Footsteps on the Shore (28 page)

‘And her reply?’

‘She thought the circle was more star like, and much too high to be associated with the deadly symbol.’

‘Well that’s a relief. Unless it means something worse?’

‘There are also two shapes either side of the cross.’

Which Horton had seen on his Harley as two small etched lines. But he hadn’t bothered to examine their shape or include them in the drawing he’d shown Cantelli because he thought the vandal was having fun scratching squiggly lines. In the drawing pinned to his yacht, the shapes were far more distinctive, something he hadn’t paid much attention to when he’d ripped it off.

‘On the left,’ Gaye said, pointing, ‘is a small letter “b” with something like a hangman’s scaffold on the top, and on the right is a small line with almost a circle adjoining it.’

‘Aren’t they just random marks?’ he asked, knowing that they obviously weren’t.

‘Perdita says not. The one on the left, the extended “b”, she believes represents, in its simplistic term, the Georgian letter “L”.’

Horton eyed her with surprise, his mind leaping with thoughts and ideas.

‘I thought that might get you excited. Now you know why I wanted you here. It ties in with what Lauder has told us about our mystery lady. And there’s more.’

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘The other symbol she thinks is the Georgian letter for “U”. Putting that together with the cross and the starlike circle at the top, Perdita believes the “L” symbolizes the word “Lion”, and the “U” stands for “Unicorn”. The Lion generally represents courage, strength and nobility and the Unicorn, purity and virtue. Perdita claims that we’re looking at a coat of arms of Kartli.’

‘Where?’

‘That’s more or less what I said, but I looked it up on the Internet, and asked Perdita. Kartli is a historical region in central eastern Georgia better known to classicists as Iberia. It used to be a separate country with its capital at Tbilisi, which is Georgia’s capital, but it’s now divided up. The Georgians living in the historical lands of Kartli are known as Kartleli. Why should someone leave
you
this note?’

‘And etch it on my Harley.’

‘My God! I wouldn’t like to be the person responsible for that when you catch him.’

Horton wondered if he ever would. But he also felt a great sense of relief that his stalker wasn’t connected with Zeus. Given that Lauder said Venetia Trotman was from Georgia, then if the author of this note was her killer why draw attention to himself? And why become his stalker? The answer came as quickly as he’d posed the question. His stalker and the anonymous caller were the same person. He hadn’t killed Venetia Trotman but wanted Horton to discover who had. And there was more. Horton’s mind was teeming with ideas. He needed to talk to Uckfield urgently, but first he asked Gaye to look up the word
Shorena.

Hastily thanking her, and asking her to pass on his gratitude to Lauder and Perdita, he hurried back to the station after promising her he’d tell her all later.

‘Over a drink,’ she called out after him.

Horton found Uckfield in the incident room along with Trueman, Dennings and Marsden. He’d anticipated an atmosphere of excitement – the news that Venetia Trotman was Georgian was a breakthrough – but what he saw, much to his surprise, was dejection and in Uckfield’s case sullen anger.

‘Why so gloomy?’ he asked in puzzlement, removing his leather jacket.

Uckfield answered him grumpily. ‘Why do you think? You’ve ruled Felton out of the investigation and we’ve got sod all else.’

‘But Lauder’s analysis of Venetia Trotman changes everything.’

‘What bloody analysis?’

Horton focused his gaze on Dennings. The idiot hadn’t told Uckfield or Trueman.

Flippantly, Dennings said, ‘Dr Clayton’s friend claims she’s from Georgia.’

‘John Lauder is a forensic anthropologist,’ Horton corrected, stiffly. Uckfield glowered at Dennings.

‘So, she’s a foreigner.’ Dennings shrugged but glared at Horton, clearly not pleased with him butting in and showing up his incompetence.

Trueman caught on instantly. ‘Your anonymous tip-off could also be someone from Georgia.’

‘Yes. And there’s more.’ Horton’s thoughts were tumbling through his head like tickets in a tombola. Quickly he told them about the symbol etched on his Harley, which drew raised eyebrows from Trueman and a ‘bloody hell’ from Uckfield. Horton then said, ‘And there’s Jay Turner.’

‘Who?’ Uckfield asked.

Excitedly, Horton said, ‘My body in the harbour turns out to be Jay Turner, who is of great interest to Commander Waverley and Superintendent Harlam of the Serious Organized Crime Agency. Turner was born in Portsmouth, and educated at the University of London where he got a degree in Modern Languages, specializing in Russian. He was last seen alive in London on the twentieth of February. He left on foot, didn’t own a car and wasn’t carrying any luggage. Cantelli discovered that Turner began working for the International Development Fund in 1996 and regularly spent three to six months working overseas, and the rest of the time he was hardly ever in London.’

Uckfield opened his mouth to speak, but Horton quickly continued. ‘We learn that Venetia Trotman originates from Georgia, and judging from the lack of any ID I wouldn’t mind betting she’s here illegally. Her husband, Joseph Trotman, bought Willow Bank in 1997 and paid all his bills in cash. Venetia told me her husband had died three months ago, but how do we know that for certain? His death hasn’t been registered because his identity is false. I wouldn’t mind betting that Joseph Trotman equals Jay Turner and that he met Venetia when he was working in Georgia.’

‘You’ve got evidence?’ Uckfield interjected sharply.

‘No. I’m assuming it because Turner worked for the International Development Fund, and spoke Russian.’

Uckfield addressed Marsden. ‘Get everything you can on this International Development Fund. Find out if they operate in Georgia and if so since when.’

‘There’s something else,’ Horton added. ‘The missing yacht is called
Shorena
. It’s a Georgian girl’s name meaning remote.’

With renewed vigour, Uckfield turned to Trueman. ‘What do you know about Georgia? Recent events not ancient bloody history.’

‘It’s complex,’ Trueman said.

Uckfield rolled his eyes. ‘Edited highlights please,’ he pleaded.

As Trueman delved into his encyclopedic memory he also tapped into his computer. ‘Georgia is in south-western Asia, bordering the Black Sea, and sharing borders with Armenia, Azerbaijan, Russia and Turkey. It’s largely a mountainous country with the Great Caucasus Mountains in the north and the Lesser Caucasus Mountains in the south. Georgia is of great strategic interest to Russia and the West, because it sits in the path of potentially lucrative oil routes. But relations with Russia are very tense. Georgia’s also featured in the Greek legend of Jason and the Argonauts—’

‘As in he of the Golden Fleece,’ interrupted Uckfield.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I hope we don’t end up with skeletons dancing all over the bloody place.’

‘It’s also got Black Sea port facilities at Poti and Batumi,’ Trueman added, ‘which are becoming increasingly important as main cargo terminals for the Caucasus and Central Asia.’

‘And for smuggling people out of the country,’ added Horton meditatively, ‘which could be the reason for Waverley’s interest.’

Uckfield said, ‘Could Jay Turner aka Joseph Trotman have been using his yacht and Willow Bank for that?’

It was possible, but Horton said, ‘I’d have thought he’d have been picked up by now if he had.’ Immigration and customs regularly patrolled the Solent. ‘But he could have another route, or varied them. Or he might be involved in something else illegal, large-scale corruption for example. Hence the Serious Organized Crime Agency’s interest.’

Uckfield sprang up and began to stalk the incident suite. Horton could see the way his mind was working; how he’d love to get one over on the men in suits from London. So would Horton, but the moment Commander Waverley got a sniff of this it would be out of even Uckfield’s hands. And Horton was rather keen to find out why the gentle, dark-haired Georgian woman had been killed, and by whom. He was also very eager to get his graffiti artist off his back.

He said, ‘If Turner did work in Georgia, then he might have been involved in taking bribes from suppliers and siphoning off money for himself from government contracts. The money could have been converted into jewellery or gold, and some of that might be what’s stashed away in that locker. And why Venetia Trotman was so desperate to keep hold of the key.’

‘So who killed her?’ asked Dennings grumpily.

‘Not my anonymous caller,’ Horton replied. ‘But he could have been inside Venetia’s house when I was there. He saw me at the house when I was there looking over the boat, and followed me to the marina where he etched that symbol on my Harley.’ And Horton knew he must be the man who had been hiding out in the derelict houseboat, and following him without being seen. A man highly experienced at covert work and survival tactics. ‘After keeping an eye on me, and seeing I wasn’t about to spirit Venetia away, he returns to Venetia to find her dead. He realizes I couldn’t have killed her, because he’d been watching me most of the night, so he calls me.’

‘How?’ asked Dennings.

‘I left a card with Venetia with my direct line number on it. It didn’t give my position or job, but he knew I was a police officer, and the only way he could have known that was because he’d followed me here. And he’s been tailing me to see who I’m going to lead him to.’

‘And how the blazes do we find him?’ exclaimed Uckfield, leaving unspoken the remainder of the sentence – without telling Waverley and his boy.

Horton said, ‘He’s still in Portsmouth, and he’ll stay here until we find her killer – or he does.’

Uckfield eyed him shrewdly.

Horton added, ‘I’ve asked Joliffe to check the fingerprints on the debris I found in the derelict boathouse with the Georgian authorities.’ Horton had called him as soon as he’d left Dr Clayton. ‘They might be able to give us a name and a photograph. I think you should also check if any motorbikes have been stolen from sea ports around Britain, excluding here – I’ve already checked, there aren’t any. He probably came into the country via a port.’

Uckfield said crisply, ‘Dennings, get on to it and chase Joliffe for those fingerprints. Go over every single bit of evidence looking for connections with Georgia and see if we can get anything from SOCO to match DNA to Jay Turner. Trueman, contact Europol and Interpol and the Georgian authorities. Marsden, when you’ve got all you can on this International Development Fund, see if you can find anyone who can confirm Jay Turner’s overseas postings without Waverley knowing. None of you are to say anything to Commander Waverley, Harlam or DCI Bliss. If we’re wrong I don’t want shit all over my face.’

Horton watched Uckfield cross to his office before turning to leave. He didn’t expect thanks, but a grunt of gratitude might have been nice. His eyes swivelled to Dennings. All he was likely to get from him, judging by his expression, was boiling fury.

Dennings followed Horton into the corridor. ‘If you think you can get me kicked off this team by showing me up then you can think again.’

‘Can I help it if you’re not up the job?’ Horton made to leave but Dennings grabbed his arm. Horton stiffened and felt his fists clench, but Dennings would love that. He held Dennings’ hot, angry eyes.

‘We’ll see who’s up to their job,’ he hissed.

Horton stared at the hand on his arm and back into Dennings’ face. Evenly he said, ‘Then you’d better do it.
If
you can.’

As Horton turned he could feel Dennings’ hate-filled eyes boring into his back. He headed for Kempton’s where he hoped he’d find Edward Shawford, otherwise he’d have to track him down at his boat or his apartment. And he still had Luke Felton to find.

TWENTY-THREE

S
hawford’s red BMW was in Kempton’s car park. Good. And so were Catherine’s and her father’s cars. Not so good. Horton hoped he wasn’t going to have to interview Shawford in front of his father-in-law and estranged wife, but as he drew to a halt the stout figure he was seeking burst through the doors. There was a thunderous expression on his flabby face and a large briefcase and cardboard box in his hands. Horton climbed off the Harley and waited for Shawford by his car.

‘What do you want now?’ Shawford rounded on him. ‘Isn’t it enough you’ve got me fired and broken up my relationship with Catherine?’

Horton could have crowed with delight. And he didn’t care if he showed it. Mission accomplished. He’d got this warped bastard out of Emma’s life. Clearly the cardboard box contained Shawford’s personal desk paraphernalia. He wondered how Catherine had managed to get rid of Shawford without revealing the reason why she wanted him out and risking an unfair dismissal claim. Perhaps Shawford had volunteered to go; he wouldn’t have wanted his sex life paraded in the newspapers.

He said, ‘You got yourself sacked.’

‘I was made redundant because of the recession,’ Shawford sneered. ‘Catherine’s taking over my role but we both know that’s a load of bollocks. You told her about those magazines.’

Horton stifled his concern at the thought of Catherine being away from Emma on business trips abroad. Who would look after his daughter? He wished it could have been him, but he knew how impractical that was, unless he gave up his job. But then she’d be at Northover boarding school. Catherine seemed to have it all worked out. Time to think of that on Saturday, when he’d be with Emma and Catherine at the school.

He said, ‘And I’ll tell others, including the vice squad, if you don’t stop pissing me about and tell me the real reason why you gave Luke a lift to Portchester Castle.’

Shawford could see that he wasn’t bluffing. Horton knew that Catherine wasn’t featured in any homemade porno videos, so the threat of the vice squad was real this time.