Free Footsteps on the Shore by Pauline Rowson Page A

against him that not even the CPS or a jury could drive a truck through, sustained him. Except for two things, he considered dejectedly: it wouldn’t be his case, and just as with Luke Felton, the bastard would either get a lenient sentence or be let out on licence to do it again . . . and again. Could Luke Felton have done this? he wondered with a jolt. Not if he was the body in the harbour. And Horton could see no reason why Luke Felton would have been here. But then there was no reason why he had been on the Hayling Coastal Path either, not unless he had known Natalie Raymonds. Maybe he had known Venetia Trotman.
    Horton gazed up at the house. There were two windows either side of the rear door and two above them with a small, narrow window squeezed in between on the first floor, above the door. The red brickwork was old, the house beautifully proportioned and maintained. He could sense what Cantelli was thinking; the next of kin could be in for a substantial inheritance, unless the place was mortgaged to the hilt. And perhaps that was the real reason Venetia Trotman had been selling her late husband’s boat – she needed the money to pay the mortgage and household bills, perhaps even her husband’s debts.
    Stretching his fingers into latex gloves, he eyed the sturdy oak door. ‘No sign of a break-in.’ It would take some considerable effort to break into this. He tentatively tried the handle and the door opened to his touch, which wasn’t surprising if she’d rushed out to investigate intruders, though such a thing was brave and foolish.
    They stepped inside a small utility room as it began to rain again. The space also clearly doubled as a cloakroom. But there was no sign of the red and blue sailing jacket, only a green waxed jacket and a Burberry raincoat, along with a pair of sturdy walking shoes and green wellington boots; Hunters, he noted. There was also a small empty hook beside the door, which looked as though its function was to hold keys.
    Horton studied the rear of the door. Heavy bolts were fixed top and bottom and there was a strong lock on it, with the key still in it. He’d also noted the alarm, which had obviously been deactivated because there was no wailing noise as they entered. But had her killer disabled it? Or perhaps Venetia Trotman had never set it.
    Yesterday she had met him at the side of the house and shown him straight down to the boat, waiting on the shore while he’d looked it over. She hadn’t asked him for any form of identification, and he hadn’t volunteered it. But then why should she ask when she had been expecting him? He’d answered an advertisement placed in the window of a newsagent’s shop in the nearby village of Portchester offering a boat for sale. Maybe her killer had done the same and, finding her alone and vulnerable, had returned to rob and kill her. That was a far more likely scenario than laying this at Luke Felton’s door. But who was the anonymous caller? He’d obviously found Horton’s card on the victim’s body.
    Forensic would analyse the voice and try to pinpoint the accent, but discovering who it belonged to was about as likely as discovering a destitute banker. And Horton knew that even if they were able to trace where the call had been made, he doubted if it would tell them who had made it. He didn’t think it was her killer, because he would hardly have gone to the trouble to report the death. Horton hadn’t seen anyone while he was here yesterday and there had been no vehicles parked. A car could have been in the garage though.
    He bent down to remove his shoes. Doing the same, Cantelli said, ‘No children’s coats or shoes and no men’s either. How long did you say her husband had been dead?’
    ‘She said three months.’
    ‘Time enough, I guess.’
    For some, Horton thought, interpreting the meaning behind Cantelli’s solemn tone. The sergeant’s father had died of a heart attack shortly before Christmas, and Horton knew that for