she’d been in Stockholm before that. Maybe he should ask her.
‘What can I get you, mate?’
Horton brought his weary, troubled mind back to the cafe proprietor and ordered a black coffee to take out. He was exhausted and his head was thumping. He was too tired to think, but snatches of Sawyer’s conversation continued to play in his head.
Could that have been Ballard? Maybe Sawyer had access to Jennifer’s history. Yes, that made sense. Sawyer could have discovered that Ballard had worked with or known Jennifer, perhaps even been her lover.
Horton paid for his coffee and took it along the Hard. He couldn’t get Ballard out of his mind. He thought of that can of Coke he’d sent for DNA and fingerprints. Ballard had hardly touched the drink and after accepting it he’d been keen to get away. Was that the message that Ballard had delivered to him? Ballard had wanted to leave his mark in order for him to investigate. To discover who he was. Perhaps fingerprints and DNA would tell him who Ballard was. But he had a suspicion neither would. He knew it wouldn’t be that simple. He again thought of Sawyer’s offer to go in with him; should he take that secondment to the Intelligence Directorate? It could be a short cut to the past and the truth, as well as a promotion albeit temporary.
He was convinced there had been a purpose to Ballard’s visit and he was equally convinced that the attack had been phoney designed so that Ballard could make contact with him. Then there had been that farewell gesture which niggled away at the back of his mind. He’d seen it before. . Suddenly and sharply the picture snapped into focus. My God! Of course!
He’d come home from school early, he couldn’t remember why. He might even have bunked off. A man had been talking to Bernard, his last foster-father and a policeman. They’d been standing just outside the house. Horton had seen the man hand something to Bernard, a small tin. The man turned, walked towards his car where he’d turned, looked back and raised his hand in farewell. Bernard had nodded and gone inside the house. Then the man had looked around and his eyes had alighted on Horton where they had lingered for some moments before he’d climbed in his car and driven away.
Ballard! Horton saw him quite clearly now, fit, muscular, blond. Several questions jostled for space in Horton’s head as he stared out to sea. Did that mean Ballard was connected with Zeus? If so then had Bernard been? But no, he couldn’t believe that. But why not? Maybe Zeus had wanted to take care of his son, or Jennifer had made him finally promise to make sure that her boy was OK and that was why he’d been fostered with Bernard. But surely he couldn’t be corrupt?
Horton swallowed his coffee not tasting it and threw the paper cup in the bin. He knew very well that coppers could be bought or got at, or be basically unsound, but gentle, kindly Bernard? No. His chest felt tight with emotion and his brain whirled with questions. Why had he been fostered with Bernard and Eileen Lichfield? Who had placed him there? Where had Ballard come from? Who had he been working for? But two questions clamoured in his brain refusing to be silenced: why had Ballard given Bernard that tin — and Horton knew it was the one that had contained the photograph of his mother and her birth certificate, both of which had been destroyed in the fire on his previous yacht — and why had Ballard visited him now?
With sudden clarity Horton knew the answer to the latter question. Hastily he climbed on his Harley and raced to his yacht. There he hurried down into the main cabin and lifted up the seat cushion where Ballard had sat. He tensed. Staring at him was a black and white photograph. Holding his breath and with a thumping heart he picked it up. In the foreground was a group of six men; two were sporting beards and untidy long hair which touched the collar of patterned open-necked shirts while the other four were clean shaven with short hair that reminded Horton of the Beatles. All were sitting on the floor and had their arms around each other smiling into camera while behind them was a small crowd of mainly men with a few women. He turned it over. Written on the back in neat black ink was a date, 13 March 1967. Ballard had delivered his message, and although Horton had no idea what it meant yet, he’d find out. And whereas the photograph of the late Mrs Stanley wearing a brooch that might once have belonged to Jennifer had drawn a blank, he knew with absolute certainty that this one wouldn’t.
