Deadly Waters dah-2

by Pauline Rowson

  'Punch?' She spun round to face him and in that glance he knew instantly that he had got it wrong. Her words flitted through his brain as he saw her eyes go beyond him. A true alpha male. A reputation to uphold. This is the way we go to school… This is the way we come out of school…a wise old owl, a series of initials… MBBS…a throat expertly cut… Boston had used a stage name…

  The cabin door creaked. Horton swung round but already he was too late. Something struck him a stunning blow and he fell into a deep pit of darkness.

  Nineteen

  It was still dark when he opened his eyes. And he was very wet, although not as wet as he would have been if he hadn't been under the spray hood, he noticed. The rocking movement of the boat and the soft drone of the engine told him they were at sea. A quick glance showed him that the sails weren't raised. The rain was beating against his legs, the salt spray stinging his face. His head felt as though it had been split in two. He made to reach out a hand to touch the damp sticky mess that covered the left hand side of his face when he realized they were tied in front of him. He shifted a little trying to straighten up. It hurt like hell.

  'You must have a very thick skull, Inspector.'

  Horton looked up from the floor of the cockpit and saw the man he had expected to see at the helm: Dr Simon Thornecombe. Thornecombe was wearing a foul-weather suit of jacket and trousers, the ones that Langley had borrowed, Horton guessed. He had only his leather jacket to guard him against the elements. It was doing its best, but that wasn't nearly good enough.

  Here was Woodford's alpha male, her husband. She knew he had been in the rear cabin listening to her confession. She had wanted him to hear it. It saved her telling him to his face.

  'It's a pity you had to arrive when you did, Inspector. If you think I am going to allow all that filth to come out at a trial and make me a laughing stock, then you have badly misjudged me.'

  'Where is she?' Horton shouted, alarmed.

  'She's rather tied up at the moment, like you.'

  Horton wondered why she hadn't made a run for it while Thornecombe was bashing him over the head. But, of course, he knew the answer to that: she didn't care what happened to her now her lover was dead.

  Above the roar of the wind and sea, Thornecombe shouted, 'By the time they discover her body the rope marks will have worn off, if there is anything left of her by then. And it will be the case of a simple accident, swept overboard in the storm. I'll report it of course, distraught.'

  Horton's heart skipped a beat. He was staring at a ruthless, driven man. 'You'd go to those lengths to protect your reputation?' he shouted, incredulously.

  'Of course.'

  'And me?'

  'You make things a little more complicated, but the same fate will befall you, Inspector, unreported by me, of course.'

  So that was it, Thornecombe intended getting far enough out into the Solent, before throwing him overboard. He had to get out of this. Could he distract Thornecombe and take over the helm? But how? His hands were tied. He heaved himself up on to the seat in the cockpit. Even though Thornecombe was motoring and not sailing, the yacht was still rocking in the heavy seas.

  Horton scoured the deck, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness. Was there something that might help him? Even if he managed to get Thornecombe out of the way could he get to the radio? He noted that Thornecombe had closed the hatch down to the cabin.

  'They'll be out looking for us,' he shouted, thinking of the marine unit. All he had to do was hold out. Would they get to him on time, though? The wind was rising. It must be a Force 6 and building. Thornecombe was wearing a life jacket. He had no such luxury.

  Thornecombe seemed untroubled by the weather and to be a competent helmsman. He said, 'I'll hear and see them coming. It will give me enough time to dispose of you. No one can last long in the sea in October, especially if they're unconscious. All they'll find is me, out sailing on my yacht. Bit eccentric, I grant you, on an October night and with a storm brewing, but then most sailors are a little mad.'

  Thornecombe was pushing it, but it was possible. He might have a struggle to get his wife on deck and into the sea, before any kind of rescue reached them, but by then Horton wouldn't be in a fit state to worry. He'd be dead. Think, man, think, he urged his aching head.

  'You'll be arrested when you return.'

  'Without any evidence? I don't think so.'

  Despite negotiating the rough seas and appalling weather Thornecombe still managed to throw him a pitying glance.

  Horton thought quickly, which was difficult when his head was throbbing and he was soaked to the skin. 'My colleagues know I came to see you. I asked the man in the marina office where your boat was berthed.' And he thought of that message he'd left on Cantelli's mobile. Had he listened to it yet? Had he reported it to Uckfield, or driven round to Gosport Marina when he had got no answer to Horton's mobile?

  He saw Thornecombe frown before his expression cleared.

  'You mean my wife's boat. I have no connection with it. My wife lured you here and then pushed you overboard. If I am found on board then I will say that I tried to stop her, and she fell.'

  'And all this just because your wife has admitted to having a lesbian affair!' Horton goaded, whilst searching the deck for a way out. Then he saw Thornecombe stiffen. Yes, at the word lesbian, but there was more to his reaction. God! How stupid he had been. Suddenly everything became clear. Dr Woodford had denied killing Langley. She had been telling the truth. Boston hadn't killed her either.

  'You killed Jessica Langley,' he shouted above the storm. He saw instantly that he was right. Leo Ranson's words came back to him. She liked adventure and variety. 'You were having an affair with Langley, and you discovered she had betrayed you with your wife.' Keep him talking, look for a moment of weakness, a distraction, a sudden gust in the wind, anything that might give him an opportunity. 'You saw them together.'

  'Yes.'

  Thornecombe's knuckles tightened on the helm. The sea was breaking over the boat, flooding the cockpit. Oh, how Thornecombe's vanity must have been wounded when he found out about his lover and his wife! Here was Boston's wise owl and Langley was the pussy-cat. Boston had known about their affair.

  The rain was coming down in sheets. The yacht was dipping and rising alarmingly in the mounting waves. Surely they must be up to a Force 7 gale by now! They should be clipped on. Thornecombe wasn't. They were too far from anywhere to seek shelter. Thornecombe had no choice but to ride out the storm. Would it sweep them overboard before it died down, though? Horton was worried it might and he'd stand little chance of survival with his hands tied.

  He had to find a way out of this. Raising his voice against the wind, he shouted, 'Langley enjoyed sex, didn't she, no matter who it was with?' If he could goad him enough Thornecombe might make a mistake. 'That's probably what excited her, the fact that she was screwing you and your wife.' Horton saw him tense.

  'I have a large sexual appetite, Inspector, and I needed her. I also loved her passionately and desperately. She was the only woman I had ever met who really understood me and knew what I needed. I saw her at lunchtime on that Thursday, as I told you, but she didn't want to make love then. Oh, we'd done it before in my office. That day was different though. It was strictly business. I knew that as soon as I saw what she was wearing.'

  'The black trouser suit.'

  Thornecombe smiled. 'It was a code between us. She had different colours for different types of sex.'

  Bloody hell!

  'She told me then that she couldn't see me that night. Said she was busy. It was the first time she had refused me. I was angry, and decided to pay her a visit.'

  Horton wondered if he could ram Thornecombe with his head and wind him. But, no, the helm was in the way. He had to get Thornecombe away from there. Horton shuffled forward away from the semi-protection of the spray hood. A wave crashed over them, and he choked as he swallowed a mouth of saltwater.

  Thornecombe seemed obliviou
s of the weather. 'I followed her when she left her flat and saw her go to my wife's boat in the Town Camber. Teresa stepped out on deck. It was disgusting. I was stunned. I waited until my wife left a few minutes later and then I confronted Jessica. She laughed about the affair, and tried to make it up to me.'

  'You hit her.' Horton scanned the cockpit. An idea came to him. It was a long shot. Would it work?

  Thornecombe said, 'It aroused her. She wanted to make love. I hit her again and she fell down. She looked up at me then with such hate; she started threatening to tell everyone about our affair, and worse, about her love triangle with a respected head teacher and his GP wife. I had to stop her. I smothered her with one of the cushions.'

  So there was the truth at last. Pity there was no one but him to hear it and if he didn't get out of this alive, Thornecombe would get away with murder. Horton had an idea though. It was risky and he might be swept overboard, but he could see no other way out. He eased himself forward to the edge of the cockpit seat.

  'Then you took her to the mulberry,' he shouted.

  'No, that was Boston.'

  'How do you know that?' Horton asked sharply.

  Thornecombe threw him an exasperated glance as if, Horton thought, he was one of his dimmest pupils. 'Because of the letter. Boston sent it to me, not my wife. I simply cut off the top of it and forwarded it on to Teresa.'

  Dr Woodford claimed that Boston had seemed surprised to see her. Now Horton knew why. He had been expecting her husband.

  Thornecombe continued, 'You see Boston didn't name me in the actual body copy of the letter, but he intended blackmailing me. That's why he placed the body on the mulberry, because the nursery rhyme mentions the school. "This is the way we go to school", and "This is the way we come out of school". Jessica had to drive past my school on the way to hers. Boston thought it very apt.'

  Horton believed him. Oh, how Boston must have enjoyed playing his little game.

  Thornecombe said, 'Of course I didn't know this on the Thursday night. I left her body on the boat. I needed to think through how to dispose of her without implicating my wife and myself. I wasn't going to become a laughing stock and a tabloid newspaper headline because of my wife's perverted tastes. When I returned later that night, after a drink in the Wellington, the boat had gone. I thought Teresa had taken it out so I went home. When she came in she said nothing and neither did she speak of it the next morning, so I kept quiet.'

  Horton eyed the winch on the starboard side. If he could get to it could he release the Genoa sheet? His eyes fixed on Thornecombe, he shouted above the roar of the wind, 'Tom Edney telephoned you to say that Langley was dead and the police had been asking questions. He'd seen you outside Langley's flat.'

  'Yes. I couldn't let him spoil my plans.'

  'So you killed him.'

  'It was a bit messy, but I thought slitting his throat might implicate my wife. I've had rather a varied career you see, Inspector. I trained as a doctor after I gave up the church, and before I moved into education. I met Teresa when we were doing our medical degrees.'

  'MBBS. You both have a conjoint degree Bachelor in Medicine and Bachelor in Surgery. It was one of the initials after your name on your organization chart in the school reception.'

  'Well done, Inspector. You're very observant.'

  He was crazy.

  'For Christ sake, Thornecombe, untie me. If I'm swept overboard tied up they'll know you killed me.'

  Horton saw that his remark had registered. He pressed home his point. 'Give it up, Thornecombe. You'll never survive this storm without my help.' A large wave caught them and knocked the boat sideways. It bucked alarmingly and swept Horton off his seat and into the cockpit soaking him and making him choke, but he saw his chance and grabbed it, spluttering he cried, 'You're too close to Horse Sand Fort. For God's sake, bear off or you'll end up hitting the submerged barrier!'

  He wouldn't, but Thornecombe didn't know that, and even if he did, Horton knew he wouldn't be able to resist looking. Thornecombe glanced instinctively to port. It was only a moment, a slight distraction, but enough for Horton, ready poised, to spring up. He kicked out judo style with all his might at the winch on the starboard side intent on easing the Genoa sheet off the drum. It clattered into the cockpit but not before it loosened the sail. Horton heard the Genoa sheet whip the decks caught in the wind like a kite that was out of control, and he was up and over the starboard side of the yacht and clinging on for his life as he scrambled across the coach roof. The wind threatened to rip him from the yacht and toss him into the sea. He didn't have a moment to lose. Thornecombe would be scrabbling to load the sheet back on to the winch and bring the Genoa in.

  He made it and swiftly dropped down on to the side deck and into the cockpit. Thornecombe was away from the helm with his back to him. With all his strength Horton brought his tied hands down in a chopping movement and caught Thornecombe on the back of the neck as the waves broke over them. Thornecombe slumped forward.

  Horton grabbed the helm and quickly punched at the control in front of him to switch on the autopilot. God alone knew if, and where, it was set, but it would at least give him enough time to winch the Genoa in. With Thornecombe still out cold, Horton found the winch and with the waves crashing over the boat and the rain lashing against him, he braced himself and using his full body weight directly above the winch, managed to pull the wayward sail back under control.

  Survival was his priority. Where were the distress flares? There must be a white flare near the helmsman. He lifted the latches on the transom storage lockers, found a life jacket, which he shrugged and eased over his head, which was difficult with his hands still tied in front of him, whilst desperately trying to keep his balance and praying that a wave wouldn't sweep him overboard. Somehow he managed it. Now for a flare. He leant over searching for one.

  Some instinct warned him a second before Thornecombe was on him. Horton ducked to his left, but he wasn't quick enough. His shoulder took a glancing blow. He cried out as red-hot pain shot through his body. There was no time to lose. Thornecombe was poised to strike again with the winch handle in his upraised hand. Horton rolled over, kicked out his legs and caught Thornecombe in the ankles. Thornecombe staggered, then stumbled, crashing down, giving Horton only a second to get out of the way. He drew his legs up and hauled himself up. Thornecombe was still on the deck. Horton reached out and kicked him in the side. It was enough to wind the head teacher and Horton grabbed the lines around the tail of the mainsheet and wound it around Thornecombe's hands and feet.

  'Now get out of that, you bastard,' he roared, desperately trying to keep on his feet, as the storm raged round them. But above the roar of the wind and waves another distinct sound caught his attention and made his blood run cold. Suddenly a great dark looming wall of steel was almost upon him. His heart leapt into his throat. Jesus! It was a tanker. It would run right through them and out the other side without even a break in its rhythm. It couldn't see them, and even if someone were on watch, looking at the radar, and spotted them, the crew of the tanker wouldn't be able to do a thing about it. It took aeons to stop or manoeuvre a gigantic thing like that.

  His heart was pumping fast as he struggled back to the helm and released it from autopilot. Thornecombe reached out his tied hands and grabbed Horton's ankles pulling him down and away from the helm.

  Horton kicked out, shouting in desperation, 'A tanker man, we'll all be killed.' But he knew that Thornecombe, mad as he was, was beyond caring. Time was running out for them all. The throb of the great engines were growing closer, and soon it would be too late to manoeuvre the yacht. His head raced, but even if he managed to jump overboard he'd be dragged under the tanker and drowned, or cut to pieces by its propellers. And then there was Teresa Woodford down below in the cabin. He couldn't save her. There were only seconds left. He doubted he could save himself. He brought up his bound hands and crashed them with full force into Thornecombe's jaw, then he head-butted him. Thornecombe scre
amed and fell like a heavy sack of stones on to the deck.

  Horton, his shoulder burning with pain, soaked to the skin, blood on his face and lips, reached for the helm and wrenched it away from the looming tanker, praying the Legend's engines would hold and it would not be too late.

  'Come on, come on,' he urged. The tanker thundered past them with only inches to spare. The engines throbbed in his head and as the wash caught the boat it rocked and bucked alarmingly. He steered into the waves knowing it was their only chance of survival, together with the sturdy build of the boat. Nutmeg would long have gone under. With his heart racing fit to bust and his hands gripping the helm, he hung on with fierce determination as though willpower could save him. It was all he had left, that and praying to God.

  Then, just when he thought he could ride the storm no longer and the waves were bashing over the yacht threatening at any moment to sweep him into oblivion, a tiny pin prick of a bright light was coming towards him out of the dark night, and above the storm he thought he caught the faint throb of other engines. His heart leapt with hope. A flare. There must be one, damn it. But how could he search for it, he couldn't let go of the helm? He reached behind him. Nothing. God, he couldn't lose this chance. Then he saw that the light was getting closer. Hope rose in him. Yes, the engines were getting louder and then they were slowing. He'd been spotted; thank the Lord. He let out a deep sigh of relief. They must have picked him up on the radar. The police launch and lifeboat were beside him, and a voice he recognized hailed him.

  'Nice night to go sailing, Inspector. Sorry we're late.'

  He could have wept with joy. Forcing himself to keep his voice steady though, he said, 'Better late than never. I am very glad to see you, Sergeant Elkins.'

  'Yeah, Cantelli said you might be. He called out the lifeboat and sent us looking for you. Come on, let's get you home.'

  Twenty

  Friday morning

  The wind roared all night. Thornecombe was taken to hospital, but apart from a headache, sore neck, bruised face, ribs and kidneys he was fine. Horton took great pleasure in charging him with the murders of Jessica Langley and Tom Edney.