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Authors: Pauline Rowson
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curtly. She turned and marched out. A few seconds later a tap came at his door and Horton beckoned Cantelli in.
‘I gather DCI Bliss is not best pleased with our efforts today,’ he said, sitting opposite Horton.
‘Mine, not yours. I can handle it.’
‘Not sure I caught the bit where you told her about Rookley?’
Horton shrugged a response. He knew if he had done so, Bliss would have insisted that uniform accompany him and that he bring Rookley in.
Cantelli continued. ‘The warrant for Felton’s computer should be with us first thing tomorrow. Matt Boynton says Luke didn’t have a mobile phone and I’ve checked with the phone company, who confirm that the payphone at Crown House has been out of order for three weeks and they’ve had no request to repair it. I’ve also done a quick search on the Internet for that symbol.’
‘And?’ For a moment Horton had forgotten all about that.
‘It doesn’t look good, Andy. The nearest resemblance I could find is the pagan symbol of death.’
Horton glanced at the sergeant in surprise.
Hastily Cantelli added, ‘I’ve only checked it on a couple of web sites. I could be wrong.’
Horton sincerely hoped so.
‘You should ask someone in the Scientific Services Department to look into it for you,’ Cantelli pressed.
‘I will,’ Horton replied, drawing a sceptical look from Cantelli before he left.
If the symbol was a death threat, then why not kill him last night when the perpetrator had the chance? A lighted match would have done it, and almost had not very long ago. He’d just managed to leap off his beloved boat Nutmeg before it had gone up in flames. He shuddered at the memory. Since then he’d been living on a yacht belonging to a friend of Sergeant Elkins of the Marine Unit. But the friend was returning from abroad at the end of April, which reminded Horton about the yacht he was hoping to buy and had viewed yesterday. The owner might be at home now. He made to call her when another thought occurred to him, one that sent cold shivers up and down his spine; obviously his graffiti artist didn’t want him dead – not yet anyway. He wanted first to torment him, like a cat playing with a mouse. Perhaps whoever was responsible was saying, ‘See what I can do to something you cherish. Next time I’ll hurt something you really love.’ Horton’s heart leapt into his throat. Emma. If that was so then he had to find this maniac urgently. But how?
The trilling of his mobile phone sliced through his thoughts. Horton saw it flash up as an anonymous caller. It might be Rookley, or someone else with information about Luke.
‘Yes?’ he answered it eagerly.
‘Willow Bank, Shore Road, Portchester,’ a foreign accent announced abruptly.
Horton started in surprise. He didn’t recognize the voice but he recognized the address. It was the home of Mrs Trotman, the woman he’d been trying to get hold of all day to tell her about the survey he’d arranged on her boat. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, puzzled, wondering if perhaps she’d changed her mind about selling it to him.
‘The lady who lives there is dead.’
Horton stared at his phone. This was a joke, it had to be, and a very sick one. Harshly, he said, ‘I don’t think this is—’
‘ Your business?’ interjected the caller with hostility, misinterpreting what Horton had been about to say. ‘Find her killer.’
The line went dead, leaving an ‘or else’ vibrating in the air.
Horton punched in Mrs Trotman’s number, drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk, recalling the gentle, dark-haired, attractive woman in her mid-thirties. No answer. Shit. Lifting his coat from the stand he hurried into the CID office.
‘Cantelli, you’re with me. Walters, send a car to Willow Bank, Shore Road, Portchester. Someone’s just reported a murder, and I hope to God he’s wrong.’
SIX
H orton stared with disbelief at the body lying on the grass of the windswept garden and felt a deep
‘I gather DCI Bliss is not best pleased with our efforts today,’ he said, sitting opposite Horton.
‘Mine, not yours. I can handle it.’
‘Not sure I caught the bit where you told her about Rookley?’
Horton shrugged a response. He knew if he had done so, Bliss would have insisted that uniform accompany him and that he bring Rookley in.
Cantelli continued. ‘The warrant for Felton’s computer should be with us first thing tomorrow. Matt Boynton says Luke didn’t have a mobile phone and I’ve checked with the phone company, who confirm that the payphone at Crown House has been out of order for three weeks and they’ve had no request to repair it. I’ve also done a quick search on the Internet for that symbol.’
‘And?’ For a moment Horton had forgotten all about that.
‘It doesn’t look good, Andy. The nearest resemblance I could find is the pagan symbol of death.’
Horton glanced at the sergeant in surprise.
Hastily Cantelli added, ‘I’ve only checked it on a couple of web sites. I could be wrong.’
Horton sincerely hoped so.
‘You should ask someone in the Scientific Services Department to look into it for you,’ Cantelli pressed.
‘I will,’ Horton replied, drawing a sceptical look from Cantelli before he left.
If the symbol was a death threat, then why not kill him last night when the perpetrator had the chance? A lighted match would have done it, and almost had not very long ago. He’d just managed to leap off his beloved boat Nutmeg before it had gone up in flames. He shuddered at the memory. Since then he’d been living on a yacht belonging to a friend of Sergeant Elkins of the Marine Unit. But the friend was returning from abroad at the end of April, which reminded Horton about the yacht he was hoping to buy and had viewed yesterday. The owner might be at home now. He made to call her when another thought occurred to him, one that sent cold shivers up and down his spine; obviously his graffiti artist didn’t want him dead – not yet anyway. He wanted first to torment him, like a cat playing with a mouse. Perhaps whoever was responsible was saying, ‘See what I can do to something you cherish. Next time I’ll hurt something you really love.’ Horton’s heart leapt into his throat. Emma. If that was so then he had to find this maniac urgently. But how?
The trilling of his mobile phone sliced through his thoughts. Horton saw it flash up as an anonymous caller. It might be Rookley, or someone else with information about Luke.
‘Yes?’ he answered it eagerly.
‘Willow Bank, Shore Road, Portchester,’ a foreign accent announced abruptly.
Horton started in surprise. He didn’t recognize the voice but he recognized the address. It was the home of Mrs Trotman, the woman he’d been trying to get hold of all day to tell her about the survey he’d arranged on her boat. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked, puzzled, wondering if perhaps she’d changed her mind about selling it to him.
‘The lady who lives there is dead.’
Horton stared at his phone. This was a joke, it had to be, and a very sick one. Harshly, he said, ‘I don’t think this is—’
‘ Your business?’ interjected the caller with hostility, misinterpreting what Horton had been about to say. ‘Find her killer.’
The line went dead, leaving an ‘or else’ vibrating in the air.
Horton punched in Mrs Trotman’s number, drumming his fingers impatiently on the desk, recalling the gentle, dark-haired, attractive woman in her mid-thirties. No answer. Shit. Lifting his coat from the stand he hurried into the CID office.
‘Cantelli, you’re with me. Walters, send a car to Willow Bank, Shore Road, Portchester. Someone’s just reported a murder, and I hope to God he’s wrong.’
SIX
H orton stared with disbelief at the body lying on the grass of the windswept garden and felt a deep
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