'Of course not.'
Horton didn't like the slight pause he'd left before answering, nor the fact that he wouldn't look him in the eye. Perhaps he was being over sensitive. 'Look, I found a body, by accident. It happens.'
'I know.' Uckfield held up his hands in capitulation. 'It's just awkward your finding it, after that business with Lucy Richardson. Do you always run this way?' His casual manner didn't fool Horton.
'Not always,' he replied, tight lipped. Uckfield nodded and fell silent.
Horton took a deep breath and tried to get his emotions under control. 'I couldn't sleep,' he said, tersely. 'I decided to run the length of the seafront to Old Portsmouth and back again. I saw what I thought was a shop dummy on the beach and ran up to take a closer look. I found him.' Slowly finger-by-finger he unfurled his fists, mentally counting them off as he did. Would everyone always regard him with suspicion?
Uckfield nodded. 'OK, get off home and change before the media come sticking their noses in the trough. Ask Sergeant Trueman to run a check on missing persons and then deal with Evans' stabbing. I've left the file on your desk.'
It was clear that Uckfield didn't trust him. hurt and stung him to resentment. Horton wanted to protest but could see from the DCI's expression that it wouldn't do any good. His own expression must have betrayed his feelings though, because Uckfield said:
'I'm doing you a favour.'
'It doesn't feel like it.'
'You're still on the team, Andy, but it's best if you get away now and stay clear until the media interest dies down. You know what they're like.' He did all too well. 'OK,' he reluctantly agreed. Uckfield turned away to talk to the head of SOCO making it perfectly clear their conversation was over. His fury tainted with disappointment, Horton jogged eastwards along the beach, barely acknowledging the officers who passed him. He felt an outsider in an organisation that had once been the only family he had until Catherine and Emma. And now he'd lost them.
His mind returned to that surveillance operation as it often did. He'd been working in the Special Investigations Department, on a joint operation with the Vice Squad, watching Alpha One, a prestigious men only health club and gym at Oyster Quays, a popular waterfront development of offices and shops overlooking the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour. Its owner, Colin Jarrett, was suspected of running a prostitution ring and escort agency and using the club as a centre for distributing pornography to members for gain. Membership was by invitation only and the list highly secret. There was no point raiding the place because they needed proof and to know how the stuff was getting into the country. Horton had been designated to get close to one of the girls working there, Lucy Richardson, and find a way inside.
It had been easy arranging to bump into her coming out of Alpha One and to ask her for a drink — too easy looking back on it. He had been too keen and too impatient to get a result. A drink had led to a meal and then to a rendezvous at the Holiday Inn Express. He hadn't believed then that she had known he was a copper, but now he realised he had been too blind and stupid to see he was being set up. Until then he had always thought of himself as a good policeman, but it just showed how wrong he could be. The car park was cordoned off and almost overflowing with police cars. The mobile incident unit was being manoeuvred into place. Uckfield may be shutting him out physically but that didn't mean he couldn't think about the body on the beach and contribute his ideas. He'd make them heard whether Uckfield liked it or not.
There were no houses here, just the marina opposite where he lived on his boat. The cruising association clubhouse was to his right. To his left was the wide grassy expanse of Fort Cumberland. It was fenced off. It was a good spot to murder someone or plant a body.
A car tooted and a dark blue Vauxhall swept through the small crowd of commuters from the Hayling ferry who had gathered to see what all the excitement was about. Soon the cream of the south's journalists would be breaking out all over the place like a nasty rash. Uckfield was right, though Horton was reluctant to admit it. He couldn't face them dressed in his running gear.
He waited for DC Walters to heave himself out of the car and waddle towards him. His ill fitting suit was crumpled and shiny with wear and his appearance was in such sharp contrast to the trim DC Marsden that it made Horton think of Laurel and Hardy. Only this was no laughing matter.
Walters took a large handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead. Horton couldn't mistake the contempt in his eyes.
'Where's Sergeant Cantelli?' he asked.
'Overslept, inspector. Phoned in to say he'd be late.'
That wasn't like Cantelli. Horton had known him almost as long as he'd known Steve Uckfield and he had worked with Cantelli in CID for twelve years. In all that time Cantelli had never been late for work.
How long would Uckfield keep him away from the investigation? If he was only going to be allowed to work on routine stuff — not that the Evans stabbing was routine — then there was surely no point in staying in the force, except for one thing. Only by being on the inside could he hope to find out who had set him up and why. With that came the chance of salvaging his reputation as a police officer and detective, and the chance of resuscitating his failed marriage.
As he punched in the pontoon security number a voice hailed him.
'What's going on?' Eddie, one of the marina staff, jerked his head in the direction of the beach.
Horton told him briefly. 'I don't suppose you saw or heard anything unusual last night?'
Eddie shook his head. 'Only the foghorns.'
'What time did you come on duty?'
'Eight o'clock.'
'Any cars in the car park then?'
The little man's bronzed, wrinkled face puckered up with concentration. 'I didn't really look.'
'Never mind.' Horton made to turn away. 'Oh, Andy, I nearly forgot in all the excitement. Post for you?'
Horton took the envelope with some trepidation. His stomach tightened at the sight of the red franking ink that bore the name of Catherine's solicitors. He had been dreading this. He knew it might come but he hadn't wanted to believe it. There was still time, he told himself, just like he had been telling himself for eight months. Time for him and Catherine to be reunited. But the record had got stuck and he'd done nothing about it. And now this. His fingers gripped the envelope. If he ripped it up… if he pretended it had never arrived…
He flung it on to the bunk, collected his towel and toilet bag and headed for the marina showers. The letter was still there when he returned — no good fairy had spirited it away. He stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers along with a tie and glanced in the small mirror hanging beside his berth. Christ! He looked awful. Why would Catherine still want him? There were bags under his eyes the size of suitcases and the tiny lines stretching from their edges made him look at least twenty years older than his thirty-eight. He unpinned the photograph of Emma beside the mirror. Her impish grin and big brown eyes stared out at him. Dressed proudly in her school uniform she looked younger than her eight years and so vulnerable. A pain stabbed at his heart; his arms longed to hold her, to feel her little hands clasped around the back of his neck, to hear her giggle. His stomach tensed and it was all he could do to breath.
His mobile phone rang. It was Cantelli.
'The DCI wants us to follow up on Evans' stabbing. You know about that? Bloody tough, on poor Brian.' Cantelli's usually bright tone softened. 'I'll come and collect you.'
Horton put Emma's photograph back where it belonged, locked up Nutmeg and was waiting at the entrance to the marina when Cantelli showed up ten minutes later. The sergeant looked as tired as him. His almost black eyes were bloodshot and as if to confirm Horton's diagnosis he yawned.