'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.'
'Even the colour of his eyes varies. He obviously disguised himself and wore coloured contact lenses.'
'So we have an accomplished con man on our patch. We know how he got the alarm combinations, but how did he get into the houses without forcing an entry? How did he get their keys? None of the victims has reported having their key stolen.'
Somerfield frowned in puzzlement. 'No. There is another common factor. All the victims are over sixty, all retired and well off. Only Mr Martin owns a boat, but I wondered if they might all belong to the same club, where chummy could gain access to their keys.'
Club? Somerfield's words brought him back to Eric Morville, the note and the fact that Morville's flat backed on to a club where there had been a break-in. He couldn't see the wealthy and well-to-do victims of Old Portsmouth visiting such a down-at heel club in Landport, but Somerfield's idea was a good one.