Footsteps on the Shore (11 page)

Horton considered this as Cantelli eased the car through the back streets towards Crown House. After a moment he said, ‘It’s possible. In fact it’s a good idea. I want a list of every visitor to Kempton Marine for the last two weeks. They’ve got a visitors’ book in reception. We had to sign in, so see who else has. Make sure you get a copy of the entries when we go for Felton’s computer. We need to check if any of them have spoken to Felton.’

‘Just one further thought,’ Cantelli added, as he swung into the car park at the rear of Crown House. ‘Felton could have seen a position advertised on the Internet. He contacted the organization by email, they asked him to call them and when they heard what he had to say they interviewed him and snapped him up.’

‘The computer unit will tell us which sites he visited and who he emailed.’ Horton paused as he climbed out of the car and quickly scanned the area. Only two cars passed them; one with an elderly man driving and the other a woman in her twenties, neither likely to be his stalker. ‘You might have been rubbish at science but you’re a damn good sergeant.’

‘And I hope to stay that,’ Cantelli answered, as they made their way to the front entrance.

They found Harmsworth in his office. He showed no reaction to Horton’s cut and bruised face, but then that was hardly surprising given his clientele at Crown House.

‘Have you found Luke Felton?’ he said, looking up from his shabby and shambolic desk.

‘We want a word with Ronnie Rookley.’

‘You’ll be lucky. He’s not been back since after your visit yesterday.’

Horton considered this, first puzzled, then annoyed. Clearly, Rookley had done a runner. And he’d probably warned the rest of the dealers that the police were sniffing around. Horton didn’t think he was going to be flavour of the month with the drug squad.

‘We’d like a look at his room.’

‘Be my guest.’ Harmsworth reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. ‘First door on your left at the top of the second floor.’

Cantelli didn’t bother to knock. There was no need if Rookley wasn’t there, and he’d probably not have bothered even if he had been. He tried the door first before inserting the key and crashing in, shouting, ‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.’ Then he stepped back, almost colliding with Horton. ‘My God, this place stinks! Has something died in here and crawled under the bed?’

‘Well, it’s not Rookley,’ Horton answered, swiftly crossing to the empty unmade bed and peering under it. He wished he hadn’t. The smell was vile. Rookley must have forgotten where the toilet was. The room was littered with beer cans, foil containers of leftover curry and fast food which appeared to have things crawling in it. ‘He could be hiding in the wardrobe,’ Horton added, straightening up.

‘Nope,’ Cantelli replied, holding his nose between the thumb and forefinger of one hand while opening the creaking door with the other. ‘Though something unidentifiable might be.’ He took a chance and peered inside again. ‘Just filthy clothes.’

Horton gazed around at the discarded newspapers, fag packets, beer cans and whisky bottles among the soiled underpants, socks and clothes. What a contrast to Luke Felton’s pristine room and Venetia Trotman’s immaculate period house, which reminded him that he still needed to give his mobile phone to Trueman so that he could take from it a recording of the anonymous call. He couldn’t see any needles or drugs but he wanted this room searched. And he pitied the poor plods who’d have to do it.

‘Lock it up, Barney, before we throw up.’

Horton knew they could ask the occupants of Crown House if they’d seen Rookley or knew where he was, ditto Luke Felton, but they’d probably get better results talking to a brick wall.

They left Harmsworth with instructions that he call them the moment Rookley showed up. Outside Horton looked for Hans Olewbo, but there was no sign of his car or the black man, and neither could he see signs of anyone else from the drug squad. That didn’t mean they weren’t there though.

In the car, he said, ‘When you get the chance, check out Rookley’s background and see if he could have gone to ground anywhere.’

‘He might have gone to his sister’s, although, if my memory is correct, she can’t stand the sight of him.’

‘Not many can. Circulate a picture of his ugly mug to all units and get a unit to check with the bus drivers for any sightings of the scumbag catching a bus to Milton Locks last night. He shouldn’t have been difficult to spot with those shifty eyes, greasy hair and earrings. I can’t see him walking five miles across town, so you’d better get another unit checking with the taxi drivers in case Rookley was flush after dealing.’

Cantelli nodded. ‘I’ll also get someone to ask in the pub near the locks for any sightings of him or your assailant.’

Now was the time to tell Cantelli about that note left on his yacht, but Horton didn’t. Instead, recalling that Barney’s wife had worked with Luke Felton’s mother, Sonia, he said, ‘Does Charlotte remember anything about Luke Felton?’

‘I haven’t asked her. Do you want me to?’

‘Might be helpful. I’d like to know more about him and his background, other than what’s on his file.’

‘It might not be necessary if Dr Clayton confirms it’s Luke’s body she has in the mortuary. Maybe Rookley sold Luke drugs. Luke took them, staggered into the sea and drowned, and that’s why Rookley’s scarpered. He’s scared of being accused of manslaughter.’

It was possible. Hopefully later this morning they’d have more information on their body, though Horton wondered if the autopsy would be delayed because the one on Venetia Trotman would take priority.

He rubbed at a cut on the side of his face and squinted with tired eyes through the windscreen at a bright blue sky that at last had a hint of spring about it. If he discounted the graffiti artist as his assailant, along with Rookley and Luke Felton, then who else knew about his rendezvous with Rookley at the locks? There was the café proprietor, Jack Belton; he could easily have overheard their conversation. Or perhaps someone had been hiding at the back of the café. Then again Rookley could have confided in someone when he’d returned briefly to Crown House after their meeting in the café. Or perhaps Rookley had met and told this person in the cemetery. And that meant the gravediggers might have seen him. Horton reached for his mobile phone, quickly explaining his thoughts to Cantelli while punching in Walters’ number and waiting for him to answer.

‘What kept you?’

‘I was on the phone to the council parks department to find out if Rookley had any relatives buried in the cemetery like you asked, only there’s no one there until Monday.’

Which meant the gravediggers wouldn’t be working until then. Horton cursed. Then he recalled the funeral procession. Perhaps one of the mourners had seen Rookley with someone. But if the parks department was closed until Monday they wouldn’t be able to discover who was being buried without asking all the undertakers in the area, and Horton simply didn’t have the resources for that. He told Walters to get hold of any CCTV tapes in the area of the cemetery; they might get the chance to view them later to see which direction Rookley had gone after leaving the graveyard, and if he had left with anyone.

As he rang off Cantelli pulled up outside Ashley Felton’s waterfront apartment and a few minutes later a man in his early forties, wearing striped pyjama bottoms and a navy sweatshirt, and looking as though he was suffering from the mother of all hangovers, showed them into an apartment with wide windows overlooking the harbour. He punched the remote control and silenced the huge plasma television that took up the opposite wall. Horton thought, with such a spectacular view across the busy harbour who’d want to watch TV?

‘Neil told me Luke’s missing,’ Ashley Felton said with a worried frown. ‘It said on the news a body was found yesterday in the harbour.’ He gestured at the television, which was showing a local news programme. ‘Is it . . .? Are you here to tell me it’s Luke?’

Horton could see that he was genuinely concerned, which was more than his sister and brother-in-law had been.

‘We don’t have an ID yet, sir,’ he said gently.

‘Then you want me to identify him.’ Ashley Felton’s pallid face bleached. He ran a trembling hand over his unshaven chin.

‘No. It’s been in the water too long for that.’

‘God!’ He let out a breath and sank on to the sofa, reaching for a packet of cigarettes from the glass-topped table. Horton wished he wouldn’t light up; the room already stank of cigarettes and the remains of a cooked breakfast, which littered the dining table in front of the window.

Felton offered the packet across. They both refused. He’d given no indication he’d noticed Horton’s battered face, but then the man had a great deal on his mind. Horton quickly studied him. He had the same square-jawed features as his brother, only Ashley’s face was more heavily lined, and his blue eyes bloodshot.

Unzipping his sailing jacket, Horton signalled to Cantelli to start the questioning. With his pencil poised over his notebook, Cantelli said, ‘When did you last see Luke, sir?’

Felton lit up with shaking hands and inhaled deeply. Letting the smoke trickle from his nose he said, ‘Luke’s a bloody fool. You know he had a good job and the chance to make something of himself at last. But then that’s Luke for you, determined to screw up his life and anyone else’s. I tried to help him, but once he was convicted of that girl’s murder I knew that I couldn’t do anything more for him. His conviction killed my parents. They blamed themselves though they shouldn’t have done, but then you do when you have kids, don’t you? Even though you know that sometimes there’s nothing on earth you can do to prevent them making terrible mistakes. Have you got children?’

‘Four girls and one boy,’ answered Cantelli.

Ashley Felton looked shocked before he said with feeling, ‘Then you’ll know exactly what I mean. I’ve only got one. She’s twelve going on eighteen. I see her once a month. I’m divorced.’ His eyes swivelled to Horton, who was fully aware that Felton hadn’t answered Cantelli’s question. So too was Felton.

He drew heavily on his cigarette and said, ‘Olivia’s furious and upset that Luke’s been let out, and I don’t expect Natalie Raymonds’ family are ecstatic about it.’

Horton said, ‘Your brother-in-law didn’t seem too pleased either, Mr Felton.’

‘Neil is very protective of Olivia. He saw how much Luke’s crime affected her. Did you know Luke was arrested for the murder the week before Olivia’s wedding? No, well you can imagine what that did to her and my parents.’

Horton thought it certainly explained Olivia’s attitude and Danbury’s hostility.

Sniffing noisily, Ashley Felton added, ‘We’re all worried about the media picking up on it. None of us want it raked up again.’

Horton said, ‘We’re not about to broadcast it, Mr Felton, but we can’t stop other people talking to the press.’

‘No.’ Ashley shifted restlessly in his seat. ‘I’m not so worried for myself, I work in London. But Olivia and Neil are well known and respected in the local community, and you know how some people like to stir it up and revel in others’ misfortune.’

Horton did. When mud was thrown, it stuck no matter how hard you tried to clean it off with denials and even proof; sometimes it simply wasn’t enough. It certainly hadn’t been for Catherine. His eyes flicked up to the television screen where he saw the stout figure of Uckfield talking solemnly to several reporters outside the police station, obviously briefing them about the murder. Horton wondered if he had fresh evidence.

Cantelli said, ‘What do you do for a living, sir?’

‘I run a recruitment company in London.’

And clearly one that hadn’t found Luke a job. Out of curiosity Horton asked, ‘What does Mr Danbury do?’

‘He’s an accountant. He took over my father’s practice when he died in 2001.’ Felton stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Sorry, you wanted to know when I last saw Luke. It was the Friday before last, March the sixth. I’d only just arrived home from London when Luke showed up here.’

‘What time was this?’ asked Cantelli.

‘About eight thirty. I was later than usual because there’d been an accident on the A3.’

‘How did Luke know where to find you?’ asked Horton, recalling what Walters had said about Luke Felton not having any prison visitors. He didn’t know how long Ashley Felton had lived here but knew that in 1997 this building had belonged to the ferry company. It had only recently been converted into private flats. Perhaps Ashley Felton had written to his brother.

Ashley looked surprised and a little uncomfortable at the question. Sniffing and reaching again for his cigarettes, he said, ‘My ex-wife could have told him, I suppose. She lives not far from here. I bought this apartment so that I could be close to my daughter.’

Lucky you, thought Horton.

‘Or I guess Luke could have found my details through the directory of company directors. I know Olivia didn’t tell him. Luke told me about his job, but said he wasn’t getting paid until the end of the month and he needed some money until then. He wanted to move out of the place he was living and get a room for himself nearer to work.’

‘Did you believe him?’ asked Horton.

Felton studied the writing on the packet of cigarettes for a moment. When his eyes came up Horton could see the guilt. ‘No. Luke had lied too many times in the past for me to trust him. I told him to ask Kempton’s to sub him some money until the end of the month. He said they wouldn’t give him enough.’

For what? wondered Horton. Not just a room, he was betting.

‘How did he react when you refused him?’

‘He went very quiet and left.’

‘Was that normal behaviour?’

‘No.’ Ashley Felton looked uneasy. ‘Luke used to fly off the handle at the slightest thing, especially if he didn’t get his own way. I was surprised when he didn’t scream and shout at me. After he left I began to wonder if he really had changed in prison and if he was telling the truth about needing the money for a room. Now he’s missing I don’t know what to think. I feel guilty and responsible, especially if it turns out he’s that body in the harbour.’ He shook another cigarette from the packet his trembling hands had been fidgeting with. ‘And what’s worse, a part of me hopes it isn’t Luke while there’s another part that hopes it is. My God, isn’t that awful?’ He ran a hand over his face and jumped up. ‘To think he might have gone away depressed because I didn’t trust him. He told me he had reformed and I just scoffed at him. I thought he wanted money for drugs.’