CHAPTER 2

Horton gazed up at the brick and flint period thatched cottage. He wasn't so sure. The house looked neglected, the thatch was yellowing and loose in places, the wooden window frames in need of replacing, and the paint on the heavy wooden door was chipped and faded. It was in sharp contrast to the gardens either side of the drive where the grass, although showing signs of suffering from the long hot August, was nevertheless neatly cut. The borders teamed with colourful fuchsias and at either side of the door stood two standard fuchsia plants, a riot of pinks and purples.

It took several stout knocks, a call through the black iron letterbox and a finger pressed permanently on a brass bell, which Horton suspected didn't work, before they got a response. Cantelli had been about to set off around the side of the house in search of its owner when the door opened.

'Mrs Thurlow?' Horton asked.

'Yes?' she replied guardedly, restraining a golden retriever who looked more welcoming than his mistress.

Cantelli eyed the dog warily as Horton quickly made the introductions and flashed his warrant card. The sergeant was wary of dogs having been bitten some years ago in the line of duty.

'I must say I didn't expect anyone so promptly. I've not long telephoned,' she said surprised, stepping back to let them in.

She was quite a handsome woman, thought Horton, with good bone structure and cool green eyes. He guessed she was about mid-fifties but her tanned and weathered face made her look older. Her grey hair was untidy and she was dressed in shorts and a faded T-shirt that had smears of earth on it.

Horton dipped his head as he stepped through the doorway. The dog barked. Cantelli hesitated.

'It's all right he won't hurt you,' she assured them.

'I've heard that one before,' Cantelli muttered, following her into the coolness of the hall where she let go of the dog's collar. Horton smiled as the animal pointedly ignored him and sniffed around Cantelli.

'He likes you,' he said.

'Glad someone does.' Cantelli reached out a hand and tentatively patted the animal's head. Satisfied the dog trotted off ahead of his mistress and Cantelli heaved a sigh of relief.

Inside there was the same air of neglect as outside. The house smelt musty, the parquet flooring looked in need of polishing, the rugs had been worn almost to a thread, the floral wallpaper was dated and faded and the paintwork yellow rather than cream. She led them through an untidy kitchen that hadn't seen an upgrade for years judging by its solid oak cabinets and Aga, and into a ramshackle conservatory crammed with fuchsia plants.

'Please.' She waved them into seats and Horton picked up a pile of magazines, placed them on the wicker table and lowered himself warily on to a wooden chair that looked as if it could hardly cope with the weight of a child let alone twelve and a half stone of solid muscle.

Although the rather grubby blinds were half drawn and the door was open the heat was intense and within seconds Horton could feel his shirt sticking to his back. Cantelli's dark curly hair looked wet with sweat and he wriggled uncomfortably easing his jacket open. Horton was glad he had left his in the car. Mrs Thurlow seemed immune to the heat; there wasn't a single bead of perspiration on her brow.

'I suppose you've come about Roger,' she said casually as though, Horton thought, she was talking about a lost umbrella rather than her missing husband.

'I understand that you haven't seen him since Friday morning, is that correct?' asked Horton.

'Yes, he went sailing straight from work.'

'And he hasn't called you since then?'

'No. Here, Bellman.' She clicked her fingers and the dog left the bowl of water he'd been slurping from and trotted around to her side where he flopped on to the quarry-tiled floor, panting heavily.

Horton saw Cantelli give the dog an envious look before retrieving the small, stubby pen from behind his right ear and a notebook from his jacket pocket. Horton wouldn't have minded a drink himself but clearly they weren't going to be offered one.

'Is that usual?' Cantelli asked.

Mrs Thurlow looked at him blankly for a moment and Horton elaborated. 'He doesn't call you when he's away on his boat?'

'Oh, no.' She sounded surprised as if he'd suggested something improper.

'When were you expecting him back?' he asked in what he hoped was a sympathetic tone but he might just have well not bothered because she didn't look worried. And neither did she sound perturbed when she answered.

'When he showed up. I'm not my husband's keeper and he's not mine.'

'Surely he gave some indication.' This time Horton injected an element of incredulity into his voice and was rewarded with a blush. Her eyes darted between him and Cantelli, betraying the first sign of unease.

'Look, I really didn't want to bother you, Inspector, but Mrs Stephens, my husband's secretary, insisted that I call the police. I am sure there's a perfectly good reason why my husband has not returned. Mrs Stephens is a little overprotective when it comes to Roger.'

And you're not, thought Horton watching her closely. She held his stare. If she read his thoughts and was embarrassed by them though she didn't show it. She lifted the coffee cup in front of her and took a sip, then pulled a face. Horton guessed it had grown cold.

'Do you go out on the boat with him?' he asked wondering where she had been last night.

'Certainly not,' she declared as though he'd insulted her by suggesting it.

Her vehemence surprised him and aroused his curiosity. Was it a cover for shyness, or guilt perhaps? He got the impression she didn't really care very much for her husband but that didn't mean she had killed him. The victim might not even be Thurlow but there seemed a strong possibility that it was. And as he'd seen both a radio and television in her kitchen, he knew that sooner or later she was bound to hear the news about a man's body being found. If she put that with the fact that her husband was missing and his boat found abandoned she'd come to the same conclusion as they had. He would break the news to her in a moment, first he had a few more questions to ask.

'Don't you like sailing?'

'No I don't,' she declared with feeling. 'I can't think of anything more awful than being stuck on a boat in the middle of the sea for hours on end with people I find utterly boring.'

Including your husband, thought Horton. 'I take it gardening is more to your taste.' He indicated the magazines on the table and the plants crowding the conservatory. Uckfield's wife, Alison, was into flowers; he wondered if she knew Mrs Thurlow.

Her face suddenly brightened making her look at least five years younger, Horton thought.

'Yes. I specialise in fuchsias,' she answered enthusiastically. 'Do you know they grow to a height of twenty feet in Brazil?'

'They always remind me of fairies,' Cantelli interjected. 'My wife likes them. We've got a couple of bushes in our garden but nothing like this.'

She positively beamed at him. 'Then I must let you have some cuttings, Sergeant.' She shifted to the edge of her seat as if she was about to leap up and fetch them at that moment.

'Do you know if your husband went sailing with anyone last Friday?' Horton said abruptly, bringing her back to the matter in hand.

The frown was back. 'He didn't say. Someone at the yacht club might know. You can ask there. It's at Horsea Marina, where he keeps his boat. I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time. I'll just…'

Horton thought it time to break the news to her. He couldn't see her going into hysterics. She wasn't the type. Self-contained was perhaps how he might describe her; cold is what others might say. It was a description that had been levelled at him but self-containment, he knew, was a protection against being hurt.

'Mrs Thurlow, earlier this morning the coastguards found your husband's boat in the Solent, but I'm sorry to say that your husband wasn't on board.'

If he thought he was going to shock her into some kind of reaction, concerned or otherwise, then he was quickly disappointed.

'Then where is he?' she said, matter-of-factly.

On the beach with his head bashed in, Horton thought but didn't say. It was possible that Thurlow had taken off somewhere in another boat, leaving his own one deserted to give the illusion he was dead, or perhaps he'd had an accident and fallen overboard.

'Has he had any health problems lately?'

'Not that I'm aware of.'

'What about business or financial difficulties?'

'I don't know anything about the business. You'd have to ask at the office,' she answered impatiently. 'If you're thinking he could have deliberately thrown himself overboard then you're wrong.'

Why? he wondered. Time to turn up the heat. This would tell him how much she cared. 'There is something else that you should know, Mrs Thurlow. This morning a man fitting your husband's description was found on the beach at Portsmouth.'

'Yes.' He held her gaze. Her surprise was genuine, but he saw no grief, even though she had immediately grasped his meaning.

'You think it's Roger and it's not an accident?'

'He wasn't carrying any identification and we would like to rule out the possibility that it might be your husband.'

'But how was he killed?'

'It's too early to say yet, Mrs Thurlow.'

'But you'd like me to identify him.' It was spoken calmly.

'That won't be necessary, Horton answered. 'But we'd like to take something of your husband's that will help us to identify him from fingerprints and DNA, a comb or brush perhaps. And if you have a recent photograph of him that would be helpful'

She scrutinised him as if trying to see inside his thoughts. He kept his expression neutral. Other women might have gone into shock, or had hysterics, but Mrs Thurlow simply nodded, lifted her chin, and, squaring her shoulders, set off with Bellman trailing her.

Horton rose, plucking at his shirt sticking to his back.

'Stiff upper lip type,' Cantelli muttered, pulling at his tie and undoing his top button. 'Either that or she's made of stone.'

'Take a quick look round the kitchen, Barney.' Horton stepped outside to get a breath of air. It was almost as hot outside as it had been in the conservatory. Here, as at the front of the house, the garden was beautifully tended and landscaped with curved borders and isolated flowerbeds bursting with fuchsias. Under a small clump of trees to his right was a wooden garden table and chairs whilst, to his left, a large greenhouse brimming with colour.

There was no breeze and the sun was steadily climbing in a milky blue sky. In the distance, covered in a haze, he could see the gentle rising slopes of the South Downs and hear the soft rumble of traffic from the A27 three miles away to the south. Uckfield's house was further down on the edge of the village, a fairly new small and select development of executive styled houses built about eight years ago. Try as he might Horton couldn't prevent his thoughts turning to his own house just outside Petersfield. He'd always hoped to return to it but he guessed that the letter burning a hole in his pocket would put paid to that.

Cantelli joined him. 'Last Friday has a ring around it on her calendar and the initials SWFS, otherwise nothing. There's a fuchsia society newsletter, some invoices from seed merchants, and the vet's telephone number pinned on her notice board and that's about it.'

Horton hadn't really expected Cantelli to find anything and certainly not a big circle around yesterday's date with the words 'kill husband!' Still it was always worth having a nose around to get the feel of a place. And this place, with the exception of the garden, said, 'tired'. He turned round to see Mrs Thurlow heading towards them.

'Will this do, Inspector?'

Horton took the comb and popped it into an evidence bag. He saw her eyes flit to the large greenhouse on his right and she seemed eager to get rid of them. He wondered if they'd disturbed some kind of fuchsia potting ritual.

She handed him a photograph and Horton studied the tall, slender man in his fifties standing on the deck of a large motor cruiser. He was wearing navy shorts, a light-blue polo shirt and stained deck shoes. His silver hair was swept back off a sun-tanned, narrow face and he was smiling into camera. He was holding what looked like a glass of champagne. The boat was in a marina, which to Horton's trained eye looked like Cowes on the Isle of Wight. Who had taken the photograph? Not Mrs Thurlow by her own account, so a fellow crew member, or a lover perhaps.

He smiled his thanks and handed the photograph to Cantelli who glanced at it before slipping it carefully into his notebook.

'What happens now?' she asked, leading them to the door.

'We'll let you know as soon as we have any news. Is there anyone you would like us to call? A friend or relative you might want–'

'No. Thank you. I will be fine. I have Bellman.'

And her face registered genuine love as she patted the dog by her side. Horton had one more question for now. 'Does your husband have any distinguishing features or scars?'

She shook her head. 'No.'

Horton gave her his card and urged her to get in touch if she heard from her husband, which he thought would be difficult unless she was clairvoyant. He was convinced that the body was that of Roger Thurlow. He was also certain that Mrs Thurlow knew more about her husband's disappearance than she was saying.

'She's a cool one,' Cantelli said, as he turned the car in the driveway. 'Which is more than can be said for that conservatory and this car. She didn't even offer us a drink. I was nearly tempted to shove the dog over and slurp from his bowl.'

Yes, a nice cold glass of water would have been welcomed. Horton called Uckfield and relayed the gist of their interview with Mrs Thurlow.

'Get over to the mortuary,' Uckfield commanded. 'And if Evans has regained consciousness you can see him too. I'm giving a briefing at midday. Be here.'

Horton relayed the instructions to Cantelli, then called the Marine Unit.

'The boat's as neat as nine pence,' Sergeant Dai Elkins reported. 'There's been no fight or struggle. There's a sailing bag in one of the cabins.'

'Has it been unpacked?'

'What about a tender? Is there one on board?'

'No, but there looks as though there should be.'

'Start the search for one, will you, Dai? Check out the shores around the area and the marinas. Make sure nothing is touched. Where's Thurlow's boat now?'

'In the secure compound in the ferry port.'

Good. Horton rang off. Cantelli said, 'You think she was lying about when she last saw her husband?'

'Could be. I don't think she much cared for him but that's no crime.'

'You reckon the body is Thurlow then?'

Horton didn't hesitate. 'Yes.'

'And could she have killed him?'

Horton considered the battered corpse laid out on the pebbled beach and the chance that it might have been a random killing. Had the killer chosen the first person he'd met as his victim and killed him instantly and spontaneously? Mutilation was common in such cases. Or had it been planned and the victim known to the killer? A crime of passion perhaps. But he couldn't see Mrs Thurlow working herself up into a passion about anything except her fuchsias. Or was it a crime of hate?

Horton's fingers curled around the envelope in his pocket. Could he have done that to Colin Jarrett, the owner of Alpha One, who he blamed for wrecking his career and marriage? Was hatred enough? It often was, but in his case certainly not enough to take someone's life.

He said, 'Why kill him on the beach? Why not closer to home or even on his boat?' And why, Horton thought, lay him out like that? That was bugging him.

Cantelli said, 'She doesn't go on the boat.'

'She could be lying.'

'I doubt it because that would mean leaving her precious fuchsias. I know what Charlotte's like about watering her garden. If we go away for more than one day in the summer she starts fretting about her tomatoes.'

Cantelli was right but it was early days yet and useless to hypothesize until they had an identification which the DNA and fingerprints on the comb might give them. First though it was the mortuary. Hardly Horton's favourite place, but then whose was it save the pathologist?