Horton wondered if it would. It contained Eliso’s story and some jewellery, but no indication of where Jay Turner might have money stashed away. Gavin Chawley had overlooked it because he didn’t know about the key in Eliso’s hand. Horton had read what she had written before Uckfield passed it to Waverley. Most of it he had already guessed.
Eliso had run away from her family and the troubles in South Ossetia in 1993 and had ended up in Tbilisi, where she became a dancer in a club. She had met Jay Turner in 1997; she had been twenty. Jay had brought her to England illegally, promising her a better life. She got it too, Horton thought: a lovely house, yacht, designer clothes, but at a price, which according to her notes she soon realized. She was virtually a prisoner, too terrified to go far except to walk along the shore, usually very early in the morning or at night, and take a brief trip to the local shops, because Jay had told her she’d be arrested and deported if she spoke to anyone. Horton recalled that shy smile. How lonely she must have been without any friends or family, and how afraid. He knew how loneliness felt. Even throughout his marriage he recognized his own solitariness and with a pang wondered if that had contributed to Catherine’s infidelity, if indeed she had been unfaithful.
Out sailing on 22 February, the wind had sprung up and Jay Turner had been struck by the boom as it swung round and had been swept overboard. Eliso claimed it was an accident. By the time she had turned the boat round he was gone, and dead. Maybe, Horton thought, she had taken longer to turn it around than was necessary. Dr Clayton had said he was dead when he hit the water, so was Eliso telling the truth? Perhaps she’d struck her husband and killed him and then pushed him overboard.
Horton pictured her returning to the house, struggling to moor up, because by then it was dark and windy. Gavin Chawley had decided to take a walk around the shore before heading home, a place that he was clearly reluctant to be according to what Julia Chawley had told the woman police officer. It had been bad luck for Eliso, as it turned out — but then she seemed to attract it, poor woman, much like Luke Felton. Chawley had helped her. She’d been grateful, not knowing how he was going to exploit and eventually kill her.
Not sure what to do next, she’d begun living off what she had in the house, and turning off the heating to conserve money. Then she must have decided to sell the boat; it would keep her alive until she could decide what to do. Chawley had shown up again, but he told her he’d let her know about the boat by the end of the week. Then Otia had arrived almost at the same time as Horton had shown up to view the boat. That night Eliso had decided that escape was better than living with Otia on the run. She’d stashed her jewellery on the yacht, ready to set sail on the high tide, when Gavin Chawley had come alongside with Rookley’s body and killed her.
Horton knew the Chief Constable was going to have to do some nifty footwork to prevent Duncan Chawley’s corruption from being exposed. Maybe he was considering an even earlier retirement, like right now. It left a bitter taste in Horton’s mouth, as it would with every honest copper.
He hauled himself up. ‘I’ve got some paperwork to sort, this being my last case in CID.’ He held Dennings’ sullen glare before nodding at Uckfield, Trueman and Marsden. Cantelli followed him into the corridor. Falling into step beside him, he said, ‘DCI Bliss might not be so keen to get rid of you now we’ve got a result.’
Horton eyed him sceptically. ‘I don’t think she’s that charitable.’
‘You never know.’
‘Well, if you see an empty chair at my desk tomorrow morning I’ve either overslept or my posting’s come through.’
‘I hope it’s the former. Better the devil you know,’ Cantelli said with a tired smile.
Horton hoped so too. Bidding good night to Cantelli, he headed for his office where he flicked open the blinds in time to see Tony Dennings’ broad figure stride across the yard and disappear from view. A taxi pulled in and Uckfield climbed into it. Then Marsden climbed on to his racing bike. Horton watched his tail light flicker out of sight before turning away.
He was tired beyond belief, his head was pounding, and every muscle in his body ached. Where would he end up? In Uckfield’s major crime team, if Dennings transferred himself out of it? But why should he? He looked set for the duration. In a CID unit in another division? Possibly.
There was a knock on his door and he looked up to find Trueman on the threshold. ‘I’m just off home, Andy, and I suggest you do the same.’
Horton stared at his paper-strewn desk. ‘I guess you’re right.’ He could tackle this tomorrow,
‘You asked me to find out if PC Adrian Stanley was still around.’
Horton had forgotten all about the PC who had filed the missing persons report on his mother.
‘He’s living in a retirement flat at Lee-on-the-Solent.’
Only eleven miles west along the coast.
‘I’ve jotted down the address for you.’ Trueman handed across a piece of paper.
‘Thanks.’ Horton stuffed it in his pocket without looking at it. He didn’t see that it would get him far with his investigations into his mother’s disappearance, whereas comparing his DNA against the database to find out if his mother was in cold storage might.
He shrugged on his leather jacket. Somewhere buried among the paper on his desk, or lurking on his computer, could be a memo or email from Chief Superintendent Reine or DCI Bliss telling him about his new posting. He thought it far more likely to be a paper-pushing job or a training role at the college than something like CID or special investigations and he didn’t relish that. Perhaps working with Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate to track down Zeus and get to the truth of his mother’s disappearance wasn’t such a bad idea after all, especially if Emma was safely away at school.
Closing his office door behind him he headed towards his Harley, considering the future. Whatever it held for him, though, and wherever he ended up, there was one thing he knew, and that was he’d survive. Which, he thought, breathing in the still night air, was more than Luke Felton and poor Eliso Gelashvili had ever been destined to do.
