CHAPTER 9

He wasn't smiling an hour later when he was told there was a delay in getting the warrant to obtain Culven's client files and Frances Greywell was refusing to hand them over without one. She had to protect her firm's reputation and her client's interests, so Cantelli told him after speaking to her on the telephone. Damn, that meant they might not have access to them until Monday morning. Two whole days wasted. They may not have a warrant to extract the files but Horton had sent Walters and another DC into Framptons to question the staff and get more information on Culven now that his murder was common knowledge.

The team questioning Culven's neighbours hadn't unearthed any regular visitors to Culven's house, man or woman, except for his cleaner. Culven's sister was in New Zealand, and apart from her, Culven, it appeared, had no family and no friends.

The fingerprinting unit confirmed the prints on the pornographic magazines matched Roger Thurlow's. After briefing Uckfield, Horton handed the magazines over to Dennings and the Vice Squad to trace their origin. Horton said nothing to Uckfield about his visit to Maddox or his ideas that Thurlow and Culven were involved with Jarrett. He doubted Uckfield would appreciate it.

He felt restless. He tried to settle down to clear some of the paperwork that had been building up but couldn't, and even checking in with Trueman in the incident room didn't ease his agitation. He wanted action, or at least activity, and one that didn't involve reading and shuffling paper. Everything that could be done on the Culven case was being done so he decided to pursue the Thurlow line.

It was late afternoon when he climbed the steps to the marina office at Horsea Marina. Someone might have seen Thurlow on his boat last Friday, and the lockmaster might have seen him go out. It was worth checking. He showed his warrant card to a young woman with fair hair and a worried expression, and asked to have a word with the lockmaster to check on procedures.

'Of course,' she agreed with alacrity. 'I hope there's nothing wrong?'

'No. Just routine,' but he could see she wasn't convinced. 'Do you know the Free Spirit owned by Roger Thurlow?'

She shook her head. 'No, I haven't been here long. One of the others might know him.'

'Perhaps you could tell me where he keeps his boat?'

She reached for a file and quickly thumbing through it found the pontoon and berth number. He then asked for the security number to get on to the pontoon, which she gave him, before showing him into the lock control room.

A bulky balding man with a bird tattoo on the side of his neck was sitting in front of a large cream-coloured console with red and green buttons biting into a sandwich the size of a small loaf.

To Horton's enquiry he said, 'Are you kidding mate? You couldn't see the end of your nose on Friday evening, and if he went out in that fog then he's a bloody fool. Though a lot of them are when it comes to the water. What happened to you then, get into a fight?'

'Something like that.' Horton thought he should wear a placard saying, 'I got knocked off my bike.' He gazed across the lock at the houses directly opposite that faced on to Portchester Lake, which in turn fed into Portsmouth Harbour and the Solent. It might be worth talking to the occupants, maybe one of them had seen the Free Spirit. But it was a long shot. Too long given the poor visibility on Friday night.

'We were on free flow Friday night,' the lockmaster mumbled through a mouthful of bread and ham. 'You know what that is?'

Horton did. It meant the tide was at the right height to allow a boat to free flow through the lock without having to use the gates. 'What time was this?'

The lockmaster consulted a chart on his wall. 'Between 06.44 and 09.14 and again between 19.19 and 22.04.'

If Thurlow had taken his boat out that evening after seven thirty p.m. he wouldn't have needed to radio up. That factor, combined with the fog, would have meant he could have slipped out without anyone seeing him. But perhaps he had stayed in the marina overnight and gone out over the weekend?

'Did you see the Free Spirit at all over the weekend?'

'Can't say I did. She might have slipped through though. We only log boats out if they're vacating a berth for one or more nights.'

'Can you check,' Horton asked, squeezing the impatience from his voice.

He consulted a clipboard. 'No, mate, nothing there.'

Horton could ask Thurlow's fellow berth holders. The radio crackled into life. Below, Horton could see a sleek motorboat edging its way into the lock.

The lockmaster continued, 'Of course in this hot weather, during the day, the world and his wife are coming in and out of here like it was a motorway service station.'

Horton knew that. He recalled the days when he, Catherine and Emma had come through here on his father-in-law's yacht. No more. Roughly, he pushed the thought aside and said, 'Could you give me the free flow times for the weekend until Tuesday evening?' He didn't know what relevance it had, probably none, but he might as well have the information whilst he was here. He guessed that Thurlow had left the marina Friday night and had moored up elsewhere, perhaps five miles across the Solent on the Isle of Wight.

The lockmaster handed Horton a long thin leaflet, finished his giant sandwich and screwed the paper bag it had come in into a tight ball and tossed it into a bin in the far corner by the open door.

Horton said, 'Do you know a Michael Culven, he owns a motor cruiser called Otter?'

'Doesn't ring a bell.'

Had Culven sold it? If so there was no paperwork in his house to confirm that he had. Maybe it would be in his office.

Horton left the lock master pushing his buttons and headed back towards the boardwalk where he located the bridgehead that led to where Thurlow's boat was usually moored, punched in the security code and headed down the pontoon.

He walked steadily past the gleaming yachts and motorboats looking for occupants, but they were all deserted. He guessed that many of the boat owners would be down from London, and other parts of the country later that evening in readiness for the weekend sailing. He wondered if he'd ever be able to afford a boat that had more than just one cabin and even possibly a separate head. Uckfield had managed it but then Steve Uckfield had managed most things.

He came to a halt at the empty berth where the Free Spirit should have been, and couldn't believe his luck. He had wanted a reason to question Jarrett and he'd been given one. Opposite where the Free Spirit should have been was Jarrett's sleek motorboat. Even better, Jarrett must be on board because the cover was off. The hunch that had brought him out here when he should have been reading reports had paid off.

Now he was convinced that Thurlow was working with Jarrett and that both were involved in smuggling pornography. He didn't recall seeing Thurlow enter Alpha One though, when he and Dennings had been watching it, or Culven come to that, but then Thurlow and Culven didn't need to be members, they both had boats here. It would have been easy to transfer the pornography between them.

He made to hail Jarrett when he emerged from the cabin. Jarrett registered surprise at seeing Horton before his eyes flicked beyond him, to the car park, as if he was expecting someone.

'I could call this harassment,' Jarrett said, frowning with annoyance, as he climbed down on to the pontoon. Obviously Horton wasn't going to be invited on board.

'You could, but I call it questioning a possible witness to a murder.' That shook him.

'The body found on the beach, Wednesday morning.'

'What's that got to do with me?'

'He was your solicitor.'

Jarrett's head came up and Horton could have sworn he saw alarm in his eyes.

'Michael's been killed?'

Horton was about to say, as if you didn't know, but something stopped him. Despite what he wanted to think Jarrett looked genuinely shocked and unnerved.

'Where were you between nine and midnight Tuesday night?'

'You know where. In the bloody hospital. You saw me leaving Wednesday morning, remember?'

He did. 'Didn't you tell me you were rammed in the early hours of Wednesday morning?'

'Yeah, maybe I got the time wrong.'

'I'll check with traffic,' Horton said, reaching for his phone. 'I take it you reported the incident to the police like any good citizen.'

Jarrett looked nervous and said hastily, 'I remember now I was on my boat until eleven thirty.'

Horton suppressed a smile and slowly put his phone back in his jacket pocket. His mind was racing. Was Jarrett telling the truth? Did he have a motive for killing Culven? Yes, perhaps the same one he'd voiced to Cantelli earlier: Culven had got greedy and wanted a bigger share of the profits and Jarrett wasn't having it.

Horton remained silent and waited. Jarrett glared at him. After a moment he spat, 'No.'

He was lying about that but the traffic accident would be easy to check out. Horton didn't press it. For now. 'How well do you know Roger Thurlow?'

'Who?' It was clear to Horton that he didn't know him. He felt a stab of disappointment.

'Your neighbour.' He jerked his head in the direction of the vacant berth opposite.

Jarrett retrieved a packet of cigarettes from the top pocket of his loose fitting shirt and extracted a cigarette. 'Is that his name? I've said the odd thing to him, nice day, you going out.'

Horton watched him light up. Jarrett tossed back his head and let out a thin stream of smoke.

'Was he on his boat on Friday evening?'

'Got back from the Isle of Wight about four o'clock, why?'

'What time did you leave your boat that night?'

'Look what is all this?'

Horton remained silent.

'I don't know. I didn't look at the clock.'

Horton held Jarrett's disgruntled stare. Then almost causally he said, 'We found Thurlow's boat on the East Winner on Wednesday morning. He wasn't on board. Do you know where he is?'

'No.' Jarrett drew impatiently on his cigarette and then seeming to have got bored with it stubbed it out and flicked the butt into the water with the toe of his leather deck shoes.

'Did you see the boat go out over the weekend, or on Tuesday evening?'

'No.' Jarrett dashed a glance at his watch.

'Expecting someone?'

'No.' But Jarrett looked decidedly uncomfortable.

'Was Roger Thurlow a member of Alpha One?'

An angry flush spread up Jarrett's face. 'Sod off, Horton.'

'What about Michael Culven?'

'Go screw yourself.'

Horton marched down the pontoon feeling Jarrett's hostile glare following him. He'd unnerved Jarrett. Good. Make the bugger sweat.

The pieces didn't quite fit together yet but they would. Marsden was waiting for him when he got back.

'Thurlow's GP says he was suffering from hypertension, hence the Hypovase tablets. His last prescription was issued a fortnight ago.'

So something Mrs Thurlow would have known about. Horton cast his mind back to that first interview. Why did she lie when she said that her husband had no health problems?

'Have we got Culven's telephone records?'

'Yes, sir. I've started to go through them but there's nothing unusual as yet,' Marsden replied.

'The warrant's come in, sir, for Frampton's.'

Horton glanced at his watch. Damn. It was too late now to visit the solicitors. 'First thing tomorrow Marsden collect all Culven's client files for the last six months and bring them back here.'

'It's Saturday, sir. There won't be anyone in the office.'

'Then find someone. I want those files on my desk by noon tomorrow.' He was damned if he was going to wait around until Monday.

Marsden dismissed, Horton sat back and stretched out his legs. His back was aching from his accident. The only light in his office now was from the lamp on his desk. He could hear the duty CID officer in the main office talking quietly into the telephone.

There was little more he could do tonight but still he lingered on, pushing bits of paper around his desk, reviewing files and clearing up odds and ends, all the time his subconscious mind working away on something completely different. Finally, he could put it off no longer.

God, how his heart was going! Would Emma pick up the telephone? Would he hear his daughter's voice? And if Catherine answered what was he going to say to her? That he loved her and wanted her back? But it was ringing and ringing. Just as he was about to give up it was answered.

It was a man's voice. Horton felt his throat go dry and his body tense.

Horton slammed down the receiver so hard that he thought he'd broken the damn thing. He swore softly. Then he sprang up from his seat, pulled on his leathers and stormed out of his room, almost colliding with Marsden who jumped back alarmed.

'Not now!' Horton bellowed, as he swept through the detention area like a tornado.

He jumped on to his Harley and roared the machine into action, forgetting all about his stiff neck and bruised body. He sped out of Portsmouth like a man possessed. The great rage swept through him just as it had as a child. He didn't know how else to deal with the pain. Then he had wanted to lash out at a world that had hurt him. Now his instinct was just as strong. Catherine had abandoned him. She, like his mother, had tossed him aside like an old dress.

He raced northwards along the motorway oblivious of speed limits, oblivious of the fact that he could kill himself, weaving in and out of cars and lorries, not caring. All he cared about was getting to Emma, getting her away from that man. No other man was going to take his place with his daughter. His mother and Catherine may have betrayed him but he wouldn't let them take Emma from him; he'd die first.

Catherine's car was on the driveway. The windows at the front of the house were shut and the curtains drawn. There was no light from inside. He hammered on the door. The neighbours' blinds twitched. He hammered again.

'Catherine, I know you're in there. Let me in, damn you!'

More blinds twitched and he heard a door open somewhere to his right. Fuck them.

'Catherine! Catherine!'

A cough from his right and, 'Andy…'

Horton rounded on the small, bald headed man. Eric Smith, blast him.

'Er, they're not in.' Eric stammered.

Horton stepped forward and Eric stepped back.

'They went out about fifteen minutes ago.' He licked his lips nervously, his eyes darting about. His words penetrated Horton's fury and desperately he tried to get a hold on himself. It took all his powers of self-control. He felt a wave of sickness. 'Where?' he croaked.

'I don't know. They were dressed up.'

'They? Who was with her? Who was with my wife?' Horton stepped forward and Eric edged back onto his lawn and nearer the safety of his own front door.

'Damn it, Eric, who was she with?'

Eric looked at Horton's rigid body and clenched fists and swallowed hard. Horton saw Eric glance at his wife, Daphne, who had come out to support him, telephone in her hand ready to summon help. They'd had to once, when Catherine had thrown him out and he'd stood hammering on the door half the night. Horton took a deep breath and tried to still his thumping heart and retain his fury. Slowly he said, 'What's he look like, Eric?'

'Stocky, balding, sun-tanned. I don't know who he is.'

'What car does he drive?'

'A BMW, red, seven series. I don't know the number, honest, I've never looked.'

Bollocks, thought Horton, Eric and Daphne spent hours spying on their neighbours, they seemed to have nothing better to do with their empty lives. But he wasn't going to press him. His anger was subsiding and in its place came a rising sense of despair and even self-pity. He needed information and threatening Eric was not the way to get it.

'How long has he been going out with Catherine?' he asked, making an enormous effort at control.

'I don't know if he is.'

'About three weeks. Well, that's how long the car's been around here. Now I must go.' Eric had retreated as far as his front door but Horton had followed him. Three weeks. Long enough to get into Catherine's bed and get to know his daughter.

'Ed, I think.' And with that he slammed the door.

Horton turned, his fury spent, and climbed onto his bike. Slowly he headed back to Portsmouth. What was the bloody point? But there must be a point, there had to be. He couldn't give up now. There was still time. There must be time. But it was running out fast. Unless he got to the truth soon he would lose them both, probably forever. He headed for his boat, stopping at the shop on the corner of Fort Cumberland Road.

He lay on his bunk as the fog closed in around him and stared at the bottle of whisky he'd just bought. It had been a long time since alcohol had touched his lips and then too much had, day after day, night after night, helping him to blot out the pain of betrayal and rejection; nullifying his senses. He didn't want to feel that pain again. He wanted oblivion. Soon Emma would forget him; soon Emma would have a new daddy, soon life wouldn't be worth living. Slowly he reached out a hand. Fuck Catherine. Fuck them all. His fingers curled around the bottle and he lifted it to his lips.