A Killing Coast

There was something in Stanley’s tone, in his manner and posture, that made Horton doubt this neatly wrapped excuse. He sensed there was more to it. Had Stanley or anyone really looked for Jennifer’s friends? It seemed not to him. The more questions Horton asked the more he seemed to generate and the fewer answers he got.

‘Why weren’t any fingerprints taken?’ If they had been then they certainly weren’t on the file.

Stanley shrugged. ‘No idea. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

Horton decided not to press him. For now. He rose and handed Stanley a business card. ‘If you remember anything would you give me a call?’

Stanley took the card with a sense of relief, Horton thought. After a moment Stanley said, ‘I hope you find out what happened to her.’

Part of Horton hoped so too, and another part of him hoped not, but he knew that not knowing would leave him with a permanent itch that would always need scratching.

He thanked Stanley and left with an uneasy feeling gnawing at him. As he negotiated the heavy morning traffic towards Gosport Marina he knew that Stanley had lied or rather he had held something back. Why? To spare his feelings? Possibly. But if so, what had Stanley uncovered about Jennifer’s disappearance that was so awful he couldn’t tell her son?

Horton shuddered. Perhaps he didn’t want to know. But he was compelled to find out despite or perhaps because of it. Mentally he replayed the interview. Stanley had shown no curiosity about why and when Horton had become a police officer. He hadn’t even been surprised. Why? The obvious answer was because he already knew, which meant either someone had told him, or Stanley had kept an eye on him over the years, and that seemed unlikely.

Secondly, Stanley hadn’t asked him why he had chosen now to find his mother when he’d had years and the opportunity to do so before. Stanley hadn’t so much as uttered the words, I expected you sooner. Either he was remarkably lacking in curiosity — which for an ex- copper was unusual — or he knew the reason why Horton was now raking up the past. Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer must have interviewed Stanley and informed him that he might approach him. And perhaps Sawyer had left instructions with Stanley to say as little as possible and to contact him when Horton came calling. But why should he do that?

And another thing that bugged Horton, why wasn’t Stanley curious about what he would do next in his search for Jennifer? Stanley had simply said I hope you find out what happened to her. Did he not care or did he know that Horton would hit a brick wall? Or would someone keep Stanley informed? And there were only two people who could do that: Sawyer, or someone who knew the truth behind Jennifer’s disappearance. Was that Zeus?

Horton felt a cold shiver prick his spine as he swung into Gosport Marina and made his way to the waiting police launch on the pontoon. The sight of the glistening superyacht across the narrow stretch of Portsmouth Harbour, moored up at Oyster Quays opposite, made him shelve his concerns about Stanley and Zeus and filled him with new worries. It was the size of a small cruise ship and would act like a ruddy great beacon for all the lowlife scum of Portsmouth, and those higher up the slime, including villains from London, who would take great pleasure stripping it of its spoils, and that was even without the added attraction of a high-profile VIP charity auction and reception being held on board on Friday night, before she sailed off to the Caribbean or wherever.

‘It’s a beauty,’ Sergeant Dai Elkins said, following the direction of Horton’s gaze.

‘I prefer wind over motor,’ Horton replied, discarding his leather jacket in favour of a sailing jacket and life vest.

‘I wouldn’t send it back if it was offered me.’

Horton let his gaze travel over the four-decked cruiser as PC Ripley throttled back the launch and eased it into the busy channel. The portholes on the lower deck were probably crew accommodation, while the first and second decks with the wide windows must be the living accommodation. There was a huge flybridge, a swimming platform at the aft of the first deck and a large RIB suspended on a davit from the rear. He hoped Russell Glenn had a good security system. DC Walters would report back on that, but Horton made a mental note to liaise with Inspector Warren, Head of Territorial Operations, to make sure that extra uniformed patrols were covering the boardwalk for the next five days, with additional officers on duty Friday evening for the reception. He could hear Inspector Warren’s gripes: ‘And just where the hell am I going to get them from?’

Horton phoned Cantelli.

‘There’s been another house burglary in the Drayton area,’ Cantelli solemnly reported.

Horton cursed. That made four in the last week.

‘They’ve all got the same MO: jewellery and cash taken, no mess, no fingerprints, no noise. Owners off the premises, back door panel neatly removed and matey climbing in by using it like a giant cat flap. Bliss is going ballistic. I don’t think she appreciated it when I nicknamed him the cat burglar.’

‘Bliss hasn’t got a sense of humour,’ Horton replied. But burglary was no joke.

‘I’m reviewing all the case notes and checking criminal records to see if I can get a lead,’ added Cantelli, ‘but it looks as though this is a new one on the block.’

And something neither they nor the poor householders needed. Cantelli said that Walters had left for Russell Glenn’s superyacht.

Horton rang off and as he did something in the marina caught his attention. ‘Give me the glasses, Dai,’ he commanded.

Elkins stretched them across and Horton quickly trained them on the marina.

‘Something wrong?’

‘Just thought I saw that blue van earlier this morning.’ He’d seen a blue van outside Adrian Stanley’s apartment block, but then there were thousands of blue vans in the country and hundreds in the area. He tried to read the registration number but couldn’t. As the police launch headed further out into the harbour the van slipped out of his view. It couldn’t have been the same van, or if it was then it was a coincidence. But Horton was suspicious of coincidences. If it was the same van, had it been following him? If so, why? Bloody Zeus was the answer. Shit, he was getting paranoid. Angrily he pushed all thoughts of Zeus, DCS Sawyer and Adrian Stanley aside. Enough of the past. He had a job to do and that was to interview an elderly man about seeing a mysterious light at sea, and the sooner he did it the sooner he could get back to some real work such as catching the scumbag criminal robbing houses on his patch in Portsmouth.

TWO

‘On a good day, when the light is right, you can see France, Inspector,’ Victor Hazleton declared, pointing at a telescope that Horton thought large enough to rival the one at Jodrell Bank. He wasn’t surprised Hazleton had seen lights at sea; with that thing he could probably see the Eiffel Tower.

Horton eyed the dapperly dressed little man, with his blue and yellow spotted cravat, his beige cardigan over camel-coloured slacks and his walnut face and wiry grey hair, wondering if he was senile. Admittedly his view was coloured by what WPC Claire Skinner had told him and Sergeant Elkins in the patrol car on their way here after meeting them at the small harbour of Ventnor Haven. Apparently Hazleton had a reputation for seeing smugglers and illegal immigrants at every flicker of a sea light. Over the years he’d made a hobby out of reporting these to the local police who had long since learnt to ignore him, but this time, because of Project Neptune, Hazleton’s report had landed on DCI Bliss’s desk. Did she know about Hazleton’s background? Surely the local police would have commented on it? But if she did know then why waste time and money by sending him here on a wild goose chase, thought Horton angrily. He calculated how quickly he could wrap this up and get back to CID.

‘I said you can see France, but not with this,’ Hazleton added, tapping the instrument he’d been peering through. ‘Know anything about telescopes, Inspector?’

Horton silently groaned. Even if he had declared he was the world’s greatest expert that wouldn’t stop Hazleton from spouting forth on the subject. Elkins fidgeted beside him and Skinner stared stoically out to sea. Horton resisted the impulse to glance at his watch.

‘This is a Meade sixteen-inch Lightbridge Deluxe.’ Hazleton patted the large telescope beside him. ‘It has an