Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

His thoughts this time turned towards his graffiti artist. There had been no more messages pinned to his yacht or scratched on his Harley and no sign of anyone watching him. Perhaps whoever it was had grown tired of his little game and had decided to torment someone else. Horton hoped that might be the case, but he wasn’t counting on it.

He drew up at a junction in the footpath; to his left it led into a car park and a small industrial estate beyond, ahead to a boatyard, boatshed and basins. He doubted Luke would have come this way, because why not ask Shawford to drop him at the industrial estate instead of the castle? Unless, of course, he deliberately wanted to hide the location of a rendezvous.

He rang Walters. ‘Check Kempton’s list of visitors to see if any of them come from the Bromley Industrial Estate.’

While Walters checked, Horton took the path ahead. He was soon picking his way through a number of small sailing dinghies and canoes on the quayside towards a large boatshed on his left and the red and black funnel on his right — which, it emerged, belonged to a derelict paddle steamer, clearly in the process of renovation. A small blue van was parked in front of it on the quayside.

‘There’s no one from the industrial estate on the list,’ Walters said.

Horton eyed the sign on the boatshed. ‘How about the Youth Enterprise Sailing Trust?’ Young people could mean drugs. Had Luke come here to meet with a dealer who supplied the kids?

‘No one from there either. I’ve checked with the council parks department, who claim the last Rookley to be buried in the cemetery was in 1957.’

And Horton doubted Rookley had been visiting whoever it was. But it reminded him about the funeral party he’d seen while tailing Rookley through the tombstones. He asked Walters to find out who the funeral directors had been.

Horton tried the door to the Youth Enterprise Sailing Trust office but found it locked. He turned his attention to the paddle steamer. It was rather a sorry sight with its rusty portholes and paddles, its leaning and collapsed funnels. There was a chain across a sturdy temporary gangplank with a No Entry sign on it but Horton, eyeing the blue van, guessed someone was on board.

Lifting the chain and replacing it behind him, he climbed on board and stepped on to a small area of the deck laid with temporary planks of wood. Surrounding it was the original wood, rotted and riddled with holes, and beyond, rusting anchor chains and piping. Ducking his head he entered a narrow corridor before stepping right into a wide main cabin punctuated by solid iron struts and lined either side with small square windows. The floor had been re-decked but not polished, the windows repaired, the ceiling restored; and a man in white overalls was doing something in the far corner with some cables. In the centre was a long work bench with some new planks of wood on it and a plane, while in the corner were paint pots, more wood and a variety of carpentry tools, which Horton hoped were locked away at night. Horton showed his warrant card and produced a photograph of Luke from his jacket pocket. In answer to his question the man, in his early sixties, shook his head.

‘I haven’t seen him.’

Horton wasn’t surprised. ‘Looks a big job this,’ he commented conversationally, and in genuine interest.

‘You’re not kidding. It’s one of the old Portsmouth to Isle of Wight paddle steamers. Built in 1936, mothballed in the late 1960s, became a restaurant, then a night club, then left to rot until we rescued it. Had to have it lifted on to a barge and brought across the Solent. How we managed it without it collapsing I’m still not sure, but then underneath the rot is a good solid iron hull.’

‘You’re hoping to sail it when it’s restored?’

‘God, no! It’s going to be a floating activity centre, accommodation and lecture room for the youngsters we have here. Specially adapted, of course. They’re all disabled in some way,’ he added in response to Horton’s baffled look. ‘It means we’ll be able to take more kids, and all year round, not just for a limited season like we do now.’

‘You’re a charity then?’

‘Yes, run purely on voluntary donations and legacies. Bloody hard work getting the money but people can be generous. The lease on this place is paid by a local businessman. And thanks to a recent legacy from an old lady, we hope to get this young lady finished a lot sooner than expected. I used to work here when it was Hester’s Shipbuilding, electrical fitter. Now I just help out when I can, like a lot of us volunteers. Butchers, bakers, accountants, lawyers. Policemen,’ he said pointedly.

But Horton had stopped listening after he’d mentioned Hester’s. His mind darted back to the Natalie Raymonds case file and to one of the statements: that of the witness who’d seen Luke on the Hayling Coastal Path, Peter Bailey. If Horton remembered correctly, Bailey had worked for Hester’s. So did a lot of people, he told himself before asking, ‘When did Hester’s close?’

‘Autumn of 2001.’

Horton made his farewell but had only gone a few steps when he turned back. ‘When’s the season?’

‘April to October.’

‘So there are no young people here this time of year?’ He certainly hadn’t seen or heard any.

‘No.’

The theory of Luke dealing drugs here then went up the chute. Having promised to look in again when he wasn’t on duty, he found Cantelli with PC Seaton in the sailing club. Breaking off his conversation with a woman, Cantelli crossed to Horton and Seaton followed.

‘I met Sergeant Cantelli in the pub where I was asking if any of the staff remembered Luke Felton,’ Seaton explained. ‘They didn’t. I’ve also asked in the castle bookshop and cafe, and I showed his picture to some of the dog walkers earlier this morning in case they also walk their dogs here of an evening, but no one remembered seeing Luke. And there wasn’t a service at the church that evening.’

‘No sightings of Luke here either,’ Cantelli added. ‘And no member went sailing into the sunset on Tuesday night because it wasn’t high tide until just after eleven p.m., so no boat could get out until about nine o’clock.’

So, dead end, or was it? His conversation with the man on the paddle steamer and the mention of Hester’s was scratching away at Horton’s mind like a dog with a flea. ‘Let’s talk to the witness who saw Luke Felton on the coastal path. Peter Bailey.’

‘Why?’ asked Cantelli, surprised.

‘I’ll tell you on the way,’ Horton replied.

Cantelli couldn’t see what the significance of Peter Bailey having worked at Hester’s Shipbuilding had to do with Luke Felton’s disappearance and said so. Neither did Horton, but he said, ‘Indulge me.’

‘That usually leads to trouble,’ grumbled Cantelli good-naturedly. ‘How do we know that Bailey’s still living at the same address? He might have emigrated or died.’

‘Well, we’ll soon find out.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ Peter Bailey said, reluctantly letting them in and leading them through a faded hall into an equally faded sitting room. It was icily cold, which reminded Horton of Venetia Trotman’s house, but there the resemblance ended. The acrid smell of male sweat mingled with that of fish, dust and decay and the room looked as though it had last been decorated sometime in the 1970s. Its orange walls, yellowing net curtains, threadbare maroon carpet, sparse and dated furniture and a television that could qualify as an antique, all confirmed to Horton that Peter Bailey was as oblivious of his surroundings as he was of his appearance. He peered nervously at them over the top of smeared gold-rimmed spectacles, with a chip in the right lens. His silver eyebrows knitted across a forehead in a thin face etched so deep with lines that the expression corrugated iron sprang to Horton’s mind. His white monk’s hair sprang up around a freckled pate, making it difficult to put an age on him. Late fifties or late sixties? It was hard to tell.