Free Undercurrent by Pauline Rowson

involved if it was officially logged.
    ‘Cowes. I’m renting an apartment at the marina there, until the divorce is finalized. It’s handy for the office too. Fiona and the kids will get the house at Alverstoke. It’s got to be either an ex-employee or a competitor.’
    ‘Or Fiona.’
    But Ashton was shaking his head. ‘She might hate me but she wouldn’t do this.’
    ‘Jealous husband or boyfriend then?’
    ‘I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.’
    Horton wasn’t sure that was the truth, and even if it was it might be a boyfriend or husband connected with one of Ashton’s previous girlfriends. ‘Did you keep the letter?’
    ‘Of course not. I thought it was just some tosser who’d read about me in the local newspaper and got his kicks from slagging off successful businessmen.’ When Horton looked blank Ashton added, ‘There was a profile on me and the company in the local rag. You know how people in this country hate success.’
    ‘What did the letter say?’
    Ashton waved his fork about. ‘“Think you’re successful? Well you might be now but enjoy it while it lasts because it won’t be for long, by the time I’m finished with you you’ll be lucky to have a canoe let alone a fleet of expensive yachts.” That sort of drivel.’
    ‘Written or computer generated?’
    ‘The latter, on ordinary plain paper.’
    ‘Posted or hand-delivered?’
    ‘Posted. And I didn’t save the envelope either but it was a Portsmouth and Isle of Wight postmark.’
    That narrows it down, thought Horton cynically, given there were over two hundred thousand people living in Portsmouth and a hundred and forty thousand on the Island, not to mention all the visitors and tourists. The culprit could live anywhere though and posted the letter locally. He could have read the article while staying in one of the marinas, or hotels on the Island. But the article wouldn’t have mentioned Ashton’s address and Horton doubted the newspaper would have given it out. His business address would have been easily accessible to anyone, but this letter had been sent to where Ashton was temporarily staying and that smacked of someone closer to home who knew Ashton.
    The man and woman from the saloon car had finished their photographs of the Camber and were walking along the quayside in the direction of their car.
    Ashton polished off his food and pushed away the plate. ‘Next was the tyre, three days after the letter. I was in Oyster Quays talking to one of my skippers on one of the yachts moored up there. I parked the car in Old Portsmouth around the back of the Cathedral and walked through the Wightlink ferry terminal to the marina, when I got back the tyre was flat. When I changed it there was a ruddy great rip in it as though someone had slashed it with a knife. Then I found a scratch on the Mercedes two days later outside the office in Cowes. This bastard’s following me, Andy.’ Ashton glared around the quayside. Horton followed his gaze. Nobody looked remotely interested in them.
    ‘Then I got another letter a week ago, which I didn’t keep either. It said “How does it feel to have your precious possessions scarred? That’s just a start.”’
    ‘You should have brought it to us,’ Horton said, finishing his meal.
    ‘Well I didn’t. I ripped the bloody thing up I was so furious. And you wouldn’t have done anything about it anyway, not unless I’d been physically threatened or probably dying, which is why there’s no point in me reporting it officially. I know how the police work. I’ve had enough of them sailing on my yachts. It’s got to be someone I sacked. I’ve brought a list. I thought you could run them through your computer and see if any of them look likely.’ He reached into his trouser pocket.
    ‘Not unless I log the incident and give it a crime number,’ Horton said stubbornly, not because he wasn’t interested or reluctant to follow it up but because he wanted to test Ashton’s reaction to see just