Pauline Rowson - Deadly Waters

'Did he though? What happened to him in the mad panic after Johnson was rumbled?'

'I…er…I don't know. I grabbed Johnson, you went after the boy and Elkins jumped on the boat and got the holdall of stolen goods. The drunk sort of got shoved out of the way.'

'And did you get a name and address?'

'Shit!'

Horton knew it. It confirmed his theory. 'Don't worry. It would probably have been false.'

'We might have recognized him though.'

'Not this man. He's a master at disguise.'

'But why go to all that trouble?' Cantelli asked, swinging into the car park at Nettleside High School.

'We'll ask him, but I wouldn't mind betting it was for the hell of it, the thrill of the thing or because he thought it would be a good joke to play on us.'

'He's quite a card. Can't wait to meet him.'

Neither could Horton and soon they would.

They were ushered quickly into the head's office by Thornecombe's anxious secretary. Horton didn't waste any time with the preliminaries but came straight to the point. He was too eager to get this bloody killer.

'I'm sorry, Inspector, but we don't have a drama teacher. It's not on our curriculum.'

Horton's heart sank. This couldn't be another dead end, surely? This morning he had told Uckfield his theory and got a sceptical look for his troubles. Uckfield had grumbled something about letting his imagination run wild and that this wasn't Book at Bedtime, but he grudgingly admitted there might be something in it. Those telephone calls to the victims had surely proved he and Cantelli were right.

Horton persisted. 'But you do hold after-school drama classes.'

'Yes, on Tuesdays.'

Thank heavens for that. 'Who takes them?' Horton asked eagerly.

Thornecombe looked puzzled. 'Timothy Boston. He's an excellent teacher.'

Horton hoped he hid his surprise. He flashed Cantelli a look. The sergeant raised his eyebrows slightly as Horton quickly mentally recalled Boston: stockily built, clean cut and handsome, wearing a good suit and placing a comforting hand on Susan Pentlow's arm. A pompous man who had been concerned about delaying the building of the new drama suite, and who had also omitted to mention that he taught performing arts. Of course! Boston had a foot in both camps.

Cantelli said, 'But Mr Boston teaches at the Sir Wilberforce Cutler School.'

'We share resources. I mentioned that before,' Thornecombe replied. 'It was one of Ms Langley's ideas.'

It explained why she would willingly have gone to meet Boston.

Horton heard Cantelli ask: 'How long has Mr Boston taught drama here?'

Thornecombe addressed Horton. 'What is this about, Inspector?'

'I can't tell you yet, sir.'

'If it reflects on the reputation of my school then I have a right to know?' Thornecombe bristled.

Horton said firmly, 'Can you just answer the question, sir? How long has Mr Boston taught drama here?'

Thornecombe looked as though he wanted to explode. Horton saw it was an effort for him to hold on to his temper. This clearly was a man who was used to being obeyed without question.

Tight-lipped, Thornecombe relied, 'About six weeks, since the start of term, and he ran a summer school during the holidays.'

So, plenty of time to get close to the kids and find out about their habits and their doting grandparents. What a brain. But why do it and risk a good career? Was it for the money? But teachers weren't badly paid these days. However, Boston had been wearing an expensive suit and perhaps his tastes were bigger than his wallet.

Thornecombe said, 'Mr Boston has been cleared by the police and has impeccable references.'

Horton asked, 'Is he here?' It was Tuesday after all, and half term at the Sir Wilberforce.

'He will be later for the classes. They start at four p.m. Am I expected to cancel them? Only at short notice-'

'Carry on as usual, Dr Thornecombe.' If they didn't find Boston by then, at least Horton knew where he'd be later that day. There would be no reason for him not to turn up. Boston couldn't know they were on to him. The head teacher wouldn't be pleased at the disruption an arrest would cause him, but that was too bad.

After extracting a promise that Thornecombe wouldn't say anything to Boston about their visit, if he saw him before they did, Horton and Cantelli left him looking worried and very cross.

Cantelli zapped open the car. 'Boston never said he taught here. At least I don't think it's in his statement.'

'Why should it be? He wasn't asked that question, only where he was when Langley was killed.'

'Which, if I remember correctly, was at home watching The Maltese Falcon. And I thought here's a man with taste.'

Yes, the kind that needed robberies to fund them. And they were clever robberies at that. So was Boston the drunk on the pontoon? The build was right. Had Boston been the anonymous caller to CID on the morning of the last robbery and so had shopped Johnson and his mate? Horton guessed so. He had decided to silence Langley and put an end to his antiques jaunts by shifting the focus to Johnson and his accomplice.

Horton called Sergeant Trueman as Cantelli pulled out of the school. He got Boston's address and told Cantelli to head along the seafront to Fort Cumberland Road. Boston lived just a stone's throw from Horton's marina.

He stared at the foaming green sea as it broke on to the pebbled beach in a flash of white. The wind was getting up strength ready to fulfil the prophecy of gale warnings later in the week. Ahead, Horton could see the distant shores of Hayling Island. There were still so many gaps in this complex case. He hoped soon they'd be able to get some answers from Boston to fill them.

Cantelli turned into a cul-de-sac that was lined with three-storey houses and apartments, and pulled up halfway down, outside a block of flats. Climbing out, Horton scrutinized the line of bell pushes on the wall, found the one he wanted and pressed his finger on the buzzer. There was no answer.

'Looks as though we'll have to come back with a warrant,' he said, disappointed. Then the front door opened. A thin man in his early fifties wearing a smart suit man stepped out.

Horton glanced at the badge on his lapel and the briefcase in his hand. He was due for some luck and he wondered if this could be it.

'Are you the managing agent?' he asked, showing his warrant card.

'Police? I hope there's nothing wrong.'

'Does Mr Boston rent his apartment from you?'

'Well, yes, he does.'

'We are concerned about Mr Boston, and he is not answering his bell.'

The thin man paled, and glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to the apartments.

Horton pressed his point. 'It would save a great deal of time and fuss if we could just take a look inside. Otherwise we'll have to request a search warrant and that means making it official with several police cars not to mention the press-'

'He's on the third floor. ' The managing agent was steering them inside before Horton finished speaking. He pressed the lift button. 'I've got a viewing on that floor in five minutes. Do you think you could be quick?'

'Sergeant Cantelli will go with you in the lift.'

Horton knew that Boston's apartment was number eighteen. He leapt up the stairs two at a time until he came to the third floor, and saw with satisfaction at his level of fitness that he'd beaten the lift. He pressed his finger on the bell.

'Mr Boston, I'd like a word. Police.' There was no response. Cantelli and the agent stepped out of the lift.

'Mr Selsmere has a key,' Cantelli said, and the agent reached into his briefcase.

Great! When luck was with you, you rode it until you wore it out, thought Horton.

Closing the door on Selsmere, Horton stepped inside a small lobby listening to the silence. It was complete. He gestured at the room on his left and Cantelli slipped into it whilst Horton took the room straight ahead. It was the lounge. There was no sign of Boston.