CHAPTER 13

'We found Roger Thurlow's cheque books, passport and financial papers at Mary Stephens's flat in Western Parade,' Cantelli said at the briefing the following morning. 'He'd been dividing his time between there and Briarly House for years.'

'But not his affections according to Melissa Thurlow,' Uckfield said.

Horton shifted position. The incident room was unbearably hot. Two large fans whirred in opposite corners and every now and then as they swept the room they lifted the papers on the desk like a sigh.

Horton said, 'Roger liked the best of both worlds, Melissa and Briarly House for money and status, and Mary Stephens for sex and comfort.'

'Where's the daughter?' asked Uckfield.

'Travelling Australia,' Cantelli said. 'We've checked. She is there.'

'Does she know about her father's death?'

'She does now. We let her mother break the news to her first.'

Horton thought that Cantelli looked haggard. He'd heard him earlier on the telephone to Charlotte. Whatever Charlotte had told him it hadn't helped. Horton had spent a restless night himself; churning over the case and the fact that Lucy was back in town. After his visit to Alpha One he'd been half expecting something to happen but he'd arrived at his boat without any mishap.

Horton said, 'He's given her a good education and not seen her go without.'

'So not a complete bastard,' Uckfield muttered, turning towards the fan.

Depended how you viewed it thought Horton, because Thurlow had used some of his wife's money to keep his mistress and child in comfort.

'Rather arrogant was how some of the staff described him,' Cantelli remarked. 'Flashy and mean were the other two words that kept cropping up.'

Yesterday afternoon, and again this morning, a team had been into Thurlow's offices taking statements and going through the files.

'How deeply in debt was he?' Uckfield snapped.

Marsden answered. 'There's a mortgage on Mrs Stephens' flat and a marine mortgage on the boat. Briarly House is in Mrs Thurlow's name and there's no mortgage on that. The directors have been taking heavy dividends from the company over the last four years and it went into loss last year for the first time. Once Roger Thurlow's debts are paid off I don't think Mrs Stephens will get much, although there is some life insurance.'

'Enough to kill for?' asked Uckfield.

Horton answered. 'Not really. Mary Stephens has an alibi for the time of both murders. A friend stayed with her on the Friday night of Thurlow's death and on the night Culven was killed she was at a pottery evening class and went for a drink with a friend after it. She worshipped the ground Thurlow walked on.'

'Which is more than his wife did.'

Horton knew the meaning behind Uckfield's comment. He said, 'There is no sign of Culven's fingerprints in Briarly House. If he and Melissa were having an affair then they didn't conduct it in either of their homes. We're still looking for the tender from the Free Spirit and Culven's Mercedes, but Thurlow's car has been found abandoned in Paulsgrove.' It was a large council housing estate that sprawled the southern slopes of Portsdown Hill.

Walters said, 'Melissa Thurlow's alibi partly checks out. She was at the South West Fuchsia Show in Swindon on Friday but she didn't stay overnight. She left at eight thirty p.m.'

Uckfield said, 'Time enough to get back and collect her lover after he had disposed of Thurlow's body.'

Clearly Uckfield was still favouring Melissa Thurlow for the murder of her lover and as an accomplice in the murder of her husband. Horton could understand why, there didn't seem to be anyone else who could be a suspect. And yet he felt uncomfortable with it.

The briefing ended. Uckfield returned to his office and Horton followed him. He could see that the pressure was getting to Uckfield not only because this was one of those frustrating cases but also because of that clock ticking down to his promotion interview and Uckfield wanted to go into it triumphant, with the killer safely apprehended and charged.

'Are you going to release Melissa Thurlow?' Horton asked, closing the door behind him. The thirty-six hours they could hold her was up at eleven this morning, after that Uckfield would have to take the case before the magistrates' court who could authorise further detention for up to ninety-six hours. 'I'm still not convinced she's our murderer.'

Uckfield glared at him and began to count off on his fingers. 'One, she has motive, especially if she knew about Mary Stephens; two, she has no alibi for the time of either deaths; three, she has confessed to drugging her husband; four she was having an affair with Culven – the handwriting on the letters check out – and five a car like hers was seen on the promenade the night Culven was killed. In my book that adds up to a satisfying arrest, certainly enough for me to take it to the magistrates' court.' Horton could see there was no shifting Uckfield from that view, and he did have a point, several in fact. He could charge Melissa for the murder of her husband but could he charge her for the murder of Culven?

'It's all a bit circumstantial. I can't see the Crown Prosecution Service going for it.'

'Then you'd better pull your finger out, Inspector and get me some bloody evidence.' Uckfield bellowed.

Horton left. He relayed an edited version of the conversation to Cantelli in CID.

'And where does the great man suggest we get the evidence from?' Cantelli said.

'We're missing something, Barney.'

Maybe if he confided his theories about Jarrett to Uckfield they might be able to fill in some of the pieces, or at least legitimately question the man. But Horton wasn't yet ready to tell Uckfield.

'Let's assume that Melissa is telling the truth, even about those letters.' Horton pushed away a pile of papers on Cantelli's untidy desk and perched on the edge of it. 'We'll also assume that Roger Thurlow was the intended victim and that Culven's death was secondary. Culven was laid out as if on a crucifix to make a point. He was killed as some kind of sacrifice.'

'To frame Melissa, just as those letters were forged, to point the finger at her.'

'Mary Stephens wasn't jealous of Melissa: the poor cow pitied her. Someone from the fuchsia club?'

Despite his weariness Horton smiled. 'I can't see anyone going to those lengths just because she beat them to first prize.'

His eyes flickered to the wall behind Cantelli. Pinned on his notice board were photographs of his five children with Charlotte; they were all smiling. The twins had drawn Cantelli a picture each: Joe a fire engine and Molly a house, and they had written their names carefully underneath their artistic endeavours. Where were all the pictures Emma had drawn for him? He'd left the house in a hurry and didn't even have one. Did she still draw them for him and did Catherine rip the pictures up? Or had Catherine told her that nasty daddy didn't deserve to have any pictures?

Cantelli broke through his thoughts. 'Why would someone be jealous of Melissa Thurlow? OK, so she's got a nice house and loads of money, not that you'd think it looking at the state of Briarly House, but Marsden's checked out her bank and savings account and she's rolling in it.'

'Which she inherited from her adoptive father.' Horton suddenly felt better as his ideas crystallised. The weariness sloughed off him. 'That's it. It has to be. Someone is jealous of her inheriting his fortune. I want Randall Simpson's background checked. I want to know everything about him and his relatives. Is there someone out there who doesn't think she should have inherited all of Simpson's wealth?'

'If there is he's taken a long time to get even; must be a very patient man.'

'What was it John Dryden said? Beware the fury of the patient man.'

'Was Dryden a cop then?'

'So why not try before?'

'Perhaps he's been abroad and has just found out she inherited a pile? Or he might have been ill, or in hospital or prison. He wants revenge for Melissa stealing what he thinks should have been his.' 'Randall Simpson couldn't have any children.'

'A brother, sister, cousin, great aunt, who cares, just see if you can find any relatives. It won't be too difficult; he was a prominent businessman. Meanwhile I'm going to have a word with Melissa.'

There was hope in her eyes when she entered the interview room, which Horton had to quickly dash by telling her that it was likely she would be detained for further questioning. 'You can't still think I killed Roger and Michael!'

'I'd like to ask you some questions about Randall Simpson. Do you want your lawyer present?'

She looked surprised then with a wave of her arm and irritation on her tired face said, 'No.'

'Did he have any relatives?'

'I don't know what Randall has to do with all this but if you really must know he was also an orphan and was brought up in a Barnados Home.'

Dead end then? No, not yet. There must be someone. 'Did he ever try to trace his family?'

'He might have done. He never said.'

'What about his birth certificate? Do you have a copy?'

'It's in a tin in my wardrobe.'

'Can you remember what's on it?' They'd check anyway.

'You mean his mother and father's name? There's nothing or rather it says 'unknown'. He was found abandoned outside a hospital in Guildford in 1908.'

This wasn't going to be easy, Horton thought, with annoyance. But someone must have traced Randall's past. Someone who had good cause to think they should have been entitled to Randall's fortune.

'Have you ever been approached by anyone claiming to be a relative of Randall?'

She looked surprised. 'No. Why this interest in him?'

'I think it's possible someone might have framed you.'

'Then you believe I'm innocent?' Her face brightened.

'Has there ever been anyone enquiring about your late father's background?'

She ran a hand through her hair and thought for a moment. Then he saw her eyes light up. She sat forward with a faint flush on her face. 'Of course. How could I have forgotten? There was someone. He was writing a book about Randall, a biography. He examined my father's papers and asked me questions.'

Horton's heart skipped a beat. 'Who was he?' She frowned. 'I can't recall his name.'

'No matter, we can look it up. Did he give you a copy of the book?' He didn't remember seeing one in the bookshelves.

'No.' She looked puzzled. 'I'd forgotten all about it. It must be at least eight years ago.'

That long. 'Can you describe him?'

She let out a breath, shaking her head. 'He was sort of ordinary.' She closed her eyes for a moment trying to visualise him. Horton silently urged her to remember something, anything. She said, 'He was about my age, possibly a bit younger, like I said just ordinary. I am sorry. Perhaps if I'd had a copy of the book I might have remembered him but when he didn't send me one and I didn't hear from him again I just assumed he'd not bothered to write it.'

'You didn't check to see if it had been published?'

He thought that a little odd.

She said, as if interpreting his silence, 'If it had been published Roger would have told me. He would have capitalised on it.'

'And that's why you never mentioned it to him?'

'I thought if it comes to something then so be it. But I hoped it wouldn't. Every time there was an article in the newspapers or magazines about Randall, Roger would call the journalists and try and get some publicity for himself out of it.'

And you just wanted to be left alone with your memories and your fuchsias, Horton thought. He told her that if anything else occurred to her to let the custody clerk know. He relayed the information to Cantelli, instigated the search for the book and the biographer, whom he believed was bogus, and sent Marsden out to collect Randall Simpson's birth certificate from Briarly House.

It was just after five when Cantelli put his head round the door of his office. 'You hungry?'

'No. I'm hot, tired, irritated and frustrated. I know I'm right, but who is this biographer?'

'What you need is a nice cup of tea and a breath of sea air. I know just the place.'

It took a moment for Horton to follow Cantelli's train of thought. When it clicked he felt a shiver of anticipation that quickened his pulse and set the hairs pricking at the back of his neck. He hardly dared to hope. 'Isabella's seen Lucy?'

'And there's more. She knows where Lucy lives.'

The journey from the station to the seafront seemed to take forever. Horton could barely conceal his impatience. He couldn't speak. He didn't even want to think. He'd had too many hopes dashed for him to raise them too high. Perhaps Isabella was mistaken and the girl she had discovered was some other blonde? Please God, let it be her. Just give him the chance to talk to her once that was all he asked. It wasn't much, surely?

Isabella greeted them warmly as they stepped into the seafront café, 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 impatience 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 café 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 café 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, Horton went in search of St Ronald's Road. It was a long road, with a large 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, social security 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?'

'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.

'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 so 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 came 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 Horton 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 he yelled '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 race up the jetty where he leapt into a car. Before Horton could reach it the car was squealing and screeching out of the marina and Horton had no chance of getting the vehicle licence number.

Eddie came charging out. 'What's happened?'

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

'Yes.' His heart was pumping fast. God, it had been a close call. The bastard had nearly succeeded in killing him.

'Do you want me to call the police?'

'Yeah, sorry, I forgot.'

He would be back, of that Horton 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 the boat for a while.'

'Whatever you say, Andy.'

Horton couldn't mistake Eddie's 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.

It was foggy and close on three a.m. but that couldn't be helped. Slowly and thoroughly Horton began to wash down the boat, as his mind turned over the possible identity of his attacker. Try as he might he couldn't recognise him. He hadn't had a chance to see his cloaked face in the dark. Why try to fry him alive? But he knew the answer to that question. The intention had clearly been to kill him. He needed to be silenced. And silenced before he could speak to Lucy. And that meant someone had seen him outside Lucy's flat.