'He's not been well. Have you ever seen any evidence of a man living or staying here, Miss Filey?'

  'No, can't say I have. But a man wot lives alone, and don't have no female friends, well he's gotta be a bit weird, hasn't he?'

  She'd just described him! Maybe like him Culven didn't live alone by choice. Perhaps somewhere there was an ex Mrs Culven. 'I've got to get back. Here's the key.' She thrust it at him. 'You can bring it back for me for Monday, if I've still got a job to come to and you buggers haven't banged him up.'

  She didn't seem to care if they had, he thought. She flounced out, the cheeks of her neat backside showing just beneath her tight shorts. The door slammed behind her. The patrol car would drop her back home.

  'Right little madam, that one,' Cantelli said.

  Horton pulled on his latex gloves. 'Find anything upstairs?'

  He opened the fridge. It was well stocked so Culven had had no intention of disappearing. He sniffed but nothing seemed to have gone off so he couldn't have been gone long. There was also bread in the wooden bread bin, which wasn't mouldy, and plenty of tins in the cupboards.

  'There's some dirty washing in the linen basket in the bathroom, usual medicines in the cabinet; looks like he suffers from migraine and indigestion.'

  'And he likes microwave dinners.' Horton pushed his foot on the pedal bin and peered inside. 'Check the garage. That looks like the key on the hook over there.'

  Cantelli lifted it from the corner cupboard and disappeared into the hall. Horton had found the key to the patio doors in one of the drawers and stepped out into the courtyard. A hot humid breeze did nothing to cool the temperature but instead seemed to suck in all the air. The sky was like a field of pale blue flax. The sun glinted off the sea so that it sparkled like a million pieces of shattered glass. He hoped to God that this time they'd found their victim and that this wasn't going to be one of those frustrating cases. The first few days in an investigation were vital and if they couldn't even identify their victim then they wouldn't be able to begin to understand the profile of their killer or the motive.

  Cantelli returned with a shake of his head. 'No car, just usual stuff: some tools, a sun lounger, a couple of old chairs and packing cases. I couldn't see anything inside them but I didn't like to touch too much in case Culven's our victim.'

  Horton stepped back inside and followed Cantelli up the stairs to the middle floor. A swift tour showed him a lounge with a balcony overlooking the marina, a small dining room, a room that Culven clearly used as a study, and a toilet and shower room. There were no pictures on the magnolia-painted walls and no mirrors. Clearly Culven was not interested in his environment, neither was he vain.

  'Looks like he's just moved in,' Cantelli said.

  'He's been here a year at least, according to the delectable Miss Filey.'

  'Not the homely sort then.'

  But I am, or rather I was, Horton thought with bitterness. Living with Catherine and Emma had been the first real home he'd had. After being raised in children's homes and then shoved from foster parent to foster parent he thought he had found utopia.

  He pushed open the plate glass doors and stepped out onto the balcony, trying to push away unhappy memories. Here he had a better view of the boats in the marina; he could look down on them spread out in neat rows behind their pontoons until he could see, in the distance, the lock gates. On the other side of the marina there were more houses and apartments. To his left was the Boardwalk and beyond that towards the lock, the chandlery and yacht club.

  Cantelli said, 'Didn't Mrs Thurlow say her old man's boat is kept here?'

  'Yes and the DCI's.' He broke off as his eyes alighted on a man walking down one of the pontoons. He couldn't mistake that figure or that face, now minus its sticking plaster. He watched Jarrett climb aboard a large motor cruiser and disappear from sight. It appeared he was alone.

  'Come on let's take a look around.' He turned abruptly hoping Cantelli hadn't seen Jarrett. The warning from Uckfield wasn't going to put him off confronting Jarrett but he didn't want to involve Cantelli, or put him in a position where he might have to lie to cover up for him. The sergeant had enough on his plate.

  Cantelli began poking about the videos and DVDs in a bookcase. Horton scanned the room with its faded furniture, which looked as though it had come as a job lot from a second-hand shop. The pale blue Dralon sofa had threads hanging loose from it. A single chair of the same material was placed at an angle in front of the television and, judging by its state, was the one that Culven favoured of a night as he sat eating his TV dinners. Horton got the impression of a sad, lonely man who'd either given up on life, or who was too mean to refurnish his new home.

  He crossed to the bookcase to the left of the fireplace. 'Interesting reading matter,' he said, craning his neck at the various titles haphazardly placed: Robert Jordan and Terry Brooks, Witch War by James Clemens, and Stephen King. 'Fantasy and horror.'

  'His videos and DVDs look the same. He's awfully keen on Emma Peel by the looks of it. Man's gone up in my estimation.'

  'Doesn't play much music.' There were only a handful of CDs, mainly country and western. Some Horton liked and had in his own collection, which was still in his house. He wondered what Catherine had done with them? Probably packaged them up and stuck them in the garage knowing her, out of sight out of mind, which seems to be what she had done with him. 'I'll take a look in his study,' he said.

  It was a poky room that could barely take the large old pedestal desk pushed up against the wall and which clashed with the style of the house. He wondered if Culven had downsized from a larger family home bringing with him some heirlooms, or perhaps his ex wife hadn't wanted these things?

  He stood at the window to the right of the desk. Jarrett had removed the canvas cover from his motor cruiser, an expensive sleek Sunseeker Portofino 46. Did that mean he was going out for the day or just sun bathing on board? Neither was a crime. He could tackle him about the accident but Jarrett would only deny it. He turned away and sat down in the old leather swivel chair pulling open the desk drawers. Everything seemed to have been shoved in any old how. He picked up an address book and flicked through it, the usual: doctor, a couple of other names, perhaps relatives or friends, and his dentist. Underneath the address book were some bank statements. Horton made to pull them out when Cantelli called him.

  'What is it?'

  Horton found Cantelli in the lounge sitting on his haunches in front of a display cabinet that had little in it to display except some tired looking ornaments and a few dusty glasses; obviously Miss Filey's cleaning didn't extend this far. The cupboard doors at its base were open.

  'Take a look at these,' Cantelli said, handing across two photographs he'd extracted from envelopes.

  He could see by Cantelli's expression that he was excited. Horton stared at the man in the photographs feeling his own pulse beginning to race. He was tall, lean, with wispy, grey thinning hair and a rather bemused expression on his narrow face as though the person taking the picture had startled him. He was standing by a silver Mercedes. That had been one of the cars seen in the car park. The other photograph was of the same man on a small motorboat. It was a Sealine 25.

  Horton looked across at Cantelli. 'Our victim? Or our killer?'

  'That's not all.' Cantelli pulled himself up, smiling broadly. In his hand was a bundle of letters held together by a large paperclip. 'We might also have found our motive.'

  H Horton looked at him speculatively.

  'They're from Melissa Thurlow and they're not about growing fuchsias.'

  CHAPTER 6

  Culven's fingerprints matched those of their body on the beach. The forensic team went into Culven's house and officers were deployed to question the neighbours. Now they knew who the victim was the investigation could step up a gear. Uckfield was happy. He thought they might also have a suspect: Roger Thurlow.

  Horton wasn't so sure. 'If he killed Culven then why not use his boat to make his escape? Why abandon it like that?'

  'As a decoy to throw us off the scent,' Uckfield said. 'He certainly had the motive to kill Culven. He could have used his tender to take the body onto the beach and then dragged Culven along the stones out of the tide's reach.'

  But that didn't tie up. 'Both Dr Clayton and Phil Taylor say that Culven was killed on the beach. Thurlow would hardly have needed to put him in his tender.'

  'Perhaps Thurlow arranged to meet Culven on the beach, killed him and had his tender already there to make a quick get away after killing Culven.'

  'OK. We'll talk to the Harbour Master and the Harbour Conservancy; they have regular night time patrols they might have seen or heard something. But if Thurlow did kill Culven, and then ditched his boat, he could be out of the country by now.' Or dead, Horton thought, reverting to his original theory. Thurlow could still have had an accident. Or maybe he had never made it back to the Free Spirit after killing Culven, which was more likely: navigating a small tender in the dark and fog would have been nigh on impossible even with hand held GPS.

  Cantelli had been despatched to Melissa Thurlow to confront her about the letters and obtain a sample of her handwriting. Horton had sent a WPC with him. He didn't think that Melissa Thurlow would need comforting when she learned her lover was dead but two sets of eyes were better than one when it came to observing and gauging reaction. Meanwhile he decided to test out his aching legs and walk the half-mile to Frampton's Solicitors along the busy London Road, which led out of the city. He was quickly ushered into the managing partner's spacious office.

  'It isn't like Michael not to show up for work without warning, especially in the middle of a case,' Frances Greywell said, waving him into a seat across her wide desk. Her oval face was serious beneath the short, sleek, bobbed hair and her dark eyes searched his for his reaction. When he gave none she continued, 'When he didn't show for work yesterday we thought he might be ill. He wasn't answering his phone. Then when I read about the body being found on the beach in last night's paper and that you were trying to trace the owner of a silver Mercedes, I spoke to the other partners this morning and we agreed to contact you.'

  'So Tuesday was the last time you saw Mr Culven?'

  'Yes. He left the office that evening just before me at seven o'clock.' She sat forward in the beige leather chair looking concerned. 'Can you tell me? Is Michael your body on the beach?'

  'Yes. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't say anything yet. We need to inform his relatives. I thought you might know who he named as next of kin.'

  It was as if she hadn't heard him. 'Who could have done such a terrible thing? And to Michael? I can't believe it, inspector.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  She pushed a hand through her chestnut hair which swung back exactly into place just like Emma's he thought.

  Frances Greywell said, 'It was murder?'

  Horton nodded.

  She let out a sigh and remained silent for a moment. Then visibly pulling herself together said crisply, 'Sorry, you wanted to know next of kin.' She picked up her telephone and punched in a number. 'Amanda, bring me Michael's personnel file please.'

  Horton admired her efficiency. He expected it. Both her appearance and her office said crisp, professional, focused.

  'What did Mr Culven do here?' he asked, wondering for a moment whether Ms Greywell and her firm would be a match for Catherine's solicitors if he decided to consult them. For the present he hadn't even opened that blasted letter. 'He is… was our company commercial partner specialising in corporate matters: employment law, management takeovers, mergers and acquisitions that kind of thing. He was clever, a very good lawyer.'

  'What about his private life? Friends, hobbies, interests?' Did she know that her fellow partner had been having an affair and that he liked being caned? He doubted it. Why should she?

  Frances Greywell pressed her well-manicured hands together to form a triangle as she considered his question. He could see she wore no wedding or engagement ring.

  'He was a quiet man, not one for small talk but he did enjoy going out on his boat. It was one of the reasons he moved to Horsea Marina, after his mother died, so that he could have his own berth.'

  'Was he married or has he ever been married?'

  'Not as far as I'm aware. He once told me that he liked his freedom and independence.'

  'Would you say he was attractive to women?'

  'I'm sure some women would find him attractive but he wasn't my type.'

  She smiled and Horton got the impression that she wanted him to ask her what her type was. He sidestepped that one.

  'Has he ever been tempted? Anyone special, at any time?'

  'I don't think so.'

  The door opened after a perfunctory knock and a small, dark haired woman in her late twenties entered carrying a file. She smiled rather nervously at Horton but he could see the curiosity and excitement shining in her eyes. Even if Frances Greywell said nothing, he knew the news would spread around the firm like a bush fire by tomorrow morning, probably had already.

  Frances Greywell thanked her. After consulting the file she said, 'Michael has a sister, Maureen Brinkwell, she lives in New Zealand.' She handed a form across to Horton who quickly flicked down the details. Culven was fifty-three, born 8 September, a bachelor and non-smoker who had joined the firm's personal health care plan five years ago. Wouldn't do him much good now, Horton thought.

  'Could I have a copy?' he asked.

  'Of course.' She made to rise but Horton forestalled her.

  'Could I also see Mr Culven's diary?'

  'I'll call it up for you. Everyone's diary is on our computer system,' she explained, punching something into her keyboard. 'If you'd like to…'

  He rose and moved around the desk to stand next to her. He could smell her soft perfume: light enough to state her femininity without compromising her professionalism.

  'Just scroll up or down if you need to see more,' she said, swivelling her face to look up at him. She was very close. She held her position for a moment before straightening up. 'I'll get this copied for you.'

  As he sat in her chair he wondered what element of law she specialised in. There was nothing on her desk to give him any clue. What if it were matrimonial? How would he feel telling her about Lucy Richardson? The answer was in the involuntary tensing of his body.

  He quickly moved the curser over the diary. There was nothing of interest in it for this week, except the industrial tribunal case, so he went back, an entry caught his eye. Yes! Culven had had a lunchtime appointment with Roger Thurlow at the yacht club at Horsea Marina on Friday, the last day that Thurlow had been seen. He went back further through July and June. There were several appointments with Thurlow, but what also interested him was the number of appointments with Jarrett. Before he had time to digest this the door opened.

  Frances Greywell handed him the photostat copy, which he folded and placed in the pocket of his jacket.

  'Was Mr Culven, Thurlow's solicitor?'

  'Yes.' She tried to hide her surprise and curiosity at the connection.

  'And Colin Jarrett's?'

  She nodded, now even more perplexed. 'I believe Michael's done… did a lot of work for Mr Jarrett. His business interests have expanded rapidly over the last five years.'

  Tell me about it! Hotels, restaurants, gyms and health clubs all along the south coast. He could see that she wanted to ask him why he wanted to know. Before she could he said, 'I'd like a copy of this diary?'

  'Of course.' Once again the lawyer she said crisply, 'Which months do you want, inspector?'

  'June onwards.'

  She moved back into her own seat brushing against him as she went. He thought it was intentional but maybe he was just kidding himself. She was attractive, but he was off women, except for one and she wanted nothing to do with him.

  'The printer's in Amanda's office.'

  He followed her through, admiring her slender but shapely figure. She had a way of walking, of doing things that said I know who I am, I know what I'm doing and I know what I want.

  He said, 'Mr Culven had an appointment at Thurlow's on Friday lunchtime. Any idea what that was about?' He could see that she wanted to ask him about this obsession with Thurlow. She didn't though, probably because she knew he would only blank her out.

  She said, 'Janet might know, Michael's secretary, but she only works part time. I'm afraid you've missed her. I can find out for you.'

  'Please. I'd also like the paperwork of all the cases that Mr Culven had been working on, say, in the last six months.' That should give him an insight into Jarrett's business affairs. Not that he expected to find anything brazenly illegal but he hadn't spent three years in SID without knowing how to read between the lines. A warm glow of satisfaction spread through him. It had been a good move coming here instead of going to Melissa Thurlow's.

  'That's confidential, inspector.'

  'I can return with a warrant.'

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19