his memoirs.’
‘And are there notes?’ Horton daren’t hope.
‘I’m not sure. I could look for you.’
‘Thanks. I’d appreciate that. It might help.’
With his head spinning, Horton left the hospital and headed for home. Stanley definitely knew something about Jennifer’s disappearance, which he had kept to himself for years. Had he been threatened? Had this master criminal Zeus got to him? But if that were so, surely Zeus wouldn’t have let Stanley live. The Zeuses of this world covered their tracks. So what could Stanley know? And why keep silent? Had he known Jennifer Horton? That was a possibility. Had he been involved with her and kept silent because he’d been afraid for his job? Had he heard some snippet of news or rumour about her disappearance that implicated someone he knew, and kept silent to protect them?
Horton needed more than ‘ooch’, whatever that meant, and frustratingly for him and poor Adrian Stanley he didn’t think he was going to get it.
THIRTEEN
Horton reached his office early after a restless night. He’d drunk countless cups of coffee throughout a troubled night, which had only served to keep him awake, maybe deliberately so, because while awake he could control his thoughts; once asleep the nightmares would return. At one time he’d taken his drink on deck and felt the crisp night air chill his bones, hoping it would cleanse his mind of those terrible years. He’d turned to recollections of when his mother had been there and tried to recall the men he’d seen her with. Russell Glenn unwittingly came to mind. Now in his sixties, he would have been twenty-seven then. But Horton couldn’t recall him. Perhaps one of the photographs Walters had printed off the Internet might jog his memory.
The sound of a car driving past in the early hours of the morning had caught his attention, causing him to wonder where the driver was heading at that hour. The road went nowhere except to Langstone Harbour and the Hayling ferry, which didn’t run through the night. He’d waited for the car to return but it didn’t. It was high water and he had strained his ears for the sound of a boat going out, but had heard nothing. Growing cold he’d gone below and had lain on his bunk, letting the slapping of the water soothe his troubled mind. Eventually he’d slept but only for a couple of hours.
Sipping his coffee and pushing his weariness aside he logged on to his computer and searched the police files for events in 1978. What had so preoccupied the police in November 1978 that they had only sent PC Adrian Stanley to investigate the disappearance of his mother, and he hadn’t done that very thoroughly. But the reports from that period hadn’t been scanned, which meant he would need to check them manually. He cursed softly. That would have to wait. He tried the local newspaper archives but they didn’t go that far back either. All he could find was that Portsmouth football team had been relegated to the fourth division; so a visit to the newspaper office or the library to check the archives was needed.
Horton then called up the national news events of that year just for background. The Home Secretary announced a pay increase for police officers of an average of forty per cent. Those were the days. They were lucky now if they got four per cent and only then if they promised to make cuts. Yearly inflation was at just over eight per cent and interest rates at twelve and a half per cent. Naomi James broke the solo round-the-world sailing record by two days, the first test-tube baby was born, and Labour faced a vote of confidence.
He sat back feeling restless and agitated. There was something nagging at the back of his mind, something he’d seen or heard, but it refused to come to light. He rummaged around on his desk and found three photographs of Glenn that Walters had printed off. Two of them had been taken in the last seven years and were clearly publicity shots taken on the sale of two of Glenn’s businesses. He wore the same gold-rimmed spectacles and was casually dressed; his hair wasn’t as grey or as untidy as when Horton had seen him on Monday evening, but there was the same slightly shambolic, uneasy air about the man who was clearly uncomfortable in front of a camera. The other picture was of a younger Russell Glenn at a black-tie function, unaware that the camera was on him. Horton studied it. Glenn must then have been in his early to mid forties. He was still wearing glasses but Horton thought he caught sight of a different Glenn, one more relaxed, more confident, sharper.
He folded all three photographs and thrust them in his pocket before swinging round to stare out of his window at the clear bright morning. Had Glenn changed over the years? Had he lost his confidence, or rather his edge? Hardly, if he could afford to buy a superyacht. So who was the real Russell Glenn, the dishevelled man who looked ill at ease or the other sharper one?
The door to the CID room opened. That must be Cantelli or Walters. He pushed thoughts of Stanley and his mother from his mind and turned round, starting in surprise as he stared up at the lean silver-haired figure in the immaculate grey suit on the other side of his desk. Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate closed Horton’s door behind him.
‘Sir.’ Horton made to stand, but Sawyer waved him back into his seat and took the one the other side of Horton’s desk, where he crossed his legs and eyed Horton with a serious and assessing air.
‘DCI Bliss tells me that Victor Hazleton’s death is not connected with Project Neptune.’
‘We believe it’s connected with the death of Colin Yately.’
‘Whose body was pulled out of the Solent on Monday.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And neither of these deaths has any connection with a possible terrorist attack on the USS
Horton studied the lean-featured man with eyes as cold as marble. ‘Not unless you know something we don’t.’ Which was always possible. He thought of DCI Harriet Lee with Mike Danby in that restaurant.
‘By “we” you mean Detective Superintendent Uckfield.’
‘Yes, sir. It’s his case.’
Sawyer nodded. After a moment he said, ‘But Hazleton did report two incidents of lights at sea.’
‘Yes, although there is no corroborating evidence. He could have seen Yately’s killer the first time but we’re not sure that applies to the second sighting.’
Sawyer seemed to consider this.
Horton said, ‘Have you evidence to show that Hazleton could have witnessed something connected with a potential terrorist attack, sir?’
‘No. But that doesn’t mean to say that he didn’t. What theories do you have for his death?’
Horton wanted to say, why ask me? Why not Uckfield? But that could be construed as being insubordinate. That aside, he didn’t think he’d get a straight answer anyway. Instead, with his mind whirling with thoughts of why Sawyer was here, he swiftly brought him up to date with what they knew and the most likely theory: Lisle had killed Yately for having an affair with his wife, and had then killed Hazleton because he witnessed the murder, or because he’d also had an affair with his wife.
Sawyer listened without showing the slightest sign of emotion or interest. Finally, he said almost casually, ‘But you’ve no evidence to support this.’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘And you agree with this theory.’ There was a slight question mark in Sawyer’s tone and behind it a hint of surprise.
Horton should have answered immediately that he did, but a moment’s brief hesitation gave Sawyer his answer. Horton silently cursed himself for betraying his thoughts. But why was a Chief Superintendent interested in a mere Detective Inspector’s theories? And why was
He said, ‘It’s possible.’
‘What other theories do
‘None at the moment, sir,’ Horton replied. He could see that Sawyer didn’t believe him, but if he explained his
