‘Would it matter if I did and he chucked you over?’
She opened her mouth to speak then closed it again. Slowly with a sigh she shook her head. ‘No, it wouldn’t matter.’ She turned back to stare at the sea. ‘He’s a nice man but rather dull. And before you say it, I know, not dull enough that I didn’t want to sleep with him. And you’re right I did call him after you left.’ She spun round. ‘I was pissed off with you. I could see in your eyes and hear in your voice that you didn’t want to see me again. I was hurt. It felt like I was being used. To you I’d been just a one-night stand, one of many I expect, though I had hoped that what had passed between us was special. You obviously thought not. So I thought sod it, let’s see if I’ve still got it, so I called Rufus and he came running. But then he always does. That’s probably why I treat him so badly.’ She took a breath. ‘Andy, I’m sorry. Can’t we start again without Rufus?’ She eyed him beseechingly.
He so wanted to but he knew he couldn’t. ‘It wouldn’t work, Carolyn.’
She said nothing but held his steady gaze. After a moment her shoulders slumped. ‘No, you’re right. I can see that. It wouldn’t.’ Then she pulled herself up. ‘But it was nice knowing you. Good luck with your search for the truth behind Jennifer’s disappearance.’
His muscles tensed though he made sure not to betray his thoughts. ‘I’m no longer looking,’ he firmly replied, but she smiled.
‘I don’t think you have much option but to keep looking.’
He watched her walk away. He let out the mental breath he’d been holding. He still didn’t know if she’d been primed by Eames to discover what he knew. And now he didn’t care if she had been. Knowing that Ballard was Ducale and Eileen’s brother was a giant leap forward and there was more swirling around in his mind. Maybe he’d misjudged Carolyn. Maybe everything she’d said was true. But he could never have a relationship based on maybes.
He returned to the police launch determined to dismiss her from his thoughts. The bracing sea air in the harbour would clear his mind of her. It was time to get back to what he was being paid to do, and that was to catch criminals and he badly wanted to get the man behind Borland’s brutal death and the equally brutal slaying of Langham, whose mutilated body might one day be washed up on the shore. He hoped so for Moira and the kids’ sake. It was no fun living with the unknown.
Fifteen minutes later, he found Julian Tierney on a pontoon close to where Westerbrook had kept his boat. The wind was now gusting strongly and Tierney said he was checking the boats to make sure they were all well secured. ‘The forecast is for gusts of up to sixty miles per hour, better to be safe than sorry,’ he added cheerfully.
Horton said he wouldn’t keep him long. ‘You mentioned before that you’d seen Mr Borland in the car park but did you see him in the marina, on the pontoons for example?’ He had to raise his voice as the wind howled and moaned through the masts.
‘A couple of times. I think he might have been angling for a trip because he asked me if any of the berth holders did boat trips. I told him he’d have to go to Portsmouth for that, unless someone here fancied taking him out. I said he could put an advert in the office if he liked. But he said he wouldn’t bother, he just wondered because he’d seen people arrive with Clive. Fishing, I told him. Clive was a keen angler.’
Not as far as Horton had discovered. He trawled back through his mind to his previous conversation with Tierney. ‘I thought you said when I came here before that you hadn’t seen anyone go out with Clive except a thin stooping man last Wednesday.’ Lesley Nugent.
‘I haven’t. But Mr Borland thought he had.’
Horton’s interest quickened. ‘Did he say who?’
‘No.’
Was this a fabrication to deflect interest away from himself? Was Horton looking at Borland and Langham’s killer? His vagueness could be an act to disguise a clever ruthless killer.
‘You mentioned before that you saw Mr Borland talking to Aubrey Davidson by his van.’
‘Did I? Yes, he was talking to someone.’
‘Not Mr Davidson, according to him,’ Horton said sharply, watching Tierney.
He shrugged and said casually, ‘I assumed it was him, Mr Borland was by Aubrey’s van.’
‘Where was it parked?’
‘Next to Clive’s car.’
Horton suppressed his surprise and growing interest. Maybe Tierney was on the level and Westerbrook’s car had been the real focus of Borland’s interest.
‘Was Mr Westerbrook there or inside it?’
Tierney’s face creased up as clearly he tried to remember. After a moment his expression cleared. ‘No. I remember now I saw his boat go out.’
How sure could Horton be that Tierney was telling the truth?
‘It was about two weeks ago, I think. I can check the diary because Aubrey came into the office to collect the keys for a boat engine he was servicing.’
‘Please.’ Horton followed him back to the office. He was pleased to get out of the temperamental wind.
Tierney retrieved his diary from under a mountain of paperwork on his desk. ‘Yes, here it is, Monday, two weeks ago.’
Horton quickly checked the tide timetable which was displayed on Tierney’s office wall. High tide had been at 14.10 so Westerbrook had gone out some time between midday and 4 p.m.
‘Do you know when Mr Westerbrook returned?’ he asked, not really hopeful that Tierney would be able to provide the answer. And he was correct.
‘All I know is his car was still in the car park when I left just before five o’clock and his boat was moored up on Tuesday morning when I arrived. His boat was on the pontoon when I did the rounds just after midday.’
It sounded as though Westerbrook had been away overnight. This was a week before Langham had waved goodbye to Moira and had travelled to the island. And eight days before the fire that had claimed Borland’s life. It could have no bearing on the murders but it might on the investigation. Horton tried to remember if a journey for those days had been plotted on the GPS he’d viewed on Westerbrook’s boat but he couldn’t. Was Tierney making this up to throw suspicion off him? But if he were then he’d have picked the day of the fire. Nevertheless Horton asked him where he had been last Tuesday.
‘At home.’
‘With anyone?’
‘My girlfriend.’
‘And last Monday night?’
‘At home again. But Ella was working. She’s a receptionist at a hotel at Whitely.’
A large modern conurbation of houses, offices and a retail park just off the motorway between here and Southampton.
‘We’ll need to check.’
‘Be my guest.’ Tierney seemed unperturbed. Either he was supremely confident or completely innocent. Horton was beginning to think it was the latter.
He took down the details of the hotel and Tierney’s address, which was a few miles to the west, and returned to the police launch where he asked Elkins to wait for him. Then he headed for Borland’s house. He stared at the blue and white crime scene tape flapping frantically in the howling wind wracking his brains to see what he had missed. The mobile incident unit was in place. Had they got new information? Had Cantelli? If he hadn’t then they’d have to leave the case to Uckfield and his team. Horton hadn’t got anything new that could help throw light on why Borland and Langham had been killed. Only painstaking research, checking and rechecking statements, interviewing and reinterviewing people would get to the truth unless Nugent held his hand up for two murders and Horton didn’t think that was likely.
He looked up at the fire-damaged house and saw in his mind Borland being hauled over that fire and left to die. His muscles stiffened but somewhere in the back of his mind something registered. Was it a word or a phrase? He couldn’t put his finger on it. Perhaps it was connected with what Tierney had told him. Perhaps Tierney had misheard Borland or misinterpreted what he was saying. Borland, up at that front window, had spied on the marina with his binoculars and on Monday,
a fortnight ago, he’d gone down to the marina and stood by Westerbrook’s car, why?
He turned and made for the police launch, calling Cantelli as he went.
‘Where are you?’ Horton asked.
‘Just alighting from a bus in Portsmouth.’
‘A bus!’
‘Yeah, haven’t been on one in years,’ Cantelli said brightly. ‘It was the bus Borland took last Monday.’
‘Go on,’ Horton said eagerly.
‘Firstly Mrs Samson couldn’t tell me anything more than she told you about Borland’s hobbies but the librarian was very helpful. She was very upset when I told her Borland had died in a fire. He was one of the library volunteers. He had a passion for the law. She gave me a list of the books that Borland borrowed, most of it true crime and famous criminal trials. He also spent some time viewing reference material and newspaper articles on criminal trials. He used to attend some of the big trials or rather the ones he found most interesting whatever the crime was. He went to the Old Bailey, the Royal Courts of Justice, and other courts around London, Winchester and Portsmouth. He told her that he’d always wanted to be a barrister but his family couldn’t afford it. They were just ordinary working class. He did well though, went to grammar school and then passed the civil service entrance exam and worked his way up. He came in every day during the last week of his life, except for the Sunday when the library was closed.’
Why did Horton think of Hugh Maltby? He was in Cyprus.
‘Last Monday he caught the nine thirty-one from Fareham Bus Station to Edinburgh Road.’
The city centre then, perhaps to do some shopping, thought Horton disappointed, but he caught the excitement in Cantelli’s voice.
‘He was a regular on the service. The driver knew him well, in a passenger driver relationship way,’ Cantelli added. ‘I could only talk to him at the bus stops or when we got held up in traffic. He told me that Borland used to moan that he had to walk from Edinburgh Road through the civic centre to the courts and he continually asked why the bus route didn’t go that way, but in a light-hearted manner. The driver used to joke with him, saying “what are you up before the beak for now? Forging your bus pass,” that kind of thing. Borland told the driver that he liked to attend the more interesting trials and he went there on Monday, which was why he was wearing his suit.’
Horton’s interest deepened. He didn’t remember seeing Borland in court but then he would only have noticed him if he’d been known to him or a relative of the family of the accused or victim. No one from CID had been in court last Monday.
‘Find out what was being heard?’
‘On my way there now. I’ll also see if I can find out what other trials he attended but that might be difficult if no one remembers seeing him and we wouldn’t get a complete list. You know what this could mean though?’
Horton did. Cantelli didn’t need to spell it out. The list of trials would give them the names of the police officers involved but as Cantelli said it wouldn’t be complete.
Cantelli continued, ‘I’ll check with Tim Shearer to see if he remembers Borland.’
Horton told Cantelli that they’d pulled in Nugent. He rang off and made to climb on the police launch then hesitated. ‘Dai, are you needed anywhere?’
‘Not desperately, no, why?’
‘Come with me.’ Horton headed back to the green, relaying as he went what Cantelli had reported. He found Marsden in the incident suite and asked him if a safe had been found in Borland’s house. It hadn’t been. Marsden also confirmed that no new information had come to light. Horton asked for the keys to Borland’s house. As he climbed the stairs with Elkins, he said, ‘Borland might have used a computer to keep a record of what he had witnessed going on in this marina and of the trials he attended. If so the killer took it and Borland being a thorough man would have backed it up but that might also have been taken or destroyed in the fire. He’s also old school though and, as Mrs Samson said, very thorough and cautious which means he could also have kept written notes.’
‘Belt and braces job.’
‘Yes.’ They entered the burnt-out bedroom.
Elkins eyed the destruction. Horton saw his gaze fall on the remains of some books on the floor and then those still in the charred bookcase. The fact that there were books on the floor now struck Horton as unusual. They couldn’t have leapt out of the bookcase on their own, and the bookcase, although badly burned, was still upright beside the fireplace. It seemed likely then that the killer had searched through some of the books in the bookcase and tossed them on to the floor before dragging Borland over the electric fire. Or perhaps some of these books on the floor had been on the table and the killer had rifled through them then thrown them down. If so then the killer was searching for written evidence and would have taken it with him if he’d found it. Or would he? Horton’s spine tingled.
He said, ‘You take the bookcase, Dai, I’d hate for you to get your uniform trousers dirty. See if there is anything in those books that might tell us what Borland saw and who he confided in.’ He pulled on his latex gloves and applied himself to the books on the floor. There were a couple of biographies, law books, factual books and a few police procedural novels. Some were nothing but charred remains, some crumbled to his touch, but others were remarkably untouched. Horton considered what Cantelli had said about Borland’s reading material.
‘Anything on famous criminal trials?’ he asked Elkins.
‘There are a couple on cold cases, Jack the Ripper, crime investigation and evidence and one on famous unsolved mysteries, crimes and disappearances in America.’
‘Flick through them to see if Borland left any notes.’
Horton continued picking up the books. There was nothing in them but as he moved to the seat of the fire there was a pile of plaster that had fallen from the ceiling. Carefully he lifted it and a slow smile spread across his face. There were a few books badly burned and the remains of what must have been paper but underneath there was what looked like an exercise book. SOCO might have looked under the plaster for blood or other evidence but not for books. The killer had tossed Borland’s written evidence on the floor next to the body on the electric fire in the belief that it would be destroyed. He’d piled other books on top hoping to fuel the fire but the heat had caused the plaster to fall and protect some of what was underneath, as sometimes happened. With eager anticipation Horton lifted the blackened exercise book and eased open the pages. Elkins crossed to him.
‘Found something?’
‘Yes. It’s a notebook and although many of the pages are burnt there are some that are intact with handwritten notes.’ He showed Elkins. ‘Borland’s writing. It looks as though they’re notes from a trial he attended and some reference to research material, newspaper articles if his shorthand DT refers to the Daily Telegraph.’ Horton didn’t delve any further. This was important and he couldn’t afford to damage what was vital evidence. He placed the notebook carefully in an evidence bag. He needed to get it back to the lab.
He handed the keys back to Marsden. As the police launch headed into Portsmouth Harbour Horton ran over what he’d discovered and what Cantelli had told him. The threads were coming together and a pattern was beginning to form. If DCS Adams really believed that Langham was involved with Jacob Crowe then someone had told him that. Someone who was reliable, someone who knew that Crowe was in prison and who also knew that Crowe and Langham could be connected because they’d both been in the same prison at the same time. His thoughts were interrupted by a call from Walters.
‘Westerbrook’s offender manager was Dennis Popham.’
‘Is he the only one working in the probation service?’ asked Horton. He’d been Alfie Wright’s and Graham Langham’s offender manager.
‘He said that Westerbrook attended Gamblers Anonymous and did some voluntary work with the Citizens Advice Bureau giving financial advice. He was by all accounts very astute.’
‘Not astute enough to avoid gambling.’
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br /> ‘Popham says it was the thrill of it that got him hooked, not the money. He kept his nose clean for a year as far as Popham is aware. Hasn’t seen or heard of him since then.’
So as soon as the term of his sentence had been served inside and on probation Westerbrook had got himself a boat, a car and a lucrative sideline and returned to gambling. Had he met someone during that year who had waited until he’d served out his sentence and had then enlisted him? Or had it been someone Westerbrook had met inside who had only been released a year ago? Horton believed it was the former.
He rang Trueman. ‘Have you managed to speak to anyone at Maltby’s Chambers in London?’
‘Yes. The Clerk says they’ve never heard of Leonard Borland or Clive Westerbrook and Hugh Maltby’s father doesn’t recognize either name and neither has he heard his son mention them.’
‘Check the cases Hugh Maltby was involved in before he left to join the army. See if there is any connection with anyone in our investigations, and check his background, school, university, who he trained with.’
Horton’s thoughts returned to what Julian Tierney had said, that Borland had asked about fishing trips especially those undertaken by Westerbrook because he’d seen people arrive with Westerbrook and go out on his boat. But Tierney had never seen anyone go out with Westerbrook except Nugent. He could have missed them though. Davidson had said that Westerbrook had wanted to rejoin the angling club so that he didn’t have to go out on his own. That had been a lie then if Borland had been right, and the fact that he had been murdered meant he must have been.
Horton’s brain raced as the launch pulled into the port. What was it that was niggling at him? What had he heard or seen that was significant? Tierney’s words rang through his head. Borland had seen people arrive with Clive Westerbrook. Fishing I told him. Clive was a keen angler.
But he wasn’t. Tierney had only seen Nugent go out with Westerbrook, why? When had Borland seen others? In the evening, at night, early morning?
Fatal Catch Page 24
