Free Deadly Waters by Pauline Rowson Page B

she had then why hadn’t she changed her clothes and dumped her laptop computer and briefcase? And if she had met her killer on a boat in Town Camber, then why would the killer take her body all the way round to Langstone Harbour when he could have thrown her overboard in the harbour, or in Southsea Bay?
    He waited until Cantelli returned before saying, ‘There’s no sign of a black suit jacket here in her wardrobe to match the trousers she was found in, and Tom Edney says she was wearing one yesterday. Neil Cyrus claims she was wearing it when she climbed into her car, and that she was carrying her briefcase. Where is it? Where’s her car? Why did she choose to wear black yesterday when all her other suit jackets are mauve, green and red?’
    Walters looked blank.
    ‘Perhaps she just felt in a sombre mood,’ suggested Cantelli, dropping the deck shoes into the evidence bag. ‘Or perhaps she had to go to a meeting where she needed to dress more soberly.’
    Yes, thought Horton, and perhaps that meeting had been after she had left the school at seven fifteen p.m. If only they had her diary.
    Horton handed the bag to Walters. ‘Get those sent over to the lab. And take all that paperwork back to the station and start going through it. Ask Sergeant Trueman to get a forensic team in here and some officers over to start a house-to-house.
    If she came straight home from school then she should have arrived at about seven thirty p.m. Someone must have seen her and her car.’
    Walters slouched off.
    Horton turned to Cantelli. ‘Let’s get some fresh air.’
    Horton’s head felt heavy, as though he had a hangover. He needed to clear it. He needed to understand this woman and why someone had chosen to kill her. It could be a random killing, yet he didn’t think so, not with the body having been placed on the mulberry.
    The rain had eased to a fine drizzle, which was somehow more dampening and depressing than a torrential downpour.
    Cantelli pulled up the collar of his jacket and thrust his hands in his pocket. Soon they turned on to the quayside. Only a handful of people were about and most of those working in the fish market to their right. It was the same route only in reverse that Horton had run in the early hours of the morning chasing his burglar. Now, in the daylight, he had a good view of the Town Camber. Across the small harbour was the Bridge Tavern. Beyond, and sandwiched between it and the expensive apartments of Oyster Quays, he could see the funnel of the Isle of Wight ferry as it slid into its dock. The cathedral clock behind them struck one. Horton had skipped breakfast and realized he was hungry.
    Cantelli, echoing his thoughts, said hopefully, ‘We got time for a bacon butty?’
    ‘We’ll get something back at the station.’

    What could the head teacher of an inner city school have done that could incite such retribution? Horton couldn’t think straight. He needed to splash his face with cold water. He was tired, but he didn’t have time for sleep. He needed to catch this killer quickly. It was a point of honour now. He would show Uckfield that he’d chosen the wrong man.
    He glanced at the row of apartments and houses to his left, at right angles to Feltham Row. They faced on to Town Camber, and one of them had been broken into a week ago. He turned round to stare at Langley’s flat behind him. Something stirred in his sluggish brain. His pulse quickened. It was a long shot, but it was possible.
    He said, ‘Could Langley have witnessed Mickey Johnson and his mate breaking into that house last week?’ He nodded to his left. ‘And that’s why she was killed.’
    Cantelli shook his head. ‘You know Mickey as well as I do. He’s not a killer.’
    No. And neither was he an antiques thief, though he had stolen antiques. But the haul found on Johnson last night had been nowhere near as valuable as that taken on previous robberies. What significance did Johnson have with the owl and the pussycat?