Dead Man's Wharf Part 11

intoxicated.'

But Daisy was shaking her head. 'No. Daniel wouldn't have reacted like that.'

'Then how would he have behaved?' He was really interested.'He would have been upset, of course. But Daniel was always very calm and practical. He would have researched every known treatment for breast cancer, organized his mother's care, even drawn up a timetable for her. He would have spoken to the doctors, and made sure she lacked for nothing. He was very thorough, always erring on the side of caution, which was why he was a good buddy on a diving trip. You just knew you'd be OK. Oh, it used to get up my nose sometimes; he'd double and triple check all the equipment. He was almost obsessive about it, like he was about his photography. He was very painstaking.'

Horton recalled Daniel's bedroom and office. Daisy's words bore out what he'd seen there, everything in its place, everything labelled.

'He wasn't an emotional man then?'

'He might have been inside, but he never showed his emotion, to me anyway. He might have done to others. I didn't know him outside this diving club. But I just can't see him getting drunk and then driving a car. If he did have a drink, which I find rather difficult to believe, though even saints are tempted, then he wouldn't have driven, his personality wouldn't have allowed it. It would have been too risky.'

'He might have been too drunk to think rationally.'

'You're wrong. That wouldn't have been Daniel's nature.'

'You seem very certain.'

'I should be. I'm a psychologist.'

He tried to hide his surprise but he wasn't quite quick or clever enough for Daisy Pemberton.

'It's OK,' she said, pus.h.i.+ng a hand through her short dark hair and grinning. 'I'm off duty. And I specialize in sports psychology.'

That didn't make any difference to him. A psychologist was a psychologist whatever branch she majored in. And he'd had a bellyful of them as a boy. Enough to put him off for life, which was a pity because he found himself rather attracted to Daisy Pemberton.

After a moment she added, 'Daniel's drink could have been spiked by someone he thought was his friend but who wasn't.'

With deepening interest, Horton saw her eyes flick to Farnsworth. Farnsworth said he hadn't met Daniel. Was he lying or was this Daisy's spite talking?

'Why would someone do that?'

'No idea.' She tossed back the remainder of her wine. Rising, she said, 'Want another?'

'No, thanks.'

'I was thinking of drowning my sorrows, but now I shall celebrate my release from hero wors.h.i.+pping. And I've just seen someone rather interesting walk in.'

Horton watched her cross the room, where she hailed a tall fair man in his late thirties. Horton didn't think Daisy was going to be without a boyfriend for long.

He gave Lee the nod. Outside he breathed in the crisp night air. The temperature had plunged considerably since the morning, but at least it had stopped b.l.o.o.d.y raining. Zipping up his sailing jacket against a stiff breeze that had veered to the north-east, he walked slowly out of the car park considering what Daisy had said. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was that she had deliberately planted the idea of Farnsworth being involved with Daniel's death in his mind. Either as a form of revenge or an experiment to see whether he'd take the bait.

He stared across the road at the masts in Southsea Marina, wis.h.i.+ng that all he had to do was slip across there to his boat. Instead he had a twelve-mile drive to Gosport Marina. 'Sorry, guv, couldn't get away,' Lee said, hurrying across the car park and zapping open the car. Climbing in, she continued. 'I checked out the lockers. Daniel didn't have one. I asked Gary Manners, and he said that Daniel had his own dry suits, regulator, masks, fins and snorkel, which he must have kept at home, but he hired the rest of his equipment from the club, which also has its own RIB.'

'And Farnsworth? What did you get from him other than a hand on your back and an invitation to dinner?'

'Which I declined.'

'Pity.'

'There are some sacrifices that one has to make in the name of the job, but spending an evening fending off that self-important creep is one too many.'

'Where's your sense of duty?'

She smiled. 'Apart from spouting on about the diving series, and how much fan mail he receives, all I could get is that he's divorced and lives in Haslemere.'

Which was about an hour's drive from Portsmouth and easily commutable. Horton guessed that Farnsworth had chosen to stay in the Queen's Hotel rather than drive daily for two reasons: one, so that he could spend his nights with Corinna Denton and two to take advantage of the television production company's expense account and indulge in a spot of free luxurious living.

The door of the club opened and Farnsworth stepped out with a mobile phone pressed to his ear. He climbed into his car without noticing them and started it up. Then, still on his phone, he drove out of the car park.

'Do you want me to go after him?' Lee asked.

'No. Call traffic and see if they can get to him whilst he's still using his mobile. Oh, and ask them to breathalyse him.'

That would give Farnsworth publicity all right, but Horton doubted it was the type the golden boy wanted.

'Where was Farnsworth on Christmas Eve?' he asked, when she came off the radio.

'With Daisy Pemberton.'

And it didn't need any stretch of his imagination to guess what they'd been doing. He doubted if attending midnight ma.s.s was on their itinerary.

'Did you get anything else on Daniel Collins?'

'No.'

He relayed what Daisy had told him, by which time they'd reached the station where Lee dropped him, before heading off, presumably to her hotel.

Horton stared at the paperwork on his desk, wondering when on earth he was going to have time to tackle it. Tomorrow was the answer, he thought, picking up some files and plonking them in his in-tray. A note fell out and reaching for it Horton saw with excitement that it was a telephone message from Ray Ferris. He had called at seven thirty two, two hours ago, and asked to be called back on his mobile. Checking his office door was tightly shut against the empty CID office, Horton called him from his mobile.

'DC Lee worked in the Operational Planning and Policy Unit,' Ferris said without

preamble.

So she was telling the truth, Horton thought, with an edge of disappointment. 'How long for?'

'Six weeks.'

Not long. 'Her boss?'

'Superintendent Warren.'

'OK. Thanks, Ray.' He'd been wrong. It wouldn't be the first time and he was certain it wouldn't be the last either. He was about to ring off when Ferris stalled him.

'That's the official version.'

Horton was suddenly alert.

'Can you talk?' Ferris quickly added. 'And I don't mean in your office.'

Horton rose, his pulse quickening. 'Hang on.' Swiftly he crossed the CID room until he was standing in the empty corridor by the coffee machine. 'And the unofficial one?'

'I haven't told you this, and don't ask where I got it from. She's from the Intelligence Directorate.'

Horton felt cold. Intelligence Directorate dealt with major and complex crimes such as drugs or people trafficking, money laundering, tracking international criminals and extortion on a national and international scale. Why here, why now? What the devil was going on?

'If I end up back on the beat, it's you I'll come ha.s.sling.' And Ferris rang off.

Horton exhaled. Collecting his plastic cup of coffee, he returned to his office, mulling over what he had just learnt. So he'd been right about Lee. That didn't make him feel any better.

Ignoring the ringing phone in the CID office and then his own, Horton trawled his mind, going back over the events of yesterday before Lee had been sent in and Bliss shoved out. What had happened before then to warrant such drastic and prompt action from the Intelligence Directorate? He'd said to Cantelli that he suspected Lee's arrival was due to the fact that although Bliss didn't want him to investigate Irene Ebury's death, someone wanted him to run with it. Now he knew who. But how could a nursing home involve such a heavyweight organization as the Intelligence Directorate?

He ran through the sequence of events at the Rest Haven: Mr Kingsway's bellowing; climbing the stairs to Mrs Kingsway's room; his viewing of the room where she and Irene Ebury had slept; the trip to the bas.e.m.e.nt...No, hang on. Slowly he put down his coffee. Of course! He'd looked out of the window of Irene Ebury's room and seen that curtain twitch in the house opposite.

He sat up, his mind racing, trying to grasp the significance of that, and then he recalled the burly man in a waxed jacket walking on the opposite side of the road. What an idiot he'd been! He should have seen the signs hadn't he been on enough undercover operations to spot them? That nursing home had been under surveillance and still was for all he knew. But why? Whatever the reason, it had to be something big. And did that involve Daniel Collins? Yes. Otherwise why would DC Lee want to follow up his death and visit the sub-aqua club?

Horton delved into the papers on his desk and retrieved the road traffic report on Collins's death. Once again his phone rang, but he ignored it and the caller left no message. He read through the report carefully already knowing what he would find, or rather what he wouldn't. Nowhere did it mention that Daniel Collins worked at the Rest Haven and yet Lee had said he did. She had claimed that Mrs Collins had mentioned it on the telephone but had she? He could easily ask her. His eyes flicked to the clock and with surprise he saw it was almost ten thirty. It was too late to call her now. He didn't want to disturb her, though he guessed her nights were now already very disturbed.

Daniel had died on Christmas Eve, so had that been when the Intelligence Directorate had stepped in? Or had it been after Irene Ebury had died? Then another more chilling thought struck him. If there was any truth in this mysterious intruder that Mrs Kingsway had seen bending over Irene Ebury, had it been one of Lee's colleagues checking out Irene's belongings? For what though?

Horton rose and paced the floor, the blood pounding in his ears. Could their involvement have any connection with his mother? No, it wasn't possible. But the thought made him hot under the collar.

He wrenched opened the blinds and thrust back the window, letting the frozen air cut through him like a knife. Somewhere, amongst all that he'd learnt so far about the Eburys and Daniel Collins, was buried some vital piece of information that had connections to a major crime and he was missing it. So, too, was the Intelligence Directorate, otherwise why send Lee to work with him?

His phone rang and this time he s.n.a.t.c.hed it up to find the custody clerk on the other end.

'I've been trying to get hold of you, Inspector. I heard you wanted to be informed about Nicholas Farnsworth.'

He'd forgotten all about him. 'Has he been booked in?'

'And out again.'

'Why? His breathalyser test must have been positive.'

'It was when he was pulled over, but it was negative when he was tested again here. We had to let him go.'

Horton cursed and rang off, then thought that it didn't really matter. He had other more important things to think about, and top of his list was fathoming out just exactly what the Intelligence Directorate was after at the Rest Haven Nursing Home and why the h.e.l.l he was being kept in the dark.

NINE.

Wednesday 7 January

Horton's anger and curiosity kept him tossing and turning for most of the night, so that by the time DC Lee arrived the next morning he had unearthed three cases left over from Christmas, which would keep her occupied for days and away from the Rest Haven and Daniel Collins. Maybe then she, or her boss, would be forced to let him into their confidence.

He wondered if Uckfield knew about the Intelligence Directorate's investigation. He hadn't when Horton had spoken to him earlier about Lee, but he might now have been put in the picture, as Horton suspected Superintendent Reine had been. Maybe he should see the boss and ask him outright. But if Reine had been sworn to silence, then he wouldn't break that; Horton had learnt that with ambitious men like Reine and Uckfield loyalty to their superiors far outweighed any loyalty to their subordinates. He was just about to summon Lee to his office when his phone rang.

'This is Ryan Oldham. Get over here now. There's something you need to see, and don't send that moronic fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

The line went dead and Horton, fuming, stared at his phone. The moronic fat b.a.s.t.a.r.d he took to be Walters who had gone to Oldham's Wharf on Monday to investigate an alleged break-in. Well, if Oldham thought he could simply command and he would come running then he had another thought coming.

He called reception and demanded to know why the call had been put directly through to him only to be told that Oldham had insisted on speaking to a senior detective immediately or he'd call 'the b.l.o.o.d.y chief constable'.

'That's no reason not to warn me first,' Horton said crossly.

'Sorry, sir, but the switchboard's going ballistic this morning. Everyone's finally woken up after Christmas. And there have been so many accidents on the roads in this G.o.d-awful weather that we're stretched to breaking point.'

Not completely appeased, Horton slammed down his phone and marched out to the CID office. He didn't have time to investigate Oldham's claims of moving trucks. Then he reconsidered. Oldham's Wharf was very close to where Daniel Collins had died. Maybe visiting the scene of the incident would give him inspiration; it often worked that way. And he recalled that Cantelli had said Marion Keynes's husband, Ian, worked as a lorry driver for Oldham. Cantelli could have a word with Keynes. Perhaps he'd let something slip about Irene Ebury's stolen belongings. OK, so he'd have to put up with Oldham ranting about trucks that had mysteriously moved in the night and suspected burglars, but he could handle that. It meant forgoing the appointment with social services though. d.a.m.n. All his intentions of keeping Lee at arm's length looked set to go out of the window. He couldn't send Walters because he wouldn't have a clue what questions to ask. There was no contest.

On their rather torturous route to Oldham's Wharf, Horton brought Cantelli up to speed with his and Lee's visit to the sub-aqua club, but said nothing about Lee working for the Intelligence Directorate. It wasn't that he didn't trust Cantelli, but he wanted to find out first if Uckfield was now party to the secret, and see if he could wheedle some further information out of him.

Cantelli said, 'It's a wonder Farnsworth hasn't been on to Superintendent Reine this morning, bleating about his arrest for drink driving.' He swung into a muddy road that led to Oldham's Wharf and drew to a halt on the rough ground that served as a car park.

Horton peered through the torrential rain at the lorries trundling into the yard. Beyond them he could see a high bank of s.h.i.+ngle and a couple of crane-like machines towering over it. The rain was almost horizontal and there would be scant protection from it in Oldham's yard except in the three Portakabins to the right of the large iron gates. He must have been mad to come here. He should have sent Lee with Cantelli; how would Ryan Oldham have reacted to her? he wondered with a slight smile. But he had never been one for ducking out of an unpleasant task and leaving it to his subordinates. He wished, though, that he was wearing his motorbike boots and leather trousers a wish that was reinforced as he stepped out and straight into a puddle. He pulled up the collar of his sailing jacket, but before he'd even gone five paces he was drenched. Cantelli, with hat, raincoat and wellington boots, looked more suitably attired.

He noted that there were no CCTV cameras over the car park, but as they headed towards the yard he saw one over the electronic gate. He'd never been here before, but he'd run some dinghy sailing courses for kids in the sailing centre just to the right of Oldham's.

A shape loomed at them from one of the Portakabins and Horton found himself facing a solidly built square man in his late forties, with granite features, wearing a voluminous heavy-duty waterproof coat, green Hunters which were almost completely covered in muck and a yellow hard hat.

'About b.l.o.o.d.y time,' he boomed. 'Follow me.'

Oldham, Horton a.s.sumed, falling into step behind him, as he stomped across the busy yard oblivious to the rain. With a longing glance at the shelter he was leaving behind, Horton thought with envy of DC Lee in a nice, warm, dry office drinking coffee with a social worker. His feet were soaked and he had long since lost all feeling in his toes. His trousers looked as though they'd been dipped in a bath full of sludge and the water was cascading off his head and over his nose like it was Niagara Falls.

Oldham was heading for the sh.o.r.e, where Horton could see a dredger waiting to unload its cargo of gravel. It had obviously come up the harbour on the high tide. About twenty feet from the quayside Oldham abruptly drew up.

'There.' He flung out a podgy finger. Horton followed its direction and found himself staring into a pit about five feet deep and twelve feet square. Focusing his eyes in the streaming rain, he blinked and ran a hand over his sodden face. To his horror, he was staring at what looked remarkably like a human hand protruding from the gravel. This he hadn't expected. He glanced at Cantelli, who paused mid chew.

'You could have said on the telephone,' Horton grumbled.

'And be called a liar like before. Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely and before you say anything, I told the lads not to touch it. Not that they'd want to, if it's for real, but I haven't got all day to stand around here gawping at it. That dredger needs unloading, so hurry up and do what you have to do.'

Horton didn't like to tell him it wasn't that simple, but before he called in the heavy squad he ought to check that it was a human hand and not a plastic one, otherwise he'd have to emigrate to avoid the ribbing.

'How do I get down there?'

'That steel ladder over there. You'd better wear a hard hat. Scott,' he bellowed, and a