‘Time?’
‘Just before six thirty.’
Which fitted with when the receptionist had said Luke had left Kempton’s. Luke must have started walking in the direction of Portchester and decided to catch the bus the rest of the way, or perhaps had just been passing the bus stop when this car pulled over. ‘Did Mr Sunnington get the registration?’ Horton didn’t dare hope.
‘He did.’ Seaton again consulted his notebook, but Horton guessed it was for effect. ‘It was a red BMW. Mr Sunnington didn’t get all the registration number but he got most of it. It was a personalized number plate, ES 368.’
Horton started. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. Why? You know who it is?’ Seaton asked, surprised.
Oh, yes, he knew all right. It was Edward Shawford, sales manager at Kempton’s, and his wife’s lover.
Horton scraped back his chair. ‘Are you doing anything special, Seaton?’ he asked, grabbing his sailing jacket.
‘Well, no, sir,’ Seaton said, puzzled.
‘You’ve got a car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, then let’s go and interview the owner of the vehicle.’
Horton knew Shawford lived in a flat in Wickham, a village ten miles to the north-west of Portsmouth. Shawford was divorced and had no children, so unless he was with Catherine, Horton hoped they’d find him in. He thought it advisable to have a witness to their interview, otherwise Shawford was bound to go bellyaching to Bliss and twisting everything Horton said to make it sound like a personal vendetta against him, which he had to admit it was. But the fact that Luke Felton had been heading towards the area where Venetia Trotman lived was extremely interesting. Although, Horton silently acknowledged, it was also in the direction of where Luke’s sister lived. Horton was intrigued to know why Shawford had given Luke Felton a lift and impatient to know where Shawford had taken him, but as they swung into the car park at the rear of the five-storey block of modern flats there was no sign of the red BMW. Nor was there any answer to Seaton’s finger pressed on the intercom.
Could Shawford be at Horton’s former home near Petersfield, sitting at the table he had once sat at, lounging in the chair he’d lounged in, watching the television he’d bought, lying in the bed he’d once slept in. .?
He pulled himself up roughly. Tormenting himself with images like this was a waste of time and energy. It made no difference to Catherine or bloody Shawford, and hurt only him. Before he could suggest to Seaton that they head for Petersfield, the door opened and an elegant, slender woman in her early sixties stepped out.
Seaton said, ‘We’re looking for Mr Edward Shawford, but he doesn’t seem to be in.’
‘He’s probably on his boat.’
Horton hadn’t known that Shawford had one. Catherine hadn’t mentioned it. Though why should she? They’d hardly conversed since she’d thrown him out. Had the fat slob taken Catherine and Emma out on it today? The vision of Emma on Shawford’s boat hurt him badly. His daughter should be with him, on his boat. He didn’t want Emma to go away to school, but for the first time he considered that it might not be a bad thing if it meant getting her away from Shawford.
He brought his attention back to the woman in front of him as she said with a smile, ‘It’s a motorboat. He only bought it a few weeks ago. And he’s never stopped talking about it since.’
Horton said, ‘I don’t suppose you know where he keeps it.’
‘I do. And I could probably tell you the colour, make and size of the engine, if I’d paid enough attention. It’s at Horsea Marina.’
Horton thanked her and they headed for the marina. Seaton remained silent. Horton was grateful for that. It gave him time to prepare for the fact that he might find Catherine with the slimy git. He’d cope with that. But what he knew he couldn’t cope with was seeing Emma there with Shawford, laughing with him, smiling at him. . just being with him. It wasn’t just Shawford, because Horton knew he’d feel the same about his daughter being with any man that wasn’t her father. He didn’t know what he would do if Emma was there, but the spring of rage inside him warned him it would be something drastic and highly damaging.
When they were approaching the marina he thought he should tell Seaton something about the situation. He didn’t really want to, but Shawford might bring up the fact he was having a relationship with Horton’s soon-to-be ex-wife. And if Catherine were there, then Seaton would quickly cotton on.
He gave a potted version of their break-up, leaving Seaton to fill in the rest himself. Like a good cop, Seaton listened expressionless and without comment. He was too ambitious to remark on it. Horton knew Seaton was single but didn’t know if he was in a relationship. In fact he knew nothing at all about the young PC. And now was not the time to discover it, he thought as they turned into the marina.
While Seaton enquired at the marina office for the location of Shawford’s boat, Horton stepped out of the car and walked down to the shore. He stared across the harbour at the ancient remains of Portchester Castle, trying to get his emotions under the iron control that he’d had to use as a child and teenager to shield himself from being hurt by others’ cruelty and carelessness, whether deliberate or accidental. If Emma was with Shawford then he had to make sure that she didn’t get upset or confused by any display of anger from him. He’d have to pretend that he didn’t mind. It wouldn’t be the first time and he knew it wouldn’t be the last.
He surveyed the scene before him as a distraction from dwelling too much on what he’d lost. Just beyond the castle, but completely hidden from view, was Willow Bank and its slipway where Shorena had been moored. It would have been easy enough to slip out into the harbour from there. His eyes swivelled to the right of the castle, taking in the masts of the yachts and dinghies at the Castle Sailing Club and beyond it the large boat sheds and more yacht masts. Also visible was a red and black funnel, which looked strangely out of place among the sailing boats.
He swung his gaze southwards but Seaton hailed him. A couple of minutes later they drew up in front of one of the pontoons. Their timing was perfect because as Horton climbed out, Shawford punched the release button on the bridgehead and stepped off the pontoon. And, as Horton noted with great relief, he was alone.
Shawford looked up, did a double-take before glancing back at his boat and then, scowling, snarled, ‘What do you want?’
‘A word.’
‘I’ll give you two. Bugger off.’ Shawford pressed the zapper on his key ring and the BMW clunked open.
Seaton quickly said, ‘We need you to help us with our enquiries, sir.’
Shawford started with surprise and eyed them nervously. ‘And they are?’ he said, heaving his sailing bag into the boot.
His attempt at indifference didn’t quite ring true. Horton answered, ‘Luke Felton’s disappearance.’
‘Didn’t know he had.’
He was lying, of course. Horton said, ‘Strange that, seeing as he works for the same company as you.’
‘Doesn’t mean to say we’re bosom pals.’
‘But you gave him a lift on Tuesday evening at about six thirty.’
Shawford looked up and Horton saw surprise in the light grey eyes, and along with it something else, which looked to him like panic. Shawford turned away and pulled open the driver’s door. ‘So?’
Horton stepped closer and placed a firm hand on the open car door, forcing Shawford to press his body back against the car. Disguising his disgust behind the veneer of amiability that as a police officer he’d perfected over the years, Horton said, ‘We’ll get through this a lot quicker if you cooperate, sir.’ He stressed the last word, making it sound like a sneer, before adding in the same light manner, ‘You see, you might be the last person to have seen Luke Felton alive.’