It was late by the time Horton climbed on his bike. The fog wrapped itself around him like dirty cotton wool. Instead of heading back to the boat though he diverted down Queens Street, towards the Historic Dockyard and the harbour entrance. Oyster Quays seemed as good a place as any to eat.

  Parking and locking the Harley in the underground car park he surfaced into the plaza and turned left towards the waterfront where most of the restaurants were, picking one out at random. It was fairly quiet being a Wednesday and the fog had deterred many except the die hard partygoers and holidaymakers. Horton ate his pizza, drank his diet coke and paid his bills, then instead of returning to his bike, he struck out in the grey crepuscular world, until he came to the mall that housed Alpha One.

  It looked innocuous enough but what went on behind those closed doors? He'd have given anything to find out. He looked up and wondered if the CCTV camera had picked him out. Who sat in there screening the men as they rang the bell and gave their names to be admitted only if they were on that elite list? He had come here for more than just a meal and a drink – whoever it was would recognise him and tell Jarrett he had been there.

  He turned and made his way back to the bike. The fog closed in around him rolling off the sea and enveloping the seafront as he headed home. He could hardly see a thing in front of him. He tried to concentrate on the road ahead, squinting his eyes as though it would help him to see where he was going, but his head was full of Jarrett and Lucy and that letter from the solicitors. If he could prove his innocence would Catherine have him back? If he could just talk to her, reason with her…

  He turned into Fort Cumberland Road and as he did there was a roar of an engine behind him. His eyes flicked to his mirrors but it was too late. He wasn't prepared. The car screeched past him with a squeal of rubber and cut him up. Instinctively he swerved and as he did he felt the wheels of the Harley slipping. Desperately he tried to bring the bike under control, his heart was hammering against his ribs. He was losing it. The bike slid along the ground and he was catapulted through the air as though ejected from a canon. Through his mind flashed pictures of Emma, a child mourning the loss of her father; then Catherine's smiling face…

  He wrapped his arms around his head. As he hit the hard earth it sucked the breath from his body. He was rolling over and over, down and down. His head was knocking against the tight fitting helmet like a cocktail shaker. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the image of Jarrett's mocking face.

  CHAPTER 5

  Thursday morning

  Horton punched in the security code and entered the ugly 1970s station. He could hear someone creating in the cells. The air was blue with abuse and full of the pungent smell of disinfectant mixed with vomit and urine. He nodded at the custody clerk who looked as if he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  'Bad night?' Horton asked.

  'Yeah, as bad as yours by the looks of things.'

  Horton grimaced. 'You should see the other guy.'

  When he'd examined his face in the mirror that morning it looked as though he'd been a couple of rounds with Mike Tyson. He had a bruise the size of a tennis ball on his forehead, one on his chin and he was sure his eye was going to close up by the end of the day. His neck was so stiff that he could hardly move it, which was why he'd taken the unprecedented step of taking a taxi into work. Normally, without the bike, he would have jogged but he didn't think his equally bruised and grazed legs would stand it.

  When he'd regained consciousness he'd been lying on the shingle in about the only gap of beach that remained between the houses and the marina. It had been a miracle that he should land there. No one had come to his aid, probably because no one could see him in the fog. Slowly he had pulled himself up. Nothing broken thank goodness, but his head felt as though someone had been kicking it around a football field and his body as though it had been used as a punch bag in Colin Jarrett's gym.

  For a while he had drifted in and out of consciousness. He'd had no idea of the time; lifting his arm to check his watch would have been a major operation and crawling along the beach to locate the Harley an expedition as challenging as climbing Mount Everest in the nude. But he had to move or get wet. Groaning and grunting he edged his way along the shingle until he stumbled on the Harley. He found his phone, which was still working, and called Malcolm Hargreaves who arrived fifteen minutes later, with his pick-up truck. After sucking in his teeth at the sight of the damage to the bike, and giving him a lecture on how to ride a Harley, he had finally admitted that it wasn't that bad: some scratches on the silver chassis, a couple of dents and a smashed headlamp.

  Malcolm had offered to take him to casualty, but he had refused and eventually after a bit of arguing Malcolm dropped him at the marina with the promise that he'd have the bike 'good as new' by the following evening. Horton had eased himself down on his bunk after seeing to his battered body in the marina showers and then had slept so soundly that he hadn't woken until after nine and knew there was no point hurrying into work. He was late; another hour or so wouldn't make much difference.

  He had called into the mobile unit before heading for the station but there was little to report. He made his way to his office trying to ignore his thumping head and the curious looks and raised eyebrows of his colleagues as he went. In the CID room Walters eyed him smugly. 'Chief's been asking for you, guv,' he said with relish, obviously scenting trouble.

  'Then you'd better tell him I'm here,' Horton snapped, beckoning to Cantelli and fetching a plastic cup of water from the cooler. He closed the door with his foot. It wasn't a good idea. A pain shot up his leg causing him to groan.

  'What happened? You look bloody awful,' Cantelli said.

  'A car cut me up in the fog. I came off my bike.' It was the truth. He didn't see why he should burden Cantelli with his problems when the man looked as though he'd been up all night. 'You don't look so hot yourself.'

  'I'm all right,' Cantelli muttered uneasily, but Horton could see he wasn't. He wondered if the nephew he had helped keep out of prison was playing up again. Very little troubled Cantelli but his family were a different matter. 'Family all right, are they?' Horton saw that they weren't. 'Sit down.'

  As Cantelli obeyed, Horton pushed open the window as far as it would go, but it only let in more stifling heat and the noise of the traffic. Pulling at his tie he closed the slatted blinds and switched on the fan. 'So what's up?'

  'It's Ellen.'

  She was the eldest of Cantelli's five children; quickly Horton calculated she must be about fifteen.

  Cantelli said, 'She came home late on Tuesday night and very drunk. I laid into her a bit, you know out of relief, I guess. She had me and Charlotte almost out of our minds with worry. I grounded her for the rest of the week and the weekend and now she's not speaking to us.'

  'She'll get over it.' Then Horton frowned. He could see there was more. 'And?'

  'She lied about where she had been. Oh she doesn't know I know that. But I've checked. Sophie Mayhew told her mother she was on a sleep-over with Ellen at Jaz Cordiner's house. Sophie was out all night. Ellen was on no sleep over, so where the hell was she?'

  'She came home though and she's OK, isn't she?' Horton asked, concerned. He didn't like to see Barney worried like this. He knew how he'd feel if it was Emma. He hoped to God he'd still be able to see Emma when she was fifteen and be there for her if she needed him. He rubbed his aching head as the thought conjured up Jarrett and his accident last night. He could be mistaken but he was left with the impression of a dark saloon car and the letters PE. It wasn't much, and certainly not enough to run a vehicle check, but it was better than nothing.

  He had hoped his visit to Alpha One would stir things up and it certainly had. He hadn't expected Jarrett to take action so quickly or be so violent. He was lucky to be alive. Jarrett intended to silence him, permanently if necessary. The thought should have worried him but it didn't. It cheered him. Now all he had to do was stay alive long enough to get evidence. He brought his attention back to his mournful DS.

  'Sadie says Ellen's been crying a lot. They share a bedroom. Charlotte tells me that's fairly normal for teenage girls but it breaks my heart to think she's unhappy. If someone's hurt her I'll kill the bastard.'

  'It'll be all right, Barney. She probably just needs a bit of time.' What else could he say?

  'Yeah.' Cantelli didn't look convinced.

  'Let's get on with the case, shall we? Might keep both our minds off our personal problems.'

  'Yeah, sorry. You're right.'

  'So what's new?' Horton took a long draught of water, crushed the plastic cup with one hand and tossed it in the bin.

  'We've managed to eliminate two of the cars seen in the car park. The owners of the Mini Cooper and the Toyota have both come forward. They seem pretty genuine. The Toyota owner is a married man having an affair with his secretary. He asked us to be discreet-.'

  Horton rolled his eyes. He wished he had a pound for every time he'd heard that.

  'The Mini Cooper's owner is single but was with his girlfriend looking at the view.'

  'What view? It was foggy.'

  'I don't think that was the view he was talking about. Nothing on the dark Ford and the silver Mercedes.'

  Horton's phone rang. As he expected, it was Uckfield summoning him. He left Cantelli and headed down the corridor to the open door next to the CID main office.

  Uckfield looked up, his anger swiftly changing to surprise. 'What happened to you?'

  'Got knocked off my bike last night.'

  'Are you fit enough to be at work?' Uckfield said, concerned. He waved Horton into the seat across his desk.

  With a wince Horton eased himself down. 'I'm OK.'

  'Where did it happen? Did you see who it was? Have you talked to traffic?'

  'No. I didn't see who it was. I was too busy trying to stop myself from being killed. It was just one of those things,' Horton said curtly. There was no way he was going to tell Uckfield about his visit to Alpha One or his suspicions that Jarrett had been driving that car. He saw Uckfield's scowl but quickly he brought him up to date with their murder case. Uckfield listened, frowning, twirling his pen in his large fingers like a majorette's baton.

  'Dennings has given me a couple of addresses where caning is a speciality. I'm putting some officers on to checking it but it's a bit slender.'

  Uckfield puffed out his cheeks. 'This is just what I don't need now.'

  Horton thought the opposite. In fact he was rather grateful to their murdered man. If it hadn't been for him he would never have bumped into Jarrett at the hospital and set in motion a chain of events that, OK, could have ended up with him being killed, but could just help him get to the truth quicker than he had anticipated. Sooner or later he had planned to return to Alpha One and confront Jarrett, and the dead man had just made him do it sooner.

  Dismissed, Horton returned to his office. His head wasn't getting any better and it wasn't helped by the questions that kept swirling around it, which had little to do with the case and much to do with his past. He pushed some papers around his desk unable to concentrate and was just about to give up and check with the incident room when Cantelli poked his head round the door.

  'A Ms Frances Greywell's just phoned. She's a partner at Framptons Solicitors; says her colleague Michael Culven didn't show up for work yesterday or this morning, and he should have done. He's in the middle of an industrial tribunal case. They've tried calling his home, and his mobile, but there's no response.'

  'And?' Horton felt his pulse quicken. A thrill ran through him pricking the hairs on the back of his neck. Could this be the break they needed? 'He fits the description of our victim. Not only that, but he drives a silver Mercedes.'

  Barely containing his excitement Horton plucked his jacket from the back of his chair his headache had suddenly improved. 'Where does he live?'

  'Horsea Marina. Uniform are picking up Culven's cleaning lady now. She has a key.'

  The patrol car was already outside Culven's modern three-storied house when they arrived and a skinny young woman was pacing up and down dragging heavily on a cigarette.

  'About time,' she said, throwing the still smouldering stub into the gutter. 'I've left Darlene with a neighbour.'

  'We won't keep you long Mrs-'.

  'Miss Filey,' she corrected Horton with a toss of her long dark hair and a glare of deep brown heavily made-up eyes. She sported three ear studs up each ear lobe and one on the side of her nose. The index finger of her right hand was stained yellow with nicotine and Horton could smell the cigarette smoke on her. She could have been any age between eighteen and thirty.

  'Got in a fight beating up some poor suspect, did you?' She glared at him.

  'If you could let us in.'

  She scoffed before inserting the key in the lock and pushing back the door. She bent to retrieve the post from the mat, but Horton quickly restrained her, placing his hand on her bare arm. She looked at him with hostility before sighing pointedly and moving aside. Horton stepped in front of her and walked along the narrow passageway into the kitchen at the rear of the house. He then nodded at her to follow him, which she did with an elaborate flounce. As she stepped inside he pulled the door too behind her seeing Cantelli slip down and pick up the letters with latex-covered fingers.

  Horton could tell instantly there was no one in the house, dead or alive. Death left a place much colder than this, you could smell it, taste it, and sense it. It crept up your flesh, quickened your breath, and sent your pulse racing to cope with the first shock of meeting it. But this house was empty, just a shell.

  'How long have you cleaned for Mr Culven?' He moved to the wide patio doors, which opened onto a small courtyard garden and the marina beyond. It was stifling hot and his eyes quickly scanned the kitchen for a key to open the doors. There wasn't one visible. Culven's house, like many on this development, came complete with a berth but Culven's was empty and, from what Horton could see, there were no mooring lines lying on the ground. Culven could, of course, have taken the lines with him on his boat - if he had one - and if it hadn't conflicted with the fact that he'd hardly go sailing in the middle of one of his cases.

  Miss Filey said, 'About a year. I come in twice a week. Mondays and Thursdays. Not that it needs much cleaning. He keeps it tidy like.'

  Horton could see that. The lime oak kitchen with its shiny appliances looked as though it had come straight out of the showroom. 'Then you would have been here today.' It was a bit late for a cleaner he thought, one o'clock, but maybe she usually came in during the afternoons, or at any time to suit her.

  She looked at him suspiciously. 'Yeah, I was just on my way here when you lot showed up at my flat. Nosy bugger neighbours will think I've been nicked.'

  'We saved you the bus fare then. Did you see Mr Culven on Monday?'

  'No.'

  'So when was the last time you saw him?' Horton added, when clearly she wasn't going to be forthcoming.

  'As it happens I never sees him. Well, hardly ever. He's gone to work when I come in.'

  'How does he pay you?'

  'Leaves me money on the breakfast top there, don't he, not that it's worth the bother. Tight fisted old git, minimum wage like it or lump it. Typical bloody lawyer always telling you they're hard up and then charges you a fortune if you so much as fart in their presence.'

  Horton couldn't have put it better himself but her words served to remind him that soon he'd have to consult a lawyer. 'When does he pay you?'

  'Every Thursday like.' He saw her looking round. 'And it's not here. Well if he thinks I'm going to clean for nothing then he can think again. '

  'Miss Filey,' he called out sternly, as she was about to march out.

  She stopped, sighed and turned round. 'Now what?'

  'Was your money here last Thursday?'

  'Yeah, why shouldn't it be? Look what's this all about? He done a bunk with some old bag's money?'

  'When did you last see Mr Culven?' he asked wearily.

  'I dunno, must be about three weeks ago. He had a morning off or something.'

  'Is he married?'

  'What him?'

  'What do mean?'

  'You obviously haven't met him. If you ask me, he's one of them, you know what I mean.' She raised her eyebrows.

  'A homosexual?'

  'Yeah. Not that I've got anything against them, mind. Not if they keeps themselves to themselves but they don't, do they? They have to keep on ramming it down your throat like.'

  Cantelli, returning from his quick initial inspection upstairs, overheard the last remark, spluttered and quickly turned it into a cough. She looked at him as if he'd grown two heads. 'What's up with him?'

 

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