Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

‘Shit! I hate these guys,’ Uckfield expelled.

It didn’t explain why Luke had been missing since Tuesday but he knew that Uckfield wouldn’t let that stand in his way. And, as he’d already speculated, Luke Felton might have been in Venetia’s house, or perhaps even shacked up with this accomplice. Horton opened the car door and turned towards his Harley.

Surprised, Uckfield said, ‘Where are you going?’

‘Home. This isn’t my case. But I’ll let you know if I find Luke Felton.’

‘Thanks a bloody bunch,’ Horton heard Uckfield growl after him.

Sunday, 15 March

The night passed without incident and without much sleep for Horton, who rubbed a fist against his eyes as he viewed the CCTV tapes from the seafront. All he saw were courting couples performing sexual aerobics in the back of their cars, and speeding drivers who clearly thought they were participating in the Southsea Grand Prix, but no motorbikes. And neither had he heard any last night. This was a waste of time. Yawning, he stabbed off the screen and once again let his eyes travel over the list of recently released criminals Trueman had got from the Isle of Wight prison. He didn’t know any of them. He’d have to request a list of those released from all prisons in England, but when he would get it he had no idea. Meanwhile he’d need to keep alert for his graffiti artist.

Sitting back, he again considered the fact that this Zeus — or someone connected with him — wanted by the Intelligence Directorate might be after him. And that brought him back to thoughts of his mother. Had she been involved with Zeus? He’d already discovered that she had mixed with some doubtful characters and criminal types, but that didn’t mean she was crooked.

He stared at his computer for a moment longer before jerking forward in his seat and calling up her missing persons file. And there she was: Jennifer Horton. His heart lurched, as it always did, at the sight of her fair youthful face, and he felt the usual numbing pain of anguish and loneliness. It was a torment to look at her, but one he knew he could no longer ignore or avoid. He had to know what had happened to her, even if the truth was what he had always been led to believe: that she had deliberately abandoned him.

His eyes flicked to the name of the police officer who had briefly investigated her disappearance and who had compiled the missing persons report: PC Adrian Stanley. How old would he be now? Fifty? Sixty? Maybe he was dead. And even if he wasn’t, how much of the investigation would he remember? It was a long time ago and Jennifer Horton had been just one of many missing persons. But he should find out.

Before he could change his mind he quickly typed an email asking Trueman to find out where PC Stanley was living. Trueman wouldn’t ask why he wanted the information and neither would he divulge who had requested it. He pressed send and then let out the breath he’d been holding before picking up his phone and punching in Hans Olewbo’s extension. He’d decide what to do about PC Stanley if and when Trueman located him, he thought, listening to Olewbo’s extension ringing. He was about to give up, thinking Olewbo must be out or off duty, when it was answered.

‘You know Rookley’s gone missing,’ Horton said, without preamble. ‘Any idea where he might be?’

‘No, and if I was you, Andy, I’d think about joining him. You’re not Superintendent Oliver’s favourite cop.’

‘I don’t seem to be anyone’s.’

‘It’s gone rather quiet around Crown House and Belton’s shut up shop.’

‘Or the health people have closed him down. When did the cafe proprietor go walkabout?’

‘Yesterday. Oliver thinks the route’s been closed.’

‘That’s hardly my fault.’

‘Try telling Oliver that.’

‘I need to see the surveillance tapes and photographs for Crown House,’ Horton said. He hoped they might show if Rookley or Felton had met anyone outside the premises during the last week.

‘Then you’ll need clearance from Oliver.’

And that meant involving Bliss, who was sure to take Oliver’s side that it was his fault the operation had been compromised. He thought about bypassing Bliss and going straight to Uckfield, who could command access to the files by citing Felton’s possible involvement in the Venetia Trotman murder case, but that would not only take time, it would also sideline him from the investigation.

‘Can’t you let me have access without Oliver knowing?’

After a short pause, Hans sighed heavily. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

As Horton rang off a hesitant knock sounded on his door and he beckoned Seaton in. The young PC was in civvies.

‘I’m off duty, sir,’ Seaton quickly explained. ‘But this morning I thought I’d go back to where Luke might have caught the bus on Tuesday evening when he left work.’ He flushed, looking a little uneasy.

Horton guessed Seaton was probably wondering if he’d take the rise out of him for not having a life outside work, like Horton himself. But then Horton had been — and still was — keen, despite all the crap he had to deal with, and he didn’t mean from the scum.

Waving Seaton into the seat across his desk, Horton said, ‘Go on.’

‘As you know, sir, I got no joy from the bus drivers yesterday. We know Luke didn’t return to Crown House in Portsmouth, so maybe he didn’t go to Portsmouth at all but went in the opposite direction, towards Horsea Marina and Portchester. Perhaps he was meeting someone for a drink, which means he could have called into a pub or cafe at the marina.’ Seaton’s colour deepened as he went on, ‘I visited them and showed his photograph around.’

And Horton guessed that Seaton had told them he was from CID. So what? Horton didn’t care if he’d told them he was the Chief Constable if it got a result.

‘Nobody recognized Luke. Then at the traffic lights by Paulsgrove Lake, not far from Kempton’s, I wondered if anyone living in the houses opposite might have seen Luke.’

‘And had they?’ Horton asked eagerly, sitting forward, already knowing the answer by Seaton’s expression.

‘Yes.’ Seaton opened his notebook, trying, but not succeeding, to hide his excitement. ‘Mr John Sunnington lives in number twenty-six. He was driving home from work on Tuesday evening and almost went into the back of a car, which pulled over sharply without any indication or warning right in front of him into the bus lay-by to pick someone up. Mr Sunnington sounded his horn, gave the driver a black look and probably a V-sign, before indicating right and turning into a side road behind his house where his garage is. The man picked up was Luke Felton. Mr Sunnington described him to me before I showed him the photograph.’

‘Time?’

‘Just before six thirty.’

Which fitted with when the receptionist had said Luke had left Kempton’s. Luke must have started walking in the direction of Portchester and decided to catch the bus the rest of the way, or perhaps had just been passing the bus stop when this car pulled over. ‘Did Mr Sunnington get the registration?’ Horton didn’t dare hope.

‘He did.’ Seaton again consulted his notebook, but Horton guessed it was for effect. ‘It was a red BMW. Mr Sunnington didn’t get all the registration number but he got most of it. It was a personalized number plate, ES 368.’

Horton started. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Why? You know who it is?’ Seaton asked, surprised.

Oh, yes, he knew all right. It was Edward Shawford, sales manager at Kempton’s, and his wife’s lover.

Horton scraped back his chair. ‘Are you doing anything special, Seaton?’ he asked, grabbing his sailing jacket.