Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

Cantelli nodded his head in the direction of the large parish church on the corner of a busy junction where Horton saw Rookley’s slight figure.

‘Let’s see where he’s going, Barney, and in such a hurry.’

‘Probably cashing his giro.’

Cantelli could be right, but Horton was convinced that Rookley knew a great deal about Luke Felton’s vanishing act, and, away from that greasy cafe and the flapping ears of the proprietor, Horton would get him to tell it, and save himself a late night meeting and endless hours looking for Felton. He said as much to Cantelli as they pulled on to the main road, causing a motorbike to swerve around them and Cantelli to curse after it.

‘Rookley might even be meeting Luke Felton to warn him we’re looking for him,’ Horton added as Cantelli indicated left by the church. He relayed what Olewbo had told him, adding, ‘Rookley could have gone to the cafe to pick up drugs for Felton. If we can nab him for supplying drugs and bring Luke Felton in, that might put a smile on DCI Bliss’s face.’

Cantelli threw him a dubious glance, forcing Horton to say, ‘I know pigs might fly.’

Through the now steadily falling rain Horton watched Rookley, his collar turned up, shoulders hunched, head towards the prison, which could hardly be his destination, having just got out of one. Before reaching it, though, Rookley turned left into the cemetery as a funeral procession swung into it from the opposite direction.

‘No post offices in a cemetery,’ Horton said cheerfully. ‘Plenty of crypts though, which make excellent hiding places.’

‘Perhaps he’s visiting the grave of a relative or friend?’

‘Doubt he’s got any.’

‘There’s a sister.’

‘Poor her.’

Cantelli swung into the cemetery after the funeral cortege.

‘Pull over, Barney, I’ll tail Rookley on foot. Hang around here in case he doubles back.’

Rookley veered off the central path to his right and Horton followed him at a discreet distance, weaving his way through the lurching weather-beaten headstones. Ahead he saw the funeral cortege draw to a halt and beyond it two gravediggers sheltering from the rain under a tree. He hadn’t gone much further when his phone rang. Horton glanced at Rookley, who was some distance ahead and hadn’t heard it. Seeing the caller was Cantelli, Horton answered it.

‘Sorry, Andy, but we’ve got a body in Portsmouth Harbour. No ID, and difficult to tell who it is, but Seaton thinks it’s a man.’

Horton looked after the retreating figure of Rookley.

‘It could be Luke Felton,’ Cantelli pressed. ‘And Seaton says the tide’s coming in fast.’

Horton cursed. Was it Felton? Or was he here, in hiding? Was Rookley meeting him? If it hadn’t been for the question of the tide, Horton wouldn’t have hesitated; he’d have checked Rookley out first. He dashed an irritated glance at his watch. It was less than two hours to high tide, but depending on exactly where the body was, the water could reach it much sooner.

Watching Rookley disappear around the bend of a path, reluctantly Horton said, ‘Tell Seaton we’re on our way.’

Horton stared down at what was left of the corpse lying in the thick slimy mud of the harbour and wasn’t surprised that PC Johns, standing guard over it, looked green, or that PC Seaton hadn’t been able to say who it was. There wasn’t much left of this poor soul to tell anything and Horton wasn’t about to go through what remained of the clothes searching for an ID. Dr Clayton, or rather her whistling mortuary attendant, Brian, could have that pleasure.

Hunching his shoulders against the cold penetrating rain sweeping off the sea, and desperately trying to control his heaving stomach, Horton forced himself to study what remained of the blackened flesh that hadn’t been eaten by the sea life. There was no hair on the corpse and the rotted clothes were so covered in mud, seaweed, barnacles and sea creatures that Horton couldn’t see if they fitted the description Harmsworth had given them. There were also no shoes on the body.

Cantelli cleared his throat. ‘Think my breakfast’s about to come up.’

Horton was rather glad he hadn’t had any. He’d been too preoccupied with the symbol on his Harley to worry about food. ‘Better not let the gallery see you.’ He nodded up at the elevated road to their left, which led to the railway station and the ferries to Gosport across the harbour, and to the Isle of Wight beyond the Solent.

‘Ghouls,’ muttered Cantelli, pulling a handkerchief from his jacket and making a great pretence of blowing his nose. Horton knew it was to disguise the disgusting smell of the bloated body, which rose sickeningly above the smell of the mud. Even Dr Price, drunk or sober, wouldn’t have difficulty certifying death this time.

‘Would Felton’s body look like that if he’s only been missing since Tuesday night?’ Cantelli voiced the question which had been running through Horton’s mind.

Horton shrugged an answer. That was down to Dr Clayton to tell them, though he hoped Price might have some idea. ‘How tall is Felton?’ he asked.

Cantelli reached into his pocket and pulled out his notepad. ‘Five feet ten inches and of slim build.’

Horton again studied the corpse. ‘The height’s about the same.’ But the body looked large, which, of course, could be the bloating from being in the water. Horton stared out at a grey, turbulent, rainswept harbour; the seagulls cawed and screeched overhead, a black and orange tug boat bucked in the roll of the waves as it headed out against the tide which was rushing in. The water was already in the channel to their right, slapping against one of the historic dockyard’s attractions, the ironclad warship HMS Warrior ; soon it would be over the causeway and the corpse. They had about thirty-five minutes. It wasn’t long.

His eyes flicked back to the shore where officers, including PC Seaton, were helping to keep the growing numbers of tourists and sightseers at bay. Horton thought the rain would have dampened their curiosity, but clearly not. He watched with relief as Dr Price’s battered Volvo pulled up and behind it the van containing Phil Taylor and his scene of crime officers. Horton wished the corpse was covered by a tent, but there wasn’t time for that, and the best they could do was screen it with their bodies. Price would only be minutes. Taylor and his SOCO team of two, longer.

Seaton had told them on their arrival that a Mr Hackett had made the gruesome discovery just before 11 a.m. He’d been preparing his small fishing boat ready to take out into the Solent when the weather cleared, and, as he had put it, he ‘Almost trod on the poor sod.’

Horton turned back to the body, his eyes scanning the area around it, and said, ‘He must have been washed up in the early hours of the morning on or around high tide, which was just before one o’clock.’ And he could guess why no one had spotted it before Mr Hackett; the colour of the corpse blended almost perfectly with the mud, and anyone seeing the clothes would think it was rags brought up with the tide. But where had the body come from? There were hundreds of places, around the Solent and beyond.

Cantelli pulled out a packet of gum and offered it to PC Johns, who took a piece gratefully while Horton refused.

‘Maybe he fell overboard.’

Which meant it was unlikely to be Luke Felton, unless he’d been meeting a drug dealer on a boat. Horton said, ‘Call Sergeant Elkins and ask if he’s come across any drifting or abandoned boats in the last few days.’

Cantelli stepped back along the causeway, nodding a greeting to Dr Price who drew level with Horton. Price’s bloodshot eyes looked warily out to sea before switching their scrutiny to the corpse.