CHAPTER 8

He did. The whole of the Hampshire Police Service probably knew by now, so bang went his narrow list of suspects, but not necessarily his theory. Glancing at Cantelli he knew he had never seriously considered him one of them. But Dennings was a different matter.

'Why do you want to know?'

'No reason,' Horton replied airily and drew a sceptical look from Cantelli, which he chose to ignore. By the look of him Cantelli had spent as restless a night as he had done. 'Ellen still not talking to you?'

'No. I found out last night that Jaz Corinder told her mother she was on a sleep-over at Sophie's house. Neither girl returned to her own home on Tuesday night. Where the devil were they, Andy, and what were they up to?' Cantelli cried.

'Maybe Ellen wasn't with them.'

'Maybe. And that worries the hell out of me. If she wasn't, then where was she?'

'She'll tell you when she's ready,' Horton tried to comfort him but he could see that Cantelli wasn't convinced. But if anyone could get information from Ellen Cantelli, then Horton was convinced that Charlotte could. Barney's wife understood children and adolescents better than anyone he knew. 'Let's try and concentrate on the case, Barney.'

'Yeah, OK.' Cantelli threw him a troubled glance before swinging into the car park and silencing the engine.

As they made their way down the Plaza towards the harbour entrance, Horton felt a great deal of sympathy for Cantelli. He tried to imagine how he would feel if it were Emma. The answer was in the tightening of his stomach muscles and the ache around his heart.

He pushed open the door to Thurlow's office and climbed the stairs to reception where after a couple of minutes they were shown into a modern boardroom with a large glass-topped table and chrome armchairs.

The room was decorated in pale blue and Horton was immediately drawn to the two large arched shaped windows that overlooked the bustling harbour and the town of Gosport beyond. Below him, moored up against the pontoon were three international race yachts. The boardwalk was crowded with shoppers and tourists. It was another scorching day but this room, as the rest of the building, was mercifully air-conditioned.

'Thurlow likes to look at himself,' Cantelli said.

Horton turned back to find Cantelli studying the photographs on the walls. There were several of Thurlow with clients at black-tie dinners, Thurlow with celebrities, Thurlow on his boat with guests, and Thurlow with an athletic looking man sporting a marathon medal in front of a group of disabled children.

'Isn't this your father-in-law?' Cantelli pointed to a distinguished looking man in his late fifties standing beside Thurlow at a black tie presentation. Toby Kempton was holding a glass trophy and Roger Thurlow a jeroboam of champagne.

Horton read the caption underneath the photograph. 'Businessman of the Year 1992.' It was the year he had met Catherine. She had worked for her father then as a secretary and had since graduated to marketing manager for the internationally renowned manufacturer of marine equipment. Cantelli said, 'You heard from Catherine?'

He must have read his mind. That wouldn't have been difficult given the link. 'Only from her solicitor. She wants a divorce.' He said it evenly but his stomach was churning. Following Uckfield's remarks last night Horton understood perfectly why she'd filed for a divorce. 'She's found someone else.'

Cantelli looked shocked. Horton was grateful for that. But before either man could speak the door opened and small man in his mid-fifties with overlong greying hair bustled in.

'I'm so sorry to keep you waiting gentlemen; I got caught on the phone. Charles Calthorpe.'

He spoke with a slight lisp. His eyes looked wary and there was a line of perspiration on his upper lip.

'Inspector Horton and this is Sergeant Cantelli.' Horton displayed his warrant card. The dark brown eyes studied him briefly and darted away as soon as Horton made contact with them. The handshake was moist and fleeting.

Calthorpe waved them into a seat and settled himself nervously. He seemed relieved when the door opened and a middle-aged woman, shaped like a pyramid, entered carrying a laden tray.

'Ah, coffee. Thank you, Mrs Stephens.'

Calthorpe's slightly fleshy lips twitched in a half smile.

Horton caught the woman's eye. 'I understand you're Mr Thurlow's PA.' She started so violently that the coffee cups rattled and some coffee spilt on the tray she placed on the table. She flashed a look of alarm at Calthorpe who spoke for her.

'Mrs Stephens is very concerned about Roger's disappearance as are we all. I take it that's why you're here, Inspector?'

Mrs Stephens's face flushed a deep pink. She stammered something and scurried away. Calthorpe watched her go like a man who'd just seen the lifeboat roar passed him whilst his boat was sinking. 'Help yourself to milk, sugar and biscuits,' he said nervously.

Horton refrained from all three but Cantelli spooned in two sugars and helped himself to a Digestive. He removed his pen from behind his ear and extracted his notebook from his jacket pocket.

'When was the last time you saw Mr Thurlow?' Horton asked.

'Last Friday, when I left the office.'

'And what time was that, sir?'

'Just after six. Roger was going to his boat.' Calthorpe picked up his coffee and took a sip.

'Did he say where he was going for the weekend?'

Calthorpe's eyes darted between them, and Horton got the impression of an insecure man underneath the self-important and agitated manner.

'Did you ever go with him?'

'Only when we were entertaining clients. I prefer wind over motor. I have my own small boat, a Bavaria 33.'

Horton wouldn't have described that as small. If Calthorpe wanted small he should come aboard Nutmeg! The directors must be taking a considerable amount out of the company for Thurlow and Calthrope to have large and very expensive boats.

'Where do you keep it, sir?'

Calthorpe looked surprised by the question and then troubled. 'At Sparkes Yacht Harbour, Hayling Island.

'Did you go out over the weekend?'

'Yes, and before you ask I didn't see Roger. I came back Sunday night.' He picked up his spoon and began fiddling with it. Then seeing Horton's eyes on him he took a deep breath and put the spoon down. 'Look, Inspector, I don't know where Roger is. It's most inconvenient of him to go off like this. It's stretched us to the limit.' Calthorpe looked about to say more, then seemed to think better of it. Instead he pressed his lips together, wriggled a little and looked away. Obviously he hadn't spoken to Melissa Thurlow, or had he and was that why he was nervous? Had Melissa Thurlow told him that they suspected her husband of murder?

Horton left a silence, and just when it looked as though Calthorpe could bear it no longer he asked, 'Did Mr Thurlow have any worries: health, financial, marital?'

'Not that I know of,' Calthorpe replied tersely.

'Has he been acting unusually, or was anything disturbing him?'

'If I knew that I wouldn't need to ask, would I, sir?' Horton replied smiling. Calthorpe didn't seem to like his remark or perhaps it was his manner he found irritating judging by his expression. He answered crisply, 'He seemed fine to me. Now I am rather busy'

'I understand that Michael Culven is the company's solicitor.' Calthorpe had half risen. 'What's that got to do with–'

'Mr Culven had an appointment with Roger Thurlow last Friday lunchtime, at the yacht club at Horsea Marina. Do you know what that meeting was about?'

Calthorpe sat down again. 'I've no idea.'

'Would Mrs Stephens know?' Horton pressed.

'I doubt it,' Calthorpe replied acerbically. 'I really don't see what Culven has to do with Roger.'

'He is your company lawyer, isn't he?'

'Well, yes, but I leave that sort of thing to Roger and to Graham Parnham, our accountant and office manager. I'm the creative director, so the running of the business doesn't really concern me apart from the fact that we do good work for our clients. I leave most of the practical elements of running the business to Roger and Graham.'

Horton rose abruptly, surprising Cantelli and relieving Calthorpe. 'Thank you for your time and help, Mr Calthorpe. We won't hold you up any longer. If we could just have a word with Mr Parnham and Mrs Stephens.'

Parnham was out, with the bank manager, so Mrs Stephens told them in her little office. She also told them that she had no idea why Roger had wanted to see Michael Culven.

'I think it was just a social call, they were fairly good friends,' she said stiffly. There was a door behind her desk which Horton guessed led into Thurlow's office. 'Have you any idea where Mr Thurlow might be?'

'No,' she replied, eyeing him warily. 'This is simply not like him at all.'

Horton asked her the same question he'd asked Calthorpe, if there had been anything troubling Thurlow, anything on his mind, or if he had been acting out of character, but she was shaking her head before he'd even finished the question.

'Roger was fine. There was nothing upsetting him.'

Nevertheless Horton could see there was a great deal upsetting Mrs Stephens. He smiled at her encouragingly and asked: 'When did you last see him?'

'On Friday night. I left here just after five thirty.'

'And he didn't say where he was going over the weekend?'

'Only out on his boat. He said he'd be back.' She hesitated. She seemed to have something more to say but wasn't sure how to say it. She looked at each of them in turn.

'Something you'd like to tell us, Mrs Stephens?'

'No. Nothing.' She pressed her lips together as if to prevent them from contradicting her.

Clearly there was something, but it was obvious she wasn't yet ready to divulge it.

As they made their way back to the car, Cantelli said, 'Calthorpe's a funny little man. Very nervous I thought.'

'Highly strung, artistic type, I expect. I'm going to take a look at Thurlow's boat. You get over to the yacht club, Barney, see what you can find out about this meeting, and if anyone saw either man after last Friday lunchtime.'

His phone rang. It was Trueman.

'There's no evidence of Mrs Thurlow's fingerprints in Culven's house, guv. Only Culven's and Miss Filey's.'

So where had they conducted their affair? At Briarly House? It seemed a bit unlikely that she would risk it there when her husband could come home at any time, and when Culven's place was more appropriate, he being a bachelor. He could hardly see Mrs Thurlow having it away in the back of Culven's Mercedes. And where was the Mercedes? So far there had been no sighting of it.

Cantelli dropped him off at the Continental Ferry Port on his way out of the town. Horton located Sergeant Elkins of the Marine Unit and together they climbed on board the Free Spirit.

'This is exactly as you found it?' he asked Elkins as they stepped into the central cabin.

It was beautifully furnished with soft blue upholstered cushions, which looked as though they had never been sat upon. In front of Horton was a mahogany table. There was nothing on it. He pushed open a door leading down into the galley. On the table was an earthenware mug, a half drunk bottle of water, a Stanford's All Weather Chart revealing the blue of the Solent and the lighter blue and muddy orange of the Channel of Portsmouth Harbour and on top of the chart, a state of the art digital handheld navigation system, manufactured by Kemptons. There was also a transparent ruler and a slim line gold ballpoint pen.

He crossed to the mug. It contained the dregs of what looked and smelt like coffee. Forensic would probably be able to tell him the brand, where the coffee had been grown, ground and sold.

'There's no sign of any struggle. I suppose it could have been cleaned up,' Elkins suggested.

'Someone would have to be master cleaner of the year to get it looking like this.'

Horton moved forward into one of the two sleeping cabins. This was clearly Thurlow's. Elkins took the other cabin. Thurlow's navy blue sailing bag was on the bunk. Horton opened it and peered inside, a couple of pairs of shorts, T-shirts, underpants and socks. His shaving gear was still in the toilet bag, which Horton unzipped. Inside was the usual: toothpaste, razor, aftershave and shaving cream but then his fingers clasped something that wasn't so usual.

He pulled out a small bottle of tablets. They were prescribed to Roger Thurlow. Hypovase. He wondered what they were for; both Mrs Thurlow and Charles Calthorpe had said that Thurlow didn't have any health problems and although Thurlow might not have told Calthorpe, surely his wife would know if there was something medically wrong with him? Perhaps they weren't for anything serious and she hadn't thought it worth mentioning? He popped the bottle into a plastic evidence bag. They'd have a word with Thurlow's doctor.

Horton continued his search, moving into the tiny bathroom. Only a man's shower gel, half used, hung in the shower tidy. Above the sink basin was a Perspex glass toothbrush holder. He could see no women's toiletries.

He bent down and pulled open the cupboard under the sink. Inside he found a bottle of household bleach, a tube of bathroom cleaner, and a couple of rags. As he made to straighten up something caught his eye. The bottom of the cupboard was laid with pale blue carpet tiles and he could see in the far right hand corner that one of them had curled slightly. Perhaps the damp had got to it he thought, or maybe the heat. Perhaps it hadn't been laid properly. In a boat costing over two hundred thousand pounds! Somehow he didn't think so. He knelt and prised at the edge of the carpet tile. It came up remarkably easily; too easily Horton thought as he reached in and felt his fingers grip something. It was a pile of magazines. At first he thought they must have been used as lining, but what kind of boat fitters would use magazines to line a luxury yacht like this? Stretching forward he gently lifted them out.

The front cover of each of the three magazines sported naked couples; one of a man and woman, the other two of women locked in poses that left the reader in no doubt of their main activity. It didn't require any great leap of imagination to guess what was inside the covers.

He flicked quickly through the pages, though his experience in SID had already primed him for what he would see, hard core porn that would never see the light of day on the top shelves of even the less discerning newsagents. These magazines were distributed privately and were smuggled into the country either from Germany or from Holland. And why he knew that was because they were the same sort of stuff that had been found on Woodard and which had led them to Alpha One and Jarrett.

He sat back on his heels, his mind racing and his heart pumping a little faster. No, this couldn't be linked to Jarrett; that was too much to hope for, surely? But there was a connection: Culven was both Jarrett's and Thurlow's solicitor; Thurlow's office was a stone's throw from Alpha One. Culven liked being caned; Thurlow was carrying hard-core porn; Jarrett was distributing it. OK, so the last was speculation but there were too many connections to be coincidence. Or was that just wishful thinking on his part? Was he so obsessed that he wanted Culven's death to be connected to Jarrett? He knew what Uckfield would say.

He heard Elkins give a soft whistle.

'Get me a large evidence bag,' Horton commanded.

Elkins returned promptly by which time Horton was back on deck holding the offending articles.

'Any sign of Thurlow's tender yet?'

Elkins shook his head. 'No, and if it's not marked with the boat's name we might never find it. There are hundreds of dinghies lying around and tons of places it could be.'

Horton agreed. He called for a forensic team to go aboard Thurlow's boat then walked the few hundred yards to the large modern import control building where he asked to see Tom Maddox, the senior import and marine liaison officer.

A couple of minutes later Horton was standing in Maddox' office watching cars being driven on to a ferry bound for France. Beyond it he could see the masts of the boats in Horsea Marina. He wondered how Cantelli was getting on.

Horton said, 'I need you to check out a yacht for me, Tom. Porn's involved.' He saw Maddox eye the evidence bag in his hand but he wasn't going to show him it yet.

'What's she called?' Maddox waved him into a seat, folded his tall, lean frame into the chair opposite and pushed up his spectacles.

'The Free Spirit. She's in the secure compound.'

'I can't say I know the name.'

'Roger Thurlow's the owner. He's missing and we want to question him in connection with murder. You've probably heard about our body on the beach.'

Maddox swivelled his chair, his craggy features frowning as he thought. 'Thurlow. I don't know the name or the boat. Who's the dead man?'

'Michael Culven. He has a boat called Otter.' They couldn't find any trace of it though, or record to say that Culven still owned it.

'Doesn't ring any bells. I'll check them both out but I don't think we've ever stopped them.'

'Are you still keeping an eye on Jarrett?' Horton didn't really expect an honest answer. What he expected was the same reaction he'd got from Dennings, a warning to stay away.

Maddox raised his eyebrows but said, 'As far as we can tell he's clean.'

Horton sat forward. 'You and I both know he's not, Tom. He may not be bringing the porn in himself but he's involved in distributing it.'

Tom Maddox looked puzzled. 'There's no proof.'

'And you know why, because of me.'

'Look, Andy, we've got enough problems with drugs and illegal immigrants coming in. Jarrett's boat was stopped before Operation Extra and nothing was found on it. We kept an eye on him all the time the operation was live but it was dropped eight months ago.'

Yeah, like me, Horton thought.

Maddox said, 'We were told it was finished.'

'And you always do what you're told?' Horton quipped.

Maddox grinned. 'No.'

'OK, so this might change your mind.' Horton thrust the bag across the desk. He watched Maddox turn it over and poke at the magazines through the plastic.

Horton said, 'Tell me where that comes from?' He knew the answer but he wanted to hear Maddox say it.

'Germany, Holland.' Maddox glanced up. 'What's the connection with Jarrett?' But Horton didn't have to tell him. Maddox answered his own question. 'You think Jarrett is using this guy Thurlow and was using Culven to bring the stuff in?'

'Looks like it to me.'

Maddox sat back. Horton watched the thoughts race across his face. Behind the steel framed glasses he saw Maddox's eyes glance back at the porn. Then he pursued his lips together and said. 'OK. What do you want me to do?'

'Just keep an eye on Jarrett for now. Don't stop him but log his movements. I want to know when he goes out on his boat, who he goes out with and where he goes. I think there's a connection between Culven's death, Thurlow's disappearance and Jarrett but I've got nothing definite at the moment.' Maddox nodded.

Horton said, 'Let's keep this between ourselves, Tom. I was set up once, if Jarrett gets wind of this we'll never find anything.'

'You can count on me. I always thought that accusation against you was baloney.'

Horton walked back to the station feeling that at last he was beginning to get somewhere and not just with Colin Jarrett but with Culven's murder. He logged the porn magazines into the incident room and asked for them to be sent for fingerprinting. Then he summoned Marsden.

'I found these on Thurlow's boat.' He held out the tablets. 'Get along to the GP and find out why Thurlow was taking them.'

He headed for the canteen where he bought a packet of sandwiches and took them to his office. He stared at the telephone and then glanced at his watch. Where was Catherine now? Would she be at work? She often took time off in August to be with Emma during the summer holidays. They had often taken time off together to be with their daughter and to go sailing or camping.

His fingers swivelled to the framed photograph on the corner of his desk. He picked it up and stared at it. He was crouched down behind Emma, his arms encircling her slender body; they were on the deck of Nutmeg. The wind had caught her hair blowing it across her face and he was laughing. My God, once he had actually laughed. He replaced the photograph and picked up the telephone.

'Catherine Horton,' he asked.

'I'm afraid she's not in today. Can anyone else help you?'

His palms were wet with sweat and his heart was beating rapidly. Should he call her at home? Would it be better to take a chance and go out there? His phone rang. It was Malcolm with his Harley. He made for the car park and took delivery of the machine, back in perfect working order. As Malcolm drove away Cantelli pulled in and he told him about the porn and the tablets.

Cantelli said, 'Perhaps that's how Thurlow can afford an expensive boat and that house by smuggling porn.'

'And Thurlow killed Culven because he got too greedy and asked for more to feed his sexual preferences. Thurlow didn't want to pay up. Culven had become a liability.'

'Coincidental. We've got access to Culven's finances now. We'll be able to analyse his transactions see how much he paid for his caning and who he paid it too.'

'Do you think Mrs Thurlow knows about the porn?'

'She could do. Culven could have told her. How did you get on at the yacht club?'

'The barman confirmed that Culven and Thurlow were there last Friday lunchtime. He says they used to have lunch together quite often. Culven was also a frequent evening visitor, often for dinner, usually alone, but occasionally with clients. He says Culven was a quiet chap, kept himself to himself, not like Thurlow who seems to be the life and soul of the party. A real Jolly Roger.' Horton saw a smile brighten Cantelli's troubled face for a moment and he knew there was more to come. 'And the barman recalls Culven coming in on Tuesday evening. He was alone. He had a meal and left just after eight thirty.'