Pauline Rowson - Deadly Waters

'Perhaps he's got another one.'

Cantelli could be right. Horton opened it. 'This is in the name of Timothy Boston; perhaps he also has a passport in the name of Tim Mellows. Come on, there's nothing here for us.'

Horton climbed back on deck. 'Elkins, keep watch for him and call for back-up the moment he shows. I'll keep a unit watching his car. Let's get out of this bloody awful weather.'

He climbed off the boat, and Cantelli followed suit. Horton gazed across the harbour to Oyster Quays wondering where Boston had gone. The boat was well secured. The deck was dirty and the marina manager had confirmed it had been taken out that morning and had not long returned. If Boston had been warned that the police were on his trail then why come back here? Why return to Portsmouth at all? Why not take his passport and his car and drive to the airport?

Irritation mingled with his frustration. Once again they were going round that sodding mulberry bush. He glanced down as he made to turn away and a movement in the water caught his eye. He could have sworn he had seen something in the murky depths swirling around the edge of the pontoon. Yes, there it was again. It looked like an old piece of rag except it was too large for that. His heart leapt into his throat.

'The boat hook,' he commanded sharply.

Ripley grabbed it from Boston's boat and handed it to Horton.

'What is it?' Cantelli asked, leaning over and looking into the black pool of swirling water.

'There's something caught under the pontoon.' Horton threw himself on to the wet wooden decking, and with the rain beating down upon him, twisted his body round so that he could stretch the pole under the pontoon. 'Yes, here it is,' he grunted, as he got a hook on something. 'It's heavy. Ripley, Elkins, give me a hand. Cantelli, stay there.'

'Sod that.' Cantelli threw himself down beside Horton and stuck his arms in the water. 'Shit. It's freezing.'

'What do you expect in October?' Horton replied through gritted teeth.

Elkins, with another pole, had come up beside them. 'I'll push it from the other side of the pontoon,' he shouted above the roar of the wind.

'It's probably a dead dog.'

'Sarge!' Ripley shouted indignantly at Cantelli's remark.

But Horton didn't think it was a dead animal. His heart hammered and a cold sweat trickled off his brow. He plunged his arms deeper into the icy-cold water.

Gradually with Elkins prodding from one end and him pulling from the other, and with Cantelli's assistance, they managed to dislodge it.

'Christ, it's a body!' cried Cantelli, almost losing his grip.

Yes, thought Horton, his heart beat quickening. Had Boston done it again? Was this victim number three?

He struggled to keep hold of the body. A boat came into the marina cutting through the water and causing a wash. The body rolled over. Behind him Horton heard Elkins swear, and an intake of breath from Cantelli. He himself was numb with shock. The face that stared up at him was no longer clean-cut, eager-eyed and handsome, but Horton recognized it nevertheless. He was looking at the bloated face of Timothy Boston.

Wednesday: 7.30 A.M.

After snatching a few hours' sleep Horton headed into work along the seafront. The area around Boston's boat had been sealed off and Boston's body had been removed to the mortuary. Temporary arc lights had been erected overnight and under their glare Phil Taylor and his scene of crime officers had quietly and painstakingly gone about their work. When Horton had left there in the early hours of the morning no evidence had been discovered to indicate how Boston had died, and his body hadn't borne any obvious marks of death, such as stabbing or shooting. It looked as though he had slipped, fallen in and drowned.

Dr Clayton had been called out to examine the body after Price had certified him dead. She couldn't say how Boston had been killed, not until she had him undressed on the mortuary slab and had conducted the post-mortem. Horton smiled to himself at the memory of Uckfield trying to bully her into 'making an educated guess'. Her frosty reply had been, 'I'm a scientist not a clairvoyant. But if you would rather use the services of Mystic Meg, please go ahead. I'm sure she'll be a lot cheaper and quicker; she might even throw in a horoscope or two.'

Uckfield had grunted and, after Gaye had left them, said, 'Touchy, isn't she?'

No one replied. Horton was very interested to see what the results of the post mortem would bring, especially as Uckfield had expressed two opinions as to the cause of death. The first was that Boston, having killed Jessica Langley and Tom Edney, had been overcome with remorse and had decided to end his life by drowning himself — Horton had asked why wait until he'd moored up when he could have thrown himself overboard anywhere in the Solent? And as far as Horton could see, he didn't think Boston was the type to suffer from remorse.

The second of Uckfield's theories was that Boston had killed Langley and Edney, had gone on a jaunt to flog his stolen antiques, and on his return had slipped on the pontoon and fallen into the water. With no buoyancy aid he'd got sucked under, his clothes had caught on something and that was it.

It was convenient. Too bloody convenient, thought Horton.

He pulled into a parking bay by the Pitch and Putt and stared out to sea. It was still dark, but the morning had a fresh, crisp feel about it. There was a lull in the wind, but yesterday's gales had left a swollen sea and large waves crashed on to the pebbled beach and exploded in a foaming white mass.

He thought back to his conversation with Uckfield last night. They was no evidence yet that Boston was their antiques thief, but Horton instinctively felt he was. Later that day, and in the days to come, they would go through Boston's affairs with a comb so fine that not even a nit could get through. In the meantime, however, Uckfield had adopted the idea that Horton had originally espoused that Langley had recognized Boston when he was on one of his antiques raids. He'd lured her to his boat at Sparkes Yacht Harbour, punched her, and then suffocated her. He'd placed her on the mulberry, adding the little touch with the money and honey for good measure. After which he'd taken his boat back to Gosport Marina. After Langley's death Edney put two and two together. He had confronted Boston and as a result had to die.

It sounded plausible enough, yet for Horton there were still too many loose ends. Such as why had Boston bothered to put on his drunken act, if he was the drunk? Why had he shopped Mickey Johnson and the athletic youth, or set them up in the first place, if he was the mastermind behind the robberies? Where were Jessica Langley's foul weather clothes: the leggings and jacket she was wearing in the photograph? And where were her laptop, briefcase, jacket and mobile phone? Which brought him to another question — what did the note found in Langley's pocket have to do with her murder?

Uckfield had said, 'It doesn't figure in the case at all. She just picked up a piece of paper and absentmindedly stuffed it in her trouser pocket.'

Horton had disagreed. Why would Langley do that? And why had Boston (if he was the killer) stripped her of all other means of identification, but left that note in her trouser pocket?

Uckfield clearly wasn't interested. He wanted the case wound up.

Horton watched the thin wafers of little black clouds drift in an otherwise clear sky that was growing red with the rising sun. He thought of the weather prophecy: 'Red sky in the morning shepherds' warning.' Well, there weren't any shepherds in Portsmouth anymore, but he'd heed their advice he thought, as he throttled back the Harley and headed for the station. By evening it could be blowing a gale and pouring with rain. October was as unpredictable as March, or April; or, come to that, as any month of the year in Britain. Still, the weather was the least of his concerns. Boston's death was top of the list and despite what Uckfield said, Horton wanted those questions answered.