That certainly wasn’t Peter Bailey, unless he had lied to Luke, which was possible. And if it had been Ashley Felton, then why hadn’t Luke said something like ‘my brother is determined to help me clear my name’? The same for Neil Danbury.
‘Who was he meeting at Portchester Castle?’
‘I don’t know. It’s the truth,’ Shawford insisted quickly, as Horton looked doubtful. ‘That’s all he said, apart from the fact that it was where it all began, and he remembered water and the bailey.’
Horton seized the last two words eagerly. ‘The bailey?’
‘I assumed he meant the moat and the outer bailey of Portchester Castle. Though what that has to do with Natalie’s death I’ve no idea, and he didn’t elaborate. He knew nothing about my affair with Natalie, or at least he didn’t mention it. He told me he didn’t even know her.’
‘Did he say how he ended up on the coastal path at Hayling?’
Shawford shook his head. ‘We didn’t discuss it in detail, and I wasn’t interested. I’d got all I needed. I dropped him off in the car park and went home.’
Horton eyed Shawford closely. It sounded like the truth. He turned on his heel and climbed on his Harley, not bothering to look back at Shawford. He hoped it was the last he’d see of him.
He headed for Portchester Castle. Luke had told Shawford that was where it had all begun, and he had come here on Tuesday evening to meet the person he thought was going to help him clear his name, the one who had in fact killed Natalie Raymonds and framed him for her murder. By coincidence, it just happened to be near the site where a woman had been brutally murdered in her garden two days later. The castle, then, Horton thought, pulling into the car park, had to hold the key to Luke’s disappearance and to the murder of Natalie Raymonds. And if Shawford was telling the truth about Felton mentioning the bailey, and if Luke hadn’t met Peter Bailey here on 19 September 1997, then why come here, pondered Horton, entering the castle grounds through a large ancient stone archway. It was miles away both by road and sea from the coastal path where Natalie had been killed.
Horton stood inside the fortifications and stared at the ruins. Nothing new sprang to mind, so he went in search of the castle souvenir shop and bought a guide book. Returning to the Green, he quickly skimmed through the book, learning that the gate he had entered by was called the Landgate. This made sense because it faced landwards, while the entrance on the other side of the Green, with its iron grille set in the stone archway, facing on to the sea, was called the Watergate. Rather obvious, he guessed. And that’s what Luke had recalled in his trance: water and gate, but not two separate words, one – Watergate. Horton also read that he was standing in the outer bailey. So could Luke have arranged to meet Natalie’s killer at the Watergate in the outer bailey in 1997? And had he repeated that arrangement last Tuesday? It seemed likely. Surely he’d have remembered if the person who had killed Natalie had been his brother or brother-in-law, but then he supposed the drugs had obliterated that memory.
Horton located the steep, twisting stone steps to the keep and ran up them, emerging at the top where a biting wind caught him full in the chest and stung his face with an icy chill that was more reminiscent of January than March. He didn’t mind. He found it refreshing after the stench of Shawford.
He was glad to see that he was alone, except for a single gull which was crying overhead as if it had witnessed something terrible. And maybe it had, he thought, as it dived to skim the surface of the water – Venetia Trotman’s murder, and the abduction and killing of Luke Felton, because Horton was even more convinced now, after Shawford’s story, he was dead. He watched the gull fly towards the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour, where Jay Turner’s body had washed up, and his mind once again returned to Venetia Trotman. He was equally convinced that Joseph Trotman was Jay Turner. Had he died accidentally? Perhaps he’d gone out on his yacht, Shorena, and fallen overboard? But that would mean someone had been with him, because the yacht hadn’t sailed itself back to Willow Bank. Perhaps Venetia had sailed it back and had kept silent over her husband’s death. Maybe she’d pushed him overboard. Or had Jay Turner’s killer met him somewhere along the coast, killed him and dumped his body in the sea? That thought brought Horton back to Luke Felton.
He cast his eyes over the scene spread before him hoping inspiration would come, just as it had when Dr Clayton had told him about Venetia Trotman being Georgian. Beyond the priory church, to his right, hidden by bushes and trees, was Venetia Trotman’s house. Again Horton considered the coincidence of her death, both in time and location, with Luke Felton’s disappearance. Was there a connection? But no, he had already discounted that.
Swinging his gaze in the opposite direction he saw the cranes and ships in the commercial ferry port. Was Luke’s body in the sea? Had the person he’d arranged to meet here enticed him on to his yacht, then killed him and thrown his body overboard, which hadn’t yet surfaced along the coast? Ashley Felton had a boat, so too did Shawford, but he discounted the latter. Was Neil Danbury a boat owner? Was Danbury too vehement in his hatred for Luke Felton? Was his protective stance towards his wife simply an act?
And where the devil was Ronnie Rookley? Had he scarpered because the drug squad were on to him, just as Jack Belton the café proprietor had done, or had Rookley known too much about Luke’s vanishing act?
Horton frowned as his mind ran through the facts and speculations. One thing struck him, the year: 1997. That was when Joseph Trotman had purchased Willow Bank and when Natalie had died. Did it mean anything or was he just making connections where none existed? Probably, he thought with a sigh, turning his gaze on the opposite stretch of water and the shores of Gosport. Had Venetia Trotman’s killer come from one of the marinas or moorings at Gosport? Or had Luke’s abductor, and probably his killer, come from there?
Or perhaps he’d come from the east, where Horton now turned his gaze. He could see the masts of the yachts in Horsea Marina. But if Venetia’s killer, or the person Luke was rendezvousing with, had come from that marina, that would have meant going through the lock and being seen. So better to launch a tender from the shore right here, perhaps from the back of a car in the castle car park. Or perhaps the killer kept a tender at the sailing club, which Horton could see to the north, and beyond it the old paddle steamer moored in the basin of the Youth Enterprise Sailing Trust.
He rubbed his temple; his head ached with all the thoughts running through it. The sky was darkening. This was geographically a long way from where Natalie had been killed on the Hayling Coastal Path. Why bother to transport Luke all the way to Hayling Island from here on 19 September 1997, either by car or by boat? And if Luke and the killer had travelled to the coastal path by boat, as he’d discussed with Cantelli, then that would have meant sailing through Portsmouth Harbour, along Southsea Bay, down into Langstone Harbour and across to that copse, a long and convoluted journey. One Horton now thought highly unlikely.
So if Luke hadn’t been taken to the coastal path by car or boat, then how had he got there? Simple, he thought, staring out at the sea, the dawn of realization sending a thrill through him. He had never been there. Natalie’s killer had met him here, lured him to a car or more likely a boat, drugged him and held him until after Natalie’s death. And that was why Luke had told Shawford that it was here it had all begun.
Oblivious to the rain that was now driving off the sea, Horton’s mind raced as he pulled together everything he’d learnt. Could it be Bailey? Was the lover theory a diversion? Had Bailey used Natalie Raymonds as a means to get even with Luke Felton for destroying his mother’s health? Had he singled her out and planned her death with the meticulous precision his job as a draughtsman demanded? He’d kept tracks on Luke Felton since his conviction for assaulting his mother, waiting for the right moment and opportunity to execute his plan. He had met Luke here, perhaps on the evening of 18 September after finishing work at Hester’s. He’d got Luke on board a boat, which he had kept here. Bailey could be lying a
bout not owning a boat. He gave Luke drugs – though how Bailey would have got hold of them puzzled Horton, but he pushed that aside for now. Just as he did the fact that Luke had told Shawford he had the help of someone influential. Bailey could easily have lied about his status.
Making his way hurriedly down the steps, Horton called Cantelli. ‘Any joy at Bailey’s house?’
‘Nothing so far except dirt, dust and his mother’s clothes.’
‘He must have disposed of Luke’s body elsewhere.’ Horton quickly told Cantelli about his interview with Shawford and his thoughts about Bailey. ‘Re-interview Bailey. If he used a boat in 1997 then he could have repeated his actions, only this time he took Luke out into the Solent and dumped his body overboard. He could easily have trailed a boat because his car has a tow bar fitted.’
‘The tow bar hasn’t been used in years. I’ve checked. And there’s no record of him owning a boat. Plus I’ve been thinking. I don’t think he’s got the bottle for it.’
‘He has the motive.’
‘But how would he have got hold of heroin?’
That bugged Horton.
‘And there’s Ronnie Rookley,’ Cantelli added.
‘He could have nothing to do with Luke’s disappearance.’
‘Maybe not, but if he has would Bailey have disposed of him too? I think Bailey would run a mile if he came face-to-face with Rookley.’
Horton considered it. Cantelli was right. It didn’t add up. He couldn’t see Bailey dealing with and getting the better of Ronnie Rookley. So they were back to the lover theory. And that left Ashley Felton and Neil Danbury. ‘Return to the station, Barney, and see if you can confirm Ashley Felton’s German alibi for September 1997, and for Friday the thirteenth of March. He could have met Rookley in the cemetery. Also organize a team to go over his yacht. And check if Neil Danbury owns a boat, and his whereabouts on Friday the thirteenth.’
He called Walters. There was no answer, so Horton left a message for Walters to call back urgently, hoping he might have a lead on who Rookley had met in the cemetery.
Heading back to the Harley, Horton reconsidered the case. Who would Luke have willingly accompanied to a boat for a drink before being drugged, if not his brother-in-law, Neil Danbury, or his brother, Ashley? It had to be someone he knew well, who he was friendly with, even regularly drank with . . . His eyes fell on the Castle Sailing Club. His mind was a chaos of thoughts. Snatches of a conversation grabbed at him. Ashley Felton had told them that Luke was a very good sailor. Cantelli had asked in the club if anyone had seen Luke there on the Tuesday evening he disappeared, and no one had. But they hadn’t asked if he had been a member of the club in 1997.
Horton drew up sharply as the realization smacked him in the face. They’d been asking the wrong questions. It wasn’t a case of who had framed Luke, or even why; neither was it a question of who would have had the opportunity to frame him. Rather, who could have done it so convincingly and so competently without Luke Felton ever having been on the Hayling Coastal Path in 1997? Horton knew there was only one answer.
TWENTY-FOUR
Julia Chawley opened the door to him. ‘I’ll check my father-in-law is up to speaking to you,’ she said, looking anxious, and scurried away leaving Horton to follow her through the hall and into the kitchen. There was no sight of the children, though he could hear faint sounds of them coming from upstairs.
He crossed to the breakfast area and pushed open the door to the right, which he’d noticed the last time he’d been here. He stood among the toys, gazing at the children’s paintings on the walls, remembering how he’d been called upon by his daughter many times to admire her artistic endeavours. He hoped he’d share that experience again. The paintings were of houses, with children larger than the house playing beside them; but there were many of boats. One had a large red and black funnel.
‘He’s ready to see you now, Inspector.’
He spun round. She had crept up so silently behind him. Her shy smile reminded him of Venetia Trotman.
She led him to the sick room, where after tapping lightly on the door and admitting him she faded away. Duncan Chawley was in the same position and in the same chair as on Horton’s previous visit. The room was also just as hot, although Chawley – dressed in a woollen sweater and with a thick checked rug over his legs – was impervious to the heat.
‘Mind if I take my jacket off?’ Horton said. The sweat was pricking his brow and his shirt, sticking to his back within seconds.
‘Be my guest.’ Chawley waved a bony hand at him.
Horton clambered out of his heavy leather jacket, thankful he only had a shirt underneath it and not a suit jacket. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,’ he began, ‘but we’ve not been able to find Luke Felton and there are a couple of things that have come to light about the investigation into the Natalie Raymonds murder.’ He perched on the seat opposite Chawley, trying not to think about that smell of death, recalling what the sailing club secretary had told him: Luke’s father had been a member of the club and Luke had been a regular visitor there even after his fall from grace and the attack on Bailey’s mother, mainly because his father had been held in such high respect. But the Feltons hadn’t been the only members.
‘Like what?’ Chawley’s yellow eyes narrowed.
‘Like the fact that Peter Bailey has admitted to lying about seeing Luke Felton on the coastal path the day Natalie was killed in order to pay Felton back for attacking his mother.’ He held Chawley’s gaze, which despite his illness showed no emotion. He added, ‘Which means that Luke Felton was never there, and if he was never there then someone—’
‘You don’t have to spell it out, Inspector,’ Chawley quipped. ‘I may be ill but I’m not an imbecile.’
Coolly Horton said, ‘You knew Bailey was lying from the start.’
‘Yes.’
There was no hesitation. No denial. And there wouldn’t be. Chawley had lied about Peter Bailey, so what else had he lied about? A great deal, if Horton’s deductions were correct. He eyed the former superintendent steadily.
‘I knew you were the type of copper who wouldn’t stop digging until he had all the answers, like I used to be.’
‘Until the Natalie Raymonds case,’ Horton said evenly.
Chawley didn’t answer.
‘You knew Luke Felton didn’t kill her.’
Again Chawley remained silent. That was tantamount to admitting it. Horton didn’t feel sorry for Chawley now, but angry. ‘You let an innocent man go to prison while the real killer got off scot free.’
‘He was scum,’ Chawley said calmly.
‘His parents weren’t,’ Horton replied stiffly, recalling what Cantelli had told him. ‘They were destroyed by what they believed their son had done.’
Chawley’s eyes held Horton’s without showing a flicker of remorse or regret. Containing his anger, Horton said, ‘Luke Felton was drugged and held captive. Evidence was planted on Natalie’s body to frame him for her death and yet you never spoke out. Who were you protecting?’
And that was the critical factor, thought Horton, the one thing he’d missed until now. All of Chawley’s actions on this case, all the gaps in the investigation, pointed to one thing: protection. He was cross with himself for not spotting it sooner, but sometimes a thing has to be shoved under your nose several times before you see it. No one could have planted the evidence so carefully, swept away all discrepancies at the crime scene so competently and completely, except a police officer.
Tautly, Chawley said, ‘A good officer’s career and family would have been destroyed if I hadn’t done what I did. I wasn’t going to allow that to happen. I’ve no regrets.’
‘Who was it?’ Horton asked tersely, knowing that he wouldn’t be thanked for exposing this. The media would love it, the public’s confidence would be shattered and the Chief Constable would have to take the flak on the eve of his retirement. Horton wished he could simply walk away but it wasn’t in his nature. He hated corruption
.
‘DCI Sean Lovell was having an affair with Natalie Raymonds.’
Horton hastily hid his surprise. His mind conjured up the man he’d worked with on the drug squad years ago: easygoing, friendly Sean Lovell, a devoted husband and father. No. It wasn’t possible. Sean wouldn’t have had the money Natalie craved but he would have had the power, especially if Natalie had been dealing in drugs and Sean had given her protection from being exposed.
He eyed Chawley closely as the sick man continued. ‘Luke was a junkie, and violent. He was no use to society whereas Sean was a good officer, one of the best, and he fell hopelessly in love with Natalie. She was a real looker, one of those women who could have any man eating out of the palm of her hand within minutes.’
And Sean Lovell had died of a heart attack not long after the case. Could that have been provoked by stress?
‘How did he meet her?’ Horton asked brusquely.
‘I blame myself for that. Sean was with me at the Castle Sailing Club when Natalie came in with Julian. I could see that they were immediately attracted even though they played it cool. I said nothing. Sean was happily married. He wouldn’t wreck his marriage but he damn well nearly did. He asked Natalie to leave Julian and said he would leave Tina. Natalie laughed at him. She said they were having fun, so why ruin things. Sean was devastated. He simply lost it and before he knew it she was dead. He didn’t know what to do so he came to me and confessed. I wasn’t going to let his career go down the pan because of a tart like Natalie so I told him to say nothing, that I’d handle it.’
‘So you planted the evidence against Luke at the scene of the murder.’
‘Yes. And then Bailey came forward to say he’d seen Luke on the path. And Luke Felton was so pilled up he couldn’t remember what he’d been doing. He believed it when we told him he’d killed Natalie.’ Quickly Chawley added, ‘I know it’s hard to believe of Sean. I couldn’t believe it myself at first. But Natalie Raymonds was one of those predatory women. She knew exactly how to use sex to get what she wanted, whether that was money, power, fun or revenge. She’d pick her victims carefully, seduce them, suck them dry and then kick them over. She took pleasure in other people’s pain and saw every man as a challenge, a conquest.’
Footsteps on the Shore Page 23
