Deadly Waters dah-2

by Pauline Rowson

  Horton studied Boston, the man was so full of his own self-importance that Horton would have thought he was the deputy head and not Edney. Horton replied, 'We will do our best not to hold up the development any longer than necessary, sir. Why do you ask?'

  'It's my project and it means a lot to the kids and to the future of the school. It also meant a great deal to Ms Langley. I wouldn't want to see it ruined and neither would she.'

  So that explained his attitude. Horton guessed it wasn't so much Langley that Boston was thinking of, rather he was worried about seeing his moment of glory slipping away. This was confirmed by Boston's next words. 'Confidentially, Inspector, we have a royal personage lined up to open it.'

  Edney hadn't mentioned that. Horton managed to extricate Susan Pentlow from Boston. 'Let's step outside for a moment,' he suggested.

  Again eyes travelled with them and a low murmur accompanied their passage across the room.

  Horton pushed back the door of the classroom opposite. 'Would you like a seat?'

  She shook her head. 'No.'

  Horton perched himself on the table at the head of the room, trying to put the woman at ease by adopting a relaxed approach, but he felt like a teacher with a trembling pupil in front of him.

  'Ms Langley was wearing a black trouser suit yesterday. Was it usual for her to wear black to school?'

  Her eyes came up like a petrified rabbit caught in the glare of headlights. 'No. She only wore it when she had a business meeting to attend, or when-'

  'Yes?' Horton encouraged gently. Cantelli was right, here was a woman on the edge.

  'When she had to discipline someone.'

  'And did she discipline anyone yesterday?' Horton wondered if that person could then have killed her for revenge. He had to keep an open mind and consider all theories until he had more evidence. Had Tom Edney been the person who had been disciplined?

  'I don't know.'

  Horton scrutinized her. Was she telling the truth? If Langley had hauled someone over the coals then she would have done it in her office and Janet Downton would have seen who that was.

  'Did she have any meetings scheduled for yesterday after school?'

  'I didn't keep her diary. She never said… She was such a fantastic person.' Susan Pentlow began to cry.

  'Just one more thing,' Horton said gently. He didn't think he'd get much more from her now. 'Did Ms Langley talk about any special friends, or boyfriends?'

  Susan Pentlow shook her head. She couldn't speak for her tears.

  Horton rose. 'Would you like to sit down? Can I get you a drink?'

  Again she shook her head.

  'I'll get someone to help you,' he said, wondering if Timothy Boston was loitering outside ready to lend his arm for her to lean on, and his shoulder for her to cry on.

  'No,' she finally managed to stammer as Horton opened the door. With a visible effort she pulled herself together. 'I'm sorry. It's the shock. I'll be OK.'

  'Perhaps it would be better if you were to make your statement tomorrow.' He thought they might get more sense out of her then. This woman probably worked the closest with Langley, being the school's business manager. She didn't come across as the sort of business manager that Horton expected; yet Langley must have thought something of her skills to have promoted her.

  'I'll have to come into school anyway. They'll be so much to do now that…' The tears flowed again and Horton let her excuse herself. He guessed she was heading for the toilets, or her office.

  He returned to the staff room, located Cantelli and beckoned him outside. He apprised him of his brief interview with Susan Pentlow. 'Ask one of the officers to keep an eye open for her. If she comes back into the staff room, get them to note who she talks to. See if you can find out who went in and out of Langley's office yesterday, Janet Downton should be able to tell you as they have to go through her office to reach Langley's. We're looking for a staff member who could have been disciplined, but get a list of anyone who saw Langley.'

  'You think our killer could be a teacher?' asked Cantelli, looking incredulous.

  Horton didn't blame him for jumping to that conclusion. 'Teachers can be villains too. But it might not necessarily be a teacher. All sorts of people visit a school of this size: community workers, careers advisers, youth leaders, sports coaches, social workers. Then there are cleaners, maintenance people, IT technicians, business people. I want a list of them all. Take a copy of the visitors' book. They have to sign in.' Horton warmed to his theme. 'Our killer could be any one of them.'

  Horton stared in the direction of Neil Cyrus. He was talking to a uniformed officer. Was he Langley's murderer? They only had his word that Langley had left the school at seven fifteen p.m. He could have punched her, bundled her into her car and driven her to a boat.

  'Interview Cyrus, Barney. Did anyone see him on school premises before ten p.m. and does he have an alibi for after ten p. m? Has he ever owned a boat? Can he sail? What's his background? What did he think of Jessica Langley?' Horton glanced at his watch. He didn't want to break away from the case, not when there were so many threads to follow and not enough time or manpower to do so, but he had no choice. 'I've got a meeting with Catherine. I have to go. I won't be long. I'll see you back at the station, but call me if anything comes to light.'

  Eight

  Friday: 5.10 P.M.

  She was late. He should have expected it. Catherine had never been early, or on time, for anything in their life together, a fact that had often annoyed him. He toyed with his coffee and watched the boardwalk for sight of her from his window seat in the pub at Horsea Marina. It wasn't crowded because it was early, but there were more people here than he would have wished for, probably because it was a Friday. He had wanted to meet her in private, but she had insisted on a public rendezvous and somewhere near to her workplace: her father's marine equipment manufacturing business.

  His pulse was racing at the thought of seeing her again. And he felt nervous. It was ridiculous. They had been married for twelve years and shared so much, so how could he feel nervous? But he was. Their last face-to-face meeting in April had been a disaster mainly because he'd been very drunk. After that Catherine had refused to let him see Emma. That had only served to plunge him deeper into the whisky bottle. Every time he thought of it he felt angry and ashamed.

  He tapped his spoon impatiently against the saucer, urging himself to keep calm, no matter what was said, and what happened between them. But his guts were churning and it was all he could do to stop his fists from tightening.

  And then there she was, hurrying along the boardwalk in high heels, wearing a short skirt and clutching her suit jacket around her slender figure to prevent it gusting in the wind. Her fair face was screwed up against the drizzling rain. He caught his breath. The sight of her gave him an ache in the pit of his stomach, brought on not only by the thought of how much he had loved her, but by the memory of the emotional security he thought he had found, and now had lost.

  She pushed back the door and stepped inside. As her eyes alighted on him he experienced a quickening of breath that told him he still wanted her. He didn't know if it was love.

  'I haven't got long,' she said, hovering opposite him.

  Horton curbed his irritation and said evenly, 'Long enough to take a seat.'

  Reluctantly she pulled out the chair. 'I don't know what we can achieve by this.'

  'Would you like a coffee or a drink?'

  'No. Look, Andy, I want-'

  'How's Emma?'

  She frowned with annoyance and ran a hand through her blonde hair. It had begun to curl at the ends because of the rain. 'She's fine.'

  'I'd like to see her.'

  'I don't think-'

  'Catherine, she's my daughter. I love her. I want to see her. You know I was completely exonerated and I no longer drink. There is no reason for me not to see her.'

  'I don't want her upset.'

  'You think I'll upset her?' He was trying not to raise his voice
, but it was difficult when he felt hurt and humiliated. 'Don't you think she might be upset not seeing me?'

  'It's unsettling for her.'

  'And seeing you with another man isn't upsetting or unsettling,' he shot back at her. He couldn't help it. She had asked for it.

  Her blue eyes flashed with anger. Her thin lips set in a grim line. 'I wondered how long it would be before you brought that up.'

  'No, you brought it up, Catherine. You're the one who had the affair, not me. Are you still with him?'

  'If you're going to be like that then there is no point in us talking.' She scraped back her chair. A few heads turned to look at them. He wanted to shout at her. He wanted to take her by the arms and shake her. He could do neither. He couldn't ruin this chance. With a supreme effort he held on to his temper.

  'I'm sorry. Stay. Please.'

  She hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly sat down.

  'I know it's been hard for you, what with my suspension and then the media interest,' he said. 'But it's over now. I'm back in my job.' He'd have liked to have added, 'And with a chance of promotion,' but he couldn't, not at the moment. 'Can't we put the past behind us and start again? For Emma's sake can't we try one more time?'

  'Don't blackmail me with Emma.'

  'I'm not.' He dug his nails into his palms.

  'You think I don't care about her well-being?'

  'Of course you do.'

  She stared at him for a moment. He could see that she no longer cared for him. It hurt. He felt sick and angry. She looked away.

  Then her head came up. 'It's over between us, Andy. You just have to face that. I don't love you any more.'

  He felt as though he had been stabbed. A memory flashed through his mind. He was a small boy again, alone in an empty flat: frightened, hungry and hurting. Waiting, day after day, for his mother to come home. Trying to reason what he had done to make her angry enough to stay away. Wondering what he had said to make her stop loving him. He balled his fists and tried to stop the fury and nausea washing over him.

  'I want a divorce.' Catherine's harsh words ripped through his thoughts.

  God, only now did he fully realize how he had hoped it wouldn't come to this. Even though he'd received those letters from Catherine's solicitor, he had thought that she might come to her senses and that they could start again. Just as he had hoped for a long time after his mother had left him that she would one day return. He'd been a bloody fool.

  'Because you want to be with this other man?' Horton declared, unable to keep the anger from his voice.

  'No. Because we're finished.'

  'Then you'll just have to keep on wanting.' Damn her to hell and back. He wasn't going to make it that easy for her.

  'You can't mean that! Didn't you hear me, Andy? Our marriage is over,' she hissed.

  Conscious of the attention they were drawing, with an effort, he forced himself to speak quietly, 'I heard you.'

  'So what is the point? We can both be free to continue with our lives.'

  'Are you going to marry this man?'

  'I don't know.'

  'He's not Emma's father.'

  'This isn't getting us anywhere. I agreed to this meeting so that we could clear the air between us and move on. Clearly that's not good enough for you.'

  Her contemptuous tone goaded Horton, swelling his veins with rage.

  'No, and neither is divorce,' he argued.

  'There doesn't seem to be anything left for us to talk about.'

  'There's Emma. I want to see her.'

  'I'll think about it.' She rose. Horton sprang up and grabbed her arm.

  'I don't think you can stop me, Catherine.'

  'Let go of me. I'm not one of your suspects.'

  The manager was eying them warily. People were looking at them. He let her go, feeling exasperated and angry. Through gritted teeth he said, 'Catherine, I am not giving you a divorce, and I will see Emma.'

  As she stormed out of the pub, Horton picked up his helmet and rushed after her. She ran along the boardwalk and turned left towards the exit. Horton followed, he had no idea what he was going to do when he caught up with her. How dare she refuse to let him see his daughter? How could she be so hurtful and spiteful? He'd done nothing to warrant this treatment. Nothing.

  She dashed up the steps by the cinema complex and then hurried across to the car park. Horton froze as a square-set man in his early forties, with a balding head and a flashy suit, climbed out of a red BMW. Catherine stopped by him. Horton didn't recognize him though he knew the car: Catherine's neighbour had described it to him when he had stormed up to the house one night in August. This must be the boyfriend. What was his name? Ed. And she'd had the nerve to come here with her lover in tow! His body went rigid with rage.

  Catherine spoke hastily. The man, looking worried, climbed back in the car. Catherine got into the passenger seat. Horton saw him put his arm round her. She was crying. Shit! Then she looked up and the bastard kissed her. Catherine responded eagerly. Horton saw red. Damn him!

  Before he realized it he was running across the car park. He wrenched open the door, reached in and grabbed the man by his suit jacket. Catherine screamed. Horton hauled him out. He drew back his fist poised for attack, then at the last moment Catherine's voice penetrated the red mist of his fury. She said the magic word: Emma.

  Angry and hurting he let the man go, held his gaze for a moment, then turned, climbed on to his Harley and roared away. He didn't stop until he reached the furthermost eastern point of Portsmouth. Here he stared through the dreary wet evening at Langstone Harbour. Pulling the helmet from his head he let the rain wash over him, oblivious of the stares he was drawing from the home-going commuters hurrying down to the Hayling Ferry. Damn and blast! He shouldn't have lost his temper. He shouldn't have done that to Catherine's boyfriend. Thank God he had stopped from hitting him just in time. A charge of common assault wouldn't have looked good on his career record, or on his claim to see his daughter. Catherine's threats weren't empty ones. She would find a way to stop him seeing Emma if she could, though why she should, he didn't know or understand.

  Shit! He punched his fist against the side of his leg and gulped in air trying to still his racing heart. Would he ever get to see Emma? He had to. If Catherine was lost to him then all he had left was his daughter. He couldn't lose her. He would have to take Cantelli's advice and see a solicitor. The thought of spilling out his personal life to a stranger made him feel sick, but he had no alternative.

  He wasn't sure how long he stood there but after a while his heart began to settle down. His breathing eased. The fury ebbed and he began to be aware of his surroundings. He switched on his mobile; there were no messages from Cantelli, but it almost instantly rang. For one wild, hopeful moment he thought it might be Catherine apologizing. It was Kate Somerfield.

  'I think I might have a breakthrough on those burglaries, sir,' she said excitedly. Horton dragged his mind back to his work.

  'I'm on my way.' He was grateful to Somerfield for distracting him.

  He made straight for his office, where he waved her into the seat on the other side of his desk. Removing his jacket, he flicked on the angle-poise lamp, and closed the blinds against the wind and the rain. Somerfield made no comment on his soaking wet hair, though he could see her pale blue eyes looking at him curiously as she began her report.

  'There was no evidence of any forced entry at the Martins' house. The burglar alarm had been disabled just like in the other cases. I asked about key holders. Their son has one. He's a lecturer at the university and lives with his wife and daughter in Fareham. Mrs Martin said they'd only recently had the burglar alarm serviced. I thought that perhaps the installation company might have a sales representative, or engineer, who could have had access to all the alarms, but we'd already checked that. Then she told me that a crime prevention police officer had recently visited. That got me thinking.'

  Horton sat up. He could tell by Somerfield's voice that she
was on to something. Her eyes were dancing with exhilaration and her neck and face were flushed with excitement.

  'I checked with the crime prevention team; they hadn't been near the house,' she added. 'So I went through the other witness statements. There was no mention of a crime prevention officer. I called each of the victims and what do you think?'

  Horton knew it. How could he have missed it? 'You jogged their memory and they'd all had a visit from this bogus police officer?' He groaned inwardly. Not another mistake? He might as well hang up his handcuffs now.

  'No. That's it, they hadn't.' Somerfield flicked open her notebook. 'Mrs Drayton had been visited by the local vicar. "He was new," she said, "and ever so nice." She hadn't seen him before and he gave her a lift to the shops.' Somerfield read from her notebook. 'Mr and Mrs Wilmslow had been visited by a fire safety officer who checked their smoke alarms, and guess what they said?'

  'He was ever so nice.'

  Somerfield smiled at his mimicry. 'He dropped them off at the station when their taxi failed to arrive. They were going on holiday.'

  'Which was when they were burgled. And they didn't think to mention this in their statements?' Horton cried, exasperated.

  'Why should anyone suspect a priest, policeman or fire officer?'

  'And the other victim?'

  'Mr Gunley had a visit from someone purporting to be a neighbour about two weeks before he was burgled. He'd only just moved in. The neighbour kindly gave him a lift into town.'

  'And each time these victims left their house with the priest, neighbour or whoever, they very thoughtfully set their alarm right in front of him.'

  'Yes. And the crime prevention officer asked Mr and Mrs Martin to give it a trial run so he could check it was working. Chummy's boldest move yet. It has to be the same man, sir.'

  'Have you got a description?'

  'I've got four and they're all different, except for the fact that our man is medium height and medium build.'

  'Not a great help.'