Footsteps on the Shore (24 page)

Horton printed off the picture then switched off his computer. There didn’t seem any point in briefing Bliss about the developments on the Luke Felton case when she had bigger fish to fry, and talking of fish he rather fancied some, along with chips.

He bought some after an invigorating run along a blustery, chilly, dark seafront and ate them hungrily on board the yacht, mulling over the Luke Felton case. Every new piece of information they uncovered only seemed to serve up more questions than answers, and still brought them no closer to where Felton was.

Making a coffee, he took it up on deck in the hope that the fresh night air might provide inspiration, or illumination. The wind had dropped a little and the moon, moving into its last quarter, was visible through a cloud-scudding sky, throwing glimpses of silver light on the boats in the yard above the marina. His eyes flicked up to his Harley as he wondered what Dr Clayton’s contact would make of the symbol. All was quiet. Then his eyes narrowed as a dark shape detached itself from the cover of one of the boats. Horton froze. If the bastard was back and scrawling something else on his Harley he’d have him by the throat. He slammed his coffee mug down, and raced up the pontoon and into the boatyard in time to see a hooded figure moving swiftly through the hulls of the boats towards the road. As though sensing his presence, the figure turned. Horton caught the glimpse of a man’s face, and registered strength and hardness without noting details, before the figure turned back and ran towards the road.

Horton tore after him. The man glanced back before swerving to the left. Horton followed. He was gaining on him, then suddenly the figure vanished. He must have jumped down on to the shore, but when Horton drew up there was no sign of anyone, not even a ruddy seagull.

Scouring the dark horizon and remaining perfectly still, Horton strained his ears for the sound of footsteps on the shore and the crunching of shingle, but only the hum of traffic and the wind reached him.

Leaping down on to the shingle, Horton turned eastwards towards the entrance to Langstone Harbour and a row of upended tenders and rotting houseboats. With his heart pumping fast he steeled himself for an attack, his senses heightened. With bated breath he advanced gingerly until he reached the first overturned tender. Stretching out he upended it, springing back, prepared to be met with his knife-yielding graffiti artist. But there was nothing and no one. He repeated the act with the next tender and the following one, his senses so strained that he felt like a rod of steel.

The man had moved very swiftly and silently, as though he’d had practice at being unobtrusive. He couldn’t simply vanish. Horton stood stock still and listened again, but there was no sound save the gentle wash of the sea on the shore and the hammering of his heart. He walked on towards the semi-derelict hulk of an old houseboat, losing what little light he’d had from the street lights as the shore curved further away from the road. He cursed himself for not having a torch and prayed for the moon to make even the most fleeting of appearances, but the cloud had thickened and the air suddenly felt heavy with the promise of rain. He told himself it would be far more sensible to return tomorrow in daylight, but he knew the man would be gone by then.

This was foolish. But still he pressed on until he was standing beside the blackened hulk of the houseboat and could push open what was left of the rotting door. Steeling himself for a possible attack, and holding his breath, he crashed the door open with his foot and waited. Nothing. Or at least no one rushed out with a knife to kill him. But that didn’t mean no one was waiting inside.

The door fell off its tentative hinges and crashed to the floor. The silence after it was deafening. Still no movement from inside. Knowing he was a fool to continue, Horton stepped over it and into a small black interior that smelt of mud, seaweed, rotting wood and decaying filth. The houseboat was empty. Or was it? As his eyes adjusted to the dark interior he caught sight of something in the far right-hand corner. Two steps, avoiding the gaping holes in the rotting wood, took him towards it. The moon made an appearance, sending slivers of light through the gaps in the rotted wood. Horton took a tissue from his pocket and turned over food packets and tins. How long had they been here? They looked recent. Is this where the figure he’d seen was living? Was it a tramp he’d frightened off?

Horton bent to look closer and stiffened as he noted paper and something else – a black felt pen. The sound of a motorbike pulling away caught his attention; he knew this wasn’t the shelter of any tramp. It was, or rather had been, the temporary home of his graffiti artist.

NINETEEN

H
orton eased a hand around the back of his neck, trying to rid himself of a headache caused by lack of sleep, and attempted not to look as tired as he felt.

‘Rough night?’ Cantelli asked, concerned.

They were on their way to Ashley Felton’s apartment.

‘You could say that.’ Horton told him about the symbol pinned to his yacht, the hooded figure and the fact that earlier that morning he had returned to the rotting houseboat and collected up the debris, which he’d taken to the forensic lab along with the felt pen. In daylight it was clear to Horton the man had been living rough, which made him wonder how he could afford a motorbike. He’d asked Sergeant Stride to check the reports for any stolen bikes.

Cantelli listened in silence with a frown, and with repeated glances in his rear view mirror. ‘I can’t see anyone following us on a motorbike,’ he said, worried. ‘Maybe you should stay with us for a few days until we can find out who this stalker is.’

‘Thanks, but I’ll be all right.’

‘I seem to remember you saying something like that before, and you were almost fried alive.’

‘I’ll move the yacht later. It’s high tide this afternoon.’

‘Well, see that you do. Anyway, I’m glad Dr Clayton’s friend is investigating that symbol. And perhaps Joliffe and the lab will come up with a match on fingerprints.’

Horton sincerely hoped so. He changed the subject. ‘I called DCI Stuart Pritchard this morning. He was a DS on the drug squad in 1997. I did my training with him at police college. I wondered if he might remember the major players on the drug scene at the time of Natalie’s death.’

‘Does he?’

‘He was in a meeting so I left a message for him to call me. I don’t hold out much hope of it leading to anything though, because if Natalie was killed by a supplier, then it’s probably one still unknown to us. Someone clever enough to use Luke Felton and frame him for her murder and get away with it.’ He wondered if it might be the same person that Superintendent Oliver had been after. If so, then Horton wasn’t hopeful of catching him.

‘I asked Charlotte about the Feltons last night,’ Cantelli said, negotiating the heavy traffic through the city. ‘She didn’t know the Felton children, but Sonia Felton was very proud of her eldest son, Ashley, who was then something grand in management in London. And Olivia was the apple of her father’s eye.’

Which was what Lena Lockhart had told him.

Cantelli was saying, ‘She told Charlotte that Luke was difficult to reach. A quiet boy, a bit of a loner. He’d dropped out of university and didn’t seem to want to do anything. Charlotte says that Sonia and Neville Felton rowed over the best way to deal with Luke. Neville wanted to throw him out, but Sonia wouldn’t hear of it. When Luke was charged with attacking that pensioner and stealing her money while high on drugs, Sonia was mortified. She was off sick for a long time. Charlotte says Sonia blamed herself for not getting close to him, for not loving him enough. The Feltons helped him through the drug rehabilitation programme and Luke promised he’d never go back to drugs. His father got him a job somewhere, Charlotte doesn’t know where. It was after his community service anyway. I expect it was with one of his clients. When Luke was charged with killing Natalie Raymonds, they were devastated. It killed Sonia. It wasn’t her fault but Charlotte says she thought it was.’

Horton considered what Cantelli had said. It pretty much married up with what Lena Lockhart had told him about Luke, but it wasn’t the picture Ashley Felton had painted of his brother. What was it he had said? He asked Cantelli.

‘I wondered about that. Ashley Felton said that Luke had a terrible temper, that he used to fly off the handle at the smallest thing, especially if he didn’t get his own way.’

‘So who do we believe?’

‘No contest,’ Cantelli declared. ‘Charlotte wouldn’t say that if she hadn’t heard it.’

‘No, but perhaps Sonia Felton saw her middle son in a different light.’

‘That doesn’t account for what Lena Lockhart told you. Though I guess she might have seen a different Luke Felton because of prison, and Ashley Felton could have said that about Luke because he feels guilty over not helping his brother.’

And he looked more than guilt-ridden when he opened the door to them a few minutes later. Dressed in casual clothes, Ashley Felton once again led them through the small lobby into the open-plan room. The table was littered with crockery and cutlery from several meals, and among the debris were strewn papers and a laptop computer. The room stank of stale cigarette smoke and whisky, and a fug hung over it. Horton wished they could throw open a window, but Ashley Felton seemed to be allergic to fresh air – and suffering from a cold, judging by his constant sniffing.

‘I didn’t feel I could go into work not knowing where Luke was. Besides, I can work from home,’ he explained, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘Have you got some news about Luke?’ He sat down and lit up. He seemed a far cry from the confident, charming man Lena Lockhart had described.

Horton asked if Luke had talked about his drug treatment programme in prison.

Ashley Felton looked surprised. ‘We only talked briefly after Luke was released, as I told you, and he didn’t mention it then. He just asked for money to help him move out of Crown House.’

‘Did he ever confide in you that he didn’t kill Natalie Raymonds?’

Ashley Felton’s hand froze. Horton noted it was shaking slightly. ‘I don’t understand,’ he stammered. ‘What are you saying?’

‘There’s a possibility that Luke wasn’t alone that day and that the person with him could have been Natalie’s killer.’

‘But Luke confessed.’

‘We have evidence that throws new light on the case,’ Horton said, eyeing him carefully.

‘Jesus!’ Ashley Felton leapt up and stalked across the room. Horton said nothing and neither did Cantelli. After a moment he turned back to face them. He looked tortured and his voice shook as he said, ‘What evidence?’ The ash from his cigarette fell on to the wooden floor.

Horton answered. ‘Luke underwent hypnotherapy treatment while in prison and he recalled certain things about the murder. His sessions were recorded.’

‘You’ve got tapes?’

Horton thought Ashley Felton looked on the verge of collapse.

‘Where were you between Saturday midday and Monday midday, Mr Felton?’

‘Here. Why?’

Truth or a lie? Horton wasn’t sure but Ashley Felton didn’t want to look at him. Could Luke have confided in him? Could Ashley have sailed across to the Isle of Wight and stolen Lena’s tapes? Could he have killed Natalie Raymonds and framed his own brother for her death?

‘Alone?’ asked Horton.

‘Yes.’

Looking worried, Felton leaned over and stubbed his half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray. Reaching into his pocket Horton unfurled the computer photograph and laid it in front of him. Evenly he said, ‘Why did you go to Crown House on Thursday evening at eight thirty-three p.m.?’

Felton slowly straightened up and fixed his bloodshot eyes on Horton. ‘I went to see Luke, but he wasn’t there. I felt bad about refusing to help him with the money. After he’d gone I couldn’t stop thinking about it.’ He sniffed and ran a hand through his fair hair. ‘You see, I said some dreadful things about how he’d killed Mum and Dad. I really tore into him. He didn’t retaliate. He said he would never trouble me or ask me for anything ever again. I thought . . . well, I grew worried that I might have driven him to do something drastic. We were told that he had tried to kill himself in prison and I’d said something like “good riddance”. It was tormenting me. I had to see him. When I got there I felt even worse because I could understand why Luke wanted to get out of the place. But he wasn’t there. I thought that he must have managed to get a sub from Kempton’s and had found himself somewhere else to live. I wasn’t happy about not being able to see him to make it up to him but I thought that I’d get the chance at some stage. Then you showed up to tell me he was missing, and as time’s gone on and he’s not been found I thought . . . No, I know,’ he corrected, ‘that Luke must be dead. He’s killed himself.’

Horton studied him closely. Felton looked haunted by what he’d done, but was that refusing to help his brother? It was possible, but Horton could see there was more to Felton’s agitated manner than guilt. And he knew the cause of it, he’d recognized the signs: the shaking hands, bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils, agitation, talkativeness, constant sniffing. Evenly he said, ‘How long have you been addicted to cocaine?’

‘I’m not!’ Ashley Felton started. His eyes fell and he turned away.

‘Is that why you went to Crown House? Did you think Luke would know someone who could help you?’

He spun round. ‘No. I went there to apologize.’

‘Did Luke say he could get you some coke?’ Horton held Ashley’s tormented eyes.

After a moment his body slumped. He sat down heavily and reached for another cigarette. ‘No.
I
went to ask
him
if he could get me some. My supply in London’s dried up.’

And Horton knew that could only be because Ashley could no longer afford it. When they looked into his financial affairs, his guess was that Ashley Felton would be up to his eyes in debt.