Shroud of Evil (2 page)

Horton pushed aside a menacing-looking shrub that blocked his path through the dark woods and pressed on. During the last two months he’d checked the Police National Computer, and the databases of the Inland Revenue, National Insurance and vehicle licensing authority for traces of the last two remaining men in the photograph. Both had long hair and beards, and Antony Dormand had his right arm draped around the shoulders of the man on his right, Rory Mortimer. There was no record of Antony Dormand or Rory Mortimer of ever having married, divorced or died, paid taxes or worked, in the UK at least. He didn’t have access to international databases unless he enlisted the help of Agent Harriet Eames, who was based at Europol in The Hague, and he couldn’t do that because he was certain she would report back to her father, Lord Richard Eames.

Suddenly Horton was out of the trees and on a shingle beach. Across a choppy grey sea he could see a small sailing yacht heading west towards Cowes, a motor boat going east towards Fishbourne, and further out a container ship and a fishing boat, and in the distance the buildings on the shores of the mainland of Gosport and Portsmouth.

He turned westwards, keeping the line of the woods on his left, which after a short distance gave on to a wall beyond which were more trees and clearly the rear of Eames’ property. Ahead Horton found his progress impeded by a long and sturdily constructed pontoon. It was almost high tide and the sea was lapping under and against it. The pontoon was roped off on both sides with a sign that declared it was a ‘Private Beach’ with ‘No Permitted Entry’. He guessed the sign on the other side and at the end of the pontoon said the same. The pontoon led up to a sturdy wooden gate in the wall. Horton knew that anything below the average high-water mark belonged to the Crown and therefore anyone was permitted to walk on it. Unfortunately though the length of the pontoon prohibited that because even with the tide out the sea would still reach the end and no one but a limbo dancer would be able to get under the pontoon.

‘You won’t be able to get round it, not unless you fancy getting very wet.’

Startled, Horton spun round to find a solidly built man scrutinizing him with curious and intelligent grey eyes in a bronzed weather-beaten face that sported a close-cropped greying beard. He was about six feet tall and wore shabby, soiled shorts and old leather sandals over bare feet that matched the sun tan on his face, arms and hands. He looked to be in his mid to late fifties but could be older.

‘His Lordship likes his privacy,’ the man added.

Horton thought he heard a hint of a Welsh accent. ‘His Lordship?’ He decided to play dumb.

‘Lord Eames, landowner, property tycoon, yachtsman, businessman and lots more besides.’

‘You know him?’

‘Do I look as though I’d know someone like that?’ the man answered with a smile, gesturing at his clothes. His lined faced crinkled up as his grey eyes studied Horton keenly.

Horton returned the smile. ‘You never know.’ He began to head back to the woods. The man fell into step beside him.

‘And you don’t look as though you belong here,’ he said, eyeing Horton’s motorcycle jacket not with hostility or suspicion but with interest.

‘I took a wrong turning. I thought this was the way to the abbey.’

‘That’s the other side of Wootton Creek and the ferry terminal, about seven miles to the east,’ the man answered, examining Horton disbelievingly.

He didn’t blame him. It had been a pretty feeble excuse.

‘If you fancied a spot of robbery, casing the joint and all that, my advice is don’t. You’d be wasting your time. It’s better protected that Fort Knox.’

‘You’ve tried?’ Horton teased.

‘No, but a man who protects his privacy that fiercely has to have good security. Not that Lord Eames is a recluse when he’s here – on the contrary, he entertains. I’ve seen his guests arrive.’

‘Where do you live?’ Horton tried not to sound like a policeman asking questions but to his ear he always did.

‘Not far. I often come this way; you never know what you might find washed up on the beach. I look for flotsam and jetsam to turn it into art, or anyway that’s my excuse for bumming around beaches. It beats having a metal detector at the end of your arm and things clamped to your ears. I like the sound of the sea.’

Horton did too. ‘And do you sell what you make?’

‘When and where I can.’

‘You have a studio?’

The man laughed. ‘Nothing quite so grand.’

They had reached the edge of the woods. Horton halted. Clearly the man was reluctant to divulge where he lived and why should he to a complete stranger? No, he was wise to be cagey. ‘And what name should I look out for if I’d like to buy any of your flotsam and jetsam?’ Horton asked.

The man thrust a bronzed hand into the pocket of his shabby shorts and fetched out a grubby card. As Horton took it from the strong, suntanned hand he caught a glimpse of something deep in the man’s eyes but couldn’t place what. He glanced down at the card. It contained only a name: Wyndham Lomas. ‘There’s no address or contact number,’ he said.

‘I like my privacy too.’

Horton smiled and pocketed the card. Lomas made no attempt to move off. Perhaps he intended staying on the beach looking for his flotsam and jetsam. But it was time Horton was going. He had to call at the abbey. As he clambered over the fence into the woods Lomas called out, ‘Don’t let the dogs get you.’ Horton hoped he was joking.

Twenty minutes later he was pulling into the abbey car park unmolested by any guard dogs. He headed for the café and gift shop where he found the café manager, Cliff Yately, a well-built man in his late forties with a round, friendly, open face, who greeted him warmly but with wariness in his wide, dark-brown eyes. Horton quickly reassured him that he was the bearer of good news and asked where he could find Brother Norman.

‘With the vet and Jay in the piggery,’ Yately replied.

It was just beyond the tea shop gardens. Horton saw the lean monk talking to a scruffily dressed man who was looking on with concern as another slender man beside them was examining a large golden red pig that Horton had been told was a Tamworth. Jay Ottley, the pig man, like Yately was not a monk, but unlike Yately, Ottley lived at the abbey. It had been Ottley who had discovered the robbery on his way to feed the pigs and had reported it to Brother Norman. As Horton drew level Brother Norman looked up and instantly appeared anxious. Ottley’s attention for a moment was diverted from his beloved pigs. He scratched his shaggy greying beard with a worried frown on his careworn face. Horton understood why they looked concerned. Neither wanted to be called to give evidence in court, and now they’d be spared that.

Brother Norman said something to Ottley that Horton couldn’t catch and stepped out of the piggery. ‘Not bad news I hope, Inspector?’ he said, folding his hands into the sleeves of his black habit, drawing Horton a short distance away. Horton found it as difficult to put an age to him now as he had the first time he’d met him in early July, when he’d informed the monk that the items stolen from the abbey had been recovered. Brother Norman’s lined face peered out from the cowl, concerned, his pale blue eyes worried. He could be anything between mid-fifties and seventy. Since that initial meeting Horton had spoken with the monk several times, and over the last month, leading up to the trial, he’d called here weekly, in his own time, to keep him abreast of developments in the hope of alleviating some of the anxiety. He needn’t have come personally. He could have delegated it to DS Norris but he didn’t trust the short, balding, overweight Isle of Wight detective to be reassuring. And besides, Horton liked coming here. He found it restful. But there had been another reason for his interest. Thea Carlsson.

He’d grown close to Thea during an investigation on the island in January. She had understood his anger and pain at his mother’s desertion. She had claimed to be psychic and told him that his mother wanted to be found. He didn’t know about that; he didn’t really believe all that bollocks, but Thea had been the only person he had told about Jennifer, apart from Cantelli. He’d barely said anything to Catherine, his ex-wife, sensing that she wouldn’t really have been interested. And besides, their marriage had broken up before he’d discovered that his mother hadn’t been the hard-bitten tart he’d been led to believe. Thea had stayed in the abbey guest house but had returned to her home country, Sweden, as soon as the investigation into her brother’s death was over, making it clear to him that she needed space and time to herself. He’d never bothered to follow it up. Since Catherine had thrown him out, choosing to believe a false allegation of rape against him when he’d been working undercover, he’d been on his own. Just as he’d always been alone, he thought, since the age of ten. And lately he’d begun to feel his loneliness more keenly than ever.

He pushed aside his thoughts and gave Brother Norman what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘For once it’s not bad news,’ he said, thinking it rather sad that most people associated the police as harbingers of doom. ‘The men who robbed the abbey have changed their plea to guilty. So there’s no need for you or anyone else here to appear in court. They’ll be sentenced on Monday and your possessions can be returned to you after that.’

Brother Norman looked heartedly relieved. ‘I’ll tell Jay that; he
will be pleased and so am I. Thank you, Inspector, for taking the time and trouble to come here personally to tell us.’ He dashed a glance behind him and back to Horton. He seemed distracted. ‘I must go. It’s almost time for Sexts, a short service before dinner,’ he explained to Horton’s baffled look. ‘I mustn’t be late.’

Horton could see from the abbey clock that it was close on one. But despite his anxiety to get to his devotions, Brother Norman hesitated. ‘I’m sorry I can’t repay your diligence and success, Inspector, by giving you in return hopeful news of Thea Carlsson, but even if I knew where she was I wouldn’t be able to betray a confidence.’

‘I know. Forget I asked,’ Horton replied lightly but he felt embarrassed he’d even raised the subject. He didn’t want Brother Norman to feel he owed him a favour.

‘You’ll come to see us again, won’t you?’ Brother Norman said. ‘Even though the ordeal of the thefts is over.’

‘Of course.’ But Horton thought it might be best to put the abbey – and Thea – behind him once and for all. Maybe Brother Norman sensed his secret thought because before he hurried off to his prayers he threw Horton a parting glance that held doubt and something akin to regret in the pale blue eyes and lined face.

Horton made the two o’clock sailing comfortably and on the ferry grabbed a sandwich and a coffee. Fifty minutes later he was heading along the corridor to CID. Bliss was in her office, on the phone, but before he’d gone a few steps she hailed him. He stifled a groan and turned back to see her skinny, upright figure in the doorway. She jerked her head to indicate she wanted him in her office. There in her customary slim black skirt and white shirt she eyed him as she always did, with distaste.

‘I’ve just been phoning CID – where is everyone?’ she snapped.

She made it sound as though he had half a dozen staff instead of two. ‘I don’t know, Ma’am. I’ve just come in.’

‘Then you’ll have to do.’

For what, he wondered. Clearly by her tone he was her last resort. Her disapproval of him was rooted in his method of policing, which went contrary to everything she stood for. Bliss was a strictly by-the-book copper, email, memo and meeting mad, while he was too hands-on, too maverick and allergic to anything that smacked of management speak, her favourite language. He eyed her narrow face and sharp green eyes. If he had expected her to ask about the court case then it looked as though he was in for disappointment.

‘We have a missing man,’ she announced crisply.

Two it seemed, if you counted Cantelli and Walters.

‘His name is Jasper Kenton. He’s been missing since yesterday afternoon. He’s a private investigator and the business partner of Eunice Swallows who owns the Swallows Investigation Agency. I want you to take the report.’

Horton didn’t bother hiding his surprise. ‘A uniformed officer can do that,’ he replied, wondering why Bliss was keen to send someone of his rank out to it.

‘I’m ordering you to do it, Inspector, and if you have a problem with taking orders then I suggest you change career.’

And wouldn’t you like that
, Horton said to himself.

‘The office is in Albert Road, Southsea. Well, what are you waiting for?’

You to climb on your broomstick and fly away
, Horton thought, with annoyance at her manner and the tone of her command. He got the address and headed out of the station. He’d never heard of the Swallows Investigation Agency or of Jasper Kenton or Eunice Swallows. But then he hadn’t come across every private investigator in the city. What made this one so special, he wondered, that Bliss was prepared to sacrifice usual procedure? Perhaps there was more to Jasper Kenton’s vanishing act than Bliss had told him. He’d find out soon enough. But as he drew up outside the office above a bohemian styled café on the corner of a busy main thoroughfare he couldn’t help feeling this was a waste of his time – that Jasper Kenton had probably taken off for a long weekend and had simply forgotten to tell his partner.

‘O
f course he wouldn’t have forgotten to inform me,’ snapped the woman behind the large, pristine desk in the spacious office, viewing Horton over the top of her gold-rimmed spectacles as though he was an imbecile. Eunice Swallows was in her mid-forties, dressed plainly in shapeless black trousers and a black long-sleeved top. Her brown hair was short, sensible and tidy; she wore no make-up and the only jewellery he could see were small gold stud earrings. ‘Jasper is most efficient.’

‘Could he have gone to stay with friends or family?’ persisted Horton.

‘No. I’ve checked. Jasper only has a sister living in Marlborough but she hasn’t seen him for years.’

‘Friends then?’

‘Jasper doesn’t have any.’

How do you know
, thought Horton, raising a sceptical eyebrow.