Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

Entering, Cantelli said, ‘The dining room’s untouched, just a table and six chairs and a cupboard with some glasses, crockery and cutlery inside it in pristine condition. No booze.’

Horton was getting a bad feeling about this place, but defining exactly how bad and in what way he couldn’t say, apart from the fact it was too clean, too perfect and too impersonal. But there was more than that. As they headed up the stairs, making sure not to touch the banister, Cantelli expressed part of what Horton felt.

‘It’s like something out of an estate agent’s brochure.’

Yes, cold and clinical. And yet the woman he’d met hadn’t struck him that way. She had been friendly, if a little nervous and shy. And did this house fit with what he’d seen of her? No. It was wrong. But then he didn’t know her, so who was he to say. It was just a feeling.

The bedrooms at the rear of the house were in the same immaculate and clinical condition as the downstairs rooms. He opened the fitted wardrobes either side of the small iron fireplaces — empty — and turned over the counterpanes in both rooms, frowning with puzzlement before entering the bathroom wedged between the two rooms. There were no toiletries, only fluffy white towels on a stone cold towel rail matching the gleaming white bathroom suite. None of the rooms showed any sign that anyone had ever visited. The bed linen was as fresh as if it were new. There was also no hint of any next of kin.

Cantelli hailed him. As Horton entered what was clearly the master bedroom he saw here at least there were signs of life. The contents of a couple of drawers from the chest had been upended on the bed and the fitted wardrobe door was standing open. Horton studied the clothes without touching them. There were a couple of pairs of trousers, a dress, three skirts, a selection of tops, jumpers and underwear; all were top quality and some designer label. He hadn’t been married to Catherine for twelve years without learning that much. Peering into the wardrobe he said, puzzled, ‘No suitcases or boxes, and only two pairs of shoes. I thought women had at least thirty.’

Cantelli gave a brief smile. ‘My house is overflowing with them. There’s nothing in the rest of the drawers,’ he added, after gingerly opening them and peering inside. ‘And no jewellery. So was she attacked and robbed?’

‘Looks that way, and by professionals who knew exactly what they were after.’ The advertisement card in the newsagent’s window again sprang to mind.

Nodding his head towards a door that opened off the bedroom Cantelli said, ‘The en suite’s gleaming so bright you’d think it had just auditioned for a television commercial.’

‘Just like the bathroom then. I can’t see her killer bleaching and polishing the place before making his getaway.’ There was also no sign of any of her late husband’s clothes or belongings, or even a photograph of him. Was it a case of out of sight, out of mind? Had she been glad to get him out of her life? Or perhaps she was so upset she couldn’t bear to be reminded of him. On the other hand, he thought, hearing a van approaching, perhaps she simply didn’t like clutter.

Peering out of the front window, through the rain, he watched the SOCO van swing into the driveway. They were certainly keeping Taylor and Dr Price busy. And this would be another autopsy for Dr Clayton, and a more urgent one, he guessed, than the body found in the harbour.

He glanced at the three perfume bottles on the dressing table — again the expensive variety — and called to mind with sorrow the soft floral scent of the quietly spoken lady. Her make-up was here too, and yet he couldn’t recall Venetia Trotman as being ‘made-up’. There was also not one single photograph of her. He said as much to Cantelli as they headed down the stairs, adding, ‘There’s not a book in the house either, and nothing personal that tells us what Venetia Trotman was like.’

‘The shoes and boots in the cloakroom suggest she must have liked walking, as well as cleaning.’

‘And perhaps gardening,’ Horton added, stepping outside and surveying the neat and tidy landscape, which was shrouded in rain. ‘As well as sailing,’ he added. ‘Let’s check the boat out before Uckfield arrives.’

Horton didn’t think they would find any revealing papers on it, unless they had been placed there since his visit yesterday, but they might find her jacket. And he wanted another look at the yacht knowing now that it could never be his. He didn’t much care for it reminding him of the gentle Venetia Trotman’s brutal ending. And, besides, it would take time to get the next of kin’s permission to purchase it, and they might even wish to keep the yacht themselves. No, he thought, heading across the garden, best to begin his search again.

He chewed over what he and Cantelli had discovered in the house, which was precious little, and it dawned on him why the place had made him feel so uncomfortable. It reminded him too much of the children’s homes he’d been consigned to as a boy. Not that they had been as tastefully and luxuriously decorated as Venetia Trotman’s house — on the contrary, they’d been shabby — but even with the central heating full on they’d still been cold and empty, because they had lacked a special kind of love. And that was how Venetia Trotman’s house had felt to him. There was pride there, yes, but love, no.

In the gathering dark he located the ramshackle gate wedged in among the bushes, which led to a steep slipway and down to the shore. It was low tide and the yacht would be resting on the mud. A stiff March wind was blowing directly off the shore, bringing with it the angry rain, which ran off Horton’s cropped hair and dripped down the upturned collar of his sailing jacket. His shoes and feet were soaked for the second time that morning and the rain had again seeped through his trousers.

Cantelli sniffed and rammed his hands deep in his pockets. ‘Think I’ve had enough sea air and rain for one day.’

Horton was beginning to think so too. With a forceful tug the gate gave way. Horton stepped on to the bank and drew up with a start.

With a puzzled frown, Cantelli said, ‘I thought you said there was a boat?’

‘There was, yesterday.’ Now as Horton peered at the concrete slipway there was nothing, not even a single rope. Just a big empty space, the wind and rain, and the dark mud of the harbour beyond.

‘So where is it?’ Superintendent Uckfield demanded, feet splayed, camel coat flapping open in the wind, staring across the dark harbour — like bloody Nelson without the eye patch and arm in a sling, thought Horton. He refrained from replying that if he knew that he would have said. He was used to Uckfield’s short temper.

Thankfully it had stopped raining in the time that had elapsed between their discovery of the empty mooring and the superintendent’s arrival, but for how long Horton didn’t know. The air was cold and damp, like him. Cantelli had taken refuge in the victim’s house, where he was showing DC Marsden what they’d discovered; that shouldn’t take him long, and Horton doubted Cantelli would thaw out inside that refrigerator.

Before Uckfield’s arrival, Horton had asked Sergeant Elkins to start a search for the missing yacht. Not that there was much they could do in the dark except ask the marina managers along the coast if it had turned up there, which Horton doubted. He’d quickly briefed Uckfield about his visit here yesterday, the anonymous telephone call and his and Cantelli’s quick search of the house, along with what he knew of Venetia Trotman and her dead husband, which was hardly anything at all.

DI Dennings had listened with a baffled frown on his pugilistic face. Horton had finished by putting forward his theory that her killer could also have seen the postcard in the newsagent’s window and reconnoitred the house earlier by posing as a prospective buyer, returning late last night to rob it. But if so he was a remarkably tidy burglar.