Pauline Rowson - A Killing Coast

‘It’s all that’s in the file,’ she snapped.

Horton recognized an evasive answer when he heard it. He hadn’t expected much but he had certainly hoped for more than just three pages stating his movements from the council flat where he’d lived with his mother to the three children’s homes and two foster homes before ending up with police constable Bernard and his wife Eileen Lichfield, who had changed the course of his troubled youth for ever and for good. Where were the notes on his behaviour, his schooling, his health? Why was nothing recorded about the times he’d run away in an attempt to find his mother, only to be brought back by the police? And why was there no record of what had happened to his mother’s belongings?

‘Then there must be another file,’ he said sharply, rising. He saw no need to put himself at a disadvantage by continuing to sit while she stood.

‘Not according to this.’ She stabbed a fat finger at the paper in her hand. ‘249/615/1 Horton Andrew.’

He stretched out a hand. She seemed reluctant to pass the paper over, but he held her hostile gaze until, with a loud exhalation, she thrust it across. She was correct, but Horton had too many years’ experience of officialdom not to know that something that ended with the number one indicated there must be other numbers after it.

‘I want a copy of this, and everything that’s in the file, and before you say that’s not possible, I know it is. I’ll wait.’

She looked about to protest before turning and flouncing out with as much indignation as she could muster. He wondered why she was so hostile. Was it just her natural demeanour or had she heard he was a copper and for some reason disliked all coppers. Perhaps she’d got a speeding ticket that morning or had had a row with her husband. Perhaps she didn’t like the look of him. Or maybe she was simply in the wrong job because he would have thought that an abandoned child, now an adult, would have drawn some sympathy.

He crossed to the grimy salt-spattered window and stared across the busy road at the modern flats to his left and then at the small boats and the iron-clad warship HMS Warrior in the mud of Portsmouth Harbour to his right. His eyes ached and his head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool after another fitful night, tossing and turning over the murders of Yately and Hazleton, and when he wasn’t thinking about that and how he might have averted Hazleton’s death his thoughts had turned to contemplating what might be in his file. His early morning run along the seafront had done nothing to banish his anxiety over the latter and now that he was here it hardly seemed worth it. Curiosity, both a curse and a necessity for a police officer, had driven him. That and the fear of what he might find had made him determined to keep the appointment. It would have been easy to cancel it, to make excuses that he was too busy, particularly in light of the murder investigation, but he hated feeling afraid. He’d experienced fear too many times in his childhood and youth and knew its debilitating and humiliating effect. Because of that he’d vowed years ago to use fear as a servant not as a master. One thing was clear to him now: someone didn’t want him to see the files held on him. Why?

His mobile rang but he ignored it as he considered the question, and there was another. Not only why , but who didn’t want him having access to all the information that must have been written about him and, more crucially, written about his mother.

He gazed across the busy harbour, his mind racing. He knew that files on children in care had in the past been kept for a minimum period, which had usually been until the child reached adulthood. So why hadn’t the sullen-faced woman simply said that his files had been destroyed when he’d reached adult age? Why hadn’t the social services department told him the same, instead of granting him access? The answer came quickly: because there was nothing on record about them having been destroyed, and, if that was the case, did that mean it was just a clerical slip-up or that records about him existed somewhere? Did someone have them, but had overlooked the sheet of paper pertaining to 249/615/1 Horton Andrew? And could that someone be Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate?

The door opened and he spun round to see the stout woman holding the photocopies with a frown of disapproval on her face, but this time he saw it without the prejudice of his past and it intrigued him. Again he considered her manner and wondered what she had been told about him. He hadn’t shown his ID or announced his profession, only given his name, but someone had prejudiced her against him, why? And what the devil had she been told? Sawyer had to be behind this. But if he was, then even more important and curious was how had Sawyer known that he’d request his files? Someone had alerted them, which meant his file must be flagged, either that or his mail was being intercepted, but he thought the latter unlikely. A cold shiver crept up his spine while his heart skipped a beat. Someone had left what meagre record there was on him deliberately, just to see if one day he’d come asking for it.

Tersely, he said, ‘I’ll contact you on Monday. Meanwhile, I suggest you search your archives.’

He swept out not waiting for her reply, knowing it would only be negative. She wasn’t going to search because there was nothing to find, but his visit here, and his command, or rather the threat that he’d be back, would trigger action from someone. All he had to do was wait and see what kind of action and by whom.

He checked his messages and found one from WPC Claire Skinner who was at Arthur Lisle’s house. Horton had rung DC Marsden early that morning and asked him to find out the title and author of the book he’d seen in Lisle’s dining room. She had both and was contacting the publisher to get the author’s address. She’d call him back with it.

Horton headed for the hospital where he found Adrian Stanley asleep and alone. He sat for a while with the elderly man, willing him to wake up. His mind wandered back to their conversation in the apartment overlooking the Solent on Monday morning. There didn’t seem any hint then of what Stanley might now be trying to tell him. Puzzled, Horton let his gaze travel around the small hospital room, his eyes alighting again on the photograph beside Stanley’s bed of him receiving his gallantry medal from the Queen alongside his wife. Horton frowned. Something had nagged at him the last time he’d been here but he couldn’t pinpoint what. Now, it suddenly came to him. He hadn’t seen that picture on Monday. He would have remembered it and commented on it. So why hadn’t it been on display in Stanley’s apartment? It must have been a proud moment for Stanley. Perhaps he’d kept it in his bedroom. Horton slipped out of the room and into the corridor, where he called Robin Stanley.

‘Has your father said anything more?’ he asked when Robin came on the line.

‘I’m afraid not, Inspector.’

It was what Horton had been expecting. He said, ‘The photograph of your father receiving his gallantry medal, where did he usually keep that?’

‘It’s strange you should mention it,’ Robin replied, causing Horton’s heart to quicken. ‘It’s always kept on the mantelpiece. Dad was very proud of it but when I collected some things for Dad for the hospital I found it buried underneath some tea towels in a drawer in the kitchen.’

Horton’s mind raced as he tried to grapple with the significance of this. ‘Perhaps it was broken and your father meant to fix it?’ he suggested, knowing that the picture beside Stanley’s hospital bed didn’t look damaged to him.

‘No. It was fine.’