deep into the pockets of a large black leather bomber jacket.
Rookley quickly buried his face in the mug and swallowed a mouthful of tea before pulling a face. Horton didn’t blame him. It smelt like shit and looked like something that had come from the sewage farm at Bedhampton. Horton valued his throat and stomach too highly to drink the coffee that Cantelli had bought him, and the sergeant hadn’t attempted to lift his cracked mug to his lips.
‘We were talking about Luke Felton,’ pressed Horton.
‘I’ve got to go.’ Rookley half rose.
‘Sit down,’ Horton commanded quietly but firmly. ‘Unless you cooperate I will ask questions very loudly before I take you to the station, where I will-’
‘OK, you’ve made your point. I heard something, that’s all.’
‘Like what?’ Horton’s patience was wearing a little thin. It was time to squeeze some information out of the runt. The black man had gone.
Rookley licked his lips and dashed another glance at big belly man. ‘Not here,’ he hissed.
‘Just tell me where Luke is,’ Horton sighed.
Rookley shifted. ‘Can’t now, but I might be able to tonight.’
Was he bullshitting? Horton thought it highly probable. Rookley just wanted shot of him. As if reading his mind Rookley quickly added, ‘I need to ask around a bit.’
Horton didn’t believe it for one minute. He was stalling. Why? But Horton said, ‘OK, where?’
‘Milton Locks. Nine o’clock.’
‘Why there?’
‘Why not?’
‘How do I know you’ll be there?’
‘Because you know where I’m living and I don’t want you sniffing around after me.’
Horton quickly weighed up whether to press him, decided it would be a waste of time and scraped back his chair. ‘I’ll be there. Just make sure you are, Ronnie.’
Rookley scurried away without looking back. Horton watched big belly man’s eyes follow him before they swivelled back to Horton. The hatred in them was unmistakable, but Horton didn’t let that worry him.
Crossing to him, Horton said, ‘When did you last see Luke Felton?’
‘Fuck off, copper.’
Horton held his hostile stare a moment longer before obliging.
‘Do you know the cafe owner?’ he asked Cantelli when they were outside.
Cantelli shook his head. Big belly man now had a mobile phone pressed to his ear. ‘Give me the photograph of Felton and keep your eye on handsome in there.’
Horton slipped across the road as the traffic lights changed and darted down the narrow side street by the housing office. Turning right into a small car park at the rear of the run-down shops and flats he found what he was looking for: a dark saloon car. Inside it was the large black man who’d been lounging against the wall by the housing office. Checking no one was watching him, Horton opened the passenger door and climbed in.
‘What the hell were you doing in there, Andy?’
‘Looking for him.’ Horton thrust the photograph of Luke Felton at Hans Olewbo of the drug squad. ‘Have you seen him?’
Olewbo looked cagey.
‘When was the last time?’ pressed Horton.
After a moment Olewbo said, ‘Monday night about seven.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘Entering Crown House.’
‘Front or back entrance?’
‘Back. Why?’
‘And you didn’t see him leave Tuesday morning at eight thirty?’
‘A man’s got to sleep.’
‘You know he used to be into heroin?’
‘I haven’t seen him dealing or receiving. What’s he done?’
Horton told him, and why he’d followed Rookley into the cafe.
Olewbo cursed. ‘Wish someone had told us.’
‘I just have. So what’s your interest here, Hans? Is it Rookley, Crown House or big belly man in the cafe? Or maybe all three,’ Horton added, when he didn’t get an immediate answer.
Hans checked his rear view mirror. After a moment he said, ‘We’ve got information that someone is bringing in a shed load of crack and circulating it to the kids on the estate. That cafe could be the pick-up point. Jack Belton, the cafe proprietor, has a conviction for drug dealing in London. He was released three years ago and has been in Portsmouth for two years and things round here have got a hell of a lot worse in the last eighteen months. We received information which led us to him and set up surveillance on Monday morning, but so far, sod all. What did Rookley tell you?’
‘Nothing. Could Luke Felton have gained easy access to drugs?’
Olewbo gave him an incredulous stare. ‘They’re giving it out like lemon sherbet around here.’
‘OK, daft question,’ Horton admitted. He opened the car door, knowing he’d get nothing more from Hans. Brightly he said, ‘Hope I haven’t blown your cover.’
‘I’ll survive. Now bugger off.’
Horton found Cantelli where he’d left him. ‘Handsome’s got customers,’ Cantelli said, nodding at the cafe. ‘Lads with hoods. They bought Coke. The drink in a can,’ he added with a grin to Horton’s surprised look. ‘Though that might not be the kind of coke they asked for. And Rookley’s just left Crown House again.’
Cantelli nodded his head in the direction of the large parish church on the corner of a busy junction where Horton saw Rookley’s slight figure.
‘Let’s see where he’s going, Barney, and in such a hurry.’
‘Probably cashing his giro.’
Cantelli could be right, but Horton was convinced that Rookley knew a great deal about Luke Felton’s vanishing act, and, away from that greasy cafe and the flapping ears of the proprietor, Horton would get him to tell it, and save himself a late night meeting and endless hours looking for Felton. He said as much to Cantelli as they pulled on to the main road, causing a motorbike to swerve around them and Cantelli to curse after it.
‘Rookley might even be meeting Luke Felton to warn him we’re looking for him,’ Horton added as Cantelli indicated left by the church. He relayed what Olewbo had told him, adding, ‘Rookley could have gone to the cafe to pick up drugs for Felton. If we can nab him for supplying drugs and bring Luke Felton in, that might put a smile on DCI Bliss’s face.’
Cantelli threw him a dubious glance, forcing Horton to say, ‘I know pigs might fly.’
Through the now steadily falling rain Horton watched Rookley, his collar turned up, shoulders hunched, head towards the prison, which could hardly be his destination, having just got out of one. Before reaching it, though, Rookley turned left into the cemetery as a funeral procession swung into it from the opposite direction.
‘No post offices in a cemetery,’ Horton said cheerfully. ‘Plenty of crypts though, which make excellent hiding places.’
‘Perhaps he’s visiting the grave of a relative or friend?’
‘Doubt he’s got any.’
‘There’s a sister.’
‘Poor her.’
Cantelli swung into the cemetery after the funeral cortege.
‘Pull over, Barney, I’ll tail Rookley on foot. Hang around here in case he doubles back.’
Rookley veered off the central path to his right and Horton followed him at a discreet distance, weaving his way through the lurching weather-beaten headstones. Ahead he saw the funeral cortege draw to a halt and beyond it two gravediggers sheltering from the rain under a tree. He hadn’t gone much further when his phone rang. Horton glanced at Rookley, who was some distance ahead and hadn’t heard it. Seeing the caller was Cantelli, Horton answered it.
‘Sorry, Andy, but we’ve got a body in Portsmouth Harbour. No ID, and difficult to tell who it is, but Seaton
