A Killing Coast (2 page)

‘You’re the little boy she left behind,’ Stanley said, his sharp grey eyes studying Horton carefully.

It hadn’t been difficult for Stanley to put two and two together. Horton steeled himself. ‘Do you remember the case, sir?’ he asked evenly, pushing away the painful memories of his lonely and angry childhood, trying to sound as if he didn’t care. He was also trying not to raise his hopes that Stanley might be able to tell him something that would help him discover what had happened to Jennifer. When Stanley remained silent, Horton prompted, ‘You filed the missing person’s report and spoke to Jennifer’s neighbour, Mrs Cobden, at Jensen House. Jennifer was last seen leaving the flat at about one o’clock on the thirtieth of November 1978 wearing her best clothes and make-up, and was in good spirits. No one knows what happened to her next or where she was going, only that she didn’t turn up for work that evening at the casino. I wondered if there was anything that stuck in your mind, anything different or unusual that might help me to trace her movements.’

Horton’s mind flashed back. It hadn’t been the first time he’d been left alone at night. Often he’d come home from school, open the letterbox and pull out a piece of string with the key attached on the end, get himself a drink from the fridge and a chunk of bread and jam, sit in front of the television and go to bed alone. But he’d always wake up to find his mother there. Except on the first of December she hadn’t been. He felt the ache in the pit of his stomach as the memory haunted him.

‘It was a long time ago,’ Stanley said frowning.

But Horton wasn’t going to accept that. ‘Can you recall anything being mentioned about Jennifer’s parents? Did anyone question them?’ Horton knew the answer but he wanted to see just how much Stanley had forgotten.

‘They were dead.’

Horton saw a slight narrowing of Stanley’s eyes. The ex-copper knew Horton was testing him. Maybe Stanley could have gone higher in the ranks but perhaps, like Cantelli, he’d been happy to stay a sergeant. From what Horton had read about him, Stanley had also been brave and had earned himself the rare award of the Queen’s Gallantry Medal in 1980 when he and another officer had gone in pursuit of armed robbers and had come under intense fire.

He said, ‘Do you know how Jennifer’s parents died and when?’

‘No, but you can easily check that yourself, if you haven’t already done so.’

Horton hadn’t. He didn’t have their death certificates but he could obtain copies. And he no longer had a copy of his mother’s birth certificate, which, along with the only photograph he’d had of her, had gone up in flames when his previous yacht,
Nutmeg
, had been torched by a killer trying to scare him into dropping an investigation. It had only served to have the opposite effect. Since then he had run a check through the General Register Office but only for a record of Jennifer’s death. He hadn’t found it. That didn’t mean that she wasn’t dead though. Her body might never have been discovered; she might have died in another country. Equally she might have assumed another identity. Or her body could be lying in a mortuary somewhere unidentified, female unknown. If he allowed his DNA to be run through the database he’d have an answer to the last question but that would mean explaining why, and he wasn’t prepared to do that, yet.

He said, ‘Why weren’t her friends questioned?’

‘I spoke to the woman next door, and Jennifer’s boss, George Warner. He owned a string of amusement arcades, nightclubs and the casino at Southsea where Jennifer worked. He said she was a bubbly, good-looking woman and had started working for him early in 1977.’

And that tied with what Horton already knew.

Stanley frowned in recollection of the case. ‘There was another woman I seem to remember who said that Jennifer was seeing a man.’

‘Irene Ebury. She’s dead.’ Horton had been called to an investigation in a nursing home in January and had discovered that Irene Ebury had been a resident there, and that her belongings had mysteriously gone missing. It had brought him into contact with Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer, Head of the Intelligence Directorate, and the knowledge that Sawyer was interested in Jennifer’s disappearance because he believed she could have been linked to a master criminal the Intelligence Directorate called Zeus. Was that the man Jennifer had run away with? Sawyer seemed to think so and he wanted to enlist Horton’s help in finding him. But Horton had declined for fear of putting Emma’s life in danger, though now that Emma was at Northover School Horton hoped she was safe from nutters and villains like this Zeus was reputed to be. By visiting Stanley, Horton knew he had publicly declared his interest in finding his mother and he wondered how long it would take for the lean, silver-haired chief superintendent to approach him. Not long was his guess.

He brought his mind back to George Warner and the casino where his mother had worked. The casino was now flats and George Warner and his empire long since gone. Trying to track down and speak to anyone who might have worked there and who would remember Jennifer, or know anything about this man she might have associated with, would take for ever and probably result in zilch. It was a dead end.

Stanley said, ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but there’s not much I can tell you, and it’s all on file. No one hinted at foul play.’

‘Did you keep any of your notebooks where you might have jotted down something?’

‘No.’

Horton wasn’t sure if he believed him. It sounded like the truth and Stanley maintained eye contact, but then he had been a copper. ‘What was the word on the street, the gossip about her and her disappearance? There must have been some.’ Horton could hear the desperation in his voice and hated himself for it. When Stanley looked uncomfortable Horton wished he hadn’t asked. He braced himself to hear what others had already told him over the years.

‘There wasn’t much. She probably got bored with being trapped inside a poky flat with a kid and wanted a good time, but that was only rumour.’

‘What do
you
think happened to her?’

‘It could have been true.’

Horton eyed the former policeman closely and saw only his concerned expression, and yet he felt there was something more. Perhaps Stanley was being economical with the truth to spare his feelings. Horton knew there had been two men in his mother’s life in 1977 and that neither of them had been upstanding citizens, in fact, quite the opposite; villains to the core, and both were now dead. Jennifer’s track record of choosing lovers wasn’t exactly healthy, which made Horton consider briefly who his father was. But that was a road he certainly didn’t want to travel down.

He said, ‘Do you know what happened to her belongings?’

But Stanley shook his head.

‘You went into the flat I take it?’

Horton thought Stanley looked uneasy. ‘No. I spoke to the neighbour, to George Warner and a couple of his staff, and that was it.’

Horton wasn’t convinced. Sensing this Stanley quickly added, ‘I was a PC, told to talk to anyone who knew Jennifer Horton, and they were the only people I came up with. She didn’t seem to have any friends outside work.’

There was something in Stanley’s tone, in his manner and posture, that made Horton doubt this neatly wrapped excuse. He sensed there was more to it. Had Stanley or anyone really looked for Jennifer’s friends? It seemed not to him. The more questions Horton asked the more he seemed to generate and the fewer answers he got.

‘Why weren’t any fingerprints taken?’ If they had been then they certainly weren’t on the file.

Stanley shrugged. ‘No idea. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’

Horton decided not to press him. For now. He rose and handed Stanley a business card. ‘If you remember anything would you give me a call?’

Stanley took the card with a sense of relief, Horton thought. After a moment Stanley said, ‘I hope you find out what happened to her.’

Part of Horton hoped so too, and another part of him hoped not, but he knew that not knowing would leave him with a permanent itch that would always need scratching.

He thanked Stanley and left with an uneasy feeling gnawing at him. As he negotiated the heavy morning traffic towards Gosport Marina he knew that Stanley had lied or rather he had held something back. Why? To spare his feelings? Possibly. But if so, what had Stanley uncovered about Jennifer’s disappearance that was so awful he couldn’t tell her son?

Horton shuddered. Perhaps he didn’t want to know. But he was compelled to find out despite or perhaps because of it. Mentally he replayed the interview. Stanley had shown no curiosity about why and when Horton had become a police officer. He hadn’t even been surprised. Why? The obvious answer was because he already knew, which meant either someone had told him, or Stanley had kept an eye on him over the years, and that seemed unlikely.

Secondly, Stanley hadn’t asked him why he had chosen
now
to find his mother when he’d had years and the opportunity to do so before. Stanley hadn’t so much as uttered the words,
I expected you sooner.
Either he was remarkably lacking in curiosity – which for an ex-copper was unusual – or he knew the reason why Horton was now raking up the past. Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer must have interviewed Stanley and informed him that he might approach him. And perhaps Sawyer had left instructions with Stanley to say as little as possible and to contact him when Horton came calling. But why should he do that?

And another thing that bugged Horton, why wasn’t Stanley curious about what he would do next in his search for Jennifer? Stanley had simply said
I hope you find out what happened to her
. Did he not care or did he know that Horton would hit a brick wall? Or would someone keep Stanley informed? And there were only two people who could do that: Sawyer, or someone who knew the truth behind Jennifer’s disappearance. Was that Zeus?

Horton felt a cold shiver prick his spine as he swung into Gosport Marina and made his way to the waiting police launch on the pontoon. The sight of the glistening superyacht across the narrow stretch of Portsmouth Harbour, moored up at Oyster Quays opposite, made him shelve his concerns about Stanley and Zeus and filled him with new worries. It was the size of a small cruise ship and would act like a ruddy great beacon for all the lowlife scum of Portsmouth, and those higher up the slime, including villains from London, who would take great pleasure stripping it of its spoils, and that was even without the added attraction of a high-profile VIP charity auction and reception being held on board on Friday night, before she sailed off to the Caribbean or wherever.

‘It’s a beauty,’ Sergeant Dai Elkins said, following the direction of Horton’s gaze.

‘I prefer wind over motor,’ Horton replied, discarding his leather jacket in favour of a sailing jacket and life vest.

‘I wouldn’t send it back if it was offered me.’

Horton let his gaze travel over the four-decked cruiser as PC Ripley throttled back the launch and eased it into the busy channel. The portholes on the lower deck were probably crew accommodation, while the first and second decks with the wide windows must be the living accommodation. There was a huge flybridge, a swimming platform at the aft of the first deck and a large RIB suspended on a davit from the rear. He hoped Russell Glenn had a good security system. DC Walters would report back on that, but Horton made a mental note to liaise with Inspector Warren, Head of Territorial Operations, to make sure that extra uniformed patrols were covering the boardwalk for the next five days, with additional officers on duty Friday evening for the reception. He could hear Inspector Warren’s gripes: ‘And just where the hell am I going to get them from?’

Horton phoned Cantelli.

‘There’s been another house burglary in the Drayton area,’ Cantelli solemnly reported.

Horton cursed. That made four in the last week.

‘They’ve all got the same MO: jewellery and cash taken, no mess, no fingerprints, no noise. Owners off the premises, back door panel neatly removed and matey climbing in by using it like a giant cat flap. Bliss is going ballistic. I don’t think she appreciated it when I nicknamed him the cat burglar.’

‘Bliss hasn’t got a sense of humour,’ Horton replied. But burglary was no joke.

‘I’m reviewing all the case notes and checking criminal records to see if I can get a lead,’ added Cantelli, ‘but it looks as though this is a new one on the block.’

And something neither they nor the poor householders needed. Cantelli said that Walters had left for Russell Glenn’s superyacht.

Horton rang off and as he did something in the marina caught his attention. ‘Give me the glasses, Dai,’ he commanded.

Elkins stretched them across and Horton quickly trained them on the marina.

‘Something wrong?’

‘Just thought I saw that blue van earlier this morning.’ He’d seen
a
blue van outside Adrian Stanley’s apartment block, but then there were thousands of blue vans in the country and hundreds in the area. He tried to read the registration number but couldn’t. As the police launch headed further out into the harbour the van slipped out of his view. It couldn’t have been the same van, or if it was then it was a coincidence. But Horton was suspicious of coincidences.
If
it was the same van, had it been following him? If so, why? Bloody Zeus was the answer. Shit, he was getting paranoid. Angrily he pushed all thoughts of Zeus, DCS Sawyer and Adrian Stanley aside. Enough of the past. He had a job to do and that was to interview an elderly man about seeing a mysterious light at sea, and the sooner he did it the sooner he could get back to some real work such as catching the scumbag criminal robbing houses on his patch in Portsmouth.

TWO

‘
O
n a good day, when the light is right, you can see France, Inspector,’ Victor Hazleton declared, pointing at a telescope that Horton thought large enough to rival the one at Jodrell Bank. He wasn’t surprised Hazleton had seen lights at sea; with that thing he could probably see the Eiffel Tower.

Horton eyed the dapperly dressed little man, with his blue and yellow spotted cravat, his beige cardigan over camel-coloured slacks and his walnut face and wiry grey hair, wondering if he was senile. Admittedly his view was coloured by what WPC Claire Skinner had told him and Sergeant Elkins in the patrol car on their way here after meeting them at the small harbour of Ventnor Haven. Apparently Hazleton had a reputation for seeing smugglers and illegal immigrants at every flicker of a sea light. Over the years he’d made a hobby out of reporting these to the local police who had long since learnt to ignore him, but this time, because of Project Neptune, Hazleton’s report had landed on DCI Bliss’s desk. Did she know about Hazleton’s background? Surely the local police would have commented on it? But if she did know then why waste time and money by sending him here on a wild goose chase, thought Horton angrily. He calculated how quickly he could wrap this up and get back to CID.