Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Pauline Rowson
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgement
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Recent Titles by Pauline Rowson
The DI Andy Horton Mysteries
DEADLY WATERS *
THE SUFFOCATING SEA *
DEAD MAN’S WHARF *
BLOOD ON THE SAND *
FOOTSTEPS ON THE SHORE *
A KILLING COAST *
DEATH LIES BENEATH *
UNDERCURRENT *
DEATH SURGE *
SHROUD OF EVIL *
FATAL CATCH *
The Art Marvik Mysteries
SILENT RUNNING *
* available from Severn House
FATAL CATCH
A DI Andy Horton Mystery
Pauline Rowson
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2015
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2015 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 by Pauline Rowson.
The right of Pauline Rowson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Rowson, Pauline author.
Fatal catch. – (An Andy Horton mystery)
1. Horton, Andy (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Police–England-Portsmouth-Fiction. 3. Murder-
Investigation–Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9’2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-07278-8497-8 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-660-2 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-714-1 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
With grateful thanks, as always, to Hampshire Police, the Hampshire Police Marine Unit, the Fingerprint Bureau and the Crime Scene Investigations team for all their continued support and assistance.
ONE
Wednesday 12 December
The call came through just as Nat King Cole was about to roast his chestnuts on an open fire, and just as Horton reached the head of the long supermarket queue. He scrabbled for his mobile phone inside his leather jacket, drawing a loud exhalation of disapproval from the woman behind him, while he threw an apologetic smile at the twenty-something cashier processing the toys and books he was buying for his daughter, Emma. It was Sergeant Cantelli and he’d only call if it was important.
‘I’ll call you back in two minutes,’ Horton said hastily. He pushed his phone back in his jacket pocket and stuffed the Christmas presents into three plastic carrier bags. He hoped Emma would like them. The thought that he no longer knew his nine-year-old daughter’s tastes caused him a surge of anger towards his ex-wife, Catherine, who seemed determined to keep him as far away as possible from Emma as she could. Catherine had begrudgingly allowed him to see their daughter on the day before Christmas Eve after which she was whisking her off to spend Christmas on the Côte d’Azur on board her new boyfriend’s luxury yacht. Peter Jarvis was chief executive of an international packaging company, divorced, and the fact that he was watching Emma grow up, while he was being shoved out, made the bile rise in Horton’s throat.
He hurried out of the supermarket feeling irritable. The grey sky was heavy with the threat of sleet and there was an icy edge to the north-westerly wind. Predictions of a white Christmas were coming thick and fast but his experience of living on the south coast of England told him that by Christmas it would be mild, wet and windy. He didn’t care either way. He’d be on duty. Much better to work than sit on his boat alone thinking of what he’d lost. He crossed the crowded car park to his Harley, where he put the goods into the pannier, and called Cantelli.
‘Elkins has got a Christmas present for us,’ Cantelli announced.
That didn’t sound good. Dai Elkins was the sergeant in charge of the marine unit.
‘It’s not a body washed up on the beach, is it?’ asked Horton, thinking about the last time he’d been called to view one, not by Elkins on that occasion but by former DCI Mike Danby who now ran a private close protection security company. That body had been found on the private beach of Lord Richard Eames’ extensive Isle of Wight holiday property, five miles across the Solent from Portsmouth, in mid-October, and the investigation had led Horton further in his quest to discover the truth behind his mother’s disappearance over thirty years ago. Not that anyone knew that, unless he counted Lord Eames, a client of Mike Danby, and the man Horton believed was involved in Jennifer’s disappearance. He quickly shelved his thoughts on the progress of his own private investigations as Cantelli said, ‘It’s not a body, exactly.’
‘What do you mean, “exactly”?’
‘Don’t know. Dai said we had to see it. I’m on my way to Oyster Quays Marina. Hope it doesn’t mean I have to go on a boat,’ Cantelli added warily.
‘Probably. I’ll meet you there.’ Cantelli could get sick just looking at the sea, a decided drawback when living in a city surrounded by it.
Heading towards the popular waterfront development of shops, cafés, bars, restaurants and leisure outlets Horton was glad to let his troubled thoughts find refuge in work. He speculated as to what Elkins might have in store for them which warranted the summoning of CID, and why he was being so mysterious. A stash of drugs? But then he’d have called the drug squad. Perhaps he’d retrieved some stolen goods. But neither of those things matched with not ‘exactly’. Well he’d find out soon enough he thought, swinging into the underground car park and riding the escalator to the shopping malls. A brisk walk through the crowded centre brought him to the waterfront where Cantelli was waiting by the marina gate. He was talking to a bulky, balding, uniformed officer.
‘OK, so why the mystery?’ Horton asked Elkins as he keyed a number into the security pad to admit them to the pontoons. An icy blast of wind billowed off the sea from the na
rrow entrance of Portsmouth Harbour. Horton could see the small green and white ferry crossing to the town of Gosport opposite and an orange and black pilot boat was making its way into the Solent, probably to escort a container ship or continental ferry into the port.
Elkins’ expression was grave. ‘You’ll see.’
Horton’s eyes flicked over the small marina but he could see nothing to warrant Elkins’ gravity or the reason for his reticence. Whatever it was though he knew it had to be connected with the two men huddled in the cockpit of the police launch, which was moored up on the outlying pontoon facing on to the harbour. In front of the police launch was a blue-hulled motor cruiser and on board Horton could see PC Ripley. Elkins couldn’t have arrested a couple of drug runners because he’d never have let them sit meekly on the powerful police launch awaiting arrest.
Cantelli pushed a hand into the pocket of his rain jacket and pulled out a packet of chewing gum. He offered it around. Horton declined but Elkins took a strip, saying, ‘The thin guy with receding hair and the stoop is Lesley Nugent, the other fatter man is the owner of the boat Ripley’s on; Clive Westerbrook. He suffers from high blood pressure and has a dickie heart.’
Then he should lose weight, thought Horton, but that was Westerbrook’s business, not his.
Elkins said, ‘They were fishing for bream off Boulder Bank, just off Selsey Bill, east of here,’ he explained for Cantelli’s benefit. Horton, being a sailor, knew exactly where it was, in fact he knew practically every nautical mile of the Solent. ‘The tide runs hard over the Bank and floating weed can be a problem,’ Elkins explained. ‘Lesley Nugent says his line caught on some seaweed wrapped around a container. He reeled it in and was disentangling it when he noticed how heavy the container was. He opened it, with Clive Westerbrook watching, who said he nearly had a seizure when he saw what was inside.’
‘And that was?’ asked Horton, as they walked past the two men on the police launch. They both appeared nervous.
Elkins didn’t answer but climbed on board the blue-hulled motorboat. Horton followed suit while Cantelli elected to remain on the pontoon. The canvas awning had been rolled back from the cockpit and velcroed into place, exposing them to the biting wind sweeping off a grey choppy Solent beyond the harbour entrance. Swiftly Horton registered the fishing rods, reels, bait, tackle box containing long-nosed pliers, a filleting knife, elastic, hooks and other odds and ends. It was a bitterly cold day for fishing but he guessed the weather hardly mattered if you were a fanatic.
There were two seats at the helm and between the seats Horton could see down the hatch into the single cabin. On the right was a small galley. In the centre of the cabin was a table with nothing on it and seating either side of it which he knew, from the design of this type of boat, made up into a double bunk. To the left was the heads which would contain a sea toilet and sink. This boat was fine for an overnight stay, or for a few days if you weren’t too fussy, but not for much more, although he had lived on a smaller boat than this after Catherine had thrown him out following those false rape allegations while he’d been working undercover two years ago. That little yacht had been destroyed in a fire, almost with him on board, and the yacht he now sailed and lived on board was luxury in comparison, and a great deal newer than this boat which was about twenty years old. But this was solidly built and classically designed, and would still be ploughing the Solent and the English Channel in another twenty years when its flashier and more modern and expensive cousins had been consigned to the boat scrapyard.
‘This is what they fished up.’ Elkins indicated the dirty white plastic container lying on the floor of the cockpit. It looked to Horton like the type used for containing ice cream or margarine bought from the wholesalers only there were no labels or markings on it and inside he could see the vague shape of something that caused him a puzzled frown. Elkins nodded at Ripley, who, with latex-covered fingers, prised open the lid. Horton started with surprise but it was Cantelli, peering over the side of the boat, who voiced his initial thoughts.
‘My God! Is it real?’
‘It’s real all right,’ Elkins said solemnly. ‘You can see the arteries where it’s been severed at the wrist.’
And the blackened exposed tissue, thought Horton, quickly recovering from his initial shock, staring at the human hand. The flesh, although a yellowish colour and emitting a sickly odour, was intact, no sea creatures or insect life had eaten into it, and there was no decomposition, which meant it couldn’t have been in the sea for very long. The container could have protected it he supposed, it looked fairly waterproof. There were slithers of water in the bottom but they could have been caused when the container had been opened by the two fishermen. The hand was fairly broad but the fingers were thin, ringless and quite long. A man’s hand he thought, though he’d leave that for Dr Gaye Clayton, the pathologist, to confirm. Mentally he measured it against his own hand and decided that whoever it had once been part of had been leaner than him. The nails were short, possibly bitten. He couldn’t see any tattoos and he wasn’t going to turn it over to find out if there were any on the palm.
‘Could a boat propeller have sliced it off?’ asked Cantelli.
‘It could but that hardly accounts for it being in a container. And where’s the rest of him?’
Cantelli shrugged and reached for his mobile phone inside his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll call in and check for missing persons over the last couple of weeks.’
Hopefully Dr Clayton would be able to lift fingerprints from the hand which might give them a quicker ID than waiting for DNA. Horton nodded at Ripley to replace the cover and instructed him to put the container in a plain brown paper evidence bag. He didn’t want anyone ogling it as they transported it to Cantelli’s car. Ripley disembarked and Horton addressed Elkins. ‘Did the fishermen touch it or lift it out of the container?’
‘They said they were too shocked to do anything except call the coastguard. When the coastguard received the panic stricken call from Clive Westerbrook at ten thirty-five they immediately thought that someone on board had chopped his hand off by accident. They rushed out, found this and called us.’
‘Let’s have a word with them.’
Clive Westerbrook looked haggard, his dark eyes were haunted and fearful, which was understandable given the circumstances thought Horton. His companion, Nugent, didn’t look much better. Hunched into the collar of his waterproof jacket with his hands thrust deep in the pockets he eyed them like a man about to be executed.
‘Is it some kind of sick joke?’ Nugent asked, agitatedly.
‘I’m afraid not,’ Horton answered solemnly.
Nugent looked as though he was about to throw up. Elkins eyed him with alarm, probably at the thought that he’d have to clean up the vomit.
Horton quickly continued. ‘We’d prefer it if you would say nothing about this for now especially to the media.’ Leanne Payne, the local crime reporter, would love this, and so too would the national media. He added, ‘We don’t want to distress anyone unnecessarily.’
Nugent swallowed hard as he fought to get a grip on his nerves and his stomach. But Westerbrook’s breathing became a little more laboured. ‘I won’t keep you long,’ Horton said with genuine sympathy. ‘You’ve both had a shock. Just a couple of questions. I understand the boat belongs to you, Mr Westerbrook?’
‘Yes. I wish to God we’d just thrown the bloody thing back in without looking.’
And if they had perhaps someone else would have fished it up or it might have washed up along the south coast or across the Solent on the shores of the Isle of Wight for another person to discover. But when, and in what state, was anyone’s guess. There probably wouldn’t have been any fingers left, let alone prints, but there might still have been enough of the hand to extract DNA.
‘Do you remember seeing anything else floating around the boat?’ Horton could see by the nervous glance they exchanged that they were both following his train of thought, the body could have been clos
e by, or certainly the remains of it either in or out of containers. Nugent shook his head. Westerbrook’s skin turned a paler shade of grey. There was a thin film of perspiration on his brow. He looked ill and Horton was concerned about him. ‘If you could give your contact details to Sergeant Elkins that will be all for now but we’ll need a statement from both of you. You can come into the station and make it later.’
‘No. I’ll do it now,’ Nugent hurriedly said. ‘I can’t face going back on that boat even if that thing has gone.’
‘And I need to take my boat back to the marina,’ Westerbrook said.
‘And that is where?’
‘Fareham.’
Horton had sailed into there a few times. It was a small marina nine miles to the west of Portsmouth by car and situated at the top and north-westerly end of the harbour. He didn’t see any reason why Westerbrook shouldn’t do that. His boat wasn’t a crime scene so there was no need to seal it off and call in the Scene of Crime Officers. He was more concerned about Westerbrook being fit enough to handle the boat.
‘Will you be all right?’ he asked. ‘PC Ripley could pilot it for you.’
‘No. Thanks. My car’s there. I’ll call in at the police station on my way back home. I live here, in Portsmouth.’
Horton offered to get a car to take Nugent to the police station to make his statement but Nugent declined. ‘I’ll walk. I need the air.’
Horton understood that. Alighting, and out of earshot of the two men, Elkins said he and Ripley would take a look around the area where the hand had been found. ‘Not that I’m expecting to find any more surprise packages, the tide will have shifted anything, but you never know.’
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