Eliso had been unlucky to the end. Fate, or sod’s law, whatever you liked to call it, had played its card. But even if she hadn’t been in the street that day, Horton knew that the Georgian wouldn’t have given up his search until he found her. Locating that house by the sea and the castle would have been easy.
‘Now I will kill him.’
Chawley squawked.
Hastily Horton recalled what Gaye Clayton had relayed to him about the symbol. He had an idea. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but anything was worth trying. Quickly he said, ‘The Lion on the Kartli coat of arms stands for courage and strength, and the Unicorn for purity and virtue. Surely killing this man must go against that.’
Hesitation flashed across the rough unshaven features. It was a start. ‘You need courage to kill a man.’
‘You need even more courage not to, especially when he has hurt you and someone you love,’ responded Horton.
The Georgian’s eyes narrowed.
Horton pressed home his advantage. ‘You also need strength to let a man live to face his punishment, and to make sure that the truth is exposed. Isn’t that what Eliso would have wanted and what she’d expect from you?’
Horton held his breath as he saw the thoughts running through the Georgian’s mind. Quickly he pressed on, speaking earnestly. ‘The man you are holding a knife to has ruined many lives, not only Eliso’s. Killing him is too quick and easy a punishment for what he has done. He values his reputation. In prison he would lose that. He would feel the punishment and he would suffer.’ Horton sincerely hoped that was true. ‘Let him go,’ he added gently, ‘and he’ll go to prison for what he’s done, for a very long time.’ Horton could see the Georgian considering it. ‘If you kill him now he won’t suffer and you will go to prison, not him.’
Horton held the Georgian’s steely gaze, trying not to show any emotion. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, stretching out his hand.
‘Give me the knife,’ he said calmly, though his heart was in overdrive. He stood his ground with his hand outstretched. He didn’t look at Chawley but kept his eyes steadfastly on the Georgian, catching the flicker of hesitation behind the exhausted eyes. He prayed now that no one would enter, not until he had the knife in his hand.
‘Eliso wouldn’t want him killed,’ Horton said softly, easing another step forward. He could feel the sweat on his back, and the thumping in his head was matched by the pounding of his heart. ‘She’d want you to tell her story. Don’t you think she deserves that?’
The Georgian’s eyes held fatigue beyond weariness. His roughened hand came down a fraction. He paused. Then, flicking the knife round so that the hilt faced Horton, he stretched it across. Horton grasped it. But his relief was short-lived.
‘I can still break his neck with my bare hand,’ the Georgian cried, squeezing Chawley’s throat. Chawley’s eyes popped as the pressure increased.
‘That would be too quick a death,’ Horton cried hastily. ‘Better to let him suffer the humiliation of everyone knowing he’s a murderer. He’s not worth killing,’ he urged, praying he wouldn’t need to attack the Georgian. If he did, Chawley might be saved but the knife in Horton’s hand could be used against him, or end up in the Georgian.
Suddenly, with disgust the Georgian pushed Chawley so violently that the chair crashed over, leaving Chawley lying on his side trussed up tightly, his midriff exposed. The Georgian’s leg came up and he kicked his boot hard into Chawley’s stomach. Chawley screamed in pain. And again, as the boot struck out. Horton threw the knife out of reach and leapt into action, charging at the Georgian. He staggered, as his foot was raised in the act of striking Chawley again. They fell, and suddenly there were uniforms swarming all over the boat and the Georgian had his hands behind his back in cuffs. Chawley was howling with pain. A uniformed police officer bent over to release him.
‘What kept you?’ Horton said to Cantelli, heaving an enormous sigh of relief at the sight of the sergeant and in the rudest of health.
‘We took the scenic route.’
‘Next time try the motorway, it’s quicker.’
‘It’s blocked in both directions, an accident. We couldn’t get through and had to come over the hill.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’re here.’ Chawley was on his feet. Horton reached into his pocket and clapped his cuffs on him.
Chawley began to protest. ‘You’ve got no right. I’ve been attacked. I need to go to hospital.’
‘What’s that noise?’ Horton asked, waggling a finger in his ear.
‘I think it’s the wind,’ answered Cantelli.
TWENTY-SEVEN
‘Good result,’ Uckfield said, swilling back his second whisky of the night, and helping himself to a third. He didn’t offer the bottle around because everyone else in the incident suite — Horton, Trueman, Dennings and Marsden — were on coffee, except for Cantelli who was supping a mug of tea and trying not to yawn. Uckfield added, ‘Waverley’s sulking so much they’re thinking of making his lower lip a new railway platform at Portsmouth station.’
Horton managed a tired smile. It was almost eleven o’clock. It
Gavin Chawley had been only too keen to repeat his story, confident in the belief that a jury would see his side of things. Horton thought otherwise. His father was in hospital, with an officer beside his bed. Duncan Chawley had slipped into unconsciousness not long after Horton had left him, knowing the truth would come out and that he could no longer protect his son. The Georgian was in a cell awaiting transportation to London.
Trueman said, ‘Europol gave us a match on the fingerprints you found on the items in the derelict houseboat, Andy. Your Georgian’s called Otia Gelashvili. He was a member of the South Ossetian Popular Front, captured by the Georgian army during the conflict in 2008 when the Georgian government tried to take the South Ossetian region by force, as they previously tried in 1991 and 2004. The Ossetian separatists and Russian troops gained control of the territory though. Russia recognizes it as an independent republic, but Georgia doesn’t and considers most of its territory a part of the Shida Kartli region within Georgian sovereignty. Otia probably bribed his way out of captivity, given his background — he was very big in the black market racket. Had contacts and customers in South Ossetia, Russia and Georgia, and a lucrative black market trade between all three.’
‘Was he involved with Jay Turner?’ asked Horton.
‘He says not,’ answered Uckfield. ‘But he could be lying to protect others. Waverley’s team will check it, and his story about how he got here.’
And maybe, thought Horton, Otia Gelashvili had known all along where his sister was living and had only now decided to come to England because it was too hot for him in Georgia. ‘And where does Jay Turner fit in?’
Uckfield nodded at Marsden, who said, ‘The International Development Fund was established in Georgia in 1996 after British diplomatic relations were renewed with the country following the collapse of the Soviet Union. The International Development Fund has given hundreds of thousands of pounds in grants to help Georgia with its infrastructure and various government projects. It’s overseen by several nationalities, including British nationals who are experts in project management and accountancy. One of them was Jay Turner.’
Uckfield broke in. ‘Waverley’s team, and Europol, have been tracking disappearing money from Georgia for a year. They suspected Turner, although he’d obviously been at it for longer than a year. They couldn’t find out where the money was going and who he was in league with. The contents of the locker from Eliso’s yacht might help them.’
