A voice bid them enter and the girl ushered Horton in with a smile.
Larry Egmont was in his early forties. Fit, tanned, dark-haired, and dressed in an expensive dinner suit he rose from behind his desk with a smile, stretching out a hand. His grip was vice-like and the brown eyes studying Horton were cool, intelligent and curious.
Horton showed his warrant card, not expecting Egmont to remember him but he waved it away, obviously doing so. Remembering people was Egmont’s business. He gestured Horton into one of two cream leather armchairs in the contemporarily decorated spacious room, which was in complete contrast to what Horton had seen so far. There was a cream-coloured carpet, cream walls with some stunning modern, primary-coloured paintings on them, and a large cream leather sofa positioned around a low, light-wood coffee table that matched a sideboard, with drinks on it, and Egmont’s large desk on which was a telephone, computer and television monitor. There was another wide plasma screen on the far wall. It was switched off. Horton suspected it would show Egmont the various images from around the casino rather than the latest episode of a popular TV programme.
‘Drink?’
‘No thanks.’
Egmont sat and Horton followed suit.
‘How can I help you, Inspector? I trust there’s no trouble.’
Egmont looked anything but anxious but then that was no less than Horton expected. They were alone but Horton got the impression they were being watched. Probably behind a concealed camera.
‘I’d like to know if Clive Westerbrook or Graham Langham were customers here, and before you claim customer confidentiality they’re both dead.’
Egmont raised his dark eyebrows then shrugged. ‘I don’t know the names but I’ll check.’ He rose and crossed to his desk. Punching into his computer, after a short while he looked up and said, ‘No.’ He returned to his seat and Horton withdrew the photographs of Westerbrook and Langham.
‘Have you seen either of these men before?’
Egmont studied them. ‘I haven’t but my staff might have. Do you want me to ask them?’
‘Please. I’ll email these over to you or I can run some off and get them dropped in.’
‘No, email will be fine. What have they done apart from ending up dead? I take it their deaths are suspicious otherwise you wouldn’t be here.’
Horton certainly wasn’t going to divulge their suspicions or any facts of the case. He said, ‘We know that Clive Westerbrook gambled heavily. Does he owe you money?’
‘No.’
Horton eyed the shrewd man in front of him.
Egmont added, ‘I can assure you, Inspector, if he owed me money I’d remember the name and the face.’
And that Horton knew was the truth but perhaps Westerbrook’s debt wasn’t officially on the books because his gambling wasn’t official. There was little more Horton could ask but he ran Borland’s name past Egmont to see what his reaction was and got a blank look for his pains.
‘He lived at Fareham opposite the pontoons in the marina. He died in a house fire on Tuesday evening,’ Horton pressed, studying closely Egmont’s expression. Again blank.
Horton rose. ‘If you come across any information about Graham Langham or Clive Westerbrook, or if any of your staff recognize either man, could you let me know.’
Egmont took the card Horton handed him. ‘Always happy to cooperate with the police.’
Horton held his stare. Was there something mocking about it and behind his words? He said, ‘Do you have a boat, Mr Egmont?’
Egmont looked surprised at the question. ‘Yes.’
‘Where do you keep it?’
He looked amused. ‘At the end of my garden.’
Of course. He should have guessed that Egmont could afford a property with its own mooring.
‘Which is where?’
‘Bosham.’
A small village in West Sussex to the west of Chichester and which fronted on to Chichester Harbour. Easy enough for Egmont to motor his boat from there into the Thorney Channel. But if Egmont was involved with Westerbrook’s death then Horton sincerely doubted he’d get his own hands dirty.
Horton had a few more questions for Egmont but they weren’t about Langham or Westerbrook. As he reached the door he halted. ‘Those photographs on the wall downstairs, where did they come from?’
‘You mean the ones of the old casinos,’ Egmont said, surprised.
‘Yes.’
‘Someone gave them to us. He used to work for George when he had the casino in Southsea in the 1970s. I think he’s got a website dedicated to it. Some people are rather sad in that way.’ Egmont smiled. Horton returned it but he was cursing himself for not checking it out.
‘Do you have his name?’
‘Not off the top of my head but I can ask my secretary on Monday. She’ll know, or you can probably find him by surfing the Net.’
And Horton would. He was escorted to reception by a big man of the same ilk as the one standing on the door to the gaming rooms. Horton hadn’t seen Egmont summon the man so he must have been monitoring the conversation by security camera. He eyed Horton steadily and unsmilingly. Yes, he could have killed Langham and beaten up Westerbrook or if not him then his mate downstairs.
In reception Horton turned to the man escorting him and said, ‘One moment.’ He knew that Egmont was still watching him on that screen in his office and probably wondering what the pictures from the 1970s had to do with his investigation. Was Egmont worried? Probably not. The Egmonts of the world didn’t need to worry.
Horton studied the photograph from 1978 closely, his heart racing a little faster. There were twelve men in the picture, wearing white shirts and bow ties, four with moustaches and two with beards. The women, ten of them, were dressed in evening wear, six in long black evening dresses with a sweetheart neck. They were the girls on the gaming tables which was where Jennifer had worked, but none of these or the other women in the photograph was Jennifer. He noted that the picture had been taken in September 1978, two months before Jennifer had disappeared. Perhaps it was her evening off or she was ill that day. Perhaps the man who had donated this copy to the casino had other pictures from that time and with Jennifer in them. He might even remember her and the men she’d been friendly with. Or perhaps Jennifer had made sure not to be available for any photo call, official or unofficial, because if what he’d been told was true, and that Jennifer had been working for British Intelligence, then she would have been certain not to be photographed, just as Eileen Litchfield, his foster mother, had made sure not to have any photographs of herself or of him taken. He wondered if John Guilbert had managed to get hold of the photographs of the Ducale twins, Eileen and her brother Andrew, from Violet Ducale. He would have called him though if he had.
Horton stepped out into what had become a remarkably mild night after the brief cold snap. The area was getting busy with early revellers. It was nine forty-five. He swung the Harley towards the seafront and a few minutes later was pressing the bell of Carolyn’s apartment.
‘You made it! Great!’ she said, answering the intercom, she’d have seen him on her CCTV system.
She sounded genuinely pleased and as she buzzed him in and he climbed the stairs to her apartment he wondered if he’d imagined her embracing that slender, fair-haired man. He hadn’t though.
There was a slight delay before she opened the door to him, smiling. His pulse skipped a beat and his loins stirred as he gazed at her radiant face and smelt her soft sensual perfume. When she wrapped her arms around him and kissed him lingeringly and seductively he knew this was going to be a hell of a lot tougher than he’d reckoned. Did it matter if she liked to have two men on the go? They’d hardly agreed a mutually exclusive relationship and declared undying love for each other. He could simply take what was on offer and enjoy it, without confiding anything. But as he pulled away from her he knew that wasn’t his style.
He thought she looked disconcerted but if so she quickly recovered. ‘Drink?’
‘I forgot, you don’t, why not?’
He followed her into the lounge. ‘Don’t like the taste,’ he said, pulling off his leather jacket. It wasn’t the truth but he saw no reason to tell her that. And perhaps she could guess why, after all she had researched his background. It didn’t take a leap of faith to work out that during his suspension he’d taken to drinking heavily before coming to his senses and since then he’d stayed off the booze.
‘Coke it is.’
While she fetched it he crossed to the window. She hadn’t drawn the curtains. He gazed across the black Solent. An occasional glimmer of a fretful moon turned streaks of the sea silver before the scudding cloud plunged it back into darkness. He could see the pinpricks of lights from a passing ship on the horizon and those of the houses straddling the hilly roads of the town of Ryde on the Isle of Wight beyond the Solent. He was transported back to another apartment in a tower block where he’d sat and watched the ships sail out of Portsmouth Harbour and had dreamt of travelling on them to lands he’d only read about in books. He’d never managed that and maybe there was still that deep urge inside him to take off. But that would mean leaving Emma and he didn’t want to do that. Catherine’s words about his boat being unsuitable for their daughter to sleep on drifted into his thoughts. Maybe it was time to get an apartment and if so then one like this, where he had the wide open space of the ever-changing sea to gaze on and ease his troubled thoughts. He started slightly at the touch of a hand on his arm and turned to take his drink from Carolyn.
‘You look solemn and tired.’ Her expression softened. He almost capitulated then.
‘It’s been a long day.’
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Not really.’
‘Want something to eat?’
‘Not really.’ He was tired and his heart felt heavy. He studied Carolyn Grantham’s dark attractive face and remembered how good it felt to hold her. He could do that again. He could abandon himself to making love to her. Forget Westerbrook and Langham. But they weren’t the focus of his weariness. It was memories of his childhood and his mother, her laughing face, her arms wrapped around him, her softness, her perfume and her kisses. Her worried face, her crying, and then her smiles, false now he guessed and his heart and hands ached with longing and the pain of rejection. He so desperately wanted to forget his tormented childhood and although he could for a while with Carolyn Grantham he knew it wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough, not with her, just as it had never been with Catherine. Maybe not with anyone. But especially not with Carolyn because he didn’t trust her.
She sensed and probably saw in his expression his doubts, and maybe she even sensed a hardness in him. ‘You’ve come to a decision,’ she said, taking the seat opposite him rather than next to him. ‘About Jennifer?’
‘There’s nothing to tell you about Jennifer because I don’t know anything about what happened to her, and raking up how I felt then and how I feel now doesn’t achieve anything. It’s the past. I’ve moved on.’
‘Have you?’
‘Yes,’ he answered firmly and forced a smile which he hoped to her seemed genuine. ‘I can’t help you, Carolyn.’
‘Don’t you want to know what happened to her?’ she asked, eyeing him steadily.
‘It won’t change things.’
‘It might change the way you remember her.’
He knew that. It had already. ‘It won’t change what happened though.’
‘No.’ She sipped her drink. In the silence that followed Horton heard only the clock on the mantelpiece ticking.
‘You believe she’s dead, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he replied with conviction.
‘Accident or suicide?’
Why didn’t she say murder? Because she was waiting for him to suggest it? He shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’
‘For a police officer I’d say it does. Why don’t you get the case reopened?’
‘Because I’m afraid of what I might learn.’
She eyed him, surprised and curious. ‘You believe then that there is something to learn.’
‘There’s always something to learn.’
She frowned. ‘But if her death was suspicious then someone has gone unpunished.’
‘That’s often the way. Even if I found out who had killed her, if someone did, getting evidence of that to take it to court and secure a conviction would be practically impossible, so why waste the time.’
‘But you do have some ideas.’ She pressed. Was she too eager? Too pushy? Time for him to test it.
‘There are always ideas. There are also rumours, suppositions and theories, some of them ludicrous such as Jennifer could have been involved with someone in the IRA in 1978 which was why she vanished.’
‘My God!’ She looked startled.
If it was an act it was a damn good one.
‘How do you know this?’
‘I don’t know it. It was just something someone said. Maybe they overheard her talking to this person about the Troubles and assumed it was her boyfriend.’
‘She ran off with him?’
‘Or was killed by him or because of him or because of what she knew.’
‘About a bombing campaign.’
‘Possibly. There were a whole series of bombs here on the mainland and in Northern Ireland at that time and after she vanished.’
‘You could dig a bit deeper, apply to see the records in the National Archives.’
‘I could but what would it achieve?’
‘Closure,’ she said quietly.
He smiled wryly. ‘I doubt it. And I doubt I’ll ever get that. It’s over, Carolyn.’ He held her gaze. Did she know what he meant? Her expression never wavered. She studied him sympathetically. He was weary and lonely. He wanted so much to trust, to confide, not to be alone. He remembered Thursday night. Taking a mental breath he continued, ‘It’s time to move on. My marriage is over, but I have a young daughter and a job, I won’t say career because that’s probably stalled, and besides I’m not sure if I want to go any higher. I might even come to the conclusion that I don’t want the job.’
He thought she looked shocked. ‘What would you do?’
His eyes travelled to the window. ‘Sail.’ He’d considered not long ago about taking up yacht racing, he might reconsider that, it depended to a certain extent on Emma.
She rose and sat down beside him. God, she was so very hard to resist.
‘I understand,’ she said softly and she looked as though she did, but that picture of her embracing that man meant all this was a lie.
‘Do you?’ he said, trying to squeeze the harshness from his voice.
‘I’ve spoken to a lot of people who still have the yawning ache of desertion inside them. I’ve seen what it can do.’
He looked into her dark brown eyes and was certain that what she said was genuine. He felt himself drawn to her warmth, her softness and her scent. He kissed her, longingly, and she responded. It would be so easy to forget. So easy to make love to her. Too easy. He pulled away.
‘Tomorrow’s a long day,’ he said, his voice, even to his ears, sounding taut with emotion.
She eyed him with surprise before she forced a smile from her lips that never touched her deep brown eyes and withdrew herself gracefully. ‘Of course.’
He rose and picked up his jacket. ‘I’m sorry for spoiling your evening. I shouldn’t have come. I’m just out of sorts.’
Looking concerned she said, ‘It’s OK. Another time. You’ll call me?’
He forced a smile. ‘Yes.’
She let him out but his smile faded as the door closed on him and his frown deepened as he ran down the stairs. He started up the Harley and headed slowly out of the estate and along the seafront, but when he reached the end of the promenade instead of turning right for his boat he continued until he came to a left-hand turning and soon he was pulling into a side street. Locking the Harley he ran swiftly to the rear
of her apartment, where he waited in the shadows. He didn’t have long. A car drew up and parked in the allotted space for visitors. A man climbed out and made for the building. The outside door buzzed to let him in without him having to call the number. She was waiting for him. Horton took a breath and made for his Harley. It was the same man he’d seen her with in the civic square.
He rode home with even more questions to add to those already crowding his throbbing head. Who was that man? Was he from Eames and the intelligence services or was he working for someone else who was keen to discover what he had unearthed about Jennifer, or rather what he believed about her disappearance? Why would Carolyn assist whoever it was though? Perhaps that man was just her lover and she was on the level regarding her research project. Finding herself rejected and alone she’d called her boyfriend and he’d come running.
Horton unlocked the boat, turned on the engine and let it run, warming up the boat. Retrieving his phone he called up the internet and very quickly found the website that Egmont had been alluding to earlier. On it was the same photograph that was on the casino wall and there were others taken of the outside of the casino and the surrounding nightclubs dating from the 1960s and 1970s. Horton studied them all closely but Jennifer wasn’t in any of the photographs. The website was run by a man called Melvin Cooper. The name didn’t register with him. It certainly hadn’t been on the missing person report and that meant Stanley hadn’t obtained a statement from him, so perhaps he hadn’t known Jennifer. Or perhaps the statement had been destroyed or accidentally omitted.
Horton rang through to the station and asked the duty sergeant to run the name through the computer and get an address for him. He also relayed the vehicle registration number of Carolyn’s boyfriend and requested an address. Sergeant Stride said he’d call him back.
Impatiently Horton waited, lying on his bunk, listening to the wind moaning through the rigging. His mind ran through several scenarios. If Eames had sent Carolyn to find out what he’d been told by Antony Dormand and what he’d discovered about Jennifer’s disappearance then perhaps it was because Eames was getting scared he knew too much or was getting too close to the truth. If, as he had thought earlier, his conversation with Carolyn had been recorded, then he’d planted the seed that he knew about the possible IRA connection, and had dismissed it. What would Eames do next? How would Eames stop him if he thought he was getting too close to the truth? Would he try to discredit him in the same way he’d been framed and discredited by Lucy Richardson and those false allegations of rape? Was that Carolyn’s purpose in this? Or would something else occur in the course of his job that would throw his honesty into question? Or perhaps he’d meet with an accident? Would Eames go that far? Horton knew he would. After all, four of the men out of those six in the photograph had met with accidents of one kind or another. And again he mentally ran through the catalogue of their deaths: Timothy Wilson had been killed in a motorbike accident, James Royston had died of a heroin overdose, Zachary Benham had died in a fire that had raged through the ward of a psychiatric hospital and Rory Mortimer had been killed by Antony Dormand.
Fatal Catch Page 18
