Cantelli caught his drift and sat up excitedly. 'They could all have grandchildren. Ellen and Marie have a key to my mum's so they can pop in there after school. That's it, Andy! We've cracked it.'

  Almost. With his heart racing, Horton said, 'Our antiques mastermind gets the victims' keys from the grandchildren, copies them and lets himself into the properties after checking them out by posing as a bogus neighbour, priest, police officer or whatever.' Horton was convinced he'd struck gold. He glanced at his watch. Damn, it was too late to call the victims now to check out their theory. 'I wouldn't mind betting that all the victims' grandchildren attend the same school, but there's only one flaw.'

  'What?'

  Horton stared down puzzled and slightly despondently at his list, then looked up. 'Somehow I can't see any of the grandchildren of these fairly well-to-do pensioners attending the Sir Wilberforce Cutler.'

  Fifteen

  Tuesday: 9 a.m.

  They didn't. But as one victim after the other mentioned the school their grandchildren did attend, Horton's hopes rose and he felt his pulse racing. He rapidly assimilated the information and put it together with what the head teacher of Nettleside High, Simon Thornecombe, had told them, that Langley had visited that school on the day she had been killed. Perhaps it hadn't been until then that she had recognized the antiques thief and decided to blackmail him.

  This is the way we go to school ... This is the way we come out of school... And, if Horton remembered correctly, Jessica Langley would have driven past Nettleside High on her way to her own school and on her way home. Oh, they had a joker killer on their hands all right. And that wasn't all Horton learned from his phone calls.

  In the car, as they headed towards Nettleside High, he said to Cantelli: 'Not only do all the grandchildren have keys to their grandparent's flats but they all attend after school drama classes, and who better to impersonate a police officer, fire safety officer, priest and a neighbour but a drama teacher?'

  Cantelli let out a low whistle. 'He's smart this one.'

  And wicked, thought Horton, as the image of Langley's body, abandoned on the mulberry with her flesh covered by the small crabs, assailed him, not to mention poor Tom Edney lying in that pool of blood with his throat slit. The poor man hadn't deserved that and Horton still felt some responsibility for his death even though he knew that he shouldn't do. He desperately wanted to catch this smart-alec killer and wipe the smirk from his face. He realized that this was now nothing to do with finding the killer before Tony Dennings took control of the case, or proving himself to Uckfield. It was simply a case of bringing an evil killer to justice.

  He said, 'A drama teacher or coach would know how to disguise himself and put on an act. He could chat to the kids about their grandparents, take an impression of the keys whilst the little darlings are on stage, and if he doesn't get it right first time, he can always try again, the following week or maybe when they're in another class. All we have to do now is find out who teaches drama at Nettleside High and we've got him.'

  'Sounds simple.'

  'I know, and that's what makes me nervous.' Horton had learnt a long time ago that nothing in this life was ever simple or straightforward.

  'And you reckon this drama teacher used Mickey Johnson and his mate to carry out the robberies.'

  'The last one anyway. Johnson had to take the stolen goods to the victim's boat because our man was killing Langley on his boat and taking her to the mulberry that night.'

  'It's bad luck for Johnson then that the drunk stumbled on to the boat and gave him away.'

  Horton stiffened. Cantelli's words uttered so casually were like a dousing in icy cold water. They stole the breath from him. It couldn't be. But he was instantly sure that he was right. At last he was getting inside the mind of this killer. 'My God, Barney, this gets more complicated by the minute. I think that was deliberate.'

  Cantelli threw him a puzzled glance before putting his eyes back on the road.

  Horton continued. 'We got an anonymous tip off that something was going down at the Town Camber that night. We were even told which row of boats to keep under surveillance. That drunk appeared out of nowhere and knew exactly whose boat to stumble on and we know it wasn't his own boat. I think Johnson and his mate were set up by this drunk and he has to be our antiques mastermind, and our killer.'

  'He took a hell of a risk.'

  'Did he though? What happened to him in the mad panic after Johnson was rumbled?'

  'I...er...I don't know. I grabbed Johnson, you went after the boy and Elkins jumped on the boat and got the holdall of stolen goods. The drunk sort of got shoved out of the way.'

  'And did you get a name and address?'

  'Shit!'

  Horton knew it. It confirmed his theory. 'Don't worry. It would probably have been false.'

  'We might have recognized him though.'

  'Not this man. He's a master at disguise.'

  'But why go to all that trouble?' Cantelli asked, swinging into the car park at Nettleside High School.

  'We'll ask him, but I wouldn't mind betting it was for the hell of it, the thrill of the thing or because he thought it would be a good joke to play on us.'

  'He's quite a card. Can't wait to meet him.'

  Neither could Horton and soon they would.

  They were ushered quickly into the head's office by Thornecombe's anxious secretary. Horton didn't waste any time with the preliminaries but came straight to the point. He was too eager to get this bloody killer.

  'I'm sorry, Inspector, but we don't have a drama teacher. It's not on our curriculum.'

  Horton's heart sank. This couldn't be another dead end, surely? This morning he had told Uckfield his theory and got a sceptical look for his troubles. Uckfield had grumbled something about letting his imagination run wild and that this wasn't Book at Bedtime, but he grudgingly admitted there might be something in it. Those telephone calls to the victims had surely proved he and Cantelli were right.

  Horton persisted. 'But you do hold after-school drama classes.'

  'Yes, on Tuesdays.'

  Thank heavens for that. 'Who takes them?' Horton asked eagerly.

  Thornecombe looked puzzled. 'Timothy Boston. He's an excellent teacher.'

  Horton hoped he hid his surprise. He flashed Cantelli a look. The sergeant raised his eyebrows slightly as Horton quickly mentally recalled Boston: stockily built, clean cut and handsome, wearing a good suit and placing a comforting hand on Susan Pentlow's arm. A pompous man who had been concerned about delaying the building of the new drama suite, and who had also omitted to mention that he taught performing arts. Of course! Boston had a foot in both camps.

  Cantelli said, 'But Mr Boston teaches at the Sir Wilberforce Cutler School.'

  'We share resources. I mentioned that before,' Thornecombe replied. 'It was one of Ms Langley's ideas.'

  It explained why she would willingly have gone to meet Boston.

  Horton heard Cantelli ask: 'How long has Mr Boston taught drama here?'

  Thornecombe addressed Horton. 'What is this about, Inspector?'

  'I can't tell you yet, sir.'

  'If it reflects on the reputation of my school then I have a right to know?' Thornecombe bristled.

  Horton said firmly, 'Can you just answer the question, sir? How long has Mr Boston taught drama here?'

  Thornecombe looked as though he wanted to explode. Horton saw it was an effort for him to hold on to his temper. This clearly was a man who was used to being obeyed without question.

  Tight-lipped, Thornecombe relied, 'About six weeks, since the start of term, and he ran a summer school during the holidays.'

  So, plenty of time to get close to the kids and find out about their habits and their doting grandparents. What a brain. But why do it and risk a good career? Was it for the money? But teachers weren't badly paid these days. However, Boston had been wearing an expensive suit and perhaps his tastes were bigger than his wallet.

  Thornecombe said, 'Mr Boston has been cleared by the police and has impeccable references.'

  Horton asked, 'Is he here?' It was Tuesday after all, and half term at the Sir Wilberforce.

  'He will be later for the classes. They start at four p.m. Am I expected to cancel them? Only at short notice—'

  'Carry on as usual, Dr Thornecombe.' If they didn't find Boston by then, at least Horton knew where he'd be later that day. There would be no reason for him not to turn up. Boston couldn't know they were on to him. The head teacher wouldn't be pleased at the disruption an arrest would cause him, but that was too bad.

  After extracting a promise that Thornecombe wouldn't say anything to Boston about their visit, if he saw him before they did, Horton and Cantelli left him looking worried and very cross.

  Cantelli zapped open the car. 'Boston never said he taught here. At least I don't think it's in his statement.'

  'Why should it be? He wasn't asked that question, only where he was when Langley was killed.'

  'Which, if I remember correctly, was at home watching The Maltese Falcon. And I thought here's a man with taste.'

  Yes, the kind that needed robberies to fund them. And they were clever robberies at that. So was Boston the drunk on the pontoon? The build was right. Had Boston been the anonymous caller to CID on the morning of the last robbery and so had shopped Johnson and his mate? Horton guessed so. He had decided to silence Langley and put an end to his antiques jaunts by shifting the focus to Johnson and his accomplice.

  Horton called Sergeant Trueman as Cantelli pulled out of the school. He got Boston's address and told Cantelli to head along the seafront to Fort Cumberland Road. Boston lived just a stone's throw from Horton's marina.

  He stared at the foaming green sea as it broke on to the pebbled beach in a flash of white. The wind was getting up strength ready to fulfil the prophecy of gale warnings later in the week. Ahead, Horton could see the distant shores of Hayling Island. There were still so many gaps in this complex case. He hoped soon they'd be able to get some answers from Boston to fill them.

  Cantelli turned into a cul-de-sac that was lined with three-storey houses and apartments, and pulled up halfway down, outside a block of flats. Climbing out, Horton scrutinized the line of bell pushes on the wall, found the one he wanted and pressed his finger on the buzzer. There was no answer.

  'Looks as though we'll have to come back with a warrant,' he said, disappointed. Then the front door opened. A thin man in his early fifties wearing a smart suit man

  stepped out.

  Horton glanced at the badge on his lapel and the briefcase in his hand. He was due for some luck and he wondered if this could be it.

  'Are you the managing agent?' he asked, showing his warrant card.

  'Police? I hope there's nothing wrong.'

  'Does Mr Boston rent his apartment from you?'

  'Well, yes, he does.'

  'We are concerned about Mr Boston, and he is not answering his bell.'

  The thin man paled, and glanced over his shoulder at the entrance to the apartments.

  Horton pressed his point. 'It would save a great deal of time and fuss if we could just take a look inside. Otherwise we'll have to request a search warrant and that means making it official with several police cars not to mention the press—'

  'He's on the third floor. ' The managing agent was steering them inside before Horton finished speaking. He pressed the lift button. 'I've got a viewing on that floor in five minutes. Do you think you could be quick?'

  'Sergeant Cantelli will go with you in the lift.'

  Horton knew that Boston's apartment was number eighteen. He leapt up the stairs two at a time until he came to the third floor, and saw with satisfaction at his level of fitness that he'd beaten the lift. He pressed his finger on the bell.

  'Mr Boston, I'd like a word. Police.' There was no response. Cantelli and the agent stepped out of the lift.

  'Mr Selsmere has a key,' Cantelli said, and the agent reached into his briefcase.

  Great! When luck was with you, you rode it until you wore it out, thought Horton.

  Closing the door on Selsmere, Horton stepped inside a small lobby listening to the silence. It was complete. He gestured at the room on his left and Cantelli slipped into it whilst Horton took the room straight ahead. It was the lounge. There was no sign of Boston.

  Cantelli called out. 'He's not here.'

  No, but was he coming back and if so when? Horton gazed around the lounge; none of the stolen antiques were here, but Horton hadn't expected them to be. It was expensively decorated: lush cream carpet, glass coffee table between two cream leather sofas which looked as though they had never been sat on; open bookshelves without a single book on display but with a few strategically placed glass objects that would have done justice to an art gallery; and a couple of large giant seascape watercolours on the wall. The room reminded him of Catherine. Her taste was strictly modern: clean lines, no clutter.

  He crossed to the large glass doors that gave on to a patio. Beyond he could see the boats in the marina and there was the wooden mast of Nutmeg, his gaff-rigged Winkle Brig: old, cramped, untidy, lived-in and much loved. His. He didn't want to give her up, but he'd have to if he was to stand any chance of Emma staying with him for the weekend or holidays. His heart skipped a beat at the thought of spending time with his daughter, and for one wild moment he envisaged her living with him permanently, then dismissed the idea as impossible. Catherine would never let her, and how could he raise a child with the demands of his job?

  Beyond the marina was Langstone Harbour and from here he could see the mulberry. Had seeing the mulberry from here given Boston the idea of dumping her body there? Perhaps the nursery rhyme had nothing to do with her death. Perhaps Boston had never even heard of it.

  He turned away as Cantelli called out. 'Beds made up and he's got some nice suits in the wardrobe: designer stuff.'

  'How would you know? Most of your clothes are bought from the chain stores.'

  'Hey, nothing wrong with that!'

  Horton smiled and made his way into a second bedroom, which Boston had made his study, and promptly stopped in his tracks. He gazed in amazement. Hundreds of photographs covered three walls and they were all of Timothy Boston.

  Cantelli came up behind him and drew up sharply. 'Wow!'

  Horton couldn't have put it better himself. In the pictures, Timothy Boston appeared in various guises, and with a variety of actors. These were obviously stills taken from film and television programmes. And there were photographs of Boston, as himself, alongside actors whom Horton recognized, which was quite a feat for him because he rarely watched television and never had time to go to the pictures or theatre.

  'Is Boston famous? Should we know him?' asked Horton.

  'I wouldn't unless he was acting in the thirties and forties.'

  Horton began to rummage in the desk, which wasn't locked. He pulled out a pile of large spiral bounds books. There were six in total. 'Scrapbooks.'

  Horton gave a couple to Cantelli and flicked through the remainder himself. He was staring at pages of press cuttings. Boston had by all accounts been a successful stunt man before becoming an actor; only he wasn't called Boston but Timothy Mellows. A headline caught Horton's attention, quickly he scanned the article: Boston had once been tipped as a possible James Bond, and he'd ended up teaching drama! What had gone wrong? The press cuttings didn't say. But Horton was beginning to wonder if Timothy Boston had previous form as Mellows, and that little fact had slipped through his security clearance at the school. Something registered in Horton's brain. He'd seen the name Mellows before. With a racing pulse he pulled out his phone and called the station.

  'Dave, check the list of registered boat owners for a Tim Mellows. No, I'll hold.'

  Cantelli said, 'There's an article here that says Mellows suffered multiple injuries whilst performing a stunt: broke both legs, his pelvis and arm. After that it says he turned to acting.'

  'And didn't make it, according to what he's doing now,' Horton rejoined, just as Dave Trueman came back on the line.

  'There's a boat called Soap Opera registered to Mr Timothy Mellows and berthed at Gosport Marina.'

  Yes! Horton wanted to punch the air with joy. Instead he said, 'Ask Elkins to check if it's in the marina, but not to alert Mellows. Call me back.'

  Mr Selsmere wasn't very happy when Cantelli asked to keep the keys and gave him a receipt, but he seemed a little mollified when he heard that an unmarked police car with two plain clothes officers, rather than uniformed officers in a patrol car would keep a watch on the apartment for Boston's return.

 

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