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Authors: Pauline Rowson
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marina manager shook his head.
Horton showed him the photograph of Johnnie that Sarah Conway had sent to his mobile phone, but the manager didn’t recognize him and neither did the other two members of staff who had also been on duty on Wednesday. It seemed likely then that Johnnie had never arrived, and perhaps the railway station security cameras and IT department would confirm that he’d never alighted from that train from London.
Heading for the station, Horton again wondered why Masefield hadn’t been given Johnnie’s mobile phone number to liaise with him in case of a problem with travel arrangements, which given the change of flights and the rail journey would have been highly likely. Was Masefield telling him the truth? Or did he simply not want to get sucked into the investigation when clearly he hadn’t been too keen on having Johnnie along in the first place? He’d ask Sophia and Andreadis if either of them had relayed the number to Masefield – something he should already have checked, he thought, annoyed with himself for not doing so. But then he couldn’t see Masefield being caught out in so simple a lie.
There was no sign of Cantelli’s car in the car park which meant he might be interviewing the guard. Horton hoped it would be with a positive result. There was also no sign of DCI Bliss’s sports car or any other senior officers’, but that was to be expected. Good. He could not only pursue his personal research but also that of Johnnie’s disappearance without the wicked witch of the north poking her beaky nose into both.
The smell of disinfectant from the cells followed him through the rear entrance to the canteen, almost putting him off any breakfast. But at least that was better than the stench of puke and piss, he thought, ordering a bacon sandwich and a coffee. He took them to a table by the window where he’d spotted PCs Kate Somerfield and Dennis Seaton. Both were keen to get into CID but with government cutbacks that seemed unlikely for a while. They showed no surprise at his appearance which, he thought, was a sad reflection on his private life rather than his dedication to duty. Swiftly, he gave them an outline of what had happened. They both looked concerned. He sent a picture of Johnnie to both their mobile phones and asked Seaton to print off copies.
‘Show them around at the Hard; ask the taxi drivers if any of them remember seeing Johnnie or picking him up as a fare.’ He didn’t expect a positive outcome because he was growing more convinced that Johnnie had never reached Portsmouth, but it was worth a try.
With his bacon sandwich and black coffee he headed for CID, where he made his way through the deserted room to his office beyond. Balancing his breakfast on a pile of files and paperwork he opened the window to let in some of the hot sultry August air and to let out the smell of food, and then fired up his computer.
He called Xander Andreadis, but his phone was on voicemail. It was what he should have expected. Andreadis might be deliberately blocking his calls, or perhaps he was sailing. Horton left a message and asked him to call back. He hoped that Harriet Eames might have more luck. He wondered how long she and Stevington had stayed drinking in the yacht club last night. It was none of his business if they had partied all night, he thought irritably, calling Sophia, but with the same result – no answer. He left another message requesting information about Johnnie’s train ticket and asked her to call him back. Then, biting into his sandwich, he was about to begin his inquiries into Antony Dormand and Rory Mortimer when his fingers froze over the keyboard.
He put down his sandwich and sat back. Picking up his pen he began to twirl it idly, his thoughts returning to Harriet Eames’ visit to his boat last night and before that the niggle he’d experienced in Cowes Police Station. The niggle began to take shape. Finally, it crystallized into a question. What was
Horton showed him the photograph of Johnnie that Sarah Conway had sent to his mobile phone, but the manager didn’t recognize him and neither did the other two members of staff who had also been on duty on Wednesday. It seemed likely then that Johnnie had never arrived, and perhaps the railway station security cameras and IT department would confirm that he’d never alighted from that train from London.
Heading for the station, Horton again wondered why Masefield hadn’t been given Johnnie’s mobile phone number to liaise with him in case of a problem with travel arrangements, which given the change of flights and the rail journey would have been highly likely. Was Masefield telling him the truth? Or did he simply not want to get sucked into the investigation when clearly he hadn’t been too keen on having Johnnie along in the first place? He’d ask Sophia and Andreadis if either of them had relayed the number to Masefield – something he should already have checked, he thought, annoyed with himself for not doing so. But then he couldn’t see Masefield being caught out in so simple a lie.
There was no sign of Cantelli’s car in the car park which meant he might be interviewing the guard. Horton hoped it would be with a positive result. There was also no sign of DCI Bliss’s sports car or any other senior officers’, but that was to be expected. Good. He could not only pursue his personal research but also that of Johnnie’s disappearance without the wicked witch of the north poking her beaky nose into both.
The smell of disinfectant from the cells followed him through the rear entrance to the canteen, almost putting him off any breakfast. But at least that was better than the stench of puke and piss, he thought, ordering a bacon sandwich and a coffee. He took them to a table by the window where he’d spotted PCs Kate Somerfield and Dennis Seaton. Both were keen to get into CID but with government cutbacks that seemed unlikely for a while. They showed no surprise at his appearance which, he thought, was a sad reflection on his private life rather than his dedication to duty. Swiftly, he gave them an outline of what had happened. They both looked concerned. He sent a picture of Johnnie to both their mobile phones and asked Seaton to print off copies.
‘Show them around at the Hard; ask the taxi drivers if any of them remember seeing Johnnie or picking him up as a fare.’ He didn’t expect a positive outcome because he was growing more convinced that Johnnie had never reached Portsmouth, but it was worth a try.
With his bacon sandwich and black coffee he headed for CID, where he made his way through the deserted room to his office beyond. Balancing his breakfast on a pile of files and paperwork he opened the window to let in some of the hot sultry August air and to let out the smell of food, and then fired up his computer.
He called Xander Andreadis, but his phone was on voicemail. It was what he should have expected. Andreadis might be deliberately blocking his calls, or perhaps he was sailing. Horton left a message and asked him to call back. He hoped that Harriet Eames might have more luck. He wondered how long she and Stevington had stayed drinking in the yacht club last night. It was none of his business if they had partied all night, he thought irritably, calling Sophia, but with the same result – no answer. He left another message requesting information about Johnnie’s train ticket and asked her to call him back. Then, biting into his sandwich, he was about to begin his inquiries into Antony Dormand and Rory Mortimer when his fingers froze over the keyboard.
He put down his sandwich and sat back. Picking up his pen he began to twirl it idly, his thoughts returning to Harriet Eames’ visit to his boat last night and before that the niggle he’d experienced in Cowes Police Station. The niggle began to take shape. Finally, it crystallized into a question. What was
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