Authors: Pauline Rowson
‘That’s about the size of it so far,’ Horton said, as Cantelli arrived.
‘This place is like the
Mary Celeste.
I can’t find a single soul on a blessed boat. Somerfield’s had no joy either.’
Horton hadn’t really expected anything different at this time of the year. He turned to Uckfield, and, half joking, said, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve been on your boat and seen the victim?’
Uckfield snapped, ‘Of course I bloody haven’t,’ and swiftly turned to Dr Clayton. ‘Well?’
‘He’s not a very pretty sight.’
Gaye glanced up. For a moment Horton thought she was referring to the superintendent.
‘I can see that for myself,’ Uckfield retorted. ‘Was he murdered?’
‘Interesting though.’ She stood up, holding Uckfield’s glare with composure, obviously refusing to be hurried or bullied into answering. Did Uckfield know he was addressing the daughter of one of the most eminent Home Office pathologists the country had ever seen, Samuel Ryedon? Horton doubted it or Uckfield’s manner would have been sickeningly ingratiating instead of hostile.
‘Could it have been an accident?’ Uckfield pressed.
‘Not judging by the pattern of the wound and the extent of the injury to the cranium. He was struck with a heavy object, something like a hammer.’
Horton peered once again at the body. It wasn’t quite as bad the second time, though it was awful enough. But now the analytical side of his nature reasserted itself. Why had this man met with such a terrible end? Was it a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Somehow Horton doubted that. It was planned, he was sure. So what kind of person could have done this and why? He knew that people were driven to murder for all sorts of reasons: greed, jealousy, revenge, hatred, love, to name but a few. But to knock a man out and then set fire to him smacked of someone cold and calculating enough to cover his tracks by wanting to destroy the evidence. Either that or someone evil enough to take pleasure in watching another human being suffer for the sheer fun of it. Maybe their killer was a bit of both. The thought sent a cold shudder through him, making him feel both sad and sickened.
Dr Clayton pulled the blanket over the corpse. ‘I’ll do the post-mortem as soon as I get him to the mortuary.’ Turning to Horton, she added, ‘I’ll let you know the moment I have anything. I wouldn’t want to spoil the superintendent’s evening.’
Ignoring her, Uckfield addressed Horton. ‘You’d better get the divers in. Not that I expect them to find anything in the marina. Our killer wouldn’t be that stupid.’
‘You’re taking command of the case?’
‘It looks like murder to me, Inspector. And that counts as a major crime in my book,’ Uckfield replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Horton tensed at Uckfield’s sneering tone, but said casually,
‘In that case we’ll leave it to you and DI Dennings.’ He turned and walked away.
‘Not so hasty. You got a date?’ Uckfield called out angrily.
No, but you have, thought Horton. Now he’d see just how important a date it was. Come on, you bastard, ask me. Either that or get your blue-eyed boy in.
‘Andy.’
Horton halted and slowly turned, managing to stifle the smile of satisfaction both at being summoned and the use of his Christian name. He heard Uckfield snarl at Cantelli.
‘Haven’t you got anything better to do, Sergeant, than hang around on the pontoon chewing like a bloody cow?’
Cantelli raised his eyebrows and turned to engage Dr Clayton in conversation.
Drawing level, Uckfield said in a low voice, ‘Can’t you follow this through, Andy? I’ll clear it with DCI Bliss.
Dennings is off sick with this flu bug and I’ve promised Alison I’d go to this bloody dinner and dance. It’s in aid of one of her charities and she’s put a lot of effort into organizing it.’
Yes, and I expect her father, the chief constable, will also be there, Horton thought cynically, which was the real reason Uckfield needed to go. It was sucking-up time to the in-laws.
And Horton, knowing Uckfield of old, was aware Alison could go to Outer Mongolia on her own if precious daddy wasn’t anywhere on the horizon.
Uckfield continued. ‘Not much will happen on this case tonight anyway, and I know I can leave a good officer like you to kick start it.’
Horton had to bite his tongue. He felt like saying ‘If I’m that bloody good why didn’t you appoint me your DI instead of that idiot Dennings?’
‘Sergeant Cantelli and I should have been off duty about two hours ago,’ Horton said, holding Uckfield’s stare. He wanted the man to plead yet he knew that Uckfield wouldn’t.
Horton had to be content with the small victory he had scored in getting the superintendent to ask for a favour in the first instance. He saw that he had made his point and before Uckfield could answer, added, ‘I’ll call you as soon as Dr Clayton has completed the post-mortem, Steve.’ A favour didn’t warrant the use of rank, not in Horton’s eyes at least.
‘Good.’
Horton knew Uckfield couldn’t say thank you. It wasn’t in his vocabulary.
Uckfield glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll call Sergeant Trueman on my way to the dinner and ask him to start getting the major incident suite ready. Hate these bloody things, but duty calls.’
If Uckfield had any sense of duty, Horton thought, he’d cry off. He’d always known that Uckfield was ambitious but what he hadn’t realized until recently was just how ambitious.
‘Was he born grumpy or has he simply perfected the art over the years?’ Gaye Clayton said, nodding in the direction of Uckfield’s disappearing figure.
‘Must be the heavy responsibility of the job,’ Horton said, recalling a very different Uckfield of their youth.
‘And someone should tell him to lose some weight,’ she added, picking up her case and heading down the pontoon after the superintendent. ‘Not good for the heart,’ she tossed over her shoulder.
‘Not sure he’s got one,’ Horton heard Cantelli mutter.
‘Sorry about volunteering you to work on.’
‘It’s OK. I’ll call Charlotte.’
The undertakers arrived the same time as the SOCO team.
Horton addressed their head, a thin, stooping man.
‘I know you’ll dust the pontoon gate for fingerprints, Phil, but there’s been so many of us in and out of it that it’s probably useless.’ He turned to the fire investigation officer who had been keeping a discreet distance from them. ‘We’ll need your prints and those of the firefighters.’
Maidment nodded. ‘I’ll organize it and I’ll let you have my full report tomorrow.’
Cantelli came off the phone and they made their way back to the car. Somerfield let them through the crime-scene tape without a smile.
Seaton had probably warned her that he was in a bad mood.
As the last of the fire engines trundled away, Horton saw a black Mercedes sweep into the car park. Judging by the personalized number plate he reckoned it was the marina director.
Turning to Seaton, Horton said, ‘Tell him we’re not yet in a position to confirm who the victim is. He’s to go nowhere near the scene and if he kicks up a fuss tell him to speak to Superintendent Uckfield in the morning.’
That will serve him
right for ducking out.
‘Are you on duty all night?’
‘Until six, sir.’
‘Then stay here with Somerfield and make sure the scene is secure. Sergeant Cantelli will organize a relief in the morning. If you or Somerfield need to take a leak then take it in turns, the same goes for eating and drinking, but no sleeping. I’ll get Sergeant Elkins of the marine unit to get the boat towed away for forensic examination as soon as Taylor says it can be moved.’
Seaton nodded, his expression serious, but Horton could tell he was pleased at being given the responsibility.
‘He’s not a bad lad,’ Cantelli said, stretching the seat belt around him.
No, and he was a good policeman thought Horton, tilting the rear-view mirror to watch Seaton approach the casually dressed, worried-looking man climbing out of the black Mercedes. Horton wouldn’t mind having Seaton in CID when the powers that be decided to allocate him extra resources, which he hoped was soon. Having lost DC Marsden to Uckfield’s Major Crime Team, he was seriously undermanned.
At the station Cantelli went off to organize various tasks including carrying out Uckfield’s instructions to call in the divers whilst Horton headed for the CID office where he found DC Walters pummelling a computer keyboard.
‘I should have been off duty ages ago,’ Walters grumbled.
‘I’ve got a date.’
‘If she loves you she’ll wait for you. Has Guernsey come back with any information on Tom Brundall?’
‘No.’
Damn. Maybe he could hurry them up with a call to John Guilbert. ‘And the muggers?’
Walters looked up from his report. ‘Late teens, early twenties, one Caucasian, one black. They were wearing those stupid hoodies. They came at the Yank suddenly from either side of him, pushed against him, roughed him up to get his wallet, which the stupid bugger kept in a kind of handbag over his shoulder, so it didn’t take much, grabbed what they could and ran off. PC Jones says a witness saw them run into Curzon Howe Road but no one claims to have seen hide or hair of them.’
Which figured in that neighbourhood, thought Horton. ‘Have you viewed the CCTV tapes? Queens Street, wasn’t it?’
Walters looked surprised. ‘The operation control officers said there was nothing on them.’
Horton sighed wearily. ‘First rule of being a good detective, Walters, is never to believe anything anyone tells you.
Second rule is to check it out yourself. Now, finish typing up your report, leaving out the reference to the stupid bugger, and the Yank, and get off home before you get roped into this murder investigation and miss your night of bliss.’
With surprising speed, Walters applied himself once again to the keyboard. The way he was punishing it they’d need a new one by the morning.
Horton’s telephone was ringing and, reaching across his desk, he picked it up, hoping it was the Guernsey Police.
Instead it was DCI Bliss summoning him to her office. He’d noticed with dismay that her car was in the car park when Cantelli had driven in. She kept longer hours than him and that was saying something. Maybe she didn’t have much of a home to go to either.
He entered to her abrupt ‘come’ and found her glaring at him from behind her immaculately tidy desk like an angry parent whose teenage child had stayed out too long. Where on earth did she keep all her files and paperwork, Horton wondered. In front of her there was only a single piece of paper and a rather smart-looking silver pen beside it.
She didn’t ask him to sit. ‘Well?’
Sod it, he sat. He could see that it irritated her. Staring at her narrow pointed face and restless eyes, Horton swiftly brought her up to date with the mugging (his version not Walters’) and then with events at the marina, finishing by telling her that he and Sergeant Cantelli had volunteered for extra duty. He could tell by her scowling expression that she wasn’t very pleased about that and that obviously Uckfield hadn’t called her and cleared it with her as promised.
‘The superintendent will pick up the overtime bill, ma’am,’ he said, thinking that might cheer her up, but her frown deep-ened.
‘I will not have over-tired officers on my team. It leads to mistakes and sloppiness and I won’t tolerate that.’
Where were the thanks for being dedicated to the job these days? Gone the way of
Dixon of Dock Green
it seemed, as far as Bliss was concerned. Horton had spent years juggling a caseload heavy enough to take the foundations of the Empire State Building without buckling under the strain, and he had an excellent clear-up rate. He didn’t think staying on a few hours extra was going to make him fall asleep on the job tomorrow, and neither would it affect Cantelli.
He saw in her expression a determination to succeed that bordered on fanaticism. He’d seen that look before and not so long ago. It had been his own, reflected in the mirror, until Operation Extra had temporarily isolated him from the force and shown him that even when you thought you were on the inside, you weren’t. It had been a hard lesson to learn, and the consequences of it were still reverberating around both his personal and professional life. But he liked to think he was beginning to come to terms with it.
Bliss continued. ‘And I won’t have this mugging treated lightly. It’s a very serious incident, Inspector. This attack is hardly good for the city and tourism.’
Curbing his annoyance, he said, ‘I’ll get the community officers asking around the district and DC Walters is personally handling it.’
‘Keep me informed. I’ll talk to Superintendent Uckfield in the morning.’
And good luck to you, thought Horton, leaving her to scowl at the piece of paper on her desk; perhaps she was trying to intimidate it into disappearing?
‘It is murder, isn’t it?’ Trueman said when Horton reached the incident suite. ‘Because I’d hate to think I’ve stayed behind for the sheer bloody fun of it. I’ve got the number of that taxi firm by the way. They’re based in Eastleigh.’
Horton’s ears pricked up at that because Eastleigh was not far from Southampton airport and there were regular flights to and from Guernsey. Was the man in the suit who’d visited Brundall from the Channel Islands? It was a guess but Horton wouldn’t mind betting that he was right.
He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly ten o’clock. He reckoned Walters’ girlfriend would have given him up for the night by now, unless she was truly smitten and that was hard to imagine when it came to the overweight, irritating and slovenly DC. Still, there was no accounting for taste, which made him think of his estranged wife’s lover.
He reached for a telephone dialled the taxi company’s number. He let it ring for some time, drumming his fingers on the desk, before he was finally forced to accept that this particular taxi firm didn’t work all night, or even late at night, leastways not from the number Trueman had given him. Still, there was little he could do now but first thing tomorrow morning he’d head out there. Then he remembered that he wouldn’t be on the investigation.
Cantelli threw himself down into the seat opposite Horton.