Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

There was an old wooden pontoon at the bottom of the property but most of it had fallen into the sea. Horton could see buoys in the harbour and a handful of boats moored to them, but not Shorena it seemed, according to Elkins. If Luke Felton was Venetia Trotman’s killer then it was possible he’d taken her yacht out through Portsmouth Harbour in the early hours of Friday morning, which meant he couldn’t have been pilled up or he wouldn’t have got far without having an accident.

Horton again eyed Raymonds’ house. He could see no rear entrance from it leading on to the shore, though there could have been in 1997 when Natalie Raymonds had begun her fateful run that September day.

Turning his gaze across the harbour he saw the tops of the yacht masts in his marina and where the channel turned in to enter the lock at Milton. His mind flitted to his attacker and then away again, there didn’t seem any point in speculating on who it might or might not have been, but he made a mental note to get a record of recently released criminals to see if any names on the list might have a personal vendetta against him.

He thought about the body found in the harbour. Should he make a media appeal about it? But what could he say? They had no photograph to show, and if someone had seen that rotting corpse before Mr Hackett then surely they would have said. He could put out a general description based on what Dr Clayton had given them, he supposed, in case it prompted any memories, though something so vague was bound to pull in the loonies and the desperate. Still, it might prompt a lead. He’d do it when he returned to the station.

He headed back the way he’d come until once again he climbed up on to the path that skirted the field. It was rapidly crumbling into the sea, with withered dead oaks leaning drunkenly over on to the shingle. Continuing northwards for half a mile he came to a small copse of trees, bushes and brambles. At this time of year he could see right through them to the sea beyond, but in September the foliage would have been dense enough to hide Natalie’s body until the dogs had sniffed it out two days after she’d been killed.

The pathologist’s report had put Natalie’s death sometime between 3 p.m. and 10 p.m. on 19 September. The witness had seen Luke at the northern end of the coastal path at about 4 p.m. It would have taken Luke about forty minutes to reach the copse, which would put his arrival here at about 4.40 p.m., when it was still daylight. The weather had been good, and it was a popular footpath, so the chances of someone seeing Natalie Raymonds running along it would have been quite high, Horton thought. But no one had seen her, or at least no one had come forward.

He turned and stared back the way he had come. The footpath on the edge of the field was an unofficial one and off the main coastal path. It wouldn’t have been used by so many people. And perhaps Natalie had gone out running after sunset. Would Luke have been waiting in the copse for her for that length of time? If so, that meant he knew she would run this way. Or perhaps he’d arranged to meet her. Why else would he hang around here? But then Natalie could have been killed just as Luke arrived. Perhaps he’d staggered here after shooting up and she’d stumbled on him. Agitated and high on heroin, he’d strangled her. But he was back to those niggling questions. Why here? And why kill her with a tie?

The first few spots of rain began to fall. There was nothing more to be gained by staying here. As he made his way back to the Harley his phone rang. It was Cantelli reporting that he’d taken the computer used by Felton to the computer crime unit to be dissected.

‘Any trouble with Toby Kempton?’ asked Horton, sheltering as best he could from the rain under a tree.

‘He huffed and he puffed but he didn’t blow the house down. I’ve also got copies of the pages from the visitors’ book. Mr Kempton said his secretary will give us the telephone numbers and addresses of the visitors on Monday. We can’t start on the list until then anyway because no one will be at work today, but I could run the vehicle registrations through the database.’

‘Wait until Monday when someone in the major crime team can help with the calls.’ Horton quickly relayed the progress on the Venetia Trotman investigation, which didn’t take long, because there was so little to report. He told Cantelli about Uckfield now favouring Felton for Venetia Trotman’s murder and why — because it was all he had.

Cantelli said, ‘Kelly Masters was at Kempton’s. She claimed she had a lot of paperwork to catch up with but I think Toby Kempton ordered her there when he knew we were coming. I asked her if Luke had requested a sub on his wages. She said not.’

‘You believe her?’

There was a short silence while Cantelli considered this. ‘She sounded surprised at the question, but I don’t see why she should lie.’

And neither did Horton, which meant that Luke Felton had lied to his brother, Ashley.

Cantelli continued. ‘Walters says that Rookley’s sister claims she hasn’t heard from him for twenty years and doesn’t want to for another twenty. She also says they haven’t had any relatives buried in the cemetery for donkey’s years. Oh, and Luke’s prison medical file will be with us on Monday, unless Superintendent Uckfield can persuade the prison authorities to send it over quicker.’

So, Sunday was stalemate day. The shops might be open, the loonies and muggers might be out, but no one they needed to talk to would be working. Trueman would quietly and methodically dig away — metaphorically speaking — at gaining information on Felton and the Trotmans, while Dennings would physically dig away at Willow Bank, where hopefully he would be up to his knees in mud and soaking wet. But, knowing Dennings of old, he was probably inside the house supping tea, leaving the other poor plods outside. Dennings, like Uckfield, was of the view that there was no point in having rank and not using it.

Both Walters and Cantelli were meant to be off duty tomorrow and Horton could see no reason why they still shouldn’t be. He, on the other hand, wanted to be around in case Trueman discovered anything pertinent on Luke Felton or Venetia Trotman, and he had one or two things he wanted to follow up, such as talking to ex-Detective Superintendent Chawley about the Natalie Raymonds case, and viewing the CCTV tapes from the seafront in the hope he might spot his graffiti artist.

He headed back to the station, checking for anyone following him and wondering if he should move his boat on the high tide in case his stalker returned and wanted to do more than just draw pictures. The earliest he could do so would be around 11 p.m., but this weather might prevent him. And that would mean another sleepless night with half an eye and ear cocked for any sign of his nocturnal visitor.

Reaching his office, without incident or spotting his persecutor, he checked his messages. PC Seaton had left a note before going off duty to say that he’d drawn a blank with the bus drivers for sightings of Luke on the bus routes on Tuesday night. That didn’t necessarily mean he hadn’t caught a bus, only that none of the drivers had observed him. And Felton could have reached Portchester on foot or hitched a lift.

Horton drafted a press statement about the body on the harbour and emailed it to someone in communications to issue it to the media, which would probably be done on Monday.

As he made his way to the third floor and the drug squad offices, he hoped that Hans Olewbo might be able to tell him more about Rookley’s whereabouts, but the drug squad, it appeared, was closed for the weekend. Fetching sandwiches from the canteen, Horton took them to the incident room. Uckfield was in his office on the phone.