Pauline Rowson - Tide of Death

He sat bolt upright almost banging his head on the coach roof. Someone had broken in but it had been a very professional job. No lock tampered with, nothing disturbed. He wouldn't have known that anyone had been aboard if it hadn't been for Emma.

Slowly he swung off the bunk and reaching into a locker pulled out a pair of sailing gloves and began a minute inspection of the boat. It didn't take him long. He found it stowed away underneath his sail cover at the aft.

He pulled it out and stared at it, frowning; it was a slim, gold cigarette lighter. Who did it belong to? There was nothing on it to identify the owner, or was there? He peered at it wishing he had a magnifying glass. He could see some faint lettering, initials maybe, but they were so worn that he couldn't quite make them out. Someone had planted it with a purpose in mind, and he wasn't about to sit back and wait for that purpose to be revealed.

He climbed off the boat, taking care to look around. As far as he was aware there was no one watching him but then the fog was pretty thick. If anyone was watching him then they'd assume he was simply going to the toilet, or having a shower, which was exactly what he was doing. The lighter was safely tucked away inside his toilet bag.

He walked to the end of the pontoon. The fog swallowed up the sounds of the night completely leaving only the reboant foghorns to pierce the silence.

He slipped into the shower room and toilets. They were empty but swiftly he checked them all just to be certain. Then, entering the cubicle at the far end, he took the lighter out of his toilet bag; it was now enclosed in a sealed plastic bag, opened the top of the toilet and placed it inside the cistern. He then took his time having a shower.

Outside he stood stock still as though he was savouring the night air, but he was checking for any movement, his ears and eyes straining for any sign that would tell him he was being watched. Nothing. The air was turbid and tasted of salt. He could hardly see in front of him as he made his way slowly and carefully back to his boat.

He lay on his bunk, staring into the dark. How had his intruder got in? He must have a key. It wouldn't be that difficult to get hold of one. The hatch was only fastened with a simple padlock. There wasn't much on the boat for anyone to steal so he'd never bothered to make it more secure. There were cameras in the marina and a code giving access onto the pontoons. The cameras probably wouldn't reveal much in the fog, always assuming they'd been pointing in this direction, and someone could easily have slipped through the gate along with another berth holder or behind one.

And why plant something on him now when he'd been here several weeks? But he knew the answer to that. Jarrett didn't want him sniffing around, which meant that he was on the right track. The thought cheered him.

But how did Jarrett know where to plant the lighter? Who knew he was living on his boat? Not Underwood if he was retired. Someone could, of course, have told him, someone at the station who was still in touch with him like…He frowned. There were only three people who knew, four if you counted Catherine, but why would Catherine want to break in and plant a cigarette lighter on him? No, it couldn't be her. It had to be one of the others and until he found out he could trust no one, not even Cantelli.

Friday morning

'How many people at the station know I'm living on the boat?' Horton asked Cantelli the next morning, as they headed for Oyster Quays and Thurlow's office.

'I think it's fairly common knowledge. Walters found out. Don't ask me who told him but you know what that means…'

He did. The whole of the Hampshire Police Service probably knew by now, so bang went his narrow list of suspects, but not necessarily his theory. Glancing at Cantelli he knew he had never seriously considered him one of them. But Dennings was a different matter.

'Why do you want to know?'

'No reason,' Horton replied airily and drew a sceptical look from Cantelli, which he chose to ignore. By the look of him Cantelli had spent as restless a night as he had done. 'Ellen still not talking to you?'

'No. I found out last night that Jaz Corinder told her mother she was on a sleep-over at Sophie's house. Neither girl returned to her own home on Tuesday night. Where the devil were they, Andy, and what were they up to?' Cantelli cried.

'Maybe Ellen wasn't with them.'

'Maybe. And that worries the hell out of me. If she wasn't, then where was she?'

'She'll tell you when she's ready,' Horton tried to comfort him but he could see that Cantelli wasn't convinced. Still, if anyone could get information from Ellen Cantelli, Horton was convinced that Charlotte could. Barney's wife understood children and adolescents better than anyone he knew. 'Let's try and concentrate on the case, Barney.'

'Yeah, OK.' Cantelli threw him a dubious glance.

As they made their way down the Plaza towards the sea, Horton could see over the heads of the crowds the masts of yachts crossing the harbour entrance and the top of the Isle of Wight Ferry as it waited to berth. He felt a great deal of sympathy for Cantelli. He tried to imagine how he would feel if it were Emma. The answer was in the tightening of his stomach muscles and the ache around his heart.

He pushed open the door to Thurlow's office and climbed the stairs to reception where after a couple of minutes waiting they were shown into a modern boardroom with a large glass-topped table and chrome armchairs.

The room was decorated in pale blue and Horton was immediately drawn to the two large arched shaped windows that overlooked the bustling harbour entrance and the town of Gosport beyond. Below him, moored up against the pontoon were three international race yachts. The Boardwalk was crowded with shoppers and tourists. It was another scorching day but this room, as the rest of the building, was mercifully air-conditioned.

'Thurlow likes to look at himself,' Cantelli said and Horton turned back to find Cantelli studying the photographs on the walls. There were several of Thurlow with clients at black tie dinners, Thurlow with celebrities, Thurlow on his boat with guests, and Thurlow with an athletic looking man sporting a marathon medal in front of a group of disabled children.

'Isn't this your father-in-law?' Cantelli pointed to a distinguished looking man in his late fifties standing beside Thurlow at a black tie presentation. Peter Kilton was holding a glass trophy and Roger Thurlow a jeroboam of champagne.

Horton read the caption underneath the photograph. 'Businessman of the Year 1992.' It was the year he had met Catherine. She had worked for her father then as a secretary and had since graduated to marketing manager for the internationally renowned manufacturer of sailing equipment.

Cantelli said, 'You heard from Catherine?'

He must have read his mind. That wouldn't have been difficult given the link. 'Only from her solicitor. She wants a divorce.' He said it evenly but his stomach was churning; now he understood perfectly why she'd filed for a divorce. 'She's found someone else.'

Cantelli looked shocked and Horton was grateful for that. But before either man could speak the door opened and small man in his mid fifties with overlong greying hair bustled in.

'I'm so sorry to keep you waiting gentlemen; I got caught on the phone. Charles Calthorpe.'

He spoke with a slight lisp. His eyes looked wary and there was a line of perspiration on his upper lip.

'Inspector Horton and this is Sergeant Cantelli.' Horton displayed his warrant card. The dark brown eyes studied him briefly and darted away as soon as Horton made contact with them. The handshake was moist and fleeting.

Calthorpe waved them into a seat and settled himself nervously. He seemed relieved when the door opened and a middle-aged woman, shaped like a pyramid, entered carrying a laden tray.