Footsteps on the Shore (3 page)

Hastily he turned his mind back to Luke Felton. Trips down his miserable memory lane he could do in his own time. He wondered how Luke Felton had got into drugs, and why. Was it for the experience? Had it started in a small way and he’d got addicted to harder stuff? Or had he been influenced by the wrong crowd, jeered and goaded into experimenting, and hadn’t wanted to lose face? Whatever had happened, it had made him desperate and violent, and an innocent woman had lost her life.

‘Does Felton talk about his crime?’ he asked, turning back to Harmsworth.

‘No, and I didn’t ask. That’s not my job.’

What is, wondered Horton. As if reading his mind, Harmsworth added defensively, ‘I’m here to make sure the place doesn’t get trashed.’

‘A caretaker then,’ Horton said, but his sarcasm was lost on Harmsworth. ‘Is anything of Felton’s missing? Clothes, mobile phone?’

Harmsworth shrugged his fat shoulders.

‘Does Felton have a mobile phone?’ If it had GPS then it could pinpoint where he was.

‘I’ve not seen him with one.’

That didn’t necessarily mean he didn’t have one. ‘What was Felton wearing when you last saw him?’

Harmsworth’s face screwed up in the effort to recall. ‘Green cargoes, trainers, a T-shirt – grey I think – and a navy blue jacket.’

Horton jotted this down and said, ‘We’re waiting for a recent photograph of Felton from his probation officer, do you have one?’

‘On the computer.’

Harmsworth locked the door and handed Horton the key. If Luke returned then he’d have his own key, and if he didn’t then Horton didn’t want any Tyler, Wayne or Dwayne wandering in and helping themselves to what there was of Luke Felton’s meagre possessions.

He followed Harmsworth to his office on the ground floor at the front of the building in time to see the back of a slight, scruffily dressed man with greasy black hair scuttle out of the door. He’d know that shambling shifty figure anywhere: Ronnie Rookley. Through Harmsworth’s office window Horton watched Rookley dash across the road and dive into a dirty café opposite.

Turning back, Horton asked Harmsworth if Felton had used the payphone he’d seen in the hall.

‘It’s been out of order for three weeks. And he hasn’t used my office phone.’ Harmsworth eased his bulk into the swivel chair behind his desk in the corner of the shabby office and tapped into his computer. A minute later Horton was staring at a printed picture of Luke Felton. He saw a man in his late thirties with fair cropped hair, a square-jawed open face, and blue eyes that held no fear or wariness but weren’t cockily confident either. Horton thought back to the Luke Felton he’d seen in September 1997, then he had looked much the same as any other junkie: dirty, dishevelled, unshaven, pale-skinned and spotty, but with blood on his clothes – blood which had turned out to be Natalie Raymonds’.

Cantelli sauntered in. ‘Yarland claims he hasn’t seen Felton since Monday night and then only in passing. He has no idea why he’s missing. I spoke to a couple of others who didn’t even seem to know who Felton was, let alone when they last saw him.’

That didn’t surprise Horton. In this kind of place, and with these kinds of men, they’d meet a wall of silence. It probably wasn’t even worth sending officers to question them.

With instructions to Harmsworth to call them if Luke Felton showed up, Horton gestured to Cantelli to follow him. Stepping out of Crown House by the front entrance, Horton handed Cantelli the photograph of Felton. Then, nodding at the café opposite, he said, ‘I’m hungry.’

Cantelli eyed it, horrified. ‘We’ll get food poisoning.’

‘Better stick to coffee and conversation then, though it’s more likely to be expletives and grunts. Recognize that disgusting figure?’ Horton asked, as they dodged through the traffic and stood outside the café.

The slight man at the counter turned, saw them, started nervously and dived for the door, but Horton reached it first. As he pushed it open Cantelli muttered, ‘Thought I could smell manure in Crown House.’

‘When did they let you out, Ronnie?’ Horton said loudly, blocking the man’s exit, and forcing him to slide into a chair at a table close to the door. Cantelli crossed to the big balding man behind the counter, who was eyeing them like a bouncer in a night club looking for a reason to eject them and not much caring how trivial it might be. Breathing could be enough, thought Horton.

‘Keep your voice down, can’t you?’ the small man with the pock-marked skin muttered, glancing over his shoulder.

‘Ronnie, we’re the only sad bastards in here!’ Horton eyed the heavily tattooed man in his mid-fifties, sporting more earrings than a jeweller’s window, sitting beside him. He wondered what criminal activity Rookley was plotting this time, because knowing him of old he wasn’t in here for his health.

‘There’s him.’ Rookley jerked his head in the direction of big belly man. Horton studied the hard-featured face behind the counter. Horton didn’t know him but maybe Cantelli did.

‘Who is he?’

‘Jack.’

‘Jack who?’

‘How the fuck should I know?’

‘Because you’re a crook, a thief, a liar and used to dealing with the low-life scum of Portsmouth. And you were talking to him about five seconds ago. I could see you through the window.’

‘I was ordering a drink.’

Horton eyed the empty table in front of them. ‘Didn’t realize it was table service,’ he said sarcastically. ‘So what were you doing at Crown House?’

‘I live there.’

‘Since when?’

Rookley shifted his scrawny figure. ‘October. I’m out on licence. Got a year of my sentence left and I don’t want nothing to bugger it up and go back inside.’

‘Did you hear that, Sergeant?’ Horton boomed, causing Rookley to flinch. ‘Ronnie’s out on licence and reformed.’

‘That just goes to show miracles can happen,’ replied Cantelli, placing three chipped mugs on the table, one of which he pushed towards Rookley. Rookley peered at the dark brown liquid as if it were poison. Cantelli said, ‘They’re out of Earl Grey.’ He pulled up a seat to the right of Rookley, blocking his other exit route.

Rookley shot a nervous look at the balding proprietor.

Horton thought, if he’s that scared of him why come here? ‘Luke Felton,’ he said abruptly.

‘Who?’

‘Don’t give me that crap. You live in the same building.’

‘So what?’

‘Where is he?’

Rookley shrugged his narrow shoulders. ‘In bed?’

‘He’s missing.’

Rookley sniffed and relinquished eye contact. ‘So?’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Dunno.’

But Horton knew Rookley was lying. Rookley’s eyes scanned the café and then focused on the window facing the street. Horton saw him stiffen. Following the direction of his gaze, he saw a tall black man lounging against the lamp post on the corner of a narrow street outside the council’s housing office; his head was shaking in rhythm to the music that was plugged into his ears, a baseball cap was rammed low over his brow and his hands were thrust deep into the pockets of a large black leather bomber jacket.

Rookley quickly buried his face in the mug and swallowed a mouthful of tea before pulling a face. Horton didn’t blame him. It smelt like shit and looked like something that had come from the sewage farm at Bedhampton. Horton valued his throat and stomach too highly to drink the coffee that Cantelli had bought him, and the sergeant hadn’t attempted to lift his cracked mug to his lips.

‘We were talking about Luke Felton,’ pressed Horton.

‘I’ve got to go.’ Rookley half rose.

‘Sit down,’ Horton commanded quietly but firmly. ‘Unless you cooperate I will ask questions very loudly before I take you to the station, where I will—’

‘OK, you’ve made your point. I heard something, that’s all.’

‘Like what?’ Horton’s patience was wearing a little thin. It was time to squeeze some information out of the runt. The black man had gone.

Rookley licked his lips and dashed another glance at big belly man. ‘Not here,’ he hissed.

‘Just tell me where Luke is,’ Horton sighed.

Rookley shifted. ‘Can’t now, but I might be able to tonight.’

Was he bullshitting? Horton thought it highly probable. Rookley just wanted shot of him. As if reading his mind Rookley quickly added, ‘I need to ask around a bit.’

Horton didn’t believe it for one minute. He was stalling. Why? But Horton said, ‘OK, where?’

‘Milton Locks. Nine o’clock.’

‘Why there?’

‘Why not?’

‘How do I know you’ll be there?’

‘Because you know where I’m living and I don’t want you sniffing around after me.’

Horton quickly weighed up whether to press him, decided it would be a waste of time and scraped back his chair. ‘I’ll be there. Just make sure you are, Ronnie.’

Rookley scurried away without looking back. Horton watched big belly man’s eyes follow him before they swivelled back to Horton. The hatred in them was unmistakable, but Horton didn’t let that worry him.

Crossing to him, Horton said, ‘When did you last see Luke Felton?’

‘Fuck off, copper.’

Horton held his hostile stare a moment longer before obliging.

‘Do you know the café owner?’ he asked Cantelli when they were outside.

Cantelli shook his head. Big belly man now had a mobile phone pressed to his ear. ‘Give me the photograph of Felton and keep your eye on handsome in there.’

Horton slipped across the road as the traffic lights changed and darted down the narrow side street by the housing office. Turning right into a small car park at the rear of the run-down shops and flats he found what he was looking for: a dark saloon car. Inside it was the large black man who’d been lounging against the wall by the housing office. Checking no one was watching him, Horton opened the passenger door and climbed in.

‘What the hell were you doing in there, Andy?’

‘Looking for him.’ Horton thrust the photograph of Luke Felton at Hans Olewbo of the drug squad. ‘Have you seen him?’

Olewbo looked cagey.

‘When was the last time?’ pressed Horton.

After a moment Olewbo said, ‘Monday night about seven.’

‘What was he doing?’

‘Entering Crown House.’

‘Front or back entrance?’

‘Back. Why?’

‘And you didn’t see him leave Tuesday morning at eight thirty?’

‘A man’s got to sleep.’

‘You know he used to be into heroin?’

‘I haven’t seen him dealing or receiving. What’s he done?’

Horton told him, and why he’d followed Rookley into the café.

Olewbo cursed. ‘Wish someone had told us.’

‘I just have. So what’s your interest here, Hans? Is it Rookley, Crown House or big belly man in the café? Or maybe all three,’ Horton added, when he didn’t get an immediate answer.

Hans checked his rear view mirror. After a moment he said, ‘We’ve got information that someone is bringing in a shed load of crack and circulating it to the kids on the estate. That café could be the pick-up point. Jack Belton, the café proprietor, has a conviction for drug dealing in London. He was released three years ago and has been in Portsmouth for two years and things round here have got a hell of a lot worse in the last eighteen months. We received information which led us to him and set up surveillance on Monday morning, but so far, sod all. What did Rookley tell you?’

‘Nothing. Could Luke Felton have gained easy access to drugs?’

Olewbo gave him an incredulous stare. ‘They’re giving it out like lemon sherbet around here.’

‘OK, daft question,’ Horton admitted. He opened the car door, knowing he’d get nothing more from Hans. Brightly he said, ‘Hope I haven’t blown your cover.’

‘I’ll survive. Now bugger off.’

Horton found Cantelli where he’d left him. ‘Handsome’s got customers,’ Cantelli said, nodding at the café. ‘Lads with hoods. They bought Coke. The drink in a can,’ he added with a grin to Horton’s surprised look. ‘Though that might not be the kind of coke they asked for. And Rookley’s just left Crown House again.’

Cantelli nodded his head in the direction of the large parish church on the corner of a busy junction where Horton saw Rookley’s slight figure.

‘Let’s see where he’s going, Barney, and in such a hurry.’

‘Probably cashing his giro.’

Cantelli could be right, but Horton was convinced that Rookley knew a great deal about Luke Felton’s vanishing act, and, away from that greasy café and the flapping ears of the proprietor, Horton would get him to tell it, and save himself a late night meeting and endless hours looking for Felton. He said as much to Cantelli as they pulled on to the main road, causing a motorbike to swerve around them and Cantelli to curse after it.

‘Rookley might even be meeting Luke Felton to warn him we’re looking for him,’ Horton added as Cantelli indicated left by the church. He relayed what Olewbo had told him, adding, ‘Rookley could have gone to the café to pick up drugs for Felton. If we can nab him for supplying drugs and bring Luke Felton in, that might put a smile on DCI Bliss’s face.’

Cantelli threw him a dubious glance, forcing Horton to say, ‘I know pigs might fly.’

Through the now steadily falling rain Horton watched Rookley, his collar turned up, shoulders hunched, head towards the prison, which could hardly be his destination, having just got out of one. Before reaching it, though, Rookley turned left into the cemetery as a funeral procession swung into it from the opposite direction.

‘No post offices in a cemetery,’ Horton said cheerfully. ‘Plenty of crypts though, which make excellent hiding places.’

‘Perhaps he’s visiting the grave of a relative or friend?’

‘Doubt he’s got any.’

‘There’s a sister.’

‘Poor her.’

Cantelli swung into the cemetery after the funeral cortège.