Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

‘Looks nice,’ he said, though he didn’t mean it. Everything was white except the floor, which was wood. There were white walls, white chairs, white curtains, the only splash of colour being the red cushions. She’d ditched the books, ornaments, pictures and photographs, except for one large one of her and Emma above where the fireplace had once been, but was now a plain wall. The room reminded Horton of a prison cell with splashes of blood.

She stood with her arms folded and glared at him, but behind her blue eyes he could see she was worried. ‘What’s this all about?’ she demanded with hostility.

Clearly he wasn’t going to be offered a coffee, not even a glass of water. Even if he were he didn’t know whether he’d be able to swallow it, his body felt so taut.

He tipped open the plastic bag, scattering the contents on the floor. Her eyes flicked to them and then up to him.

‘Shawford had those on his boat.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I don’t want to know what you do with Shawford, but I am concerned about my daughter being in the same house when you do it.’

‘How dare you!’ she raged. ‘You think-’

‘I dare, Catherine, because I know that you and Shawford have indulged in some extreme physical sex in the past.’

She flushed. Her mouth opened then closed tightly.

Horton continued. ‘Is there anything I need to know about?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Is there?’ he pressed.

‘No,’ she spat. ‘I’ve never been into bondage and all that stuff.’ She jabbed a finger at the magazines. But her eyes fell and she turned away from him.

‘Ah, but he wanted to.’

She swung back, her eyes flashing with fury. ‘Of course not,’ she declared hotly.

It was a lie. Horton knew he was right. ‘I’ve applied for a warrant to search Shawford’s boat. Not because of that,’ he added hastily, gesturing at the pornography, ‘but because Shawford, so far, is the last person to have seen Luke Felton. He gave him a lift on Tuesday night. We might also need to apply to search his apartment. I’m telling you this, Catherine, because I don’t want to be the source of gossip and sniggers all over the station, and I don’t want Emma exposed to it. Is there anything I need to know about?’

She glared at him. ‘No,’ she snapped.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. I have never let him do anything like that,’ she spat. ‘And if you think I’d do anything to upset or expose Emma then you’re mad.’

Horton saw the fury in her eyes and along with it was fear, because she knew what he was leaving unspoken. He didn’t have to threaten her with what the courts would make of it. Catherine wasn’t stupid. Again thoughts of the boarding school sprang to Horton’s mind. It might save Emma from being exposed to her mother’s boyfriends.

Crisply he said, ‘There’s a prospective parents’ evening at Northover School next Saturday.’ He recalled what the headmistress had told him: tea, a tour of the school, a chance to meet the teachers and the pupils, and the opportunity to ask questions. ‘I suggest we both be there with Emma.’

‘I. .’ She made to protest then gave a curt nod.

‘And it’s Emma’s decision whether she goes or not. Isn’t it?’ he insisted, when she glared, tight-lipped, at him. ‘And if she wants to go I will pay her school fees.’

Again she nodded.

He turned and walked swiftly to the door. He could hear her following. At the door he turned to face her. ‘Just be careful who you sleep with next time.’

The door slammed on him. He was surprised to find he was shaking slightly. He rode into Petersfield and bought a coffee, hoping it would calm his jangling nerves and soothe his inner turmoil. Three cups later he found he was ready to return to work, and that meant talking to ex-Superintendent Duncan Chawley about Natalie Raymonds.

Removing his helmet, Horton stared up at the address Trueman had given him, thinking the former superintendent had done well for himself. The modern, two-storey brick-built house, with neat blinds at the windows and a sturdy enclosed porch tacked on to the front, was set in landscaped grounds of about two acres amid rolling fields on the borders of West Sussex and Hampshire. To the left, and attached to the property, was a single-storey brick-built extension with a large double-glazed bay window, and to Horton’s right was a detached double garage block.

His observations were curtailed by the sound of a car pulling up behind him and he turned to see a silver Saab convertible draw to a halt. A man in his late thirties with cropped black hair and a sun-weathered complexion climbed out. He studied Horton with a wary frown. Horton noted the chinos, deck shoes and red sailing jacket. This was so obviously not Duncan Chawley that either Trueman had given him an old address, which was highly unlikely, or this man was related to Duncan Chawley.

‘Can I help?’ the man asked in a well-modulated voice, but with a hint of suspicion.

‘Are you the occupant?’

‘Yes, and you are?’

Horton introduced himself with a show of his warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Mr Duncan Chawley.’

‘He’s my father. I’m Gavin Chawley.’

Horton took the outstretched hand, returning the firm grip. ‘Why do you want him? Only my father’s not well,’ Chawley said with concern.

‘I need to talk to him about one of his old cases. It is important,’ Horton pressed, wondering what was wrong with Duncan Chawley.

‘Then you’d better come in.’

Horton stepped into a porch, where Chawley hung his jacket before entering a large hall. He offered to take Horton’s leather jacket and was hanging it up when a blonde woman hurried towards them with an anxious look on what must once have been a pretty face, thought Horton, but now looked jaded. She froze, somewhat startled at Horton’s appearance.

‘He’s a policeman,’ Chawley explained. ‘He’s come to talk to Dad. This is my wife, Julia.’

The woman tossed Horton a shy smile before addressing her husband. ‘Is it OK if I take the children out now, Gavin? Only we’re late. They’re going to a friend’s birthday party,’ she explained to Horton, again with that hesitant smile. From the lines around her eyes and mouth, Horton thought she looked too tired for birthday parties. He wondered how many children the Chawleys had, maybe several, though he couldn’t hear any.

Gavin Chawley gave his wife a smile and a nod and she slid past them and up the stairs.

‘My wife and I take it in turns to go out at the weekends, because of Dad’s illness,’ Chawley explained, leading Horton through the tiled hall into a sunny and expansive modern kitchen and breakfast room at the back of the house. ‘It puts rather a strain on things.’

And just as he’d seen the strain on Julia Chawley’s faded features, Horton now noticed them on Gavin Chawley’s more rugged ones.

‘It’s particularly hard on Julia,’ Chawley continued, ‘because she’s at home with Dad and the children all week. I try to relieve her at weekends but it’s not always possible. It’s not that we resent it,’ he added hastily. ‘It’s just difficult sometimes, particularly with the children at that age when they need to go to classes and friends’ parties. My mother died some years ago and when Dad got ill we had an extension built so that he could live with us. He hates being dependent and I can’t say I blame him; I’d hate it too, especially when he’s always been such a fit and independent man. Did you know him before he retired in 2001?’

‘I’d met him but I didn’t work with him.’

Gavin smiled. ‘He had quite a reputation. If you wait here a moment I’ll see if he’s up to speaking to you.’