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 back to see Mrs Thurlow heading towards them.

  'Will this do, inspector?'

  Horton took the comb and popped it into a plastic 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 out ritual. He glanced at the photograph of a 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 suntanned, narrow face and he was smiling into camera. In his hand was what looked like a champagne glass. 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 crewmember, 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, inspector?' 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, inspector. I will be fine. I have Bellman.'

  'There is just one more thing. Does your husband have any distinguishing features or scars?'

  She shook her head. 'No.'

  Horton handed over 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 Thurlow. He was also certain that Mrs Thurlow knew more 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 blessed 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 be welcome, Horton thought as he called Uckfield.

  'Get over to the mortuary,' Uckfield snapped. 'And if Evans has regained consciousness see him too. There's a briefing at midday. Be here.'

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

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

  'Has it been unpacked?'

  'No.'

  '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, Elkins? Check out the shores around the area and the marinas. Make sure nothing is touched and that Thurlow's boat is secure.'

  'It's in the compound in the ferry port.'

  As 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 it's Thurlow then?'

  Horton didn't hesitate. 'Yes.'

  'And could she have killed him?'

  Horton thought about the body laid out on the pebbled beach, the face smashed beyond recognition. Was it a random killing? Had the killer chosen the first person he met as his victim and killed 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? Somehow he couldn't see Mrs Thurlow working herself up into a passion about anything except her fuchsias. Or was it a crime of hatred? Horton's fingers curled around the envelope in his pocket. Could he have done that to Colin Jarrett? 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.'

  'Doubt it, 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 ID; the DNA and fingerprints on the comb might give them that. First though it was the mortuary. Hardly Horton's favourite place, but then whose was it save the pathologist?

  CHAPTER 3

  'Yes, a woman could have done it if she surprised him,' Dr Gaye Clayton said in answer to Horton's question as he stared down at the body on the mortuary slab. The victim had been cleaned up but the battered face didn't look any better than when he'd seen it on the beach. He couldn't identify him from the photograph that Mrs Thurlow had supplied either. He would have defied the victim's own mother to identify him.

  'How?'

  He stepped back and turned his gaze on the small, freckled woman in front him. To say Dr Clayton had been a surprise was putting it mildly. He wasn't sure what he had expected but it wasn't someone who looked as if she'd just finished college.

  She said, 'He could have been kneeling, she came up behind him and applied a Spanish windlass.'

  'A what?' asked Cantelli, chewing his gum and studying the body with interest. Horton was always amazed that the mortuary smell never seemed to get to Cantelli.

  'A piece of material is looped around the victim's neck and then tightened with a stick, like a tourniquet. If it's done quickly enough and the victim is a relatively weak person then it's possible.'

  Cantelli said, 'Then she undressed him? Difficult undressing a dead body.'

  'Yes, but not impossible.'

  'Time of death?' asked Horton, trying to place Dr Clayton's accent. West Country? He could hear Tom, the mortuary attendant, a big, brawny auburn haired man, clattering about in the background whistling a tune from The Sound of Music.

  'There was rigor in the body and taking this into account, the air temperature and the rectal temperature I took at the scene I would say he had been dead about nine hours before he was found.'

  'Which puts it at about nine o'clock last night.' Four days since Mrs Thurlow last saw her husband on Friday.

  'Nine, ten, thereabouts,' Dr Clayton confirmed. 'Not a very pleasant experience for whoever found him.'

  'I did,' Horton bluntly announced. 'I was out running.'

  'Oh.' She gave him a look that was both assessing and curious, which made him feel as if he was lying on the slab.

  'Do you know if he was killed where I found him?'

  'There is significant bruising and scratches on his back and legs. I think he was killed not far from where you found him, inspector, then dragged up the beach most probably to prevent him from being covered by the incoming tide. He wasn't restrained. He was killed quickly. The photographer has taken some images of the marks on the body and I'll blow them up on the computer later and see what I can make of them. The forensic scientist, Jolliffe - is that his name - quiet man all teeth and glasses?'

  'That's him.' Cantelli smiled.

  'He's scraped off a layer of skin for the fingerprints and taken samples of DNA.'

  'Good, we can check that out almost immediately.'

  Jolliffe would feed his information into the National Automated Fingerprint Identification System, which would come back with a result within minutes. DNA would take longer. The sooner they lifted Thurlow's prints from the comb the better.

  'When can we have your full report, doctor?' Horton moved away, pulling off the green gown.

  'If you leave me to get on with my work, some time later today, Inspector Horton,' she answered brightly. 'Tom!' He heard her call as he left. ' We can start now. The nice policemen are just leaving.'

  Outside the mortuary Horton said, 'You didn't tell me she was like that, Barney!'

  Cantelli shrugged. 'What were you expecting?'

  'I don't know, older, stouter, uglier with a moustache…'

  Cantelli laughed. 'She knows her stuff and she can hold her own. I've seen Uckfield try to brow beat her without the slightest effect and you know what he can be like when he gets into his stride. A double decker bus couldn't stop him; if it ran over him he'd still sit up and give it a speeding fine.'

  The corridor back into the main part of the hospital smelt of cabbage and disinfectant but even that was better than the formaldehyde of the mortuary.

  'I suppose she's got used to holding her own; it's still predominantly a man's world, or so Kate Somerfield keeps telling me. She should try living in my house,' Cantelli added, dodging a woman pushing a grumbling elderly man in a wheelchair.

  'I can see she's charmed you.'

  'You've got to admit she's a hell of a lot prettier than old Gorringe was. God rest his soul.'

  'Anyone's prettier than Gorringe, even you, Cantelli. What do you think now that you've seen the body?'

  Cantelli looked thoughtful for a moment. 'It looks like Thurlow, same build, but I can't see Mrs Thurlow bashing his face in like that. Why wait until last night when she could have killed him on Friday night or over the weekend?'

  Horton agreed but he didn't have any answers yet. 'Let's go and check how Brian is.'

  Brian Evans was still unconscious. Horton had a quiet word with the constable whilst Cantelli spoke to Evans' wife, Maureen. It seemed the prognosis was good though, which was a relief.

  Snatching a glance at his watch, Horton nodded at Cantelli, who said his farewells to Maureen and Horton did the same. Soon they were outside but they hadn't gone far when Horton saw, crossing the crowded hospital car park, a slight man, wearing a brightly patterned loose fitting shirt, over long navy shorts. He was limping. Horton could only see the back of him but there was no mistaking who he was. His heart skipped a beat. At first he thought it was an illusion conjured up by his anxieties but no, walking steadily towards a blue Mercedes, was the owner of Alpha One and the man who had ruined his life: Colin Jarrett.

  'Be back in a tick, Barney. Wait for me by the car.'

  'Andy…'

  But Horton was already half way across the car park.

  'Not ill, are you, Mr Jarrett?' he said coolly, stalling him before he could climb into the car. He could see a blonde woman of about thirty five sitting inside.

  Jarrett spun round; his arm in a sling and a plaster across his bruised forehead. A range of expressions crossed his pinched face starting with shock, progressing to puzzlement and ending with anger. He looked as if he was about to explode. His neck muscles bunched and his bloodshot green-grey eyes narrowed with hatred. 'What the bloody hell do you want?'

  You, trussed up like a turkey and served up for dinner, Horton thought, staring at the sharp featured man in his mid forties. He had all the trappings of wealth: the clothes, the car, the blonde well spoken wife, the boys at the Grammar School and a large house on Portsdown Hill, overlooking the city, but he couldn't disguise the fact that he'd come up the hard way, a boy from the streets of Portsmouth. His accent was too pronounced, his taste too ostentatious and his eyes too wary. 'Just enquiring after your health,' is what he actually said.

  'Bollocks.'

  'What happened to you? One of your customers get fed up with paying his exorbitant membership fee and gave you a going over? I almost envy him.'

  'What would you know about our fees?' Jarrett snarled. 'You wouldn't be able to afford a week's rate never mind a year. We're selective about who we let in to Alpha One.'

  'So I've heard.'

  'And what's that supposed to mean?'

  'Whatever you want it to mean.' Horton shrugged as if he didn't much care anyway.

  Jarrett fingered the large plaster. 'If you must know some little toe rag in a stolen Range Rover rammed me at the traffic lights at Horsea Marina, early hours of this morning.'

  'Tch, tch, how very distressing for you.'

  'Yes it was,' Jarrett snapped, his unshaven face flushing. 'And if you lot got your finger out and stopped harassing innocent men and started chasing some real criminals you might actually catch him.'

  'Harassing? Who's harassing? Can't be me because, one, I'm not in the business of harassing and, two, you're not innocent.'

  Jarrett let out a heavy sigh and rolled his tired eyes. 'Here we go again. You won't let up, will you?'

  Horton stepped closer. 'No, I won't. Not until I find Lucy Richardson and get to the truth.' He could smell garlic on Jarrett's breath and the sweat from his unwashed body.

  'Then you'll end up being chucked out of CID, pounding the beat; or picking up your dole money. Take your pick,' Jarrett quipped.

  Horton wanted to ram his fist into his face and wipe the mocking smirk from it. It took a supreme effort not to react. It was exactly what Jarrett wanted and if he couldn't pass this first test then he could indeed kiss goodbye to the job and any chance of finding out exactly what was going on at Alpha One.

  'I run a perfectly legitimate business,' Jarrett continued. 'I've got nothing to hide and the sooner you get that into your thick skull the better. Lucy was just employed by me like any other girl. I have no idea why she decided to go squawking about you unless of course it was true and, like they say, there's no smoke without fire.' Jarrett opened the car door but before he could step inside Horton grabbed hold of it preventing him. Jarrett flinched. It was a small victory but it would do for starters. He wanted to scare this man so shitless that he would have no option other than to come after him. When he did he'd be waiting.

  'I'm a very patient man, Jarrett. I don't care how long it takes, but I will find out what is going on in Alpha One.'

  'Then you'll have a bloody long wait.' Jarrett's eyes flashed with anger.

  'For heaven's sake, Colin, get in,' the woman inside called out irritably.

  Jarrett hesitated fractionally, then climbed in and slammed the door with a clunk. Horton stepped back as the Mercedes sped past him, already Jarrett had his mobile phone pressed to his ear with his free hand.

  Horton grinned to himself as he made his way back to the car where Cantelli, jacketless and chewing gum, was waiting for him.

  'Well?'

  'Well what? I just enquired after his health.'

  Cantelli climbed in the car and Horton followed suit. Cantelli turned to Horton with a troubled expression on his face. 'He's got powerful friends, Andy.'

  He knew that. For a while he and Dennings, from the Vice Squad, had watched Alpha One from the vacant office opposite. They'd seen a prominent councillor enter it as well as one or two respected solicitors and well-known businessmen, and as far as he was aware there was nothing on any of them. He couldn't question them because they'd go squealing to Superintendent Reine, and they would warn Jarrett. It would also be the same with the staff. That left him with two courses of action: one to ride Jarrett as hard as he dared without getting kicked out of the police service, until he forced Jarrett's hand in some way, and the second was to find Lucy and get her to tell him the truth. But where was she?

  On his return to work yesterday, he had checked criminal records. Nothing. She hadn't been picked up on any charges in the last two months since her disappearance. Then he had checked to see if she was claiming social security anywhere; she wasn't. So she had either been paid well to lie about him and was living off the proceeds, or she was holding down a job. If she was, then it was a black economy job because the Inland Revenue had no record of her paying any tax. His guess was that Lucy could afford not to work for some time but when the money ran out what then? She'd be back and he'd be waiting, ready. She'd show up again if only to ask for more money from the man who had paid her to lie. And he knew who that was despite all his protestations of innocence: Colin bloody Jarrett. 'I can't leave it, Barney,' he said quietly. 'Revenge can be a cruel master.'

 

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