Free Deadly Waters by Pauline Rowson Page A

just some circulars in the kitchen drawers, a couple of spare light bulbs and batteries and a mobile phone charger. I can’t find a calendar or notice board to give us any clues as to who her friends were, or who she associated with outside of work, and there’s no sign of a laptop computer.’

    ‘Photographs?’
    ‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
    Everyone has photographs, Horton thought, even him. His few were kept in a battered old Bluebird toffee tin stowed under his bunk on his boat. He hadn’t looked at them in years.
    There was one of him and his mother. He had a picture of Emma pinned up beside his bunk and another on his desk in his office. There were hundreds of others at home – correction – at what used to be his home near Petersfield where Catherine lived with Emma. Even if Catherine gave them to him now, he didn’t think he could bear to look at them. They would remind him too much of what he had lost. He tensed at the thought of their meeting in five hours’ time, then hastily pushed it aside. Time to think about that later.
    Jessica Langley had kept her photographs in her office, apart from the one of her cat, which she had kept pride of place here on the mantelpiece. What did that tell him? He didn’t know, except that maybe she had loved the cat more than anyone else. Who were her parents? Where were they?
    Dead, he suspected, as they hadn’t been named on her school personnel file as next of kin, or maybe she had fallen out with them. There seemed little else in Langley’s life except work, and perhaps sailing. Sounded a bit like him.
    He returned to the lounge where he found Walters crouched in front of a cupboard. ‘Everything is stuffed in any old how,’
    he grumbled, pulling out bank statements and correspondence, which Horton eyed hopefully. ‘It’ll take ages to sort through this lot.’
    ‘Not going on holiday are you, Constable?’
    Walters heaved himself up. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
    ‘Did Langley take this apartment furnished?’
    ‘No. Unfurnished.’
    So these were the sum total of her belongings. It wasn’t much to show for a woman of forty plus, and one who had a good career. So what else had Langley spent her money on?
    Jewellery? She’d certainly had a few bob’s worth around her neck and wrists. Maybe she liked exotic holidays, or an expensive yacht, he thought, recalling the photograph.
    ‘Did you find any sailing clothes in her bedroom: jackets, leggings, deck shoes?’
    ‘Don’t think so, but you’re the expert.’

    Ignoring Walters’ sarcastic tone, Horton entered Langley’s bedroom. It was tidier than he had expected. A plain cream duvet had been thrown over the bed and there were no items of clothing lying around. He opened a drawer that was part of a built-in wardrobe and sifted through her clothes.
    ‘What are you expecting to find?’ Cantelli asked, coming up behind him.
    ‘Just poking around. She’s got some nice underwear.’ He held up a pair of red and black skimpy knickers.
    Cantelli shuddered. ‘Can’t imagine Miss Hindmarsh in those.’
    ‘Whose Miss Hindmarsh?’
    ‘My old head mistress.’
    Horton smiled. ‘But can you imagine Ms Langley in them?’
    Cantelli frowned in thought. ‘Now you come to mention it, yes.’
    Horton turned his attention to the wardrobe. He bent down and picked up a pair of navy blue leather deck shoes. ‘Get an evidence bag, Barney.’
    ‘What are you expecting to find on them?’ asked Walters, looking puzzled as Cantelli slipped out.
    ‘She was a sailor, but her foul-weather leggings and jacket are not here, so where are they? On her boat or on her killer’s boat? When we find out we might need evidence from these.’
    Walters looked as though he didn’t think that likely, but that was why he was still a DC; he lacked imagination. And, Horton thought, it was about time he stretched his imagination. He was coming to the conclusion that Langley might never have reached her apartment last night. If