There was no sign of Billy Jago in the first pub, a run-down poky affair on the edge of the shopping precinct. Horton left without buying a drink and without asking if anyone had seen Jago because that would have been tantamount to announcing to the underworld of Portsmouth that Jago was an informer. Not that those in the pub knew he was a police officer, or hopefully they didn’t, but news of someone asking after the slight man with bad teeth, thinning black greasy hair and a crinkled face was enough to raise suspicion. Strictly speaking Billy Jago wasn’t a police informer, at least not a registered one. Bliss didn’t know about him and Horton had no intention of telling her or letting her discover the fact. By-the-book Bliss would never approve even if Jago revealed Langham’s killer, which Horton thought was unlikely but he could always live in hope.
He set off through the busy shopping precinct bedecked with Christmas lights and with Christmas music blaring out from every orifice. The Salvation Army were making a valiant attempt to compete with their traditional Christmas carols by the fountain. He put some money in their tin, earned himself a smile, thank you and God Bless from the cheerful sixty-year-old man and made for the next possible haunt of Jago. It was even more decrepit than the last pub with flaky plaster, scuffed paintwork, filthy windows and dirty blinds. It was also one of a dying breed. The clientele looked to be the same, he thought, surveying the gloomy interior which no amount of Christmas decorations could brighten. There wasn’t a man under seventy, and no female in sight unless you counted the brassy blonde of about sixty behind the bar. The decorations looked to be about the same age.
He remembered this place as a boy. Not that he’d ever been inside then, and he didn’t think his mother had been either, leastways he’d never waited for her outside like some of his fellow schoolmates had done with their parents. But he recalled seeing the dockyard workers coming in here and the smell of the beer in the hot summer when the doors were wide open. He’d been called here many times as a young uniformed copper over trouble between the then very tough regulars and the gays who had made it fashionable for a while. But those days had gone. The nearby polytechnic had become a university and had expanded phenomenally since then and the students demanded cheap booze, music and food and the chain pubs had taken over. The smoking ban had put the final nail in the coffin for pubs like this. They were dinosaurs soon to become extinct and clearly Jago wouldn’t be seen dead in one. Horton didn’t stop to buy a drink.
On his third attempt, in a more fashionable bar, close to the Guildhall and civic square, frequented by office workers and students, Horton struck lucky. Jago gave only a flicker of recognition as he pumped the one armed bandit machine in the corner by the gents.
Horton crossed to the bar and ordered a non-alcoholic beer which he drank making a show of looking at his watch as though he was only killing time before going on somewhere. He saw Jago leave and gave him five minutes before he drained his bottle and did the same. Zipping up his jacket he struck out towards the square under the railway bridge knowing that he’d find Jago at the war memorial on his right.
‘I can’t stop long, Mr Horton,’ Jago said, sniffing and pulling a cigarette packet from his shabby fleece jacket. His shifty eyes scanned the civic square in front of him. Horton followed his gaze. People, mainly office workers, were hurrying home or to the bars further along the road towards the university buildings. Horton made to turn when he caught sight of a familiar figure striding across the square. His breath caught in his throat. It was Carolyn. She seemed completely oblivious of the cold. Her short black winter coat was open to reveal a clinging, short woollen red dress, black tights, and medium heeled boots. She was hatless and looked radiant. He thought of the previous night spent with her and the evening and possibly night to come tomorrow and his heart hammered against his chest, fire coursed through his veins and he ached with longing and desire. He watched as she raised her hand and her dark features lit up. A broad smile crossed her beautiful face and for an instant Horton thought it was directed at him before reality rushed in. She wasn’t looking at him but ahead. He stiffened as he watched her embrace a man. It was no half-hearted kiss, but a long, lingering and passionate one, something she was very good at he thought with bitterness. He felt a furious flood of envy, which was swiftly consumed by anger, not because of her deceit, but because he’d been foolish enough to let his loins rule his head. He cursed his stupidity as he watched her tuck her hand under the man’s arm and snuggle up to him in exactly the same manner she’d done with him last night and she turned back towards the bars in Guildhall Walk.
He’d been an idiot to think the swiftness of their relationship had been the result of a mutual attraction. Even his instinct had been flashing bloody great blue lights at him that it might be some kind of trap but he’d ignored it. Christ, he should have learned by now, but, like an idiot teenager, he’d fallen for it. He’d been feeling lonely and dejected and he had been ripe for the plucking. He’d almost let his guard down. But the trauma of his upbringing had saved him from taking the final step and from making a complete fool of himself by betraying his emotions, and confiding his research findings.
He’d suspected there had been more to her desire to dine and sleep with him and he’d been correct. And that was what had so troubled him in the early hours of this morning. In his heart of hearts he knew it was a trap. And tomorrow night she was banking on getting what she wanted from him during and after that intimate dinner for two in her rented apartment. Was it possible it was bugged? Shit, he hoped not. Not that any recordings could be used in any way to threaten him but the experience of that false rape allegation made by Lucy Richardson – and all he’d done on that occasion had been to have a drink with her in a hotel reception – sent an icy chill through his veins.
By now she would have reported to Eames that he’d accepted the invitation and tomorrow night someone would be listening into their conversation. Why was Eames so keen to discover what he knew about Jennifer? What was it that was dynamite? Was Eames keen to know what Antony Dormand had said about Jennifer being involved or informing on the IRA?
‘Can we hurry this up, Mr Horton?’ Jago’s whining voice broke through Horton’s thoughts.
He pushed them aside but not before he had registered that the man Carolyn had been with was the same one he’d seen on their first encounter in The Reef and who he’d seen in the car park at Oyster Quays last night. In his early forties, slender, with slightly too long fair hair. On the first occasion he’d been talking to a group of students and last night heading for his car. One of Eames’ men? Possibly.
Curtly, he said, ‘Graham Langham.’
‘Yeah, what about him?’ Jago pulled on his cigarette.
‘He’s had an accident. A fatal one seeing as his hand has been separated from his body.’
‘Christ! Who would do that?’ Jago’s bloodshot eyes widened with surprise.
‘That’s what I’m asking you.’
‘It don’t sound like anyone I know.’
And Jago knew some very tough villains. He thought Jago was probably telling the truth. ‘Who did Langham associate with?’
‘No one. He was a loner, a one-man job. Unless you count the lads in The Crown but he didn’t do no jobs with them. He was in there last Sunday trying to flog some stuff.’
‘What stuff?’ asked Horton, keenly interested in this new lead.
‘A couple of kiddies bikes, a lawnmower.’
‘This time of year!’
‘Reduced price ready for the spring he said.’
‘Who bought them?’
‘No idea.’
But Horton could see that Jago knew very well who had purchased the stolen goods but wasn’t going to say. It certainly wasn’t the stuff that a big villain would have had nicked from his home, a theory that he’d discussed previously with Cantelli and Walters to explain DCS Adams’ claim.
‘Have you ever had word that Langham was a police informer?’
Jago looked so shocked that he almost swallowed his cigarette. Then his face creased up in thought. ‘Could be why he had his hand chopped off,’ he ventured hesitantly. ‘Hope whoever did it don’t know I help you out from time to time Mr Horton.’ Jago’s eyes darted nervously around him.
‘The kind of information you give me Billy is hardly enough to warrant mutilation.’
‘You never can tell what upsets folk. Some nasty bastards would cut your head off if you looks at them the wrong way.’
True. ‘Is Larry Egmont one of those?’
Jago thought for a moment before replying. ‘Maybe. If you get on the wrong side of him but Graham Langham wasn’t a gambler.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve never seen him in any betting shops. And he wasn’t the type to get into Egmont’s casino.’
‘He could have been betting online.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Have you ever been inside the casino?’
‘Nah. Egmont’s choosy about who he lets become a member.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought he’d worry just as long as he could take their money.’
‘They gotta have it in the first place.’
‘Point taken. Do you know a man called Clive Westerbrook?’
Jago shook his head.
‘Have you seen this man before?’
Horton showed Jago the photograph of Westerbrook he’d taken from his driving licence.
Again Jago shook his head. He removed his cigarette and pinched it out with his finger and thumb and stuck it back in the packet. Horton wasn’t sure if that was out of respect for where they were or because he wanted to save the last piece for later.
‘It’s bleeding freezing out here and I’ve got nothing more to tell you, Mr Horton.’
Horton eyed him steadily. It was probably the truth. He asked if he had heard of a man called Lesley Nugent but Jago said he hadn’t. Horton gave him twenty pounds and let him go. Horton made no attempt to follow, not in order to give Jago time to get away but because he was hesitating over whether to check out the bars along Guildhall Walk to see if Carolyn and her lover were in one of them. If he found her what would she do he wondered? Introduce him as a colleague? A friend?
He headed that way, scanning the road for any sign of them. There were only a few smokers outside the bars, shivering in the cold north-westerly wind. And no one lingering outside Larry Egmont’s casino. Horton stopped and eyed it. He recalled the statements that had been taken from George Warner and a member of staff, Irene Ebury, after Jennifer had failed to show for work. PC Stanley hadn’t bothered talking to anyone else at the Southsea casino or if he had, and had transcribed the statements, they had vanished from the case file. Warner had simply said that Jennifer had been a good worker, attractive and popular. Irene Ebury had suggested Jennifer had had a lover who had let her down because she’d been dejected for a while and then just before she vanished she had brightened up and had hinted that she was destined for a better life. According to Irene Ebury, Jennifer had kept singing the song made famous by Marilyn Monroe, ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’. In the course of a recent investigation, the one that had sparked Horton’s research, he’d discovered that Jennifer had known a diamond thief called Peter Croxton. Horton had assumed that Jennifer had been in love with him and planning to run off with him, except he’d learned from another villain and confederate of Croxton that she hadn’t. That villain and Croxton were both dead. But perhaps the diamonds weren’t part of that haul, or one allegedly stolen from the house in North Hampshire, perhaps they were a brooch given to Jennifer by a boyfriend.
Horton crossed the busy dual carriageway leaving the thought where it was, at the back of his mind, and eyed the bar ahead of him wondering if Carolyn and the man she’d embraced were inside it. It was a popular haunt with the students and Horton knew how Carolyn seemed to like them. As he reached it though, he hesitated and before he could make up his mind whether or not to enter it two men emerged, both of whom he recognized.
‘I didn’t know this was your kind of place, Tim,’ Horton greeted the Chief Crown Prosecutor affably. ‘Or yours, Ewan.’ Stringer smiled but he looked uneasy.
Shearer answered. ‘The demographic is a bit on the young side but on a Friday, after work, a few us from the courts head here to unwind. Not that I’d drink and drive,’ he added hastily.
‘Never thought you would.’
‘And I’m on foot,’ Stringer added. ‘Are you on duty, Inspector?’
‘No, just heading home.’ It was better than saying I was following a woman I fancied and made love to last night, who’s with another man.
Shearer asked if there was any further news on Alfie Wright.
‘Not that I’m aware of. He’s still missing. Have you heard anything from him?’ Horton addressed Stringer.
‘No.’
But Stringer looked increasingly ill at ease. There was something he was holding back. Horton had sensed it yesterday after he and Cantelli had spoken to him, now he knew it. He held Stringer’s troubled eyes. Would he confide what it was? Horton hoped so but Stringer pulled himself up and his gaze swivelled to Shearer. ‘I’ll see you on Sunday, Tim.’ He walked away in the direction of the civic centre a rather dejected figure thought Horton.
‘Ewan and I are going sailing,’ Shearer explained, looking after him with a worried frown.
‘You own a boat? Or is it Ewan’s?’
‘Mine. I’ve kept one here in Portsmouth for some time even when I was living in London. It’s at Horsea Marina, where I’m currently renting a house, so very convenient.’ He smiled but it quickly faded. ‘He feels he’s failed, Andy, not the police but Alfie Wright.’
‘I shouldn’t think Alfie’s conscience is troubling him for one second so Ewan’s shouldn’t.’
‘Probably not but I’m concerned that we’ve let a dangerous man walk away and if he reoffends and someone gets hurt or killed it’ll be on our conscience. And that’s what I’ve stressed to Ewan. Is it possible that Graham Langham’s death is connected with Alfie Wright?’
‘I don’t know. I’m not on either investigation. But personally I don’t think so. Ewan knows something about where Alfie’s gone, doesn’t he?’
Shearer nodded. ‘He wouldn’t tell me, but he is very worried that Alfie could be connected with Langham.’ Shearer shifted before adding, ‘I don’t like to betray a confidence but I don’t think I’d be doing my job if I didn’t tell you, although I have stressed to Ewan it’s important that he tells the police what he knows. He’s checked Alfie’s records and discovered that Alfie and Graham Langham shared the same offender manager, Dennis Popham, but as it was at completely different times I told Ewan I thought it unlikely their paths would have crossed that way. I urged him to talk to Uckfield but the superintendent is not the most approachable of police officers. If Ewan doesn’t speak to Uckfield I’ll see what I can get out of him on Sunday while we’re at sea, it’s a good place for exchanging confidences,’ he added with a wry smile and Horton wondered if that was what Westerbrook and Nugent had done. Maybe after they had Nugent had wanted to distance himself from Westerbrook, which was why he had been in such a hurry to get away from him and the boat. It could also explain why Nugent was so scared. Perhaps Westerbrook had confessed what he was involved in with Egmont or some other villain, or perhaps he’d tried to enrol Nugent in his scheme.
Shearer continued. ‘Ewan’s a very conscientious man, Andy. He takes his work seriously but he gets a pittance for what he does. He could be making four times as much, probably even more, with his Master’s degree in criminology.’
Horton’s mind flicked to Carolyn Grantham, that was the subject of her degree.
‘Ewan trained for the Bar but he chose to divert into forensic mental health in order to help others, so try not to be too tough on him and tell Detective Superintendent Uckfield that.’
‘I’ll try but it’ll probably have about as much effect as me telling that lot in there that alcohol is bad for them.’
Shearer smiled and took his farewells. Horton looked up at the bar and thought what the hell. He made to head back to the station to collect his Harley then changed his mind. He’d walk home. He needed some air to clear his head.
At the D-Day museum and Southsea Castle on the seafront he broke into a gentle jog, his mind running in the background like a computer programme, his troubled thoughts keeping pace with his pounding feet. He was probably reading far too much into what he had witnessed between Carolyn and that man. He should forget it. He should forget her, but he couldn’t, not until he knew why she was really here. And what about Jago’s snippet of information? Tomorrow he’d follow it up. It probably had no connection with Langham’s death but it might help clear a few robberies off the books, no harm in that, he told himself as he reached the boat, because petty theft was not the remit of DCS Adams. And having justified that to himself, Horton took a hot shower, made himself something to eat and went to bed trying desperately to put both Langham and Carolyn Grantham from his mind.