Footsteps on the Shore (33 page)

Horton held his breath as he saw the thoughts running through the Georgian’s mind. Quickly he pressed on, speaking earnestly. ‘The man you are holding a knife to has ruined many lives, not only Eliso’s. Killing him is too quick and easy a punishment for what he has done. He values his reputation. In prison he would lose that. He would feel the punishment and he would suffer.’ Horton sincerely hoped that was true. ‘Let him go,’ he added gently, ‘and he’ll go to prison for what he’s done, for a very long time.’ Horton could see the Georgian considering it. ‘If you kill him now he won’t suffer and you will go to prison, not him.’

Horton held the Georgian’s steely gaze, trying not to show any emotion. He took a deep breath and stepped forward, stretching out his hand.

‘Give me the knife,’ he said calmly, though his heart was in overdrive. He stood his ground with his hand outstretched. He didn’t look at Chawley but kept his eyes steadfastly on the Georgian, catching the flicker of hesitation behind the exhausted eyes. He prayed now that no one would enter, not until he had the knife in his hand.

‘Eliso wouldn’t want him killed,’ Horton said softly, easing another step forward. He could feel the sweat on his back, and the thumping in his head was matched by the pounding of his heart. ‘She’d want you to tell her story. Don’t you think she deserves that?’

The Georgian’s eyes held fatigue beyond weariness. His roughened hand came down a fraction. He paused. Then, flicking the knife round so that the hilt faced Horton, he stretched it across. Horton grasped it. But his relief was short-lived.

‘I can still break his neck with my bare hand,’ the Georgian cried, squeezing Chawley’s throat. Chawley’s eyes popped as the pressure increased.

‘That would be too quick a death,’ Horton cried hastily. ‘Better to let him suffer the humiliation of everyone knowing he’s a murderer. He’s not worth killing,’ he urged, praying he wouldn’t need to attack the Georgian. If he did, Chawley might be saved but the knife in Horton’s hand could be used against him, or end up in the Georgian.

Suddenly, with disgust the Georgian pushed Chawley so violently that the chair crashed over, leaving Chawley lying on his side trussed up tightly, his midriff exposed. The Georgian’s leg came up and he kicked his boot hard into Chawley’s stomach. Chawley screamed in pain. And again, as the boot struck out. Horton threw the knife out of reach and leapt into action, charging at the Georgian. He staggered, as his foot was raised in the act of striking Chawley again. They fell, and suddenly there were uniforms swarming all over the boat and the Georgian had his hands behind his back in cuffs. Chawley was howling with pain. A uniformed police officer bent over to release him.

‘What kept you?’ Horton said to Cantelli, heaving an enormous sigh of relief at the sight of the sergeant and in the rudest of health.

‘We took the scenic route.’

‘Next time try the motorway, it’s quicker.’

‘It’s blocked in both directions, an accident. We couldn’t get through and had to come over the hill.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re here.’ Chawley was on his feet. Horton reached into his pocket and clapped his cuffs on him.

Chawley began to protest. ‘You’ve got no right. I’ve been attacked. I need to go to hospital.’

‘What’s that noise?’ Horton asked, waggling a finger in his ear.

‘I think it’s the wind,’ answered Cantelli.

TWENTY-SEVEN

‘
G
ood result,’ Uckfield said, swilling back his second whisky of the night, and helping himself to a third. He didn’t offer the bottle around because everyone else in the incident suite – Horton, Trueman, Dennings and Marsden – were on coffee, except for Cantelli who was supping a mug of tea and trying not to yawn. Uckfield added, ‘Waverley’s sulking so much they’re thinking of making his lower lip a new railway platform at Portsmouth station.’

Horton managed a tired smile. It was almost eleven o’clock. It
was
a good result, and one that DCI Bliss had found difficult to believe at first until it occurred to her she could take the glory for it. Then she had hightailed it to Chief Superintendent Reine, her face the picture of triumph – two cases cleared up, one of national significance – that was if Uckfield would let her claim the Georgian’s arrest, and Horton doubted that. Although neither Bliss nor Uckfield had arrested Gavin Chawley or the Georgian, Horton knew they wouldn’t let that small technicality stand in their way. Let battle commence, he thought. He was too tired and too sickened by the case to really care who won.

Gavin Chawley had been only too keen to repeat his story, confident in the belief that a jury would see his side of things. Horton thought otherwise. His father was in hospital, with an officer beside his bed. Duncan Chawley had slipped into unconsciousness not long after Horton had left him, knowing the truth would come out and that he could no longer protect his son. The Georgian was in a cell awaiting transportation to London.

Trueman said, ‘Europol gave us a match on the fingerprints you found on the items in the derelict houseboat, Andy. Your Georgian’s called Otia Gelashvili. He was a member of the South Ossetian Popular Front, captured by the Georgian army during the conflict in 2008 when the Georgian government tried to take the South Ossetian region by force, as they previously tried in 1991 and 2004. The Ossetian separatists and Russian troops gained control of the territory though. Russia recognizes it as an independent republic, but Georgia doesn’t and considers most of its territory a part of the Shida Kartli region within Georgian sovereignty. Otia probably bribed his way out of captivity, given his background – he was very big in the black market racket. Had contacts and customers in South Ossetia, Russia and Georgia, and a lucrative black market trade between all three.’

‘Was he involved with Jay Turner?’ asked Horton.

‘He says not,’ answered Uckfield. ‘But he could be lying to protect others. Waverley’s team will check it, and his story about how he got here.’

And maybe, thought Horton, Otia Gelashvili had known all along where his sister was living and had only now decided to come to England because it was too hot for him in Georgia. ‘And where does Jay Turner fit in?’

Uckfield nodded at Marsden, who said, ‘The International Development Fund was established in Georgia in 1996 after British diplomatic relations were renewed with the country following the collapse of the Soviet Union. The International Development Fund has given hundreds of thousands of pounds in grants to help Georgia with its infrastructure and various government projects. It’s overseen by several nationalities, including British nationals who are experts in project management and accountancy. One of them was Jay Turner.’

Uckfield broke in. ‘Waverley’s team, and Europol, have been tracking disappearing money from Georgia for a year. They suspected Turner, although he’d obviously been at it for longer than a year. They couldn’t find out where the money was going and who he was in league with. The contents of the locker from Eliso’s yacht might help them.’

Horton wondered if it would. It contained Eliso’s story and some jewellery, but no indication of where Jay Turner might have money stashed away. Gavin Chawley had overlooked it because he didn’t know about the key in Eliso’s hand. Horton had read what she had written before Uckfield passed it to Waverley. Most of it he had already guessed.

Eliso had run away from her family and the troubles in South Ossetia in 1993 and had ended up in Tbilisi, where she became a dancer in a club. She had met Jay Turner in 1997; she had been twenty. Jay had brought her to England illegally, promising her a better life. She got it too, Horton thought: a lovely house, yacht, designer clothes, but at a price, which according to her notes she soon realized. She was virtually a prisoner, too terrified to go far except to walk along the shore, usually very early in the morning or at night, and take a brief trip to the local shops, because Jay had told her she’d be arrested and deported if she spoke to anyone. Horton recalled that shy smile. How lonely she must have been without any friends or family, and how afraid. He knew how loneliness felt. Even throughout his marriage he recognized his own solitariness and with a pang wondered if that had contributed to Catherine’s infidelity, if indeed she had been unfaithful.

Out sailing on 22 February, the wind had sprung up and Jay Turner had been struck by the boom as it swung round and had been swept overboard. Eliso claimed it was an accident. By the time she had turned the boat round he was gone, and dead. Maybe, Horton thought, she had taken longer to turn it around than was necessary. Dr Clayton had said he was dead when he hit the water, so was Eliso telling the truth? Perhaps she’d struck her husband and killed him and then pushed him overboard.

Horton pictured her returning to the house, struggling to moor up, because by then it was dark and windy. Gavin Chawley had decided to take a walk around the shore before heading home, a place that he was clearly reluctant to be according to what Julia Chawley had told the woman police officer. It had been bad luck for Eliso, as it turned out – but then she seemed to attract it, poor woman, much like Luke Felton. Chawley had helped her. She’d been grateful, not knowing how he was going to exploit and eventually kill her.

Not sure what to do next, she’d begun living off what she had in the house, and turning off the heating to conserve money. Then she must have decided to sell the boat; it would keep her alive until she could decide what to do. Chawley had shown up again, but he told her he’d let her know about the boat by the end of the week. Then Otia had arrived almost at the same time as Horton had shown up to view the boat. That night Eliso had decided that escape was better than living with Otia on the run. She’d stashed her jewellery on the yacht, ready to set sail on the high tide, when Gavin Chawley had come alongside with Rookley’s body and killed her.

Horton knew the Chief Constable was going to have to do some nifty footwork to prevent Duncan Chawley’s corruption from being exposed. Maybe he was considering an even earlier retirement, like right now. It left a bitter taste in Horton’s mouth, as it would with every honest copper.

He hauled himself up. ‘I’ve got some paperwork to sort, this being my last case in CID.’ He held Dennings’ sullen glare before nodding at Uckfield, Trueman and Marsden. Cantelli followed him into the corridor. Falling into step beside him, he said, ‘DCI Bliss might not be so keen to get rid of you now we’ve got a result.’

Horton eyed him sceptically. ‘I don’t think she’s that charitable.’

‘You never know.’

‘Well, if you see an empty chair at my desk tomorrow morning I’ve either overslept or my posting’s come through.’

‘I hope it’s the former. Better the devil you know,’ Cantelli said with a tired smile.

Horton hoped so too. Bidding good night to Cantelli, he headed for his office where he flicked open the blinds in time to see Tony Dennings’ broad figure stride across the yard and disappear from view. A taxi pulled in and Uckfield climbed into it. Then Marsden climbed on to his racing bike. Horton watched his tail light flicker out of sight before turning away.

He was tired beyond belief, his head was pounding, and every muscle in his body ached. Where would he end up? In Uckfield’s major crime team, if Dennings transferred himself out of it? But why should he? He looked set for the duration. In a CID unit in another division? Possibly.

There was a knock on his door and he looked up to find Trueman on the threshold. ‘I’m just off home, Andy, and I suggest you do the same.’

Horton stared at his paper-strewn desk. ‘I guess you’re right.’ He could tackle this tomorrow,
if
he was still here. And if he wasn’t, then one of DCI Bliss’s razor-sharp detectives would clear it up.

‘You asked me to find out if PC Adrian Stanley was still around.’

Horton had forgotten all about the PC who had filed the missing persons report on his mother.

‘He’s living in a retirement flat at Lee-on-the-Solent.’

Only eleven miles west along the coast.

‘I’ve jotted down the address for you.’ Trueman handed across a piece of paper.

‘Thanks.’ Horton stuffed it in his pocket without looking at it. He didn’t see that it would get him far with his investigations into his mother’s disappearance, whereas comparing his DNA against the database to find out if his mother was in cold storage might.

He shrugged on his leather jacket. Somewhere buried among the paper on his desk, or lurking on his computer, could be a memo or email from Chief Superintendent Reine or DCI Bliss telling him about his new posting. He thought it far more likely to be a paper-pushing job or a training role at the college than something like CID or special investigations and he didn’t relish that. Perhaps working with Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate to track down Zeus and get to the truth of his mother’s disappearance wasn’t such a bad idea after all, especially if Emma was safely away at school.

Closing his office door behind him he headed towards his Harley, considering the future. Whatever it held for him, though, and wherever he ended up, there was one thing he knew, and that was he’d survive. Which, he thought, breathing in the still night air, was more than Luke Felton and poor Eliso Gelashvili had ever been destined to do.