CHAPTER 6

Culven's fingerprints taken from the letters and from other items in his house matched those of the body on the beach. The forensic team went into Culven's house and officers were deployed to question the neighbours. Now they knew who the victim was the investigation could step up a gear. Uckfield was happy. He thought they might also have a suspect: Roger Thurlow. Horton wasn't so sure.

'If he killed Culven then why not use his boat to make his escape? Why abandon it like that?'

'As a decoy to throw us off the scent,' Uckfield said. 'He certainly had the motive to kill Culven judging by those letters. He could have used his tender to take the body on to the beach and then dragged Culven along the stones out of the tide's reach.'

But that didn't tie up. 'Dr Clayton says that Culven was killed on the beach. Thurlow would hardly have needed to put him in his tender.'

'Perhaps Thurlow arranged to meet Culven on the beach, killed him and had his tender already there to make a quick getaway after killing Culven.'

'We'll talk to the Harbour Master and the Harbour Conservancy; they have regular night-time patrols. One of them might have seen or heard something. But if Thurlow did kill Culven, and then ditched his boat, he could be out of the country by now.' Or dead, Horton thought, reverting to his original theory. Thurlow could still have had an accident. Or maybe he had never made it back to his boat the Free Spirit after killing Culven, which was possible; navigating a small tender in the dark and fog would have been very treacherous even with hand held GPS.

Cantelli had been despatched to Melissa Thurlow to confront her about the letters and to obtain a sample of her handwriting. He was also going to break the news to her that her lover was dead. Horton wondered how she'd take it. Perhaps more emotionally than she'd greeted the news that her husband was missing and possibly dead. Cantelli had a female police officer with him in case comforting was needed. Meanwhile Horton was going to find out more about Michael Culven and he would do that by interviewing Frances Greywell at Framptons.

He decided to walk the mile to the solicitor's office to test out his aching legs. Soon he was being ushered into the managing partner's spacious office pleased to find that apart from a few twinges his legs were fine. He'd soon be running again.

'It isn't like Michael not to show up for work without warning, especially in the middle of a trial,' Frances Greywell said, waving him into a seat across her wide desk after eyeing his bruised face a little curiously but offering no remark on it. She studied him seriously, her dark eyes concerned. 'When he didn't show for work yesterday we thought he might be ill. He wasn't answering his phone. Then when I read about the body being found on the beach in last night's paper and that you were trying to trace the owner of a silver Mercedes, I spoke to the other partners this morning and we agreed to contact you.'

'So Tuesday was the last time you saw Mr Culven?'

'Yes. He left the office that evening just before me at seven o'clock.' She pushed a slender hand through her short, sleek, bobbed hair which swung back exactly into place just like Emma's he thought, and sat forward in the beige leather chair. 'Is Michael the body on the beach?'

'Yes. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything yet. We need to inform his relatives. I thought you might know who he named as next of kin.'

It was as if she hadn't heard him. 'Who could have done such a terrible thing? And to Michael? I can't believe it, Inspector.'

She frowned troubled. 'Was he murdered?' Horton nodded.

She let out a sigh and remained silent for a moment. Then visibly pulling herself together said crisply, 'Sorry, you wanted to know next of kin.' She picked up her telephone and punched in a number. 'Amanda, bring me Michael's personnel file please.'

Horton admired her efficiency but he wasn't surprised by it. Both her appearance and her office said crisp, professional, focused.

'What did Mr Culven do here?' he asked, wondering for a moment whether Ms Greywell and her firm would be a match for Catherine's solicitors if he decided to consult them. For the present he hadn't even opened that blasted letter.

'He is… was our company commercial partner specialising in corporate matters: employment law, management takeovers, mergers and acquisitions that kind of thing. He was clever, a very good lawyer.'

'What about his private life? Friends, hobbies, interests?' Did she know that her fellow partner had been having an affair and that he liked being caned? He doubted it. Why should she?

Frances Greywell pressed her well-manicured hands together to form a triangle as she considered his question. He could see she wore no wedding or engagement ring.

'He was a quiet man, not one for small talk but he did enjoy going out on his boat. It was one of the reasons he moved to Horsea Marina, a year ago, after his mother died, so that he could have his own berth.'

'Has he still got the boat?'

'I'm not sure. I guess so.'

Then where was it, Horton wondered. 'Was he married or has he ever been married?'

'Not as far as I'm aware. He once told me that he liked his freedom and independence.'

'Would you say he was attractive to women?'

'I'm sure some women would find him attractive but he wasn't my type.'

She smiled and Horton got the impression that she wanted him to ask her what her type was. He sidestepped that one.

'Has he ever been tempted? Anyone special, at any time?'

The door opened after a perfunctory knock and a small, dark-haired woman in her late twenties entered carrying a file. She smiled rather nervously at Horton but he could see the curiosity and excitement shining in her eyes. Even if Frances Greywell said nothing, he knew the news would spread around the firm like a bush fire by tomorrow morning, probably had already.

Frances Greywell thanked her. After consulting the file she said, 'Michael has a sister, Maureen Brinkwell, she lives in New Zealand.' She handed a form across to Horton whose eyes quickly flicked down the details. Culven was fifty-three, born the eighth of September, a bachelor and non-smoker who had joined the firm's personal health care plan five years ago. Wouldn't do him much good now, Horton thought.

'Could I have a copy of this?' he asked.

'Of course.' She made to rise but Horton forestalled her.

'Could I also see Mr Culven's diary?'

'I'll call it up for you. Everyone's diary is on our computer system,' she explained, punching something into her keyboard. 'If you'd like to…'

He rose and moved around the desk to stand next to her. He could smell her soft perfume: light enough to state her femininity without compromising her professionalism.

'Just scroll up or down if you need to see more,' she said, swivelling her face to look up at him. She was very close. She held her position for a moment before straightening up. 'I'll get this copied for you.' As he sat in her chair he wondered what element of law she specialised in. There was nothing on her desk to give him any clue. What if it were matrimonial. How would he feel telling her about Lucy Richardson? The answer was in the involuntary tensing of his body.

He quickly moved the cursor over the diary. There was nothing of interest in it for this week, except the industrial tribunal case, so he went back, an entry caught his eye. And there it was, the connection. Culven had had a lunchtime appointment with Roger Thurlow at the yacht club at Horsea Marina on Friday, the last day that Thurlow had been seen. He went back further through July and June. There were several appointments with Thurlow but what also interested and surprised Horton were the number of appointments with Colin Jarrett. Before he had time to digest this the door opened.

Frances Greywell handed him the copy of Culven's personal details, which he folded and placed in the pocket of his jacket.

'Was Mr Culven Roger Thurlow's solicitor?'

'Yes,' she said warily obviously wondering why he had singled out Thurlow.

'And Colin Jarrett's?'

She nodded, now even more perplexed. 'I believe Michael's done… did a lot of work for Mr Jarrett. His business interests have expanded rapidly over the last five years.'

Tell me about it! Hotels, restaurants, gyms and health clubs all along the south coast. He could see that she wanted to ask him why he wanted to know. Before she could though he said, 'I'd like a copy of this diary?'

'Of course,' she said crisply. 'Which months do you want?'

She moved back into her own seat brushing against him as she went. He thought it was intentional but maybe he was just kidding himself. She was attractive, but he was off women, except for one and she wanted nothing to do with him.

'The printer's in Amanda's office.'

He followed her through, admiring her slender but shapely figure. She had a way of walking, of doing things that said I know who I am, I know what I'm doing and I know what I want.

He said, 'Mr Culven had an appointment with Roger Thurlow on Friday lunchtime, any idea what that was about?' He could see that she wanted to ask him about this obsession with Thurlow. She didn't though, probably because she knew he would only blank her out.

She said, 'Janet might know, Michael's secretary, but she only works part time. I'm afraid you've missed her. I can find out for you.'

'Please. I'd also like the paperwork of all the cases that Mr Culven had been working on, say, in the last six months.' That should give him an insight into Jarrett's business affairs. Not that he expected to find anything brazenly illegal but he hadn't spent three years in the Special Intelligence Directorate without knowing how to read between the lines. A warm glow of satisfaction spread through him. It had been a good move coming here instead of going to Melissa Thurlow's with Cantelli.

But Frances Greywell refused. 'That information is confidential, Inspector.'

'I can return with a warrant.'

'Then I suggest you do.' She smiled to soften the remark and handed him the printout of diary dates. 'Do you think Michael's death could be work-related?' she asked worried.

He didn't but there was no need to tell her that. Instead he gave the stock answer that it was too early to tell, which drew a small frown from her. He asked her to lock Culven's office and make sure that no one entered it and said that tomorrow he would send along a couple of officers with a warrant to go through his papers and belongings.

She sighed in capitulation. 'When can I announce it to the staff?'

'We'll let you know as soon as we've spoken to his next of kin.'

The heat was intense, as he struck out for the station but he hardly noticed it. He felt buoyed up with optimism. His fingers itched to get hold of Culven's files on Jarret. He wished he could start now. He should have expected her to ask for a warrant, being a solicitor. Still, he would have one by tomorrow.

He turned his mind to the case. By both Frances Greywell's and Miss Filey's accounts of Michael Culven, and judging from what he'd seen of his house, Culven seemed a very ordinary man, fairly innocuous, certainly not the type to get himself brutally murdered like that. But then there was evidence that he liked being caned and if the letters from Melissa Thurlow were anything to go by he had been a passionate and energetic lover. So there was a lot more to Michael Culven than met the eye. The evidence of those letters and Thurlow's disappearance suggested this was a crime of passion, a jealous husband outraged at his wife's infidelity.

Cantelli wasn't back but Marsden was, and he was waiting for Horton with barely concealed excitement. He must have a breakthrough on Evans' stabbing, Horton thought, his own pulse quickening. Marsden confirmed it a few seconds later.

'I've tracked down the gate crasher,' he said eagerly. 'The drug squad got hold of some names and I've been checking them out. Stevie Mason fits the description given by those kids who can remember being at the party. I'm just going round to ask John Westover if he knows him, or can recall seeing him.'

'What's Mason's form?'

'Arrested and fined for drug dealing five years ago outside the Sir Wilberforce Cutler Comprehensive. Served two years for assault in a young offenders' institution, released a year ago. Prior to that, in and out of trouble since the age of nine.'

'Let's bring him in.'

Marsden looked surprised. 'I thought I'd see what Westover has to say first.'

'And give Mason time to do a bunk?'

Marsden's fair face flushed. 'I don't think I've got enough on him yet.'

'And by the time you've got it the whole of the drug network will be buzzing with the news and Mason will have blown. Probably has already.'

'No, he's still in his flat off Queen Street. Somerfield is watching it.'

Horton glanced at his watch. 'Come on then. We'll take a couple of uniformed lads with us. I've got a feeling Mason won't come quietly.'

He didn't. With the sixth sense of the criminal fraternity Mason seemed to smell them coming from about six hundred yards away, certainly by the time they stepped out of the lift into the echoing corridor. But on the nineteenth floor of the tower block there was no way out of the flat except through the front door. The lifts and stairs, including the emergency stairs, were blocked by Horton, Marsden and two very large police officers.

Mason, a skinny young man in his early twenties, with bad skin and broken teeth, eyed them with alarm, dashed a panicky glance over his shoulder, saw there was nothing for it but to plunge ahead and came charging at them with a great bellow and a flash of steel in his left hand. But Horton was prepared for it. Sidestepping, he grabbed him roughly, swiftly disarmed him, threw him to the floor, pinned his arms behind him and rubbed his face in the ground.

'He's all yours, Marsden,' Horton said, leaving the two officers to take over the restraint and Marsden to formerly charge him. Horton entered the youth's flat. It was filthy. It smelt of dirt, tobacco smoke, sweat and urine and he made sure to be careful where he trod. Discarded take-away trays littered the two-bedroom hovel along with heaps of clothing, newspapers and cigarette ends. There were pornographic magazines on the bed, some items of girls' clothing and numerous beer and lager cans.

He crossed to the television and switched it off feeling a sense of sadness. Such a waste. Mason, he guessed, was beyond helping; perhaps he didn't have the brains, or perhaps he'd never been given a chance like he had. Horton's last foster parents had been the saving of him, the only couple who had recognised a young frightened boy, whose frustration at not being understood had found an outlet in violence. But even then, as Horton surveyed this despicable room, he knew his violence had never spilled over on to others, only inanimate objects and sometimes himself. He had also been the opposite of this; obsessively tidy and clean, controlling his environment and, as he grew older, controlling his body through physical exercise, fearful that if he let go, if he showed he cared, he'd be punished or hurt.

He'd come a long way since then and had finally learned to love only to have that thrown back at him. His body went rigid. He told himself that he was strong, that he needed no one, it helped a little but inside him he knew it wasn't true and never would be.