Free Death Surge by Pauline Rowson Page B

CID. Not that he was in the station, but they’d have his number to call him. Andreadis had his mobile number so it couldn’t be him, but it could be someone from Cowes police station with news about Johnnie. He returned to his office and lifted the receiver.
    It was PC Seaton. ‘We’ve got a sighting, sir,’ he said excitedly. ‘One of the taxi drivers at the Hard remembers Johnnie.’
    Horton’s pulse skipped several beats. This was a breakthrough. He looked at Cantelli in the CID office; he didn’t want to raise his hopes only to have them dashed. ‘He’s sure?’
    ‘Positive.’
    ‘Where did he take him?’
    ‘He didn’t. He just says he remembers seeing him and speaking to him.’
    ‘Is he still there?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then tell him to stay put; we’re on our way.’

SIX
    ‘I ’ve missed three fares because of you. Hope you’re going to compensate me for that,’ the taxi driver grumbled as he drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘I’ve got a living to make, and hanging about to please you lot costs me time and money.’
    Judging by Cantelli’s cold stare Horton thought the type of compensation he had in mind was to book the obese taxi driver for having bad breath and dandruff. Thrusting Johnnie’s photograph at the big beer-bellied man, Cantelli said sharply, ‘Are you sure you saw this man on Wednesday afternoon at approximately four o’clock?’
    ‘How many more times do I have to say it? Yes, that’s him,’ the taxi driver shouted exasperated and flicked his fag end into the gutter where it sat smouldering like Cantelli’s fury.
    ‘How are you so sure?’ Cantelli snapped.
    ‘Because I’ve been in this business more years than a tart can shake her tits at a punter. You build a memory for faces and names and a nose for the toerags who want to puke in your cab and avoid paying the fare. You know when someone’s bullshitting you – you can smell it a mile away, even on an outgoing tide.’
    ‘And that’s what he was doing?’ Cantelli stabbed at the picture of Johnnie, his heavy, dark eyebrows knitting in puzzlement.
    ‘He asked the cost of the fare to Hayling Island, said thank you and pissed off.’
    ‘Maybe he didn’t like the look of your vehicle,’ Cantelli sniped, running an experienced and suspicious eye over the scratched and battered Vauxhall.
    ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. You can check my insurance and MOT,’ the taxi driver said hotly, but Horton reckoned Cantelli would put in a call to traffic anyway.
    Horton interjected: ‘Whereabouts on Hayling?’
    ‘Don’t know. He didn’t say, and I’m not a mind reader. What’s he done? Can’t have robbed a bank because he wasn’t flush enough to take a taxi. He walked off, and he didn’t ask any of the other drivers like I thought he would, to try and beat us down on price.’
    Cantelli was looking increasingly perplexed. Horton didn’t blame him, he was too. Hayling Island could be reached in two ways: one by a small passenger ferry from the far eastern edge of the city at the end of the road where he lived at the marina, or alternatively by road: north on the M275 out of Portsmouth, then east along the M27 and finally south, crossing a bridge on to the small semi-rural island. But whichever way you got to it, Hayling Island was not Oyster Quays, where Johnnie was supposed to have met Masefield, and neither was it anywhere near Cowes. It confirmed that Johnnie had arrived in Portsmouth, and that was one step forward. But why Hayling? And why ask and then not go?
    ‘What did he do after that?’ asked Cantelli eagerly.
    ‘No idea.’ The taxi driver shrugged and took a packet of cigarettes from the top pocket of a crumpled, open-necked checked shirt.
    Horton noted the sweaty armpits. ‘In which direction did he walk?’
    ‘That way.’ He jerked his head in the direction of Oyster Quays.
    ‘Can you describe what he was wearing?’
    Cantelli quickly retrieved his notebook from his jacket pocket and the short