Footsteps on the Shore (17 page)

On the Harley he would soon catch up with Shawford, but even if he didn’t he had an inkling where he would find him, and that wouldn’t be with Catherine. Horton veered off the motorway and made towards Horsea Marina. He’d been correct. Ahead was Shawford’s BMW. He kept well back, even though he doubted Shawford would recognize him or his Harley. Shawford pulled into the marina and drew up close to the spot where earlier Horton and Seaton had interviewed him. As Horton watched him hurry from his car to the pontoon he reconsidered his theory about Felton having been on Shawford’s boat; was Shawford trying to hide the evidence? But Horton just couldn’t see it. No, he had other ideas about what Shawford might be trying to hide.

A few minutes elapsed before Shawford emerged, looking furtive, and carrying a plastic carrier bag. Horton smiled grimly to himself. Climbing off the Harley he crossed to Shawford’s car. Shawford saw him, froze, flushed and tried to look untroubled, but Horton could see he was shitting himself.

‘What’s in the bag?’ Horton demanded.

‘None of your business,’ Shawford bluffed, but Horton remained resolutely in front of the driver’s door, blocking him.

‘This is harassment,’ Shawford raged. ‘I shall report you to your superiors.’

‘Report all you like. Edward Shawford, I am arresting you on suspicion of the kidnapping of Luke Felton and of being in possession of items belonging to him—’

‘You bastard!’

‘Hand it over, Shawford.’ Horton stretched out his hand and angrily Shawford pushed the bag into it.

Peering inside Horton found himself staring at what he had expected, not Luke Felton’s personal effects, but a stash of DVDs and magazines. He dipped inside and withdrew a magazine. He didn’t need to flick through it, or the others, to know what they contained; the woman on the front of the one he was holding gave him enough of a clue. She was dressed in a black leather tunic, thigh-high boots, a spiked leather collar, and she was wielding a whip. With his knowledge of Shawford’s relationship with Catherine – which had once included bruises that Catherine had tried to blame on him – Horton could see that Shawford liked it rough.

‘It’s not what you think,’ Shawford blabbed. ‘It’s just a fantasy, that’s all, a bit of fun. I like to look at it. I don’t actually do it.’

Horton eyed him with disgust. His stomach churned at the thought of this man and Catherine indulging in sadomasochism. Which of them had the power? Surely not Catherine, but then he couldn’t see Shawford as the dominant partner in the relationship, the one wanting to inflict pain while Catherine took pleasure in it. No, it had to be the other way around, but that made him feel angry, disappointed and sick. It threw into question everything his relationship with Catherine had been. He hoped that Shawford was telling the truth about only wanting to look at it, before another mind-numbing and paralysing thought struck him. Emma!

His body stiffened with fear and fury. He had no reason to believe that Emma had witnessed this kind of sexual behaviour between Shawford and her mother, or that Shawford’s tastes ran even stronger than sadomasochism, but he didn’t want him anywhere near his daughter. And certainly not in the same house while her mother indulged in whatever sick fancy turned Shawford on. He reached for his mobile.

‘What are you doing?’ Shawford cried.

Horton eyed him coldly. ‘Getting the vice squad into your apartment, who will take it apart.’ He had no intention of doing so; vice might find images of Shawford with Catherine. And he couldn’t stand that. It would be all over the station. He made to punch in a number, praying that Shawford would lose his nerve. He did.

Shawford blanched. ‘No, please. Not that.’

Horton made a pretence of hesitating while breathing a silent sigh of relief. He eyed Shawford steadily and with hatred. Shawford flinched. Then, thrusting his face so close to Shawford’s that he could see the veins in his eyes, Horton hissed, ‘If I find you within a mile of my daughter I’ll wipe your fat face in the dirt and smear your perversions all over the press. Is that clear?’

Shawford opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it and nodded curtly. After a moment Horton stepped back, but not far enough for Shawford to escape brushing against him. Shawford’s nervous eyes flicked down to the bag in Horton’s hand.

‘I’ll hang on to these,’ Horton said brusquely.

He watched as the BMW sped out of the car park, then stashed the bag in the locker on the Harley and headed up the hill bordering the city. Here he drew into one of the viewpoint lay-bys and stared without seeing it at the land and seascape spread out beneath him under a low cloud. He tried not to think of Catherine and Edward Shawford together. He realized his fists were clenching as disturbing images flitted through his brain. He had to force himself to relax, to take a slow, deep breath. Distantly he could hear the throb of the traffic. After a while his heart rate settled down, though not back to normal because he knew there was something he had to do to guarantee that Shawford never saw Emma again.

Half an hour later he was pulling up outside his former home. Catherine’s car was on the driveway. Good. Stiff with tension, he pushed his finger on the bell and waited impatiently for her to come to the door. It seemed like ages, but in reality it must only have been a minute, maybe less. Her expression changed swiftly from polite curiosity to anger before she half closed the door on him as though afraid he’d storm in. He desperately wanted to, but curbed his agitation.

‘What do you want, Andy?’

‘Where’s Emma?’ Horton strained his ears for his daughter’s pleasant laughter or chatter but all was silent. This was one time in his life when he prayed she wouldn’t be there.

‘She’s on a sleepover with a school friend.’

Horton glanced at his watch to disguise his relief. He was surprised to find it was nearly four o’clock. ‘Shouldn’t she be back soon for school in the morning?’

‘What do you want?’ Catherine repeated firmly.

‘To come in.’

‘You can’t.’ She made to close the door further.

Exasperated, Horton said, ‘Catherine, what are you afraid of? That I’m going to ransack the place or contaminate it in some way, or perhaps physically attack you?’

‘No, but—’

‘Or that once inside I’ll refuse to leave until I see Emma, or refuse to go for good?’ He saw that something like that had crossed her mind. Wearily, he said, ‘I won’t. We need to talk.’

‘We finished talking a long time ago when you—’

‘Oh, change the record, Catherine,’ Horton cried, exasperated. ‘You know I didn’t sleep with Lucy Richardson, never mind rape her, so stop dragging that up as an excuse for why you ended our marriage. If you want to blame me and the job, then fine. It’s better for Emma’s sake than me citing your adultery. And don’t deny it,’ he added hastily at her black look, ‘because I don’t believe it and what’s more I don’t care any more. I need to talk to you about Edward Shawford.’

‘So we’re back to him,’ Catherine hissed. ‘You’re jealous.’

Horton’s expression hardened. Brusquely he said, ‘There’s something you should see. I’ve just taken these off Shawford.’ He pulled out one of the magazines. ‘But if you’d like to discuss it here on the doorstep for the neighbours to hear . . .’

He saw her startled expression before, tight-lipped, she stepped back, and for the first time since September Horton walked through the hall and into the lounge on the left. She’d completely changed it; clearly it had been a case of sweeping him out of her life.

‘Looks nice,’ he said, though he didn’t mean it. Everything was white except the floor, which was wood. There were white walls, white chairs, white curtains, the only splash of colour being the red cushions. She’d ditched the books, ornaments, pictures and photographs, except for one large one of her and Emma above where the fireplace had once been, but was now a plain wall. The room reminded Horton of a prison cell with splashes of blood.

She stood with her arms folded and glared at him, but behind her blue eyes he could see she was worried. ‘What’s this all about?’ she demanded with hostility.

Clearly he wasn’t going to be offered a coffee, not even a glass of water. Even if he were he didn’t know whether he’d be able to swallow it, his body felt so taut.

He tipped open the plastic bag, scattering the contents on the floor. Her eyes flicked to them and then up to him.

‘Shawford had those on his boat.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I don’t want to know what you do with Shawford, but I am concerned about my daughter being in the same house when you do it.’

‘How dare you!’ she raged. ‘You think—’

‘I dare, Catherine, because I know that you and Shawford have indulged in some extreme physical sex in the past.’

She flushed. Her mouth opened then closed tightly.

Horton continued. ‘Is there anything I need to know about?’

She didn’t answer.

‘Is there?’ he pressed.

‘No,’ she spat. ‘I’ve never been into bondage and all that stuff.’ She jabbed a finger at the magazines. But her eyes fell and she turned away from him.

‘Ah, but he wanted to.’

She swung back, her eyes flashing with fury. ‘Of course not,’ she declared hotly.

It was a lie. Horton knew he was right. ‘I’ve applied for a warrant to search Shawford’s boat. Not because of that,’ he added hastily, gesturing at the pornography, ‘but because Shawford, so far, is the last person to have seen Luke Felton. He gave him a lift on Tuesday night. We might also need to apply to search his apartment. I’m telling you this, Catherine, because I don’t want to be the source of gossip and sniggers all over the station, and I don’t want Emma exposed to it. Is there anything I need to know about?’

She glared at him. ‘No,’ she snapped.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. I have never let him do anything like that,’ she spat. ‘And if you think I’d do anything to upset or expose Emma then you’re mad.’

Horton saw the fury in her eyes and along with it was fear, because she knew what he was leaving unspoken. He didn’t have to threaten her with what the courts would make of it. Catherine wasn’t stupid. Again thoughts of the boarding school sprang to Horton’s mind. It might save Emma from being exposed to her mother’s boyfriends.

Crisply he said, ‘There’s a prospective parents’ evening at Northover School next Saturday.’ He recalled what the headmistress had told him: tea, a tour of the school, a chance to meet the teachers and the pupils, and the opportunity to ask questions. ‘I suggest we both be there with Emma.’

‘I . . .’ She made to protest then gave a curt nod.

‘And it’s Emma’s decision whether she goes or not. Isn’t it?’ he insisted, when she glared, tight-lipped, at him. ‘And
if
she wants to go
I
will pay her school fees.’

Again she nodded.

He turned and walked swiftly to the door. He could hear her following. At the door he turned to face her. ‘Just be careful who you sleep with next time.’

The door slammed on him. He was surprised to find he was shaking slightly. He rode into Petersfield and bought a coffee, hoping it would calm his jangling nerves and soothe his inner turmoil. Three cups later he found he was ready to return to work, and that meant talking to ex-Superintendent Duncan Chawley about Natalie Raymonds.

THIRTEEN

R
emoving his helmet, Horton stared up at the address Trueman had given him, thinking the former superintendent had done well for himself. The modern, two-storey brick-built house, with neat blinds at the windows and a sturdy enclosed porch tacked on to the front, was set in landscaped grounds of about two acres amid rolling fields on the borders of West Sussex and Hampshire. To the left, and attached to the property, was a single-storey brick-built extension with a large double-glazed bay window, and to Horton’s right was a detached double garage block.

His observations were curtailed by the sound of a car pulling up behind him and he turned to see a silver Saab convertible draw to a halt. A man in his late thirties with cropped black hair and a sun-weathered complexion climbed out. He studied Horton with a wary frown. Horton noted the chinos, deck shoes and red sailing jacket. This was so obviously not Duncan Chawley that either Trueman had given him an old address, which was highly unlikely, or this man was related to Duncan Chawley.

‘Can I help?’ the man asked in a well-modulated voice, but with a hint of suspicion.

‘Are you the occupant?’

‘Yes, and you are?’

Horton introduced himself with a show of his warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Mr Duncan Chawley.’

‘He’s my father. I’m Gavin Chawley.’

Horton took the outstretched hand, returning the firm grip. ‘Why do you want him? Only my father’s not well,’ Chawley said with concern.

‘I need to talk to him about one of his old cases. It is important,’ Horton pressed, wondering what was wrong with Duncan Chawley.

‘Then you’d better come in.’

Horton stepped into a porch, where Chawley hung his jacket before entering a large hall. He offered to take Horton’s leather jacket and was hanging it up when a blonde woman hurried towards them with an anxious look on what must once have been a pretty face, thought Horton, but now looked jaded. She froze, somewhat startled at Horton’s appearance.

‘He’s a policeman,’ Chawley explained. ‘He’s come to talk to Dad. This is my wife, Julia.’

The woman tossed Horton a shy smile before addressing her husband. ‘Is it OK if I take the children out now, Gavin? Only we’re late. They’re going to a friend’s birthday party,’ she explained to Horton, again with that hesitant smile. From the lines around her eyes and mouth, Horton thought she looked too tired for birthday parties. He wondered how many children the Chawleys had, maybe several, though he couldn’t hear any.

Gavin Chawley gave his wife a smile and a nod and she slid past them and up the stairs.