Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

‘Marsden’s team will.’

‘But somehow I can’t see it. It was as if she’d had a good clear-out, and not only of her husband’s clothes. So maybe she was selling up, and has somewhere else to live, which is why she was also selling the boat.’

Horton agreed it was possible. Whatever the situation with Venetia Trotman, he hoped Uckfield would get to the bottom of it and find her killer, and so too did the anonymous caller, whoever and wherever he was.

Cantelli dropped him off at the station, again offering to accompany him to his meeting with Rookley, which Horton again declined. ‘No point in us both getting colder and wetter,’ he said.

There was no sign of Walters in the CID office, so he’d probably gone home. There was also, thankfully, no sign of Bliss. He wasn’t going to complain about that. As he reached his office his phone rang. It was the front desk. ‘There’s a Mr Neil Danbury here to see you, sir.’

Horton was surprised and hopeful. Danbury must have information on his brother-in-law, Luke Felton; why else would he have taken the trouble to call in, uninvited?

‘Show him into an interview room. I’ll be down in a moment.’

Horton removed his jacket and swiftly checked his desk for messages. There wasn’t one from Walters, which meant he must have drawn a blank on obtaining any further information on Luke Felton. Horton headed downstairs wondering what Neil Danbury could tell him, and hoping that whatever it was it would be significant.

He pushed open the door, but his lips could barely form a smile, let alone manage a greeting, before the well-built man in his mid-forties leapt up, fury contorting his swarthy face and blazing from behind his modern, heavily rimmed spectacles.

‘What gives you the right to force your way into my house and accuse my wife of harbouring a criminal?’ Danbury roared. ‘She has nothing whatsoever to do with that scum of a brother.’

Horton stifled a sigh. He might have known that Friday the thirteenth hadn’t finished with him yet. He noted the immaculate dark suit, crisp white shirt and yellow tie, along with the expensive gold watch.

Wearily he said, ‘I understand your-’

‘No you don’t,’ Danbury roared. ‘Luke’s a killer, a violent, nasty piece of work. Why they let him out God alone knows. I don’t trust him not to kill again. He might already have done so again for all we know.’

Was he referring to Venetia Trotman? If so the news had got out quickly, but then Horton knew it only took a couple of occupants in the houses opposite the entrance to Shore Road, which had been cordoned off, to alert the media.

‘No woman is safe while he’s on the loose,’ Danbury continued to rage. ‘Including my wife.’

Now Horton saw the reason for Danbury’s anger. Fear was provoking it. ‘You think he might attack his own sister?’ he asked, concerned.

‘God knows what he’d do for drugs.’

‘The prison authorities say he’s clean.’

‘But he’s not in prison,’ sneered Danbury.

Quite. Horton couldn’t fault that.

Angrily Danbury said, ‘Find him. And when you do, lock him up and throw away the bloody key. And don’t bother my wife again. I won’t have her worried and upset.’ And with that Danbury swept out.

Horton decided he needed sustenance. Uckfield would have to wait until tomorrow for his report and his mobile phone.

As he ate his lasagne and chips in the canteen, he wondered if Trueman had located Venetia Trotman’s next of kin. He also wondered if SOCO had found anything around her body. It was probably too early for the search teams to have discovered much, but Dr Price must have given Uckfield an estimated time of death. And that reminded him of his rotting corpse in the harbour.

Quickly pushing away the image before it could ruin his appetite, he stabbed another chip and reached for his mobile. He might not be involved in the Venetia Trotman investigation but there was no rule preventing him from speaking to Sergeant Elkins.

‘We’ve checked with all the marinas, including those on the Isle of Wight, and there’s no sign of Shorena ,’ Elkins said. ‘It’s too dark to search for her now but I’ve put out an alert across all coastal waters around the UK. Not much more we can do tonight. I was just knocking off — unless you’ve got any other ideas, Andy?’

‘None that spring to mind.’

It couldn’t simply disappear, Horton thought, ringing off with frustration. But then perhaps it could if it had been scuttled, and he didn’t think diving the Solent to try and locate it was a viable option.

He put his tray where the canteen staff wouldn’t scold him and returned to his office, where he collected the file on Natalie Raymonds for further reading later on the boat, and headed for Milton Locks.

It was 8.52 and still raining when he pulled up outside the pub at the end of the road leading to the lock. Leaving the Harley in the car park he hurried down a narrow track away from the comforting lights of the pub and the street lights towards what was left of the disused lock, cursing Rookley for choosing such an exposed rendezvous and himself for being stupid enough to agree to it. When he could go no further, except into the mud of the harbour, Horton reached for his pencil torch and shone it over the sign by the side of the lock while trying, without success, to avoid the slanting rain that drove into his face. He read that the lock was the last remains of the Arundel to Portsmouth Canal, abandoned in 1832 and recently given a makeover in the name of the environment. He surveyed the area but the intense darkness of the black expanse of Langstone Harbour in front of him seemed to swallow up the meagre light from his torch, and he could see nothing the other side of the lock except a tangle of bushes.

The sound of the wind and rain, plus the faint hum of traffic on the dual carriageway to the north, filled the air. He glanced impatiently at his watch. It was three minutes past nine and no sign of Rookley, but that wasn’t surprising. He could be in the pub taking Dutch courage. Perhaps he should join him. After a day like today he thought he could do with a drink, only he didn’t drink, and hadn’t since August.

His fingers curled around the paper in his pocket bearing the symbol that had been etched on his Harley, recalling Cantelli’s words. Did it mean death? Was he in danger? More worrying, could Emma be in danger? Cantelli could be wrong about the interpretation of the symbol, and probably was, but he was right about one thing; he needed to consult an expert.

The sound of a car drawing up caught his attention. Rookley? But Rookley didn’t own a car. Too late it occurred to Horton that Rookley might not be alone, and he could be a sitting target out here, which was no doubt why Rookley had suggested this place and time.

He quickly scanned the dark horizon for a vantage point where he could take cover and yet still see Rookley approach. There was only one and it was behind the bushes on the opposite side of the lock. Horton hurried across to it. The pub door opened, bringing with it a snatch of music and the sound of voices calling goodbye and returning cries. Foolishly he turned in its direction, and just at the same time a small voice whispered ‘Danger’ and he sensed a shape looming out of the undergrowth. He swung round, but too late. A searing pain shot across his shoulders as a heavy blow struck him. He struggled for balance, lost it and was flying through the air with the ground rushing up towards him. Next he was spitting mud and water from his mouth with a pain in his shoulder and the throb of a motorbike in his ear. It sounded remarkably like a Harley.

With a grimace he hauled himself up. His leathers were filthy, but he was alive and no broken bones. Whoever had attacked him hadn’t finished the job. Thank God. Had that bastard Rookley shoved him in the mud? If so he’d have his bollocks on a skewer. But from the brief glimpse he’d caught of the figure it had seemed taller and bulkier than Rookley. There was no point pondering it now; his priority was to get out of the lock, hope that his Harley was still where he’d left it, and get back to his yacht.