Pauline Rowson - Tide of Death

A cough from his right and, 'Andy…'

Horton rounded on the small, bald headed man. Eric Smith, blast him.

'Er.. they're not in…' Eric stammered.

Horton stepped forward and Eric stepped back.

'They went out about fifteen minutes ago.' He licked his lips nervously, his eyes darting about.

His words penetrated Horton's fury and desperately he tried to get a hold on himself. It took all his powers of self-control. He felt a wave of sickness. 'Where?' he croaked.

'I don't know. They were dressed up.'

'They? Who was with her? Who was with my wife?' Horton stepped forward and Eric edged back onto his lawn and nearer the safety of his own front door.

'I don't know-'.

'Damn it, Eric, who was she with?'

Eric looked at Horton's rigid body and clenched fists and swallowed hard. Horton saw Eric glance at his wife, Daphne, who had come out to support him, telephone in her hand ready to summon help. They'd had to once already, when Catherine had thrown him out and he'd stood hammering on the door half the night. Horton took a deep breath and tried to still his racing heart and retain his fury. Slowly he said, 'What's he look like, Eric?'

'Stocky, balding, sun-tanned. I don't know who he is.'

'What car does he drive?'

'A BMW, red, seven series. I don't know the number, honest, I've never looked.'

Bollocks, thought Horton, Eric and Daphne spent hours spying on their neighbours, they seemed to have nothing better to do with their empty lives. But he wasn't going to press him. His anger was subsiding and in its place came a rising sense of despair and even self-pity. He needed information and threatening Eric was no way to get it.

'How long has he been going out with Catherine?' he asked, making an enormous effort at control.

'I don't know if he is.'

'How long?'

'About three weeks. Well, that's how long the car's been around here. Now I must go.' Eric had retreated as far as his front door but Horton had followed him. Three weeks, long enough to get into Catherine's bed and get to know his daughter.

'What's his name?'

'I only know it's Ed.' And with that he slammed the door.

Horton turned, his fury spent and climbed onto his bike. Slowly he headed back to Portsmouth. What was the bloody point? But there must be a point, there had to be. He couldn't give up now. There was still time. There must be time. But it was running out fast. Unless he got to the truth soon he would lose them both, probably forever. He headed for his boat, stopping at the shop on the corner of Fort Cumberland Road.

He lay on his berth as the fog closed in around him and stared at the bottle of whisky he'd just bought. It had been a long time since alcohol had touched his lips and then too much had, day after day, night after night, helping him to blot out the pain of betrayal and rejection; nullifying his senses. He didn't want to feel that pain again. He wanted oblivion. Soon Emma would forget him; soon Emma would have a new daddy, soon life wouldn't be worth living. Slowly he reached out a hand. Fuck Catherine. Fuck them all. His fingers curled around the bottle and he lifted it to his lips.

Saturday morning — early

He was running. The tunnel was closing in around him, the pinprick of light was fading; soon it would be gone. There would be no way out. Then a door appeared on his right. He pushed against it but it wouldn't budge. He tried harder but still it refused to open, and all the time a tune was playing in his head: the tune was getting louder…

His body was drenched with sweat and yet he was shivering. His breath was coming in gasps and someone was hammering inside his head. Slowly he surfaced from the fog of sleep and nightmares. He fumbled for the torch, found it and switched it on, then reached for his phone and growled into it.

'We've got another body, inspector,' the voice on the other end said.

Horton pulled himself together. 'Who? Where?'

'Warlingham Tower, inspector. Don't know who, but SOCO are on their way, and so is Dr Clayton.'

'What about the DCI?'

'He's not at home. I've tried his mobile but it's switched off. I left a message.'

'I'm on my way. Give Cantelli a call, will you. Ask him if he's not doing anything special, like sleeping, to meet me there.' He glanced at his watch; it was almost one o'clock.

He switched on the lamp filling the pokey cabin with subdued light. His head felt terrible. He reached for his water and then he saw it: the small bottle, which was still full of the amber liquid. It had taken him all his will power to resist it but he had. He felt a sense of personal satisfaction that he hadn't given in. Three months ago it would have been a very different story. It was a measure of how far he'd come. Despite extreme provocation he had resisted. He should feel proud, but all he could feel was pain because he couldn't stop thinking of Catherine. What was she doing now? Was she in bed with this Ed, making love to him? And Emma? Oh God, was she in her pink bedroom with ballerinas on the wall, with her teddies and dolls, sleeping? Or was she awake listening to Mummy and wondering what she was doing? He felt nausea rise up in him and wanted to retch. Quickly he took a deep breath and pulled on his trousers. Think of the body, think of the case, think of anything but Emma.

He wrenched the T-shirt over his head, and, as he stepped over his running gear, he began to feel grateful to the corpse for rescuing him from his torments. He pulled on his leathers and emerged into the foggy night.

Warlingham was about eight miles to the east of Portsmouth on the Chichester Road. Once it had been a thriving hamlet but all that was left now was the tower, a farm, a church, and a large cemetery that bordered the shore. To the east of Warlingham the shore led round to the village of Emsworth and to the west the island of Hayling.

He indicated off the motorway and sensed, rather than saw, the turn-off, which led down a narrow, twisting country lane towards the ruined tower and beyond it to the shore. He pulled up behind a police car, its blue lights flashing eerily in the fog.

He had a quick word with the constable at the entrance to the tower, logged in, stepped into a scene suit and ducking under the tape hovered inside. A shiver ran down his spine. Whatever this place had been used for in the past it carried evil. How anyone could attempt to make love in here (which was what the young couple who had discovered the body had been doing) was a mystery to him.

Arc lights had been fixed up inside the tower, throwing into harsh spotlight the vestiges of human activity: empty cans of lager and beer, cigarette packets, condoms and other rubbish. 'You're going to have a field day sifting through this lot, Phil,' he said to the lean stooping man beside him.

'Yeah, judging by the number of condoms alone we'll be recording the semen traces and DNA of half the male population of Portsmouth,' he muttered through the white mask, which like Horton's was covering his nose and face.

Horton stepped forward into the tower, but not too far; he didn't want to disturb the scene any more than was necessary. Besides he didn't need to go far to see, in the corner, the hunched body of a man; decomposing and partially consumed by the wildlife. His empty stomach heaved at the sight, never mind the smell. How the lovers could have missed that smell he didn't know, probably too consumed with their passion, he suspected. His stomach didn't only protest at the physical manifestations of the dead man but that his life had ended in such a place and in such a way. This death struck him as more pathetic and cruel than the corpse on the beach; maybe it was because the body lay hunched in a foetal position. Or perhaps it was because of the way it was clothed.