Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

‘Keep your voice down, can’t you?’ the small man with the pock-marked skin muttered, glancing over his shoulder.

‘Ronnie, we’re the only sad bastards in here!’ Horton eyed the heavily tattooed man in his mid-fifties, sporting more earrings than a jeweller’s window, sitting beside him. He wondered what criminal activity Rookley was plotting this time, because knowing him of old he wasn’t in here for his health.

‘There’s him.’ Rookley jerked his head in the direction of big belly man. Horton studied the hard-featured face behind the counter. Horton didn’t know him but maybe Cantelli did.

‘Who is he?’

‘Jack.’

‘Jack who?’

‘How the fuck should I know?’

‘Because you’re a crook, a thief, a liar and used to dealing with the low-life scum of Portsmouth. And you were talking to him about five seconds ago. I could see you through the window.’

‘I was ordering a drink.’

Horton eyed the empty table in front of them. ‘Didn’t realize it was table service,’ he said sarcastically. ‘So what were you doing at Crown House?’

‘I live there.’

‘Since when?’

Rookley shifted his scrawny figure. ‘October. I’m out on licence. Got a year of my sentence left and I don’t want nothing to bugger it up and go back inside.’

‘Did you hear that, Sergeant?’ Horton boomed, causing Rookley to flinch. ‘Ronnie’s out on licence and reformed.’

‘That just goes to show miracles can happen,’ replied Cantelli, placing three chipped mugs on the table, one of which he pushed towards Rookley. Rookley peered at the dark brown liquid as if it were poison. Cantelli said, ‘They’re out of Earl Grey.’ He pulled up a seat to the right of Rookley, blocking his other exit route.

Rookley shot a nervous look at the balding proprietor.

Horton thought, if he’s that scared of him why come here? ‘Luke Felton,’ he said abruptly.

‘Who?’

‘Don’t give me that crap. You live in the same building.’

‘So what?’

‘Where is he?’

Rookley shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘In bed?’

‘He’s missing.’

Rookley sniffed and relinquished eye contact. ‘So?’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Dunno.’

But Horton knew Rookley was lying. Rookley’s eyes scanned the cafe and then focused on the window facing the street. Horton saw him stiffen. Following the direction of his gaze, he saw a tall black man lounging against the lamp post on the corner of a narrow street outside the council’s housing office; his head was shaking in rhythm to the music that was plugged into his ears, a baseball cap was rammed low over his brow and his hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a large black leather bomber jacket.

Rookley quickly buried his face in the mug and swallowed a mouthful of tea before pulling a face. Horton didn’t blame him. It smelt like shit and looked like something that had come from the sewage farm at Bedhampton. Horton valued his throat and stomach too highly to drink the coffee that Cantelli had bought him, and the sergeant hadn’t attempted to lift his cracked mug to his lips.

‘We were talking about Luke Felton,’ pressed Horton.

‘I’ve got to go.’ Rookley half rose.

‘Sit down,’ Horton commanded quietly but firmly. ‘Unless you cooperate I will ask questions very loudly before I take you to the station, where I will-’

‘OK, you’ve made your point. I heard something, that’s all.’

‘Like what?’ Horton’s patience was wearing a little thin. It was time to squeeze some information out of the runt. The black man had gone.

Rookley licked his lips and dashed another glance at big belly man. ‘Not here,’ he hissed.

‘Just tell me where Luke is,’ Horton sighed.

Rookley shifted. ‘Can’t now, but I might be able to tonight.’

Was he bullshitting? Horton thought it highly probable. Rookley just wanted shot of him. As if reading his mind Rookley quickly added, ‘I need to ask around a bit.’

Horton didn’t believe it for one minute. He was stalling. Why? But Horton said, ‘OK, where?’

‘Milton Locks. Nine o’clock.’

‘Why there?’

‘Why not?’

‘How do I know you’ll be there?’

‘Because you know where I’m living and I don’t want you sniffing around after me.’

Horton quickly weighed up whether to press him, decided it would be a waste of time and scraped back his chair. ‘I’ll be there. Just make sure you are, Ronnie.’

Rookley scurried away without looking back. Horton watched big belly man’s eyes follow him before they swivelled back to Horton. The hatred in them was unmistakable, but Horton didn’t let that worry him.

Crossing to him, Horton said, ‘When did you last see Luke Felton?’

‘Fuck off, copper.’

Horton held his hostile stare a moment longer before obliging.

‘Do you know the cafe owner?’ he asked Cantelli when they were outside.

Cantelli shook his head. Big belly man now had a mobile phone pressed to his ear. ‘Give me the photograph of Felton and keep your eye on handsome in there.’

Horton slipped across the road as the traffic lights changed and darted down the narrow side street by the housing office. Turning right into a small car park at the rear of the run-down shops and flats he found what he was looking for: a dark saloon car. Inside it was the large black man who’d been lounging against the wall by the housing office. Checking no one was watching him, Horton opened the passenger door and climbed in.

‘What the hell were you doing in there, Andy?’

‘Looking for him.’ Horton thrust the photograph of Luke Felton at Hans Olewbo of the drug squad. ‘Have you seen him?’

Olewbo looked cagey.

‘When was the last time?’ pressed Horton.

After a moment Olewbo said, ‘Monday night about seven.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘Entering Crown House.’

‘Front or back entrance?’

‘Back. Why?’

‘And you didn’t see him leave Tuesday morning at eight thirty?’

‘A man’s got to sleep.’

‘You know he used to be into heroin?’

‘I haven’t seen him dealing or receiving. What’s he done?’

Horton told him, and why he’d followed Rookley into the cafe.

Olewbo cursed. ‘Wish someone had told us.’

‘I just have. So what’s your interest here, Hans? Is it Rookley, Crown House or big belly man in the cafe? Or maybe all three,’ Horton added, when he didn’t get an immediate answer.

Hans checked his rear view mirror. After a moment he said, ‘We’ve got information that someone is bringing in a shed load of crack and circulating it to the kids on the estate. That cafe could be the pick-up point. Jack Belton, the cafe proprietor, has a conviction for drug dealing in London. He was released three years ago and has been in Portsmouth for two years and things round here have got a hell of a lot worse in the last eighteen months. We received information which led us to him and set up surveillance on Monday morning, but so far, sod all. What did Rookley tell you?’

‘Nothing. Could Luke Felton have gained easy access to drugs?’

Olewbo gave him an incredulous stare. ‘They’re giving it out like lemon sherbet around here.’

‘OK, daft question,’ Horton admitted. He opened the car door, knowing he’d get nothing more from Hans. Brightly he said, ‘Hope I haven’t blown your cover.’

‘I’ll survive. Now bugger off.’

Horton found Cantelli where he’d left him. ‘Handsome’s got customers,’ Cantelli said, nodding at the cafe. ‘Lads with hoods. They bought Coke. The drink in a can,’ he added with a grin to Horton’s surprised look. ‘Though that might not be the kind of coke they asked for. And Rookley’s just left Crown House again.’