Pauline Rowson - Footsteps on the Shore

‘Well, he’s definitely dead,’ he declared. ‘I can tell that by his colour. It’s amazing what you learn at medical school.’

Horton sometimes wondered if Dr Price had ever attended one. Maybe the patients in his practice did too. Even though Horton had never heard of any complaints against Price, he was heartily glad he wasn’t registered at his surgery. The rain was dripping off Price’s wide-brimmed waterproof hat, the sort of article Horton wished he was wearing. His hair was plastered to his scalp and running off his face. His trousers sodden.

‘As to cause of death. .’ Price crouched over the body. He seemed oblivious to the stench, but then perhaps the alcohol Horton could smell on him anaesthetized the doctor to that. ‘There are no visible signs and I’m not touching him. I’ll leave that to our delightful pathologist.’

‘Time of death?’ asked Horton hopefully.

‘No idea, but judging by the generalized bloating and the fact the body is greenish-black, I’d say it’s been in the water for sixty to seventy-five hours, possibly more.’

Horton did some rapid calculations. Seventy-five hours took them back to Tuesday morning when Luke Felton had been seen going to work by Harmsworth, and had, as far as they were aware, been at work all day. They would check. But sixty hours took them to 11 p.m. on Tuesday night, and that meant it could be Felton.

Horton said, ‘It is a man then?’

Price shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘Difficult to tell. Even if what is left of his clothes wasn’t covering his private parts, the fish will probably have taken a fancy to them. Dr Clayton will tell you.’ And with a grunt he shambled off slightly unsteadily, waving a hand as he passed Taylor and his two colleagues, Beth Tremaine and the photographer, Jim Clarke.

The sea was getting perilously close. For once Horton was glad of Dr Price’s brevity. To Taylor, he said, ‘You’ve got about twenty minutes before the tide hits here.’

‘There’s not much we can do anyway, except photograph and video the position of the body and take samples from where it lies,’ Taylor replied mournfully, frowning at the sea, obviously annoyed with it for having the gall to interfere with his usual thorough procedure.

Cantelli came off the phone. ‘Elkins says there are no reports of abandoned or drifting boats anywhere in the Solent. And none of a man overboard or reports of a missing seaman.’

‘So if it is foul play he could have been thrown overboard from a boat and left to drown, or been killed or knocked unconscious and then tossed overboard.’

‘Or he could have walked into the sea to commit suicide, or fallen from a cliff on the Isle of Wight.’

‘Call Walters and ask him to check if anyone’s been reported missing in the last seventy-five hours.’

Cantelli threw a worried glance at the advancing tide.

‘You can do it ashore,’ Horton said, swivelling his gaze to Mr Hackett, who was holding court among his buddies outside the timber hut belonging to the Portsmouth Net Fishermen’s Association. ‘And talk to Mr Hackett. See if there’s anything else we should know about.’

With a look of relief, Cantelli hurried down the causeway while PC Johns looked enviously after him, before turning back to glare at the sea as though by sheer force of will he could hold it back. Others more noble had tried and failed, so Horton didn’t hold out much hope of a humble and burly PC succeeding.

As Taylor’s team did their stuff under the curious eyes of travellers and onlookers on the elevated road, Horton tossed up whether to tell DCI Bliss about this development and decided not to. It would only send her flapping around like a distressed seagull. He also saw no reason to call in Superintendent Uckfield of the major crime team, not unless it proved to be murder.

He quickly scanned the crowd for journalists, saw none he recognized, but knew they’d be here soon enough; along with photographers and camera crew who would be able to pick out a flea on an elephant’s arse if there had been elephants in Portsmouth Harbour. They’d have no problem with something as large as a corpse.

Was it Luke Felton, he wondered, watching a grey naval ship making its stately way out of the harbour. The vessel seemed so close he could almost touch it. It was travelling slowly, but nevertheless Horton eyed its wash with concern. But if the corpse was Luke, then why had Rookley gone to the cemetery? Had he simply been taking a short cut through the graveyard on his way to meeting one of his criminal friends? Or had he seen them following and decided to throw them off the scent by diving into the cemetery? But Horton didn’t credit Rookley with that much intelligence. Rookley was a nasty piece of work, with a record of theft and violence that stretched back to childhood, but he’d never been done for drug dealing. Still, there was a first time for everything.

He rammed his hands in his pockets and stamped his wet feet to get them warm, wondering if the unit he’d asked Sergeant Warren to despatch to the cemetery to search for Rookley had found him. Perhaps they’d not even gone; Warren’s diatribe on the shortage of manpower didn’t exactly inspire Horton with hope. If Rookley wasn’t located, and if he didn’t show tonight, then Horton would have him picked up tomorrow.

‘There’s nothing of any significance here, Inspector.’ Taylor’s nasal tones broke through Horton’s thoughts. The photographer nodded to indicate he’d got the images he needed, which was just as well as the sea, swollen by the naval ship’s progress, washed up against the body. Horton addressed PC Johns, ‘Tell the undertakers they can remove the body.’

Johns didn’t need telling twice. The bedraggled PC hurried back to the shore while Horton stayed to watch the rotting corpse being scraped off the mud and lifted into a body bag before being placed on the trolley and wheeled away. It wasn’t a pleasant experience. He examined the area where the corpse had lain. There was nothing but mud. Leaving Taylor and his team to collect further samples, he was relieved and thankful to return to the car where he squelched into the passenger seat and called Dr Gaye Clayton. He got her voice mail, so left a brief message telling her the body was on its way and he’d appreciate an ID as soon as possible.

Horton then called Sergeant Warren. The one unit he had been able to spare to search the cemetery reported no sign of Rookley. ‘It’s a big place, Inspector. How long do you expect me to keep them there?’ Horton could hear the complaint in Warren’s dour Scottish tones.

‘You can call it off,’ Horton said briefly and rang off before having to suffer Warren’s phoney gratitude. Seeing that Cantelli was still deep in conversation with Mr Hackett, huddled under the protection of the hut doorway, Horton punched in a number on his mobile phone and a few minutes later had arranged for a survey on the boat he had viewed late yesterday afternoon and was hoping to buy. He then called the owner, Mrs Trotman, to tell her, but there was no reply and no answer machine. He’d try later.

Reaching into his pocket, he unfurled the paper containing the symbol scratched on his Harley and studied it closely, but it still looked like a series of random squiggles. It had been carved almost certainly by a penknife, which would have taken some time to execute. Was it the act of a mindless moron who got his kicks from vandalizing other people’s property — a drunken yob, maybe, staggering home? But there were no pubs or clubs en route to or from the marina, except the restaurant at the marina itself, and Horton could hardly see its upmarket clientele doing something so destructive and malicious. Still, it might be worth asking the owner about his customers last night. Though when he’d be able to do so was another matter entirely. And the marina CCTV hadn’t picked up anything. He doubted the CCTV cameras on the seafront would either, even if he did have the time to view them, which seemed increasingly unlikely as the day was unfolding. And that brought him back to the body.