Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

Horton tore after him. The man glanced back before swerving to the left. Horton followed. He was gaining on him, then suddenly the figure vanished. He must have jumped down on to the shore, but when Horton drew up there was no sign of anyone, not even a ruddy seagull.

Scouring the dark horizon and remaining perfectly still, Horton strained his ears for the sound of footsteps on the shore and the crunching of shingle, but only the hum of traffic and the wind reached him.

Leaping down on to the shingle, Horton turned eastwards towards the entrance to Langstone Harbour and a row of upended tenders and rotting houseboats. With his heart pumping fast he steeled himself for an attack, his senses heightened. With bated breath he advanced gingerly until he reached the first overturned tender. Stretching out he upended it, springing back, prepared to be met with his knife-yielding graffiti artist. But there was nothing and no one. He repeated the act with the next tender and the following one, his senses so strained that he felt like a rod of steel.

The man had moved very swiftly and silently, as though he’d had practice at being unobtrusive. He couldn’t simply vanish. Horton stood stock still and listened again, but there was no sound save the gentle wash of the sea on the shore and the hammering of his heart. He walked on towards the semi-derelict hulk of an old houseboat, losing what little light he’d had from the street lights as the shore curved further away from the road. He cursed himself for not having a torch and prayed for the moon to make even the most fleeting of appearances, but the cloud had thickened and the air suddenly felt heavy with the promise of rain. He told himself it would be far more sensible to return tomorrow in daylight, but he knew the man would be gone by then.

This was foolish. But still he pressed on until he was standing beside the blackened hulk of the houseboat and could push open what was left of the rotting door. Steeling himself for a possible attack, and holding his breath, he crashed the door open with his foot and waited. Nothing. Or at least no one rushed out with a knife to kill him. But that didn’t mean no one was waiting inside.

The door fell off its tentative hinges and crashed to the floor. The silence after it was deafening. Still no movement from inside. Knowing he was a fool to continue, Horton stepped over it and into a small black interior that smelt of mud, seaweed, rotting wood and decaying filth. The houseboat was empty. Or was it? As his eyes adjusted to the dark interior he caught sight of something in the far right-hand corner. Two steps, avoiding the gaping holes in the rotting wood, took him towards it. The moon made an appearance, sending slivers of light through the gaps in the rotted wood. Horton took a tissue from his pocket and turned over food packets and tins. How long had they been here? They looked recent. Is this where the figure he’d seen was living? Was it a tramp he’d frightened off?

Horton bent to look closer and stiffened as he noted paper and something else — a black felt pen. The sound of a motorbike pulling away caught his attention; he knew this wasn’t the shelter of any tramp. It was, or rather had been, the temporary home of his graffiti artist.

Tuesday, 17 March

Horton eased a hand around the back of his neck, trying to rid himself of a headache caused by lack of sleep, and attempted not to look as tired as he felt.

‘Rough night?’ Cantelli asked, concerned.

They were on their way to Ashley Felton’s apartment.

‘You could say that.’ Horton told him about the symbol pinned to his yacht, the hooded figure and the fact that earlier that morning he had returned to the rotting houseboat and collected up the debris, which he’d taken to the forensic lab along with the felt pen. In daylight it was clear to Horton the man had been living rough, which made him wonder how he could afford a motorbike. He’d asked Sergeant Stride to check the reports for any stolen bikes.

Cantelli listened in silence with a frown, and with repeated glances in his rear view mirror. ‘I can’t see anyone following us on a motorbike,’ he said, worried. ‘Maybe you should stay with us for a few days until we can find out who this stalker is.’

‘Thanks, but I’ll be all right.’

‘I seem to remember you saying something like that before, and you were almost fried alive.’

‘I’ll move the yacht later. It’s high tide this afternoon.’

‘Well, see that you do. Anyway, I’m glad Dr Clayton’s friend is investigating that symbol. And perhaps Joliffe and the lab will come up with a match on fingerprints.’

Horton sincerely hoped so. He changed the subject. ‘I called DCI Stuart Pritchard this morning. He was a DS on the drug squad in 1997. I did my training with him at police college. I wondered if he might remember the major players on the drug scene at the time of Natalie’s death.’

‘Does he?’

‘He was in a meeting so I left a message for him to call me. I don’t hold out much hope of it leading to anything though, because if Natalie was killed by a supplier, then it’s probably one still unknown to us. Someone clever enough to use Luke Felton and frame him for her murder and get away with it.’ He wondered if it might be the same person that Superintendent Oliver had been after. If so, then Horton wasn’t hopeful of catching him.

‘I asked Charlotte about the Feltons last night,’ Cantelli said, negotiating the heavy traffic through the city. ‘She didn’t know the Felton children, but Sonia Felton was very proud of her eldest son, Ashley, who was then something grand in management in London. And Olivia was the apple of her father’s eye.’

Which was what Lena Lockhart had told him.

Cantelli was saying, ‘She told Charlotte that Luke was difficult to reach. A quiet boy, a bit of a loner. He’d dropped out of university and didn’t seem to want to do anything. Charlotte says that Sonia and Neville Felton rowed over the best way to deal with Luke. Neville wanted to throw him out, but Sonia wouldn’t hear of it. When Luke was charged with attacking that pensioner and stealing her money while high on drugs, Sonia was mortified. She was off sick for a long time. Charlotte says Sonia blamed herself for not getting close to him, for not loving him enough. The Feltons helped him through the drug rehabilitation programme and Luke promised he’d never go back to drugs. His father got him a job somewhere, Charlotte doesn’t know where. It was after his community service anyway. I expect it was with one of his clients. When Luke was charged with killing Natalie Raymonds, they were devastated. It killed Sonia. It wasn’t her fault but Charlotte says she thought it was.’

Horton considered what Cantelli had said. It pretty much married up with what Lena Lockhart had told him about Luke, but it wasn’t the picture Ashley Felton had painted of his brother. What was it he had said? He asked Cantelli.

‘I wondered about that. Ashley Felton said that Luke had a terrible temper, that he used to fly off the handle at the smallest thing, especially if he didn’t get his own way.’

‘So who do we believe?’

‘No contest,’ Cantelli declared. ‘Charlotte wouldn’t say that if she hadn’t heard it.’

‘No, but perhaps Sonia Felton saw her middle son in a different light.’

‘That doesn’t account for what Lena Lockhart told you. Though I guess she might have seen a different Luke Felton because of prison, and Ashley Felton could have said that about Luke because he feels guilty over not helping his brother.’

And he looked more than guilt-ridden when he opened the door to them a few minutes later. Dressed in casual clothes, Ashley Felton once again led them through the small lobby into the open-plan room. The table was littered with crockery and cutlery from several meals, and among the debris were strewn papers and a laptop computer. The room stank of stale cigarette smoke and whisky, and a fug hung over it. Horton wished they could throw open a window, but Ashley Felton seemed to be allergic to fresh air — and suffering from a cold, judging by his constant sniffing.