The younger of the men closed the door behind Horton while the older one took up position at Horton’s desk and waved him into the chair the other side of it. Bliss stood beside Horton looking annoyed, probably because he hadn’t told her about Jay Turner immediately he’d returned from the mortuary. Another black mark against him in the rapidly mounting heap of them, and that was even before she knew about his trip to the Isle of Wight.
Tersely she made the introductions. ‘This is Commander Waverley and Superintendent Harlam from the Serious Organized Crime Agency. They want everything you have on the body found in Portsmouth Harbour last Friday.’
‘Jay Turner,’ Horton said, getting no reaction from Waverley or Harlam now beside him. He hadn’t expected one. They were trained not to show emotion. He was intrigued, though, and swiftly considered what Jay Turner might have been involved in: drugs or people trafficking, corruption or kidnapping, or perhaps all four. A natural death was now looking highly unlikely. Could Turner have been rendezvousing with someone on board a yacht in the Solent or English Channel and been disposed of? Horton had no idea what the International Development Fund did, but the mere word ‘International’ coupled with the Serious Organized Crime Agency smacked of an overseas connection.
‘There isn’t much to tell,’ he said, and relayed what they knew, which was practically nothing.
Waverley looked bored before he’d even finished speaking. Rising he said, ‘The body’s being moved to London.’
That would please Dr Clayton.
‘Superintendent Harlam and I will be stationed here for the next couple of days. DCI Bliss will be our liaison officer.’
She didn’t smile, but Horton could tell she was wetting her knickers with delight, and probably calculating how this might help her climb the greasy pole even quicker than she had anticipated.
Waverley continued, ‘You can continue with your other cases. DCI Bliss assures me you have many.’
She threw Horton a final glare before sweeping out behind the two men. He moved around his desk and sat down. Whatever Jay Turner had been involved in he doubted he’d find out unless Bliss decided to tell him, though maybe she would if it demonstrated her importance.
A tap came on his door and Cantelli entered.
‘Big brass?’ he asked, sitting down.
Horton swiftly relayed what had happened. Cantelli listened then, consulting his notebook, said, ‘Jay Turner was born in Portsmouth, and educated at the University of London where he got a degree in Modern Languages, specializing in Russian. He then joined one of the big firms of accountants, qualified as a chartered accountant and worked there until he became a management consultant in 1992. He joined the Civil Service in 1993, where he worked for the Diplomatic Service until he joined the International Development Fund in 1996. I also accessed his missing persons file but there’s no next of kin mentioned, and I got the three monkey syndrome when I tried to follow it up with the station which recorded him missing, so I called the concierge at his apartment. His job must be a bit lonely because he liked a chat.’ Cantelli smiled. ‘He says Mr Turner was a very nice quiet man, never had any visitors that he’d seen or let into his apartment, but then he was hardly ever there. Not much point in having such an expensive flat, he said, and not using it, but then there were a lot of people like that in London. Mr Turner worked abroad, Europe somewhere, but the concierge wasn’t sure where exactly. Turner was usually away for three to six months at a time then back for four or five weeks, but even then he was hardly ever around.’
‘The elusive Mr Turner,’ Horton said thoughtfully.
‘Want me to dig a bit deeper?’
‘I doubt you’d get very far. We’ll leave Mr Turner to Waverley and Harlam and concentrate on Luke Felton.’ He told Cantelli to go home.
‘I think you should do the same, Andy. You look beat.’
Horton did feel weary. The sleepless nights were catching up with him and his head was aching. He needed time and space to sift through all the information he’d gleaned throughout the day and he couldn’t do that here. A run along the seafront would help.
‘I won’t be long. I just want to check what Olewbo’s sent over.’
Cantelli looked at him in exasperation before leaving. A few minutes later, with full access to the files — for which he silently thanked Olewbo — Horton was scrolling through endless images of the occupants of Crown House coming and going, including the shuffling, suspicious figure of Ronnie Rookley. But there were none of Rookley meeting with anyone. And none of Luke Felton and Rookley together. And there was only one of Luke Felton entering Crown House on Monday evening. Judging by the time, he was obviously returning from work, and he didn’t go out again.
Horton’s head was thumping and his eyes felt as though they’d dried up and rolled back into their sockets. He rubbed at them with a fist, which only seemed to make them worse. This was pointless. He needed more than pictures, he needed Olewbo’s inside information, and he needed to know who had been big on the drug scene in the area in 1997.
He might as well call it a day. Then his finger froze, and he blinked hard at the image on the computer. Sitting forward, he scrutinized it closely and then studied the date and time in the top right-hand corner. Puzzled, he sat back and ran a hand over his head. What was Ashley Felton doing at Crown House last Thursday evening? The obvious answer was that he’d gone to visit his brother. He hadn’t said though. Why not? He’d told them that Luke had visited him on 6 March and asked for money, but he’d made no mention of seeing him again just under a week later — or rather trying to see him, because by then Luke Felton had already disappeared.
Horton printed off the picture then switched off his computer. There didn’t seem any point in briefing Bliss about the developments on the Luke Felton case when she had bigger fish to fry, and talking of fish he rather fancied some, along with chips.
He bought some after an invigorating run along a blustery, chilly, dark seafront and ate them hungrily on board the yacht, mulling over the Luke Felton case. Every new piece of information they uncovered only seemed to serve up more questions than answers, and still brought them no closer to where Felton was.
Making a coffee, he took it up on deck in the hope that the fresh night air might provide inspiration, or illumination. The wind had dropped a little and the moon, moving into its last quarter, was visible through a cloud- scudding sky, throwing glimpses of silver light on the boats in the yard above the marina. His eyes flicked up to his Harley as he wondered what Dr Clayton’s contact would make of the symbol. All was quiet. Then his eyes narrowed as a dark shape detached itself from the cover of one of the boats. Horton froze. If the bastard was back and scrawling something else on his Harley he’d have him by the throat. He slammed his coffee mug down, and raced up the pontoon and into the boatyard in time to see a hooded figure moving swiftly through the hulls of the boats towards the road. As though sensing his presence, the figure turned. Horton caught the glimpse of a man’s face, and registered strength and hardness without noting details, before the figure turned back and ran towards the road.
Horton tore after him. The man glanced back before swerving to the left. Horton followed. He was gaining on him, then suddenly the figure vanished. He must have jumped down on to the shore, but when Horton drew up there was no sign of anyone, not even a ruddy seagull.
Scouring the dark horizon and remaining perfectly still, Horton strained his ears for the sound of footsteps on the shore and the crunching of shingle, but only the hum of traffic and the wind reached him.
Leaping down on to the shingle, Horton turned eastwards towards the entrance to Langstone Harbour and a row of upended tenders and rotting houseboats. With his heart pumping fast he steeled himself for an attack, his senses heightened. With bated breath he advanced gingerly until he reached the first overturned tender. Stretching out he upended it, springing back, prepared to be met with his knife-yielding graffiti artist. But there was nothing and no one. He repeated the act with the next tender and the following one, his senses so strained that he felt like a rod of steel.
The man had moved very swiftly and silently, as though he’d had practice at being unobtrusive. He couldn’t simply vanish. Horton stood stock still and listened again, but there was no sound save the gentle wash of the sea on the shore and the hammering of his heart. He walked on towards the semi-derelict hulk of an old houseboat, losing what little light he’d had from the street lights as the shore curved further away from the road. He cursed himself for not having a torch and prayed for the moon to make even the most fleeting of appearances, but the cloud had thickened and the air suddenly felt heavy with the promise of rain. He told himself it would be far more sensible to return tomorrow in daylight, but he knew the man would be gone by then.
