Pauline Rowson - Tide of Death

Isabella Cantelli greeted them warmly as they stepped into the seafront cafe, a smile lighting her dark, finely-boned face.

'Didn't expect to find you behind the counter,' Cantelli said.

'Short staffed. Either I muck in or we lose custom. Let me get you a drink and then I'll get Adrienne to cover for me.'

Cantelli ordered his usual double espresso. Horton didn't want a drink, he wanted Lucy's address but he could hardly blurt that out. Curbing his irritation with great difficulty he ordered a coffee and stared at the colourful and numerous handwritten signs stuck in a seemingly haphazard manner on the wall behind Isabella, offering him amongst many other things the choice of an all-day breakfast, sausage and chips, toasted teacake and coffee special. He watched Isabella as the coffee machine went through its noisy routine to the accompaniment of the burbling DJ on the local radio station, praying she hadn't got this wrong. Hoping that this wasn't a wild goose chase.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Horton, they took their drinks to one of the aluminium tables. The cafe was deserted inside but outside, the veranda, which gave onto the beach, was crowded.

A minute later Isabella joined them. She sat down opposite Horton and leaning forward said quietly, 'She came into the cafe today. She'd been on the beach and wanted a drink. She's a pretty girl and bright too, I'd say.'

Horton felt stifling hot. His hands were sweating. His heart was beating rapidly. 'I recognised her immediately from the photo in the paper that Barney gave me. So I got talking to her. It's easy when you're pouring someone a drink, or wiping down their table. She was with another girl, dark-haired, surly looking.' 'That's the one she was with at Oyster Quays,' Horton interjected, his voice strained with tension.

'I know where she lives. Well, I know the road and I know what the house looks like, so the rest is up to you, detective. It's a three-storey house in St Ronald's Road. There aren't that many because the road was bombed in the war and rebuilt afterwards. We had an aunty who lived there.' She flashed a look at Cantelli. 'Lucy's got a flat or bed-sit there.'

Horton said. 'I need to follow this up.'

'For God's sake be careful, Andy.'

With a promise that he would, he went in search of St Ronald's Road. It was a long road, with a big church on the corner. It curved in the middle and came out by a small park at the opposite end. It had taken him five minutes to walk there. This was, as Isabella had said, bed sit land. The houses were shabby, smelly and occupied by students, DSS claimants and asylum seekers.

It didn't take Horton long to find Lucy's flat. There were only five three-storey houses in the road. He came across Lucy's name on a piece of paper roughly jammed into a pigeonhole used for post in the grimy hall. Climbing the stairs in the dilapidated and dirty Edwardian house, with his heart pounding and his mouth dry, he found flat three and knocked on the door. There was no sound from inside. He knocked again. Still nothing. After a while he crossed to the flat opposite where he could hear music playing and knocked. A girl with greasy black hair and a nose stud eventually answered and eyed him with hostility.

'No need to break the bloody door down. What do you want?'

'Do you know where Lucy is?'

'Who wants her?'

'I do.'

'And who the fuck are you?'

'Do you know where she is?' he asked tersely

'No. But I'm free if you're not doing anything.' She leered at him and stood provocatively with her hands on her hips.

'No, thanks.'

'Please yourself.' She slammed the door on him.

Slowly he made his way down the stairs. He felt deflated but told himself that at least now he knew where to find her. It was only a matter of waiting until she showed up. He took up position on the corner of a small cul de sac almost opposite. Slowly the mist began to roll in. People returned to their homes, lights came on and the air became clammy and chilly. Various people went in and out of number fourteen but Lucy wasn't one of them.

He pulled up the collar of his jacket and dashed a glance at his watch. He hesitated wondering whether to break into her flat and wait for her there, but that would only give her cause to complain, and perhaps worse, make up some other cock and bull story about him molesting her. No, better to wait outside and catch her before she went in. He was hungry and thirsty but his throat was so tight and his stomach was tense that he doubted he would be able to get anything down. Still no sign of Lucy. Where the hell was she? Just his bloody luck that she'd choose to spend this night out on the town or with that friend of hers.

He waited until midnight feeling damp, cold, disappointed and irritated and then headed back to the yacht. Was nothing ever going to be easy for him? All he wanted was one tiny little break but it seemed he was going to be denied even that.

He lay on his berth, the hatch slightly open, listening to the foghorns determined that he wouldn't sleep but eventually fatigue overcame frustration and he drifted off.

He awoke suddenly. He lay perfectly still. Something had jolted him out of a dream filled sleep — a sudden movement or noise? He was wide-awake now filled with a sense of danger that was so strong it chilled the blood in his veins. Yes, he could hear footsteps.

He swung his legs over the bunk and strained his ears. The footsteps were directly outside his boat. Horton sensed rather than saw someone crouching. Then the sound of something being unscrewed. He felt the boat move, but not as though someone was climbing on board; someone was loosening his stern line. The footsteps came again, padding softly on the wooden pontoon. Now he was aft. Yes, the line was definitely being loosened. He had one line left now holding amidships.

With his chest heaving with adrenalin he slid off his bunk, crouching low. He could hear the sound of liquid being poured and then that smell. He couldn't mistake it. The bastard. He had but a second to get out before the match was struck and his boat would go up like a firework. There was only one way to do this and that was to startle the man before he could strike that match.

Mustering all his power and his voice he roared, ' Go!' leapt over the washboard and was on the black hooded figure, knocking the can from his hand on to the pontoon and the unstruck matches with it. The intruder recovered with surprising agility. He had swung round and was running up the pontoon. Horton set off after him, his bare feet striking against the wood. The figure picked up a set of wooden steps that led up to a large motorboat and threw them at him. Horton dodged, but lost his foothold and stumbled. It gave the intruder just enough time to punch the security release on the gate and leap up the jetty, where a car was revved up and waiting. Before Horton could reach it the car was squealing and screeching out of the marina. Eddie came charging out. 'What's happened?'

'Someone tried to break into my boat,' he panted.

'You all right?'

'Yes.' His heart was racing fast. God, it had been a close call. The bastard had nearly succeeded.

'Do you want me to call the police?'

'I am the police.'

'Yeah, sorry, I forgot.'

They would be back, of that he was sure.

'Someone after you?'

'You could say that.' Horton replied with feeling. Then seeing Eddie's worried expression added, 'It's OK. I'll move her for a while.'

'Whatever you say, Andy.'

Horton couldn't mistake his relief. He returned to his boat and sniffed the air. There was the distinct smell of petrol. But thankfully he had stopped the intruder before he could splash it around too much. But with the wood on the boat, not to mention the petrol already in the outboard engine, it would have gone sky high if a sixth sense, a premonition, call it what you will hadn't alerted him.