Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

Horton felt irritated by the delay. ‘Isn’t there anything you can tell us about the identity of the victim?’ he asked, exasperated.

She eyed him keenly. ‘You sound a tad desperate, Inspector.’ He opened his mouth to reply but she held up her hand to silence him. ‘I know; it’s a matter of life and death. OK, here’s what I’ve got. Got your notebook ready, Sergeant?’

Cantelli waved it at her with a grin and plucked the pencil from behind his right ear.

She began. ‘He was five feet eleven inches tall, size nine shoe, aged mid to late forties, dead for at least two weeks, maybe more. What’s wrong, Inspector? Have I disappointed you?’

She had. Clearly this was not Luke Felton. Two weeks ago Luke had been alive and kicking around Crown House. The body was also the wrong age, the wrong height and probably the wrong shoe size. And once again that raised the question of whether Luke had anything to do with Venetia Trotman’s death.

‘I did have someone in mind,’ he said, glancing at Cantelli, who gave a resigned shrug. They’d have to wait to see if they got a DNA match and if the lab came up with anything from the samples Dr Clayton had sent them.

Gaye crossed to the mortuary. ‘Are you staying for the autopsy on Venetia Trotman?’

Horton declined. Although he was eager to know how Venetia Trotman had died he wasn’t keen enough to witness Dr Clayton’s ritualistic disembowelment, and neither was Cantelli.

‘It doesn’t answer where Luke Felton is, or Rookley,’ Horton said glumly, as they drove back to the station. ‘We’ll have to circulate Felton’s photograph and put out an all-ports alert for him.’ And he’d need to tell Uckfield that Luke Felton could be in the frame for Venetia Trotman’s murder. They desperately needed to track his movements since Tuesday evening.

Cantelli broke the news over the phone to Ashley Felton, who said he’d let his brother-in-law know. Then, armed with a warrant, Cantelli took himself off to Kempton’s to collect Luke’s computer, informing Toby Kempton he was on his way. Horton had decided not to accompany him. Not because he was concerned about Toby Kempton’s threats — his father-in-law’s bullying wasn’t going to prevent him from speaking to Kempton’s employees again — but he had an itch to see where Natalie had been killed. He didn’t mention it to Cantelli, who would only roll his eyes at him again and shake his head. First though, Horton called Sergeant Warren and asked if PC Seaton was on duty. He was, and as luck would have it was in the station. A few minutes later there was a tap on Horton’s door and he beckoned Seaton in.

‘Take Luke Felton’s photograph to the bus station, Seaton, and ask if any drivers on the route past Kempton’s in both directions, towards Portchester or Portsmouth, remember seeing Luke Felton on Tuesday evening after work.’

Seaton looked pleased at being given the task. Horton knew he was keen to get into CID and he would be just as eager to take him, if he was ever granted more manpower, which seemed about as likely as him being given the freedom of the city. Collecting his helmet and leather jacket, he detoured to the main incident suite on his way out of the station and was surprised to find a dejected major crime team and a room silent of ringing phones, bustling with about as much activity as a slug.

‘Has your pen run out?’ he asked Trueman with surprise, eyeing the crime board. On it were the photographs of the battered body of Venetia Trotman, her name, details of where she was found, when, and the estimated time of death. And nothing else.

‘No, our information,’ Trueman replied. ‘You look a bit the worse for wear, Inspector.’

‘I’ll survive. Didn’t you find anything in the house?’ He didn’t mind telling Trueman what had happened at the lock but he wasn’t going to mention it while others were present, especially Dennings. He didn’t trust the bastard not to blab it to Bliss and get him into trouble. Thankfully she still hadn’t put in an appearance.

‘There’s not a bloody thing in it to tell us who she is,’ Uckfield grouched, stomping across to the crime board and glaring at it. ‘No photographs, no personal papers, no next of kin, and Trueman can’t trace her anywhere.’ Uckfield spun round and redirected his angry stare towards the stoical sergeant, as if it was his fault.

Trueman didn’t take it personally. ‘There’s no register of birth, or marriage. She has no credit card or bank account. No tax record and no national insurance number. She simply doesn’t exist.’

‘Not any more she doesn’t,’ Horton said, puzzled and intrigued.

Uckfield threw himself down on a chair with an explosive sigh and spread out his short fat legs. ‘It seems she didn’t in the first place, except for the fact we have a body and you saw and spoke to her when she was alive. The phones are silent even after my TV appeal, which makes me think the buggers have cut us off. We’re waiting on Dr Clayton for fingerprints, dental records and DNA. Taylor confirms the victim was killed where she was found. There are some faint shoe prints around the body and the area leading from the boat, and we might get some traces left by our killer on the victim’s clothes or skin, but might’s no bloody good to me.’

‘What about her late husband?’ Horton asked, baffled.

Uckfield threw an exasperated glance at Trueman.

‘The house is registered to Joseph Trotman, who purchased it in March 1997. There’s no mortgage on it. All the utility bills are in his name and have always been paid in cash.’

Did that explain why the central heating had been switched off, Horton wondered, because Venetia Trotman had run out of cash and was afraid she wouldn’t be able to pay the bill when it arrived? Perhaps she had sold the jewellery, as he and Cantelli had discussed, and had been using the money to live.

Trueman was saying, ‘The late Joseph Trotman also had no credit card or bank account. No tax or national insurance records. But that’s not all. Neither his birth nor his death have been registered.’

Horton was surprised. ‘She told me he died three months ago.’

‘Well, she was telling you porky pies,’ bellowed Uckfield.

Evenly Trueman continued. ‘I’m checking with the post office to see what mail’s been delivered and I’ve asked the phone company for a complete record of calls.’

Horton considered what he’d learnt. ‘It’s clear she must have destroyed all the papers in the house, which gave their real names.’

‘I think we managed to work that out ourselves,’ Uckfield said sarcastically, drawing a smug glint from Dennings.

Horton ignored them both. ‘There are two reasons why she’d do that. One, because either one or both of them are wanted for a crime and needed to conceal their identity. Or two, they were on the run from someone criminal and powerful, who’s finally caught up with them. Or perhaps who first caught up with Joseph Trotman and killed him and Venetia was trying to escape this person the night she was killed.’ Which made Horton recall his anonymous caller; did the man with the foreign accent know or suspect who that killer might be? But if he did, then why not stick around and help them? The answer had to be because he was a criminal himself.

Uckfield sniffed and scratched the inside of his left thigh. ‘You met her. What was she like?’

Horton refrained from saying, You should have asked me last night instead of sending me away like PC Plod . Instead he considered his encounter with the victim, as he had done several times since finding her body, but this time in light of what he now knew. Was there something he’d missed? A hint as to Venetia Trotman’s true identity in what she’d said and done? He couldn’t see it.