EIGHT

Norris dashed through the rain and slid his fat backside into the rear of Uckfield’s BMW, his trousers squeaking on the leather upholstery, his balding round florid face glistening from the rain and exertion. They were parked in a winding, tree-lined road of elegant Victorian terraced houses. The heavy rain and trees made it prematurely dark prompting lights to shine from several of the rooms, allowing a glimpse inside of subdued suburban life, but there was no light at Lisle’s house.

‘He’s clean, no previous,’ panted Norris. ‘He doesn’t seem to be in and his car isn’t here, although he could keep it in a garage somewhere. It’s a 1961 Morris Minor convertible, burgundy with a cream hood and cream leather interior. The man who saw Lisle – Grant Millbeck – lives in flat six, he was just off to work when he saw this man entering—’

‘With a key?’ Horton interjected.

‘Well he didn’t ring the front doorbell so he must have had one,’ Norris tossed caustically at Horton, before turning his attention back to Uckfield. ‘Then Millbeck saw the same man leaving and he was carrying a briefcase.’

‘Why did Millbeck hang around waiting for Lisle to come out?’ asked Horton suspiciously.

‘He didn’t. He’d forgotten his lunch box and went back to his apartment to collect it. He was just locking up when Lisle came down the stairs from apartment seven. Millbeck claims that Lisle didn’t seem or look nervous. He smiled and said “good morning”. Millbeck’s seen the Morris at the apartment block a couple of times, and admired it, and he remembered the registration number because it was unusual, MOG 61, so he wasn’t worried about Lisle being there.’

Horton addressed Uckfield, ‘Lisle could be the friend Yately gave his keys to. He probably removed the notes from the apartment with Yately’s prior permission. He doesn’t sound like our killer.’

‘You never can tell,’ Uckfield said optimistically, adding to Norris, ‘Call up the nearest patrol car.’

‘Just arriving, sir.’

Horton swivelled in his seat to see the police vehicle pulling in behind them. There were no blue lights or sirens but he fancied more curtains would be twitched in Grove Way.

Climbing out, Uckfield said, ‘We’ll start by being polite and knock.’

Horton obliged, rapping loudly on the front door and then pressing and keeping his finger on the bell to the right of it, but all was silent. He stooped down and peered through the letterbox. ‘No signs of life,’ he said straightening up. Addressing Norris he asked, ‘Is there a rear entrance?’

‘No.’

That made things easier. Uckfield stepped back and nodded at the uniformed officer with the ramrod. Looking at the rather flimsy front door Horton didn’t think it would take much to break it in and he was right. A couple of minutes later he was stepping inside the hall straining his ears for sound. Only the solemn ticking of a clock coming from the room to his left greeted him. Arthur Lisle clearly wasn’t here or if he was he was dead or unconscious, and there was no reason why he should be either of the latter. But it was the excuse Uckfield would give for entering the house without permission and without a search warrant.

Swiftly Horton took in the worn pale-blue carpet that looked as though it had once been of good quality, the wooden balustrade, picture rails and architrave ceiling, before turning to see that a small audience was gathering at the front of the house in the pouring rain. He instructed the uniformed officers to get what information they could on Lisle and his movements, while Uckfield crossed to a telephone on a walnut table under the stairs and with latex-covered fingers lifted the receiver. ‘No answer machine,’ he said, punching in the number to get the last call. ‘Number withheld.’ He nodded Norris upstairs. To Horton he said, ‘I’ll take the kitchen, you do the lounge.’

Horton stepped inside the room on his left. Everything looked in place. It was neat and tidy if a little outdated and worn. There was a television in the corner by the bay window and a hi-fi system opposite it, both several years old. On the mantelpiece was the clock, which Horton had heard on first entering the house, and alongside it several family photographs and a picture of Lisle beside the Morris Minor which Norris had described to them. It looked in good condition and wouldn’t be difficult to spot; classic cars like it were few and far between these days.

Horton studied the photographs. Arthur Lisle looked to be a happily married family man, lean and tall with brown hair turning to grey as the photographs showed him through the passage of the years. In every one he was smiling. In some he was accompanied by young children and a pretty, dark-haired woman. And he was also with the same woman dressed in walking clothes against the backdrop of some mountains, which, to Horton, looked like the Brecon Beacons in Wales. Other photographs were of two couples in their thirties accompanied by babies and toddlers. The Lisle family through the ages, he guessed. Not only did Arthur Lisle not sound like their killer, he didn’t look like one either, although Horton knew that was a very dangerous and foolish assumption for a police officer to make. Yately had seemed an ordinary man but had ended up being brutally murdered. Why?

He reconsidered the third theory he’d expressed to Uckfield, that the dress found on Yately could have belonged to a woman Yately had been involved with. Was that woman connected with Arthur Lisle, Horton wondered, studying the photograph of the dark-haired woman? Had Lisle entered Yately’s flat and taken those notes because they contained a reference to it? But if Lisle had killed Yately and taken the keys off him, why leave the photograph of Hannah Yately behind and why wait until now to visit Yately’s apartment when he could have done so any time since Thursday? And why chance being spotted and recognized? No, Lisle had to be a friend and his visit to Yately’s flat innocent.

He wondered where the Lisle family were now, especially Mrs Lisle. There was no evidence of her in this room, no female magazines, no sewing or knitting, but maybe Lisle liked it that way. Perhaps he was a tyrant, despite the photographs. Some of the vilest bullies Horton had known had looked and behaved to the outside world like pillars of virtue.

He stepped along the hall and into a middle room. He could hear Uckfield opening and closing doors and drawers in the kitchen and Norris’s heavy footsteps overhead. No one had shouted out to say they’d found either Mrs Lisle or her husband, so where were they? wondered Horton, surveying the old-fashioned dining room, which looked as though its current use was as an office. Would they return horrified and angry to find the police in their house?

Uckfield joined him. ‘There’s food in the cupboards and fridge so he wasn’t planning on leaving.’

Horton’s eyes ran over the mahogany table and chairs in the centre of the room, the sideboard opposite the fireplace, the books scattered on the table and on the bookshelves either side of the hearth, before coming back to the table. ‘Where’s the computer?’ He pointed to a cable and charger that led to an electric socket.

‘Perhaps he’s taken it to night classes or is with friends,’ suggested Uckfield.

Horton crossed the room and picked up one of the books. It was on local history and some of the others were on ships, including naval, merchant and passenger. Clearly Lisle and Yately shared the same interests. He glanced out of the narrow window to his right. It was still raining heavily.

‘There’s a shed at the bottom of the garden,’ he said as Norris entered.

‘No sign that Lisle was intending to leave. His passport’s here.’ Norris handed it to Uckfield. Horton looked over the Super’s shoulder. It was the same man as in the photographs on the mantelpiece. There were a few stamps in it to show that Lisle had travelled abroad but nothing for the last six years.

‘Any women’s clothing?’ asked Horton.

‘None, but there’s a photograph of a dark-haired woman beside his bed.’

Not divorced then, thought Horton, because if Lisle had been, that, along with some of the photographs on the mantelpiece, would have been consigned to the bin. Widowed? Possibly.

Peering into the garden Uckfield said, ‘Check the shed, Sergeant.’

Norris made no protest but Horton could tell by his expression he wasn’t best pleased at being sent out in the rain. Uckfield made to reach for his phone when a woman’s voice, raised in anger, reached them from the front of the house. Uckfield threw Horton a questioning glance as they stepped into the passageway.

‘What the devil is going on?’ she demanded, glaring at both of them in turn, her round face flushed, her dark eyes smouldering with fury. ‘What gives you the right to barge in here like this? Where’s my father?’

‘That’s what we’d like to know,’ muttered Uckfield, before stepping forward, flashing his warrant card and introducing himself and Horton. ‘And you are?’

‘Rachel Salter,’ she snapped.

Horton had already recognized her from the photographs on the mantelpiece.

‘What’s happened?’ she again demanded, but this time more warily. Then her face paled. ‘Dad’s had an accident.’

‘Shall we go inside, Mrs Salter.’ Uckfield stood solidly in front of her, stretching an arm towards the lounge so that she had no option but to enter it.

She went under protest and Horton could see she was torn between anger and fear.

‘I think you’d better sit down,’ Uckfield began, but that only made her stand more squarely in the middle of the room.

‘Tell me, what’s happened? He’s not—’

‘We believe your father can help us with our inquiry into the death of Colin Yately,’ Uckfield quickly interjected.

Horton could see that the name meant nothing to her. She stared at Uckfield with a mixture of bewilderment and subdued anger.

Uckfield continued. ‘Colin Yately’s body was found in the Solent yesterday morning and your father was seen entering his apartment this morning. Do you know if he and your father were acquainted?’

‘Obviously they must have been,’ she said tartly. ‘What’s this man’s death got to do with my father? Where is he?’ Her eyes scanned the room as though he might be hiding somewhere. It was an instinctive gesture, Horton knew.

He said, ‘When did you last see your father?’

She swivelled hot angry eyes on him, but the fury was there to mask her concern.

‘Last Tuesday, why?’

‘Have you spoken to him since?’

‘No.’

‘He didn’t call you to say he wouldn’t be in?’ It was a silly question but he had a reason for asking it

‘Of course not. If he had I wouldn’t be here, would I?’

She eyed him as though he was thick and with a slightly superior manner, but Horton thought it was the truth.

She added, ‘I come here every Tuesday before my evening class and have a cup of tea and a chat with Dad. My husband, Paul, takes our two girls to Brownies, then picks them up again and puts them to bed. Look, this is ridiculous; Dad’s probably just popped out somewhere.’

Uckfield said, ‘On the only day of the week you visit him? Surely he’d wait in for his daughter.’

‘Maybe he’s run out of tea bags,’ she snapped, eyeing Uckfield malevolently.

‘He hasn’t,’ answered Uckfield.

‘You’ve searched the house!’ she cried indignantly. ‘I hope you’ve got a warrant because you shouldn’t be in here without one.’

Smoothly Horton said, ‘We were concerned for your father and had to take the decision to enter.’

‘Concerned? Why should you be concerned?’ she said mystified.

Uckfield gave it to her bluntly. ‘Colin Yately’s death is suspicious. Your father could be in danger.’

She almost laughed. A smile played at the corners of a generous and petulant mouth, before her forehead creased in a worried frown. ‘My father’s a retired solicitor and a widower. He can’t possibly be in danger. And I’ve never heard him speak about this man, Yately.’

Evenly, Horton said, ‘How long has your father been widowed?’

‘Eighteen months, why?’

He’d been right about that then. But if Yately had been involved with Mrs Lisle then it was some time ago, making it more unlikely that Lisle had sought revenge, unless of course he’d only just discovered the affair. He asked her if she knew what her father’s hobbies were and got much the same reaction as when he’d asked the question of Hannah and Margaret Yately, a blank stare. Again he had to prompt. ‘What does your father do in his spare time?’

‘He does the Telegraph crossword, the housework, shopping, gardening, reads.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘He is retired,’ she emphasized as though Horton was an idiot.

He felt like saying that doesn’t mean he’s practically dead, or living such a dreary life he might just as well be. Instead he said, ‘That usually means time to take up new interests.’

She looked surprised, as though her father couldn’t possibly want anything more than to wait in every Tuesday evening for his daughter to condescend to have a cup of tea with him. It probably wasn’t really like that, but he felt as though it was. Lisle’s daughter was older than Hannah Yately, by about ten years, but her attitude towards her father was similar to Hannah’s.

‘Dad nursed Mum for three years,’ she said defensively. ‘Since she died he’s found it hard to adjust.’

Yeah, and I bet you haven’t asked him about that. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently, sensing Uckfield’s impatience beside him and willing him not to charge in. ‘What was your mother’s illness?’

‘MS,’ she replied tautly and with a finality that said the subject was not open to discussion. And that put any possible affair Yately might have had with Lisle’s wife even further back in time. It was looking more unlikely as a possible motive for Yately’s death with Lisle as the killer.

‘Was your father away over the weekend?’

‘Not that I know of,’ she answered, surprised.

So if Lisle had been given Yately’s keys then why had he waited until this morning to visit the flat and pick up the notes? But perhaps Lisle had been away and hadn’t bothered telling his daughter.

Norris slipped back into the room with a slight shake of his head. Nothing in the shed then. Horton thought of how Yately’s body had been found, in the sea, and said, ‘Does your father have a boat?’

She looked startled by the question. ‘Yes. But he hasn’t been out on it for ages.’

Uckfield looked as if he was about to say, ‘That’s what you think,’ when Horton quickly interjected. ‘What kind of boat?’

‘A Cornish Crabber.’

And Horton knew that was a small day sailing boat, and one that could easily have been used to dump Yately’s body. ‘Where does he keep it?’

‘Down in the bay by the slipway. It’s on a trailer . . .’ Then her dark eyes widened and Horton thought she’d made the leap between his question and Yately being found in the sea. He expected outrage but instead he saw genuine fear for the first time since she’d entered the house. ‘You don’t think Dad’s gone out on it? Not in this weather?’

Uckfield said, ‘We’ll check. What’s the boat called?’

‘Abigail. It was my mother’s name.’

Horton saw her eyes flick to the photographs on the mantelpiece, as Uckfield nodded at Norris, who then slipped out of the lounge. He’d despatch someone to check, but Victor Hazleton’s tales of a light at sea again flashed into Horton’s mind. Could Arthur Lisle have been out on his small sailing boat on Wednesday night killing Colin Yately? But even if he had been he hadn’t dumped the body in the Solent then. For now he pushed the thought to one side and said, ‘Your father owns a computer; do you know what kind?’

‘Isn’t it in the dining room?’ she answered distractedly. ‘It’s a laptop; Dad must have taken it with him.’ She crossed to the fireplace and seemed to be studying the photographs before she spun round and with a defiant stare, exclaimed, ‘This is silly. There must be a perfectly logical explanation for all this.’

And maybe there was, thought Horton. ‘Would your father have sent you an email perhaps to say he’d gone away for a few days?’ he asked.

‘He didn’t.’

Uckfield this time. ‘Does he have a mobile phone?’

‘Yes. Oh, I haven’t called him.’ Alarmed, she reached for her mobile but Uckfield forestalled her.

‘Could you give us his number? We’ll try.’

She looked as though she was about to refuse then stiffly relayed it. Uckfield stepped outside to call it.

Looking anxious, she addressed Horton, ‘Dad doesn’t text. He says he can’t be bothered and he hardly ever uses his mobile. Paul, my husband, insisted on him having one just in case he broke down in that old car of his. Perhaps that’s what’s happened,’ she added hopefully, eyeing Horton as though willing him to say it must be so.

It was possible but he wasn’t going to commit himself. He wondered if Norris had put out a call for it. The sergeant hadn’t mentioned it but that didn’t mean to say he hadn’t.

‘What does your husband do for a living?’ he asked, partly to distract her and partly because he was curious.

‘He’s a builder.’ She glanced impatiently towards the door awaiting Uckfield’s return.

‘Have you any idea what your father uses the computer for?’

She looked bewildered. Clearly Arthur Lisle’s life was as much a mystery to Rachel Salter as Colin Yately’s was to Hannah. Perhaps the son-in-law, Paul, knew more about his father-in-law’s life and interests, thought Horton.

Uckfield returned looking glum. ‘There’s no answer, Mrs Salter. We’ll keep trying. Perhaps you’d call your husband and ask if he’s heard from your father.’

Glad to be doing something she quickly rang him. Horton listened to her side of the conversation, which was terse. The answer was obviously no, but before she could ring off, Horton interjected, ‘Ask him when he last spoke to your father either by telephone or face to face.’

She obliged. Then she said, ‘I’ll call you back later. No, I can’t explain now.’ And she rang off.

‘Paul hasn’t spoken to Dad for about two weeks, but last week he saw him walking into Ventnor and waved and called “hello” from the van. He could have had an accident in that old wreck of a car. He might be in the hospital or lying injured somewhere.’

‘We’ll check the hospital,’ Horton answered. There was only one on the Island so that wouldn’t take long, but perhaps Arthur Lisle wasn’t lying injured; he could be visiting someone and have simply forgotten all about his daughter’s usual visit. He could have got his days muddled up.

‘Is your father in good health?’

‘Yes, excellent, why?’ she asked antagonistically. Then quickly following his drift, added, ‘You think he might be confused, well I can tell you Dad’s mind is as sharp as a razor, and he wasn’t depressed either.’

Horton didn’t pursue it. He didn’t think Lisle had committed suicide; why should he? Unless, he’d killed Colin Yately. He said, ‘Does your father keep his car in a garage?’

‘Yes. He rents one. It’s the middle one in a block of three along the road just before the footpath that leads down to the bay.’

She made no further comment, obviously assuming her father had gone out in his car. Horton interpreted Uckfield’s look to keep silent.

‘If he gets in touch, please let us know immediately.’ Uckfield handed her his card. ‘Or call the local police. We’ll make sure the front door is secured and then repaired, and we’ll put an officer outside the house and call you the moment we have any news. Meanwhile, if you, or your husband, remember anything about where he might have gone, please let us know.’

She protested that they were making an unnecessary fuss. Horton toyed with the idea that she might be right but he said nothing and neither did Uckfield. At the door Horton asked if her father liked hiking.

‘He used to with Mum, but he hasn’t been for years.’

Horton had the feeling she wouldn’t have known if he had taken it up again and perhaps with Colin Yately. He took down her address which, after she’d left, Norris confirmed was only a few streets away. Horton thought it a little unusual that although she lived close by she seemed to visit her father rarely and know so little about him. But perhaps Arthur Lisle liked it that way. Perhaps it was all Rachel Salter could do to bring herself to visit him once a week because she disliked her father or was afraid of him. Horton hadn’t got that impression but then Rachel Salter could be putting on a good front. They hadn’t asked her about Lisle’s personality, because there was no need to at this stage, and they hadn’t asked her about the dress found on Yately’s body.

They watched her climb into a new Land Rover and drive away. He was glad she hadn’t insisted on accompanying them to the garage.

Raising his collar against the rain, Uckfield said, ‘Lisle’s mobile’s completely dead. It didn’t ring as I told the daughter, she’ll discover that soon enough, which means he’s ditched it.’

‘Or it’s been damaged in an accident,’ suggested Horton.

Norris was hurrying towards them. ‘The boat’s still in the bay. Do you want it taken away for forensic examination?’

Uckfield said, ‘Put a tarpaulin over it for now.’

Norris nodded and added, ‘The old lady opposite says Lisle has been at a loss since his wife died eighteen months ago, but that he seemed a lot brighter of late. She saw him leave the house this morning at about nine fifteen. She hasn’t seen him return but then she has been out. An officer showed her Yately’s photograph but she claims she hasn’t seen him. She says that she doesn’t think Lisle has had any visitors since his wife died, except his daughter who comes every Tuesday evening. There’s a son who lives in Singapore.’

And Lisle hadn’t left for Singapore because he would have needed his passport. Horton wondered why the Salters didn’t bring their children to visit of a weekend or in the holidays. And why Rachel hadn’t mentioned her brother. Perhaps they simply weren’t a close-knit family.

To Uckfield, Horton said, ‘There’s no evidence to suggest Lisle has anything to do with Yately’s death. His phone could be broken and he could have forgotten his daughter comes on Tuesday, or perhaps he emailed her and she simply hasn’t read her messages.’

‘Well I’m not taking any chances. He’s slipped through our fingers once, he’s not going to do so again.’

Horton took Uckfield’s barbed comment in silence.

Uckfield addressed Norris. ‘We need Lisle’s movements from last Wednesday evening through to this morning. Check specifically if anyone saw him over the weekend. I’d like to know why he didn’t collect Yately’s notes before today.’ Norris made to leave when Uckfield forestalled him. ‘Before you do, let’s take a look in this garage. Bring the bolt cutters.’

The garage was a short distance down the road. As they headed for it Horton silently speculated on what they might discover. He saw no reason to suggest that Lisle could have taken his own life, unless he had killed Colin Yately and, filled with remorse, he’d decided he couldn’t live with the guilt. If that were so then would Lisle be slumped in his car with a hose pipe running from the exhaust, clutching his laptop computer?

The padlock was secure and there was no sign or smell of exhaust fumes. So it was unlikely they would find Lisle inside, but Horton’s heart quickened a little as the padlock snapped and he lifted the handle and pulled up the garage door. There was no car, and no sign of Lisle, just some old tools, ladders, a bicycle and nothing more.

Addressing Norris, Uckfield said, ‘Check the hospital in case Lisle’s had an accident. Seal off the house and keep a patrol car here tonight, Sergeant. If Lisle doesn’t show up we’ll put out an all-ports alert for him tomorrow morning. Circulate details of his car. Also check with the ferry companies that he hasn’t left the Island. And you’d better check if he caught any of the ferries over the weekend. Call me the moment you get anything. If he hasn’t shown by tomorrow morning, widen the area asking for any sightings of him and we’ll get a team into Yately’s neighbourhood, though God knows where I’m going to get the officers from,’ Uckfield added under his breath, before moving off and turning to Horton. ‘Sergeant Trueman will get a search warrant for the house and I’ll send DI Dennings over with DC Marsden to supervise it and handle things this end. Meanwhile, Trueman continues digging on Yately’s background and I’ll see if Wonder Boy will condescend to give me more officers.’

On the ferry Horton called Taylor for an update while Uckfield went up on deck to make his calls. Taylor reported that nothing surprising had been discovered in Yately’s flat: no blood, no bits of skin or bone. And his findings confirmed that Yately hadn’t been killed there. Horton hoped the analysis of Yately’s skin taken from the body by Dr Clayton might reveal something about where he had been killed, though he wasn’t overly optimistic.

Uckfield threw himself in the seat opposite Horton. He didn’t need to be a mind reader to know the results of the Super’s call. He could see by Uckfield’s dark countenance that his plea for more staff had again fallen on deaf ears.

‘I work with what I’ve got, which doesn’t include you and CID,’ Uckfield growled. ‘Dean says you’re needed to make sure Russell Glenn’s visit here on his superyacht goes without a hitch. Who the bloody hell is he?’

‘A billionaire.’

‘Oh, well that’s all right then, knocks poor old postie Colin Yately into a cocked hat,’ Uckfield replied with bitter sarcasm.

Horton agreed with the big man’s sentiments. Protecting property and the wealthy always got top priority, and when they were combined there was no contest.

Gruffly, Uckfield added that Trueman had confirmed that the man they’d seen visiting Margaret Yately was Phillip Gunville. No form.

‘What’s his occupation?’ asked Horton.

‘No idea. Does it matter?’

‘Probably not.’

Horton stayed long enough at the station to check the messages on his desk for any that were urgent. None were, although others might disagree. He didn’t bother to check his emails to see what Bliss might have sent him. Collecting his jacket and helmet he headed for Oyster Quays for something to eat, telling himself that he could have gone somewhere else for food or back to his boat, knowing he was half hoping to bump into or see Avril Glenn on the deck of her floating palace.

He parked in a side street near the Isle of Wight ferry terminal and walked through to Oyster Quays, heading in the direction of an Indian restaurant he knew well, while turning over in his mind the facts of Colin Yately’s death, including the manner and timing of it, the dress he’d been wearing, and the significance of Lisle’s visit to Yately’s flat and his subsequent vanishing act. The rain had stopped, leaving behind a still, chilly evening. Would Lisle show up bewildered about the fuss over his dead friend or was he their brutal killer? Horton wondered, pausing to glance at the superyacht. It showed no signs of life. His eyes travelled beyond it across the water to the lights of Gosport before walking on towards the restaurant. Perhaps Neanderthal man would have a breakthrough tomorrow and claim a result. Horton didn’t much care for Dennings crowing over him, but if it meant a callous killer was caught then he’d live with it.

He made to push open the door of the restaurant when he caught sight of a couple in the far right-hand corner. Quickly he stepped back into the shadows where he could study them without being seen. Their heads were bent low across the table but Horton recognized them instantly. There was no reason why Mike Danby shouldn’t be enjoying an Indian meal but it was who he was with that surprised Horton. He wondered if the raven-haired Chinese detective, DCI Harriet Lee of the Intelligence Directorate, was there of her own accord, and simply enjoying a meal with a friend or lover, or was she on duty? If the latter, did it mean that the Intelligence Directorate suspected something was going to go down on Glenn’s superyacht, such as an armed robbery, hence Dean’s reluctance to give Uckfield more staff? God, he hoped not. And if Sawyer believed that then why hadn’t CID and the Major Crime Team been informed? Dean had said nothing about that to Uckfield.

Horton turned away, mulling this over. There was another possibility, one that fitted more neatly in with the need for the Intelligence Directorate to keep their cards close to their chests, and that was Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer was interested in Russell Glenn. If so, it had to mean that Glenn was mixed up in something illegal with international implications. But if he was then why risk coming here? Had it been just to please Avril?

Glenn travelled the world and probably had some shady business dealings behind him, but that didn’t mean he was a criminal. But perhaps Glenn himself was the target for an international criminal. Or perhaps Glenn was Zeus.

Horton drew up sharply, causing the person behind him to almost collide with him, earning a ‘Watch where you’re going mate!’

Was it possible? No, Horton scolded himself, walking on. He was becoming obsessed with the bloody man! Zeus wasn’t the only master criminal in the world. But as he entered the pizza restaurant, he couldn’t help recalling that expression he’d witnessed on Glenn’s face. Why had Glenn studied him so intently, and why had he looked so uneasy? Glenn might not be Zeus but he was certain that Glenn had recognized him. And from where, when and why, Horton intended to discover on Friday night.