Two

Horton joked with a familiarity that would have earned him a reprimand with any other senior officer, but every now and then Horton liked to remind Uckfield that they had once been close friends. He noted Uckfield's dinner jacket and bow tie underneath the camel coat. The superintendent must have been on his way to a function when he got Bliss's call.

With a flicker of annoyance Uckfield said crisply, 'What do we know about the dead man?'

Horton smiled a greeting at Dr Clayton who returned the gesture briefly before resuming her examination of the corpse. There was no sign of Dennings, and he wasn't a man to miss. His fifteen-stone muscular frame would have stood out like the Incredible Hulk.

After Horton had finished his briefing, Uckfield said, 'Great, so we think he might be this man Tom Brundall, but equally he could be any other Tom, Dick or Harry.'

'That's about the size of it so far,' Horton said, as Cantelli arrived.

'This place is like the Mary Celeste. I can't find a single soul on a blessed boat. Somerfield's had no joy either.'

Horton hadn't really expected anything different at this time of the year. He turned to Uckfield, and, half joking, said, 'I don't suppose you've been on your boat and seen the victim?'

Uckfield snapped, 'Of course I bloody haven't,' and swiftly turned to Dr Clayton. 'Well?'

'He's not a very pretty sight.'

Gaye glanced up. For a moment Horton thought she was referring to the superintendent.

'I can see that for myself,' Uckfield retorted. 'Was he murdered?'

'Interesting though.' She stood up, holding Uckfield's glare with composure, obviously refusing to be hurried or bullied into answering. Did Uckfield know he was addressing the daughter of one of the most eminent Home Office pathologists the country had ever seen, Samuel Ryedon? Horton doubted it or Uckfield's manner would have been sickeningly ingratiating instead of hostile.

'Could it have been an accident?' Uckfield pressed.

'Not judging by the pattern of the wound and the extent of the injury to the cranium. He was struck with a heavy object, something like a hammer.'

Horton peered once again at the body. It wasn't quite as bad the second time, though it was awful enough. But now the analytical side of his nature reasserted itself. Why had this man met with such a terrible end? Was it a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Somehow Horton doubted that. It was planned, he was sure. So what kind of person could have done this and why? He knew that people were driven to murder for all sorts of reasons: greed, jealousy, revenge, hatred, love, to name but a few. But to knock a man out and then set fire to him smacked of someone cold and calculating enough to cover his tracks by wanting to destroy the evidence. Either that or someone evil enough to take pleasure in watching another human being suffer for the sheer fun of it. Maybe their killer was a bit of both. The thought sent a cold shudder through him, making him feel both sad and sickened.

Dr Clayton pulled the blanket over the corpse. 'I'll do the post-mortem as soon as I get him to the mortuary.' Turning to Horton, she added, 'I'll let you know the moment I have anything. I wouldn't want to spoil the superintendent's evening.'

Ignoring her, Uckfield addressed Horton. 'You'd better get the divers in. Not that I expect them to find anything in the marina. Our killer wouldn't be that stupid.'

'You're taking command of the case?'

'It looks like murder to me, Inspector. And that counts as a major crime in my book,' Uckfield replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Horton tensed at Uckfield's sneering tone, but said casually, 'In that case we'll leave it to you and DI Dennings.' He turned and walked away.

'Not so hasty. You got a date?' Uckfield called out angrily.

No, but you have, thought Horton. Now he'd see just how important a date it was. Come on, you bastard, ask me. Either that or get your blue-eyed boy in.

Horton halted and slowly turned, managing to stifle the smile of satisfaction both at being summoned and the use of his Christian name. He heard Uckfield snarl at Cantelli. 'Haven't you got anything better to do, Sergeant, than hang around on the pontoon chewing like a bloody cow?'

Cantelli raised his eyebrows and turned to engage Dr Clayton in conversation.

Drawing level, Uckfield said in a low voice, 'Can't you follow this through, Andy? I'll clear it with DCI Bliss. Dennings is off sick with this flu bug and I've promised Alison I'd go to this bloody dinner and dance. It's in aid of one of her charities and she's put a lot of effort into organizing it.'

Yes, and I expect her father, the chief constable, will also be there, Horton thought cynically, which was the real reason Uckfield needed to go. It was sucking-up time to the in-laws. And Horton, knowing Uckfield of old, was aware Alison could go to Outer Mongolia on her own if precious daddy wasn't anywhere on the horizon.

Uckfield continued. 'Not much will happen on this case tonight anyway, and I know I can leave a good officer like you to kick start it.'

Horton had to bite his tongue. He felt like saying 'If I'm that bloody good why didn't you appoint me your DI instead of that idiot Dennings?'

'Sergeant Cantelli and I should have been off duty about two hours ago,' Horton said, holding Uckfield's stare. He wanted the man to plead yet he knew that Uckfield wouldn't. Horton had to be content with the small victory he had scored in getting the superintendent to ask for a favour in the first instance. He saw that he had made his point and before Uckfield could answer, added, 'I'll call you as soon as Dr Clayton has completed the post-mortem, Steve.' A favour didn't warrant the use of rank, not in Horton's eyes at least.

Horton knew Uckfield couldn't say thank you. It wasn't in his vocabulary.

Uckfield glanced at his watch. 'I'll call Sergeant Trueman on my way to the dinner and ask him to start getting the major incident suite ready. Hate these bloody things, but duty calls.'

If Uckfield had any sense of duty, Horton thought, he'd cry off. He'd always known that Uckfield was ambitious but what he hadn't realized until recently was just how ambitious.

'Was he born grumpy or has he simply perfected the art over the years?' Gaye Clayton said, nodding in the direction of Uckfield's disappearing figure.

'Must be the heavy responsibility of the job,' Horton said, recalling a very different Uckfield of their youth.

'And someone should tell him to lose some weight,' she added, picking up her case and heading down the pontoon after the superintendent. 'Not good for the heart,' she tossed over her shoulder.

'Not sure he's got one,' Horton heard Cantelli mutter. 'Sorry about volunteering you to work on.'

'It's OK. I'll call Charlotte.'

The undertakers arrived the same time as the SOCO team. Horton addressed their head, a thin, stooping man.

'I know you'll dust the pontoon gate for fingerprints, Phil, but there's been so many of us in and out of it that it's probably useless.' He turned to the fire investigation officer who had been keeping a discreet distance from them. 'We'll need your prints and those of the firefighters.'

Maidment nodded. 'I'll organize it and I'll let you have my full report tomorrow.'

Cantelli came off the phone and they made their way back to the car. Somerfield let them through the crime-scene tape without a smile.

Seaton had probably warned her that he was in a bad mood. As the last of the fire engines trundled away, Horton saw a black Mercedes sweep into the car park. Judging by the personalized number plate he reckoned it was the marina director.

Turning to Seaton, Horton said, 'Tell him we're not yet in a position to confirm who the victim is. He's to go nowhere near the scene and if he kicks up a fuss tell him to speak to Superintendent Uckfield in the morning.' That will serve him right for ducking out. 'Are you on duty all night?'

'Until six, sir.' 'Then stay here with Somerfield and make sure the scene is secure. Sergeant Cantelli will organize a relief in the morning. If you or Somerfield need to take a leak then take it in turns, the same goes for eating and drinking, but no sleeping. I'll get Sergeant Elkins of the marine unit to get the boat towed away for forensic examination as soon as Taylor says it can be moved.'

Seaton nodded, his expression serious, but Horton could tell he was pleased at being given the responsibility.

'He's not a bad lad,' Cantelli said, stretching the seat belt around him.

No, and he was a good policeman thought Horton, tilting the rear-view mirror to watch Seaton approach the casually dressed, worried-looking man climbing out of the black Mercedes. Horton wouldn't mind having Seaton in CID when the powers that be decided to allocate him extra resources, which he hoped was soon. Having lost DC Marsden to Uckfield's Major Crime Team, he was seriously undermanned.

At the station Cantelli went off to organize various tasks including carrying out Uckfield's instructions to call in the divers whilst Horton headed for the CID office where he found DC Walters pummelling a computer keyboard.

'I should have been off duty ages ago,' Walters grumbled. 'I've got a date.'

'If she loves you she'll wait for you. Has Guernsey come back with any information on Tom Brundall?'

Damn. Maybe he could hurry them up with a call to John Guilbert. 'And the muggers?'

Walters looked up from his report. 'Late teens, early twenties, one Caucasian, one black. They were wearing those stupid hoodies. They came at the Yank suddenly from either side of him, pushed against him, roughed him up to get his wallet, which the stupid bugger kept in a kind of handbag over his shoulder, so it didn't take much, grabbed what they could and ran off. PC Jones says a witness saw them run into Curzon Howe Road but no one claims to have seen hide or hair of them.'

Which figured in that neighbourhood, thought Horton. 'Have you viewed the CCTV tapes? Queens Street, wasn't it?'

Walters looked surprised. 'The operation control officers said there was nothing on them.'

Horton sighed wearily. 'First rule of being a good detective, Walters, is never to believe anything anyone tells you. Second rule is to check it out yourself. Now, finish typing up your report, leaving out the reference to the stupid bugger, and the Yank, and get off home before you get roped into this murder investigation and miss your night of bliss.'

With surprising speed, Walters applied himself once again to the keyboard. The way he was punishing it they'd need a new one by the morning.

Horton's telephone was ringing and, reaching across his desk, he picked it up, hoping it was the Guernsey Police. Instead it was DCI Bliss summoning him to her office. He'd noticed with dismay that her car was in the car park when Cantelli had driven in. She kept longer hours than him and that was saying something. Maybe she didn't have much of a home to go to either.

He entered to her abrupt 'come' and found her glaring at him from behind her immaculately tidy desk like an angry parent whose teenage child had stayed out too long. Where on earth did she keep all her files and paperwork, Horton wondered. In front of her there was only a single piece of paper and a rather smart-looking silver pen beside it.

She didn't ask him to sit. 'Well?'

Sod it, he sat. He could see that it irritated her. Staring at her narrow pointed face and restless eyes, Horton swiftly brought her up to date with the mugging (his version not Walters') and then with events at the marina, finishing by telling her that he and Sergeant Cantelli had volunteered for extra duty. He could tell by her scowling expression that she wasn't very pleased about that and that obviously Uckfield hadn't called her and cleared it with her as promised.

'The superintendent will pick up the overtime bill, ma'am,' he said, thinking that might cheer her up, but her frown deepened.

'I will not have over-tired officers on my team. It leads to mistakes and sloppiness and I won't tolerate that.'

Where were the thanks for being dedicated to the job these days? Gone the way of Dixon of Dock Green it seemed, as far as Bliss was concerned. Horton had spent years juggling a caseload heavy enough to take the foundations of the Empire State Building without buckling under the strain, and he had an excellent clear-up rate. He didn't think staying on a few hours extra was going to make him fall asleep on the job tomorrow, and neither would it affect Cantelli.

He saw in her expression a determination to succeed that bordered on fanaticism. He'd seen that look before and not so long ago. It had been his own, reflected in the mirror, until Operation Extra had temporarily isolated him from the force and shown him that even when you thought you were on the inside, you weren't. It had been a hard lesson to learn, and the consequences of it were still reverberating around both his personal and professional life. But he liked to think he was beginning to come to terms with it.

Bliss continued. 'And I won't have this mugging treated lightly. It's a very serious incident, Inspector. This attack is hardly good for the city and tourism.'

Curbing his annoyance, he said, 'I'll get the community officers asking around the district and DC Walters is personally handling it.'

'Keep me informed. I'll talk to Superintendent Uckfield in the morning.'

And good luck to you, thought Horton, leaving her to scowl at the piece of paper on her desk; perhaps she was trying to intimidate it into disappearing?

'It is murder, isn't it?' Trueman said when Horton reached the incident suite. 'Because I'd hate to think I've stayed behind for the sheer bloody fun of it. I've got the number of that taxi firm by the way. They're based in Eastleigh.'

Horton's ears pricked up at that because Eastleigh was not far from Southampton airport and there were regular flights to and from Guernsey. Was the man in the suit who'd visited Brundall from the Channel Islands? It was a guess but Horton wouldn't mind betting that he was right.

He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly ten o'clock. He reckoned Walters' girlfriend would have given him up for the night by now, unless she was truly smitten and that was hard to imagine when it came to the overweight, irritating and slovenly DC. Still, there was no accounting for taste, which made him think of his estranged wife's lover.

He reached for a telephone dialled the taxi company's number. He let it ring for some time, drumming his fingers on the desk, before he was finally forced to accept that this particular taxi firm didn't work all night, or even late at night, leastways not from the number Trueman had given him. Still, there was little he could do now but first thing tomorrow morning he'd head out there. Then he remembered that he wouldn't be on the investigation.

Cantelli threw himself down into the seat opposite Horton. 'Guernsey has called to confirm that a Tom Brundall is a resident there and that he owns a boat called Enterprise. He kept it in St Peter Port Marina.'

So Brundall existed, and owned the boat that had gone up in flames. It was a step forward, but it didn't necessarily mean that Brundall was their burnt offering.

'There's no previous on him,' Cantelli continued, 'but Guernsey is checking out what he did for a living. The marina manager says Brundall left St Peter Port on Monday morning but didn't tell them when he would be back. There's no answer at his home and the Guernsey police can't locate any relatives. Apparently Brundall lived in a ruddy great mansion near a place called Petit Bot Bay. Did I pronounce that right?'

'Near enough. It's on the south coast of Guernsey.' Horton recalled it well. He'd moored not far from there in nearby Portelet a couple of times, with Catherine and Emma, on Catherine's father's yacht in the days that now seemed just a distant memory.

'What about a photograph?' Horton asked.

It wouldn't help with any identification but it could be used for the all-ports alert. Though he no longer thought that was necessary, as everything was pointing to the fact that their body was Tom Brundall.

'They haven't found any inside his house.'

Unusual but not necessarily suspicious. Irritating nevertheless. More delays. It couldn't be helped, but Horton felt uneasy, as though there was an underlying urgency to this case. He pushed away the edge of his premonition as it threatened once again to rear its ugly head.

'You'd better shoot off home, Barney. There's not much point in us both hanging around. I doubt we'll get more tonight. I'll wait for Dr Clayton's initial report. Sorry you've had to work late.'

'Don't be. It saved me from late night Christmas shopping with Charlotte,' Cantelli replied, pulling a face.

That reminded Horton he needed to make some time to go shopping himself, though he had no idea what Emma wanted for Christmas. He would have to ask Charlotte; with four daughters he was sure Cantelli's wife would be able to help.

Horton loitered about the incident room occasionally glancing at the clock. He wrote the information that Cantelli had given him on to the crime board. He didn't need to stay because Dr Clayton could call him on his mobile, if she couldn't reach him at the station, but unlike Cantelli, Horton didn't have anything to go home too, and it was warmer in the police station than on his boat.

How could he take his eight-year-old daughter to a tiny, freezing-cold boat? Simple answer – he couldn't. But where could he take her? The pantomime? The zoo? The shops? He didn't fancy any of them but it was Emma's treat. And that was another thing that bugged him, he thought, gazing out of the window at the foggy night: he didn't want to be the kind of father who only gave his child treats like some benevolent uncle. He wanted to be a proper father. He'd missed out on having one himself and he was damn sure that Emma wasn't going to. He wanted to make a home for her; somewhere she could stay, and bring her friends, which ruled out his boat.

He fetched a coffee from the machine in the corner of the room and turned his mind back to the case. What had the man in the dark suit to do with the victim? Why had he visited the victim? Who was he? Why had Brundall come to Portsmouth? All questions and no answers, not yet, but he'd get them. No, correction, DI Dennings would.

'Inspector, call for you. Dr Clayton.'

'He was alive when the fire broke out,' Gaye said peremptorily. 'I found carbon monoxide in his blood and fine particles of soot in his lungs. It's my belief he was struck forcibly. His skull is fractured and there is inflammation near the injury and blistering which contains proteins.'

Horton's heart quickened. 'We're definitely looking at murder then.'

'Yes. And I can confirm by the size and shape of the wound that he was hit with something smallish and round, as I said before, possibly a hammer.'

And Horton doubted they'd find that.

Gaye continued, her voice solemn. Horton heard the weariness in it. 'There is something else. He had cancer. He was riddled with it; it was in his spine and in the tissue I found in his skull. He hadn't got long to live.'

Then why come all the way across the Channel to Portsmouth? Was it a journey of nostalgia? Had he come to see someone for the last time? Did he have some unfinished business to attend to? Or had he just wanted to get away? Perhaps he had hoped to die at sea, but then that still didn't answer why he ended up in Horsea Marina.

'Could a woman have struck him?'

'With his being weakened by his illness it wouldn't have needed a lot of strength. Yes, a woman could have done it especially if he was crouching down or bending over when he was struck.'

'Any joy with his fingerprints?' Horton asked hopefully.

'Not enough skin left on the fingers, so you'll have to wait for DNA. I'll let you have the full report tomorrow. I'm off to bed now. I'm bushed.'

Horton didn't know how she could sleep after dissecting that corpse, but then that was her job. She had obviously perfected a technique of mentally switching off, much as he'd had to learn over the last eighteen years in the police force. Only he knew it didn't always work – he doubted it would tonight.

He could call Uckfield to tell him about the post-mortem but then decided it would be better to discuss this with him face to face. The duty sergeant gave him the location of the superintendent's charity function and half an hour later Horton was turning into the crowded car park of the Marriott Hotel on the edge of the city.

He consulted the function board in reception and saw that Uckfield's dinner and dance was located in the main banqueting suite. He had hardly gone a few paces though when he spotted Uckfield sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with a broad-set balding man in his late forties whom Horton instantly recognized as Edward Shawford, his estranged wife's boyfriend.

Horton stiffened. If Shawford was here then Catherine must be too. Alison Uckfield and Catherine were close friends, and Horton guessed they'd come as a foursome. If it hadn't been for Operation Extra and those accusations of rape he would have been in this party instead of bloody Edward Shawford. But that was all in the past. And Jesus did it still hurt! And there was him thinking he was moving on!

So who was looking after Emma, he wondered, making his way towards the bar? His in-laws? He felt a stab of envy swiftly followed by anger that others were allowed to take care of his daughter and not her father.

Uckfield looked up and caught Horton's eye. He started with surprise, then frowned and hauled himself off the bar stool. Horton watched as Shawford followed Uckfield's gaze. He caught the look of fear in the man's eyes and drew immense satisfaction from it. He should be afraid, Horton thought, recalling how he'd once come close to beating him to a pulp.

'We've had the results of the PM,' Horton said tersely. He was damned if he was going to address Uckfield by his rank, especially in front of Shawford.

'I'd better be going,' Shawford mumbled and scuttled away like a startled crab.

Horton despised him even more than he thought he possibly could.

Uckfield drew Horton away from the bar and the proximity of the banqueting suite.

'Don't I even get offered a drink, Steve?' Horton couldn't resist saying. He'd been off alcohol for three months but a soft drink might have been welcomed.

'You could have telephoned me,' hissed Uckfield with a glance at the banqueting suite doors, which at that moment opened and let escape a blast of music.

Horton could see Uckfield was a little tight. He relayed the information that Dr Clayton had given him and brought Uckfield up to date with Guernsey's findings, finishing with Trueman's news that he'd located the taxi company that had taken the visitor to Brundall. 'DI Dennings can talk to them in the morning.'

Uckfield said, 'I'd like you to stick with it, Andy, for tomorrow at least.'

The function room doors burst open again and this time Horton saw Alison Uckfield tumble out laughing. Beside her, in a short midnight blue dress, was Catherine. Horton caught his breath and hardened his heart. Her eyes fell on him and the smile instantly vanished from her face. Alison Uckfield glanced at her husband like a frightened child and it made Horton wonder what Uckfield had said about him, or perhaps it was Catherine who had spread evil tales. Fury surged through him, which he controlled, calling on the techniques that he'd perfected over the years spent in children's homes.

'What are you doing here?' Catherine demanded, hurrying towards him.

Uckfield answered. 'He's on duty.'

'I'm not actually, but I am on a case,' Horton corrected. He held Catherine's icy cold stare and told himself it didn't matter, but he felt a hard knot of pain inside his stomach.

Alison Uckfield's pale-skinned face puckered up with concern as she said, 'This doesn't mean you've got to leave, does it, Steve?'

Fat lot of good Uckfield would be.

Horton said, 'There's not much that can be done tonight, Alison.'

She looked startled at being addressed in so familiar a manner, and dashed a look at her husband, but Horton was buggered if he was going to stand on ceremony with a woman he had danced and laughed with, seen drunk, and kissed.

Taking his wife's arm and with a backward glance at Horton, Uckfield said, 'I'll clear it with Chief Superintendent Chievely tomorrow. You're on the case.'

Horton turned to Catherine. 'How's Emma?'

'Looking forward to seeing you on Christmas Eve. Don't disappoint her, Andy.'

Horton forced himself to remain calm, though he was thinking how dare she say that when he had never disappointed his daughter in her life. 'Who's looking after her tonight?'

She hesitated. Her eyes flickered to the function room. He knew instantly why.

'Your mother and father are here too.'

'Yes. I've got a babysitter.'

'Who?' His stomach clenched at the thought of Emma being abandoned to a stranger.

'A girl from the village called Michelle. She's highly reliable,' Catherine replied defensively.

He had to trust her he told himself. No matter what Catherine did to him he knew she wouldn't endanger Emma, but part of him was thinking that she could have stayed with him. Yet how could she on his boat? It was totally inadequate for a child. It was inadequate for him. And then there was his job. He didn't need to be here working at midnight, but how could he have got away by seven or eight o'clock, which was probably when Catherine had wanted to leave for her function?

Admitting defeat, he said, 'Enjoy your evening,' and walked away. It wasn't until he had reached reception that he paused and turned back. Catherine had vanished but he caught sight of another familiar face and he felt a tiny flicker of jealousy inside him. Staring up at an elegantly dressed dark-haired man in his late thirties was Frances Greywell. She didn't look as though she was going to protest either when he placed his arm across her naked shoulders.

Outside Horton breathed in the night air hoping to banish his acute sensation of isolation, but the fog was as suffocating as ever. He climbed on his Harley and rode home carefully and slowly. His route took him along the mist-shrouded seafront where the sound of the booming foghorns filled the air. There were young people milling around outside the nightclubs, and a police wagon was parked in front of the pier. Later, when club land spewed its contents on to the pavements, there would be drunken young people and scantily clad girls everywhere. He wondered if this would be Emma's fate. God, he hoped not. He wanted to play a part in her upbringing, and he knew deep in his heart that it had to be more than just a once-a-week visit.

Would the sleek, sophisticated Frances get him what he wanted? Or did she think him a loser? Had she spoken to Catherine at that dinner and dance? If so, what kind of picture had his estranged wife painted of him? With something akin to despair he climbed on board Nutmeg and gazed around it: two bunks, a small stove and portable toilet. It wasn't much to show for a lifetime's slog.

He lay back in the darkness, resting his hands behind his head, trying to blot out that picture at the hotel, of people laughing and drinking, of Catherine and Edward Shawford. It wasn't that he enjoyed that sort of event himself; on the contrary he'd loathed those parties and dances. But he was expected to attend the police dinner and dance which always took place in January and was seen as a bonding exercise by higher brass between all the units and stations across Portsmouth. Who was he going to take this year? He had thought briefly about asking Frances, but now that idea was scuppered. Once again he felt like the outsider and memories of his childhood came flooding back, the child standing alone. It churned his guts.

Mentally he pulled himself together. There was still work, and with an effort he turned his thoughts instead to that burnt body. There were many questions bothering him but one more than all the others stood out: why had someone wanted to kill a man who was already dying of cancer?