Deadly Waters (24 page)

Gesturing Elkins to the aft, Ripley at the bow and Cantelli amidships, with his heart beating fast and furious, Horton climbed carefully into the cockpit. The large glass door leading into the cabin was open. There was no sign of Boston, but he wouldn’t fail to feel the boat rock to Horton’s tread.

Horton waited to be hailed, but no one stirred. The hatch was open. He could see no shadows and there was no sign of any movement. There was a coffee cup on the table to Horton’s left and a used plate in the small sink to his right.

A kettle was on the hob next to it. Horton tensed. He felt the boat move gently as someone came on board behind him.

It was Cantelli.

‘Police. It’s over, Boston. We know all about the robberies,’

Horton shouted.

Silence greeted him. Horton tensed.

‘We’re coming down.’ He heard Cantelli suck in his breath, and knew what he was thinking. He hoped Boston wasn’t waiting with a knife or even a gun in his hand.

He wasn’t. In fact Boston wasn’t waiting at all.

‘Empty,’ Horton called up, disappointed.

‘Must have got wind we were after him,’ Cantelli said.

Horton frowned, puzzled. ‘If he’s gone, why not take his car?’ Elkins had told him it was in the marina car park.

Horton gazed around the interior. There wasn’t much to see, just one main cabin and a cubicle with a toilet and washbasin. The boat wasn’t designed for a long stay away; it was more suited for one day or weekend fishing excursions. Ideal for Boston who just needed a boat with a powerful engine that could get him across to Guernsey, Jersey or France so that he could pass on his stolen antiques. There was a navy blue holdall on the bunk. Delving into it Horton retrieved a passport. ‘He won’t get far without this.’

‘Perhaps he’s got another one.’

Cantelli could be right. Horton opened it. ‘This is in the name of Timothy Boston; perhaps he also has a passport in the name of Tim Mellows. Come on, there’s nothing here for us.’

Horton climbed back on deck. ‘Elkins, keep watch for him and call for back-up the moment he shows. I’ll keep a unit watching his car. Let’s get out of this bloody awful weather.’

He climbed off the boat, and Cantelli followed suit. Horton gazed across the harbour to Oyster Quays wondering where Boston had gone. The boat was well secured. The deck was dirty and the marina manager had confirmed it had been taken out that morning and had not long returned. If Boston had been warned that the police were on his trail then why come back here? Why return to Portsmouth at all? Why not take his passport and his car and drive to the airport?

Irritation mingled with his frustration. Once again they were going round that sodding mulberry bush. He glanced down as he made to turn away and a movement in the water caught his eye. He could have sworn he had seen something in the murky depths swirling around the edge of the pontoon. Yes, there it was again. It looked like an old piece of rag except it was too large for that. His heart leapt into his throat.

‘The boat hook,’ he commanded sharply.

Ripley grabbed it from Boston’s boat and handed it to Horton.

‘What is it?’ Cantelli asked, leaning over and looking into the black pool of swirling water.

‘There’s something caught under the pontoon.’ Horton threw himself on to the wet wooden decking, and with the rain beating down upon him, twisted his body round so that he could stretch the pole under the pontoon. ‘Yes, here it is,’ he grunted, as he got a hook on something. ‘It’s heavy. Ripley, Elkins, give me a hand. Cantelli, stay there.’

‘Sod that.’ Cantelli threw himself down beside Horton and stuck his arms in the water. ‘Shit. It’s freezing.’

‘What do expect in October?’ Horton replied through gritted teeth.

Elkins, with another pole, had come up beside them. ‘I’ll push it from the other side of the pontoon,’ he shouted above the roar of the wind.

‘It’s probably a dead dog.’

‘Sarge!’ Ripley shouted indignantly at Cantelli’s remark.

But Horton didn’t think it was a dead animal. His heart hammered and a cold sweat trickled off his brow. He plunged his arms deeper into the icy-cold water.

Gradually with Elkins prodding from one end and him pulling from the other, and with Cantelli’s assistance, they managed to dislodge it.

‘Christ, it’s a body!’ cried Cantelli, almost losing his grip.

Yes, thought Horton, his heart beat quickening. Had Boston done it again? Was this victim number three?

He struggled to keep hold of the body. A boat came into the marina cutting through the water and causing a wash.

The body rolled over. Behind him Horton heard Elkins swear, and an intake of breath from Cantelli. He himself was numb with shock. The face that stared up at him was no longer clean-cut, eager-eyed and handsome, but Horton recognized it nevertheless. He was looking at the bloated face of Timothy Boston.

Wednesday: 7.30 a.m.

After snatching a few hours’sleep Horton headed into work along the seafront. The area around Boston’s boat had been sealed off and Boston’s body had been removed to the mortuary. Temporary arc lights had been erected overnight and under their glare Phil Taylor and his scene of crime officers had quietly and painstakingly gone about their work.

When Horton had left there in the early hours of the morning no evidence had been discovered to indicate how Boston had died, and his body hadn’t borne any obvious marks of death, such as stabbing or shooting. It looked as though he had slipped, fallen in and drowned.

Dr Clayton had been called out to examine the body after Price had certified him dead. She couldn’t say how Boston had been killed, not until she had him undressed on the mortuary slab and had conducted the post-mortem. Horton smiled to himself at the memory of Uckfield trying to bully her into

‘making an educated guess’. Her frosty reply had been, ‘I’m a scientist not a clairvoyant. But if you would rather use the services of Mystic Meg, please go ahead. I’m sure she’ll be a lot cheaper and quicker; she might even throw in a horoscope or two.’

Uckfield had grunted and, after Gaye had left them, said,

‘Touchy, isn’t she?’

No one replied. Horton was very interested to see what the results of the post-mortem would bring, especially as Uckfield had expressed two opinions as to the cause of death. The first was that Boston, having killed Jessica Langley and Tom Edney, had been overcome with remorse and had decided to end his life by drowning himself – Horton had asked why wait until he’d moored up when he could have thrown himself overboard anywhere in the Solent? And as far as Horton could see, he didn’t think Boston was the type to suffer from remorse.

The second of Uckfield’s theories was that Boston had killed Langley and Edney, had gone on a jaunt to flog his stolen antiques, and on his return had slipped on the pontoon and fallen into the water. With no buoyancy aid he’d got sucked under, his clothes had caught on something and that was it.

It was convenient. Too bloody convenient, thought Horton.

He pulled into a parking bay by the Pitch and Putt and stared out to sea. It was still dark, but the morning had a fresh, crisp feel about it. There was a lull in the wind, but yesterday’s gales had left a swollen sea and large waves crashed on to the pebbled beach and exploded in a foaming white mass.

He thought back to his conversation with Uckfield last night.

They was no evidence yet that Boston was their antiques thief, but Horton instinctively felt he was. Later that day, and in the days to come, they would go through Boston’s affairs with a comb so fine that not even a nit could get through. In the meantime, however, Uckfield had adopted the idea that Horton had originally espoused that Langley had recognized Boston when he was on one of his antiques raids. He’d lured her to his boat at Sparkes Yacht Harbour, punched her, and then suffocated her. He’d placed her on the mulberry, adding the little touch with the money and honey for good measure. After which he’d taken his boat back to Gosport Marina. After Langley’s death Edney put two and two together. He had confronted Boston and as a result had to die.

It sounded plausible enough, yet for Horton there were still too many loose ends. Such as why had Boston bothered to put on his drunken act,
if
he was the drunk? Why had he shopped Mickey Johnson and the athletic youth, or set them up in the first place,
if
he was the mastermind behind the robberies? Where were Jessica Langley’s foul weather clothes: the leggings and jacket she was wearing in the photograph?

And where were her laptop, briefcase, jacket and mobile phone? Which brought him to another question – what did the note found in Langley’s pocket have to do with her murder?

Uckfield had said, ‘It doesn’t figure in the case at all. She just picked up a piece of paper and absentmindedly stuffed it in her trouser pocket.’

Horton had disagreed. Why would Langley do that? And why had Boston (if he was the killer) stripped her of all other means of identification, but left that note in her trouser pocket?

Uckfield clearly wasn’t interested. He wanted the case wound up.

Horton watched the thin wafers of little black clouds drift in an otherwise clear sky that was growing red with the rising sun. He thought of the weather prophecy: ‘Red sky in the morning shepherds’ warning.’ Well, there weren’t any shepherds in Portsmouth anymore, but he’d heed their advice he thought, as he throttled back the Harley and headed for the station. By evening it could be blowing a gale and pouring with rain. October was as unpredictable as March, or April; or, come to that, as any month of the year in Britain. Still, the weather was the least of his concerns. Boston’s death was top of the list and despite what Uckfield said, Horton wanted those questions answered.

He asked Marsden to speed up the checks on Morville’s background. He was sure there was still something that Morville wasn’t telling them. And, although he wanted to bring Morville in for questioning, he curbed his impatience and decided to wait until Marsden came up with more information.

Horton returned to his office with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. The sounds of the main CID office filtered through to him even though his door was closed: the ringing telephone, the hum of computers, Walters talking to Kate Somerfield . . . All night he had thought through the case, but he still had more questions than answers. One in particular was bugging him: why had Boston set up Mickey Johnson and his mate and therefore exposed himself to the risk of being caught?

It was time to shake Mickey Johnson’s tree and see what fell out. And they might get some conclusive evidence that Boston was the mastermind behind the thefts. With Cantelli, he headed for a small terraced house in Fratton where, after several stout knocks, the door was eventually opened by a skinny, dark-haired woman in her early thirties wearing a tight pair of faded jeans, a body hugging T-shirt, and balancing a crying, food-smeared baby on her bony hip with an equally grubby child clutching her leg.

‘Hello, Janey,’ Horton greeted Johnson’s partner. ‘I see Mickey’s been keeping you busy since we last met. Is lover boy awake?’

‘Mickey, it’s the filth. Get your lazy arse down here and see what the buggers want,’ she bellowed up the stairs, which were directly behind her.

Cantelli put a finger in his ear and waggled it, wincing.

The toddler increased the volume of his screaming. Turning, she swore vehemently at him, then dragging him down the passageway, she stomped into a room on her left and slammed the door on them.

‘Poor little blighters,’ Cantelli said sorrowfully.

Horton was inclined to agree. In about eight to ten years they’d probably be hauling them up before the juvenile court.

Mickey appeared at the top of the stairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘I’m on bail,’ he grunted.

Horton stared up at the scrawny man with his tousled ginger hair sticking up in tufts from his narrow head. He was wearing grey boxer shorts and Horton thought he detected the emblem of Pompey Football Club on his grubby T-shirt, but he wouldn’t swear to it.

‘Get your clothes on, Mickey. You’re coming with us.’

‘No I bleeding ain’t.’

Horton sprang up the stairs. He thrust his face close to Mickey’s, disguising his disgust at the smell from his unwashed and sleep-fogged body, and said quietly, ‘Would you like me to put you in an arm lock and drag you out on the streets like that?’

‘You can’t arrest me. I ain’t done nothing!’

‘Tell him, Sergeant.’

They’d worked out their plan in the car on the way there.

Now Cantelli intoned, ‘Last night, the body of a man was found in Gosport Marina. We believe it to be the man who masterminded the robbery that you committed. Where were you between five p.m. and midnight?’

‘Hang on, what you accusing me of? Shut those brats up.’ He roared down the stairs, as the crying rose to a crescendo.

‘Dress,’ ordered Horton.

‘I didn’t even know the guy.’

Horton reached out an arm to grab Johnson but he sprang back up a couple of stairs and in the process slipped. Crouched on his backside he stared up at Horton. ‘I was in the Shearer Arms – you can check – and then I was here.’

‘I’m sure your mates will vouch for you, even if you weren’t there. And no doubt Janey will swear blind you were tucked up in bed with her, when in reality you were killing the man who set you up, not to mention the head teacher of the Sir Wilberforce Cutler school.’ He thought he’d throw that one in for good measure. ‘I don’t think any clever brief is going to get you off that, or get you bail,’ he bluffed. ‘You’re looking at a long stretch, Mickey.’

‘I swear I didn’t even know who he was. I never spoke to him, Wayne did.’

His threats had paid off. He’d finally loosened Mickey’s tongue. ‘Wayne?’

‘The bloke that I did the job with. The one you let get away.

Wayne Goodall, number thirty-six Wilmslow Gardens.’

‘Did you get that, Sergeant?’ Horton tossed over his shoulder.

‘Yeah. I should have guessed. Wayne can run like the wind.’

Horton said, ‘Get dressed, Mickey. We’ll send a car to collect you.’