Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

Fifteen weary minutes later he drew up at the marina and squelched his way down to the pontoon and the yacht, thankful his Harley hadn’t been stolen and with eager thoughts of a hot shower, a change of clothes and the chance to bathe his grazed and bloody face. But as he climbed on board he froze. There was something pinned to the hatch. Who the blazes was leaving him notes? Then surprise gave way to a cold grip of fear as he found himself staring at the same symbol that had been etched on his Harley, only this time executed in a thick black pen on paper. Rapidly, through the sheeting rain, he scanned the marina and the car park, but there was no one in sight.

He ripped off the drawing, noted that the lock on the hatch was still intact, and descended into the cabin where, flicking on the light, he studied the symbol: a cross and a funny-shaped circle above it. What the devil did it mean? Who had left it? It certainly wasn’t Ronnie Rookley. Then it occurred to him that maybe the attack had nothing to do with Rookley either. And that meant someone was following him. He hadn’t seen anyone, so whoever it was, he was very good.

The hairs pricked at the back of his neck. He didn’t like the thought of being stalked and he didn’t like not knowing what his stalker wanted. If the symbol meant death, then why not knife him instead of hitting him across the shoulders?

He strained his ears, listening for the slightest movement outside that would tell him his persecutor was back, but only the wind whistling through the halyards and the rain drumming on the coach roof answered him. His assailant, the graffiti artist, had gone — for now. But the question that troubled Horton was, when would he return and what would he do next?

Saturday, 14 March

‘What happened to you?’ Walters quickly shoved his Daily Mirror in his desk drawer and eyed Horton’s cut and bruised face with surprise.

Dumping his jacket and helmet in his office before re-emerging almost immediately, Horton saw Cantelli’s frown of concern. ‘I’ll tell you both over breakfast.’ He hoped he could do so before DCI Bliss put in an appearance, though it was the weekend and that usually meant the senior management team would be conspicuous by their absence. Except for Uckfield, who had a major crime to solve — his car was already in the car park, along with Dennings’ car.

During the night Horton had done a great deal of thinking about his stalker, not much of it resulting in anything very productive, except to give him an even worse headache than he’d had after the attack. Early this morning he’d once again viewed the CCTV tapes that Eddie in the marina office kept, but there was no sign of any furtive figure in the marina car park or on the pontoons, and no new visitors. Eddie also confirmed that the visiting yachtsman who had been present when Horton’s Harley had been defaced had sailed on to waters new. And no one else had arrived. So who the devil was Horton dealing with? The invisible bloody man? It seemed so. But one thing was clear; he needed to discover what the symbol meant, as Cantelli had urged.

He bought breakfast for them all, earning himself a brownie point with Walters, and grabbed a table at the window overlooking the station car park. From here he could watch for Bliss’s arrival in case she decided to stick her beaky nose in.

Cantelli said, ‘So what happened? You look as though you’ve done two rounds with Joe Calzaghe.’

Horton felt as if he had, though the pain in his neck and head was getting better the more he moved it; either that or the strong painkillers he’d swallowed earlier had kicked in. He gave a succinct account of the previous night, leaving out the bit about the note pinned to his yacht and his growing suspicion that his assailant was out for some kind of twisted revenge. He might confess that to Cantelli later, out of Walters’ earshot.

Cantelli asked, ‘Do you think Rookley assaulted you?’

‘No.’ Horton hadn’t seen his assailant but he’d got the sense of a bulkier man. Plus he couldn’t see a squirt like Rookley having the strength, or the height, to strike him across the shoulders. He added, ‘But Rookley might have seen who did.’ And that could give him a lead on his persecutor.

‘Could it have been Luke Felton?’ posed Walters with his mouth full of bacon.

‘Why should he want to push me in the lock?’

‘Maybe he went there to meet Rookley for drugs and thought you were there to arrest him.’

Horton considered Walters’ suggestion. Rookley might have told Luke about their rendezvous in order to get Luke off his back and get into Horton’s good books, but Rookley would then have risked being done for dealing. On the other hand Rookley might have known that was where Luke would be and set him up, only Luke realized it, hence the attack. That didn’t explain the note, but it made him feel better about the attack; perhaps that wasn’t his stalker after all.

Horton pushed his empty plate away and scraped back his chair. ‘We’ll ask him. Let’s disturb his beauty sleep.’ And after that they’d see if Ashley Felton was at home.

As Cantelli drove through the city streets, Horton checked the wing mirror to his left to see if anyone was following him. He couldn’t see anything suspicious and he could swear no one had followed him to the station that morning.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Cantelli said. ‘Why would Luke risk losing that job, which by all accounts was the best thing since electricity was invented? Was it invented or discovered? I was never any good at science at school.’

‘Because he couldn’t stay off the drugs.’

Cantelli eyed him. Horton knew that look. ‘Go on, cough it up.’

‘Well, perhaps the job wasn’t that great. We’ve only got the word of the bearded wonder and that nymphomaniac personnel officer that it was. What if after Luke arrived at Kempton’s he was disappointed to find the job wasn’t all it had been cracked up to be? He begins to think I’m being paid peanuts, I’m stuck in a room with no telephone, no contact with any of the staff, chained to a keyboard, this is worse than prison, so sod this.’ Horton made to speak but Cantelli forestalled him, ‘I haven’t finished yet.’

‘Remind me to buy you breakfast more often, it seems to have done your grey cells a power of good.’

‘It’s the bacon sandwich.’ Cantelli smiled. ‘Always does the trick. Felton expected more. He was better than the job demanded and maybe someone recognized this: a supplier of Kempton Marine, or a visiting rep. Or perhaps Felton talked to someone about the job over a pint after work and this someone offered him a better deal, more money, higher status.’

‘Crooked?’

‘Not necessarily. Felton could have been headhunted for a legitimate position.’

‘Then why not tell his probation officer? Why just walk out and risk returning to prison?’

‘Because he hadn’t told this person he’d been to prison or that he was out on licence.’

Horton thought about it for a moment. ‘Bit stupid that.’

‘True. But perhaps Luke saw it as a fresh start in London or Newcastle, say, or some other large city where he could disappear, and thought, yeah, why not, a chance to make real money and begin again, assuming a new name and identity. No questions, no stigma, no probation officers, just a whizz-kid on a computer.’

Horton considered this as Cantelli eased the car through the back streets towards Crown House. After a moment he said, ‘It’s possible. In fact it’s a good idea. I want a list of every visitor to Kempton Marine for the last two weeks. They’ve got a visitors’ book in reception. We had to sign in, so see who else has. Make sure you get a copy of the entries when we go for Felton’s computer. We need to check if any of them have spoken to Felton.’