did with himself in his spare time. This certainly didn’t look like the room of a drug addict.
‘He should come and keep house for us,’ Cantelli exclaimed admiringly.
Harmsworth made to flop on the bed but a look from Horton prevented him. Instead, the fat man took out a handkerchief, mopped his crimson face and propped himself up against the door post, puffing like an old steam engine. ‘Luke is very particular,’ he gasped.
Yeah, and how would you know, thought Horton, crossing to the wardrobe as Cantelli took the chest of drawers.
‘Was Felton friendly with anyone in particular?’ Cantelli asked, rifling through the drawers.
Harmsworth considered this for a moment while Horton flicked through the meagre belongings in the wardrobe: a checked shirt, pair of cargoes, trainers and that seemed to be it. No discarded needles or drugs, not even a can of lager.
‘He seemed to get on well with Tyler Yarland,’ Harmsworth answered. ‘Yarland’s on bail for car theft and vandalism. Comes from a rough background, parents dumped him into social services care when he was a kid and he’s been pushed from pillar to post ever since.’
And there but for the grace of God go I, or could have gone, thought Horton, pulling down the sports bag from the top of the wardrobe. He’d had some scrapes with the law as a kid until a foster father, who had been a policeman, had changed the course of his life for ever. There was nothing in the bag. He glanced at Cantelli, who shook his head to indicate he’d found nothing of any note in the chest of drawers.
‘Where’s Tyler Yarland now?’ Horton asked, as Cantelli lifted the mattress and checked under the bed.
Harmsworth glanced at his watch. ‘Probably still in bed. Most of them don’t get up until midday. There’s not much to get up for.’
‘Except to collect their social security giro and buy booze and fags,’ Horton quipped.
Harmsworth shrugged his fat shoulders. ‘Yarland’s room’s the third one along the corridor.’
Cantelli slipped out and Horton crossed to the window. They were at the rear of the building, overlooking the small car park. Horton watched a woman of about twenty-five emerge from one of the run-down flats opposite. She was pushing a crying baby, with a child of about Emma’s age, eight, trailing miserably behind. Why wasn’t the child in school? Classes had started two hours ago.
He thought of the boarding school that Catherine wanted to send Emma to and recalled with anguish his daughter’s sobs on the telephone because she didn’t want to go. He’d visited Northover School without Catherine’s knowledge two weeks ago and to his annoyance had found it excellent. He’d been looking for a reason to hate it and certainly to rescue Emma from its clutches. But it was small, homely and comfortable, and had facilities to die for. It was also select and very expensive, and the fact that his father-in-law, Luke Felton’s employer, had agreed with Catherine to pay the fees stuck in Horton’s craw. It was obvious to him what they were trying to do, and that was to ease him out of his daughter’s life. Well, they won’t succeed, he thought with furious determination. It was his responsibility and pleasure to make sure his daughter got the best of everything, and that would certainly be a darn sight more than he’d ever had as a child, including love.
His mind flashed back to his own childhood. This was his inheritance: a bleak and barren urban landscape, a
