Horton swore and asked to speak to Lee.
'Where's Sergeant Cantelli?' he rapped when she came on the line.
'I don't know—'
'Cut the crap, Lee. This is no time to play silly buggers. He went to the prison to find out something about Peter Ebury and he got it. So where have you got him?'
Silence. He could almost hear her mind racing. What was she going to do: tell him he was barking mad or admit it?
'I'll call you back.'
Under the glow of the street lamp, Horton quickly skimmed the contents of Marjorie Kingsway's file. It hardly seemed worth taking as there was so little information in it. Mrs Kingsway had been moved into the Rest Haven by social services a year ago from another nursing home on the seafront, which Horton knew to be rather an expensive one, and much more exclusive that the Rest Haven. He guessed her money had run out. Nursing care for the elderly and sick wasn't free in England. Where had Marjorie lived before the expensive nursing home on the seafront? Trueman would find out, of course. So what
now? Hang around and wait for Trueman to come back?
Where could Cantelli be? Horton shivered and it wasn't from the cold. He couldn't shake off his feeling of dread and the thought that something might have happened to him.
The door of the Rest Haven opened and Marion Keynes scuttled out. Too late to make her escape, he thought with grim satisfaction, as the patrol car sped round the corner. He watched the panic cross her face. Then her body slumped. She glared at him as he instructed PC Seaton to take her away. He ought to go back inside and explain to Cheryl what had happened, but he detailed PC Allen to do that. Trueman would handle the rest.
But he couldn't just hang around. He had to do something. It was time to confront Kingsway. He'd be at work. Action would help him to stop worrying about Cantelli. But as Horton climbed on the Harley and headed for Fort Cumberland, he knew that nothing on earth would prevent him from doing that.
TWENTY-ONE
T
he daytime security officer let him through the entry gates. He was too early to speak to Steven Kingsway, he was informed. He wouldn't be on duty for another twenty minutes. Horton felt irritated by the delay. Perhaps it would be better to leave this to Uniform. They could bring Kingsway in and someone else could question him about his assault on his mother. But Horton didn't want to hand this over.
'Has Mr Kingsway worked here long?' he asked.
'Three weeks and that's three too long if you ask me. Good job he's on nights and I don't have to work with him. Thinks he's God's gift to the world that one.'
Horton was surprised to learn Kingsway had only been working there a short time, though he shouldn't have been after what Cheryl had told him.
'Where did he work before?'
'Oil rigs. Earning a fortune, so he says, risking his life to give us all our central heating and petrol for our cars. To hear him talk, you'd have thought he was the only bugger in the world bringing oil out. Says he was a skilled man, an engineer. If he was, then what's he doing guarding a load of old artefacts in an ancient monument?'
The job went some way to explaining Kingsway's absence, but even oil-rig workers got time off, Horton thought. Why had Kingsway suddenly developed a conscience about his mother? Perhaps he'd had no choice but to return home. He could have been made redundant or been sacked.
'Do you want to wait for him?' asked the guard. 'He shouldn't be long.'
Horton hesitated for a fraction before declining. He was too impatient and anxious to hang around here, twiddling his thumbs and listening to the security man talking. He could use the time more productively, he thought, by having a quick poke around the marine archaeological offices. There might be something there that could tell him where Nathan Lester had gone and why Farnsworth had been killed. Daniel Collins, too, if Marion Keynes were to be believed. He wondered if Cantelli had been right all along with his wreck theory.
Collecting the key, Horton left the Harley outside the main office and jogged to the marine archaeological offices. The salty wind tore and bit into him whilst the thin slanting rain seemed to cut right through his leathers. With relief he unlocked the door and stepped inside the musty smelling room. The security light outside illuminated it enough for him to see that it was exactly as it had been earlier that day when he'd last been here with Cantelli. Instinctively he reached for his mobile to check it was on, though he knew it was. He wondered if he could have missed a call or message, but no, the screen was blank.
Increasingly troubled by Cantelli's continuing silence, he poked around the desks with no idea of what he was hoping to find. There certainly wasn't any mention of a wreck found near Dead Man's Fingers off the Isle of Wight. For a moment he stared at the three computer screens wondering if it was worth switching one on, but then decided it would serve no purpose and headed swiftly for the inner office where he'd previously interviewed Jackson. Again there was no change and certainly no sign of Nathan Lester. Had he really expected to see him here? He didn't know. Maybe he had hoped, but the shabby room was empty except for books and documents spilling out of every orifice and littered on every surface. He felt disheartened and eaten up with anxiety. Why didn't Lee ring him? Surely she'd had time to clear things with her boss. Cantelli must be with them. If he wasn't . . .
His phone rang. It was Lee.
'My boss is on his way to the station. But I can tell you that none of us have seen Sergeant Cantelli since he left the prison this afternoon.'
Horton stiffened with fury. 'You had him followed.'
'No. Mr Anston, the deputy governor, called us to say that Sergeant Cantelli had been making inquiries about Peter Ebury. Before we could pick up Cantelli's trail, he'd vanished. We don't know where he is.'
Horton's blood turned to ice. 'Then you'd better find him,' he said harshly. 'Ask your contacts. And interview that bloody prisoner.'
He was about to ring off when she said: 'We would if we could.'
Horton tensed. His heart jumped several beats.
'He was found with a plastic bag over his head ten minutes ago.'
Horton cursed loudly and vehemently, whilst his heart sank to the depths of his being. He felt sick inside.
'Where are you, Inspector?' Her voice came from somewhere distant.
'Find Cantelli,' he shouted and punched the line dead. He felt like hurling the bloody thing across the room and with it everyone in the Intelligence Directorate. They'd screwed up. They had to find Cantelli because if they didn't or if...he didn't even want to think about it. It made him ill. Where could Cantelli be? Who had got hold of him?
He cursed again. He would collect the Harley and head back. He'd call Uniform to bring Kingsway in. His heart wasn't in this investigation any more. His mind was in turmoil. He couldn't think of anything but Cantelli. What had he discovered from that prisoner? Who else had been watching the prison? He knew he couldn't stay here a moment longer. Even if he had to question every prisoner and screw in Kingston nick, or walk the streets to find just one person who had seen Barney, then he'd do it and for as long as it took.
Swiftly he crossed to the door, but froze at the sound of a car pulling up outside. A door slammed. He waited for the door to open, but it didn't happen. Puzzled, he gazed out of the small window to his right. The rain had stopped for a brief moment, and behind scudding clouds, the moon made a brief appearance. In the glare of the security light he saw a silver saloon. He recognized it as Kingsway's. The man was nowhere in sight though. Was he here to do his security rounds? Horton dashed a glance at his watch. No, he'd only been inside ten minutes. Kingsway was due on duty in about five minutes' time. He must have stopped off here before checking into the main building. Yes, there he was, emerging from somewhere on Horton's far right-hand side, and he was wheeling a platform trolley.
Horton made to leave when something forestalled him. He couldn't say what exactly, but his instincts were telling him to stay put. He watched as Kingsway opened the boot of his car. After a couple of seconds he emerged with a grunt before manhandling something very heavy, judging by the growling and groaning he was doing, on to the trolley. It looked like a roll of carpet. Horton's first thoughts were that Kingsway was illegally dumping household rubbish before his copper's brain jolted into gear. No carpet was that heavy surely. His flesh crawled, as his eyes narrowed into the night to focus on the shape. He stiffened. If he wasn't mistaken it was a body. He couldn't see whose, but his first thoughts were of Nathan Lester. Why would Kingsway want to kill Lester though? The only reason he could think of was that it had to be something to do with Farnsworth. And now, at last, he quickly put the facts together. Kingsway wasn't only guilty of striking his mother, but of killing the person she was fixated on: Farnsworth.
He peered into the night as Kingsway manoeuvred the trolley. In so doing he pushed it past the window. There, at the end of the rug, was an opening and in the glimpse of moonlight Horton saw . . . He froze. His heart stopped. Jesus! No! It couldn't be. There was a mass of black curly hair. It wasn't Nathan Lester. It was Barney. Kingsway had killed Barney Cantelli.
Without thinking, Horton wrenched open the door and in a blind rage rushed across to Kingsway. He'd kill the bastard for this. Kingsway turned. Saw him. And before Horton knew it, Kingsway swivelled round, kicked out and struck Horton in the midriff. Horton doubled over as the breath was sucked from his body and pain shot through him. The ground came up to greet his bleary-eyed vision. Before he could even think of moving or breathing, something cut through the back of his neck, the shock seemed to slice his body like a meat cleaver. There was an acute flash of pain. And then absolutely nothing.
TWENTY-TWO
H
e was no longer in the car park. He knew that immediately by the darkness pressing on his eyeballs, the stench, and the filthy water in his face. His neck was as sore as hell and his hands and feet were tied, but he was alive. He didn't know about Cantelli. Fear gripped him as he recalled the body being hauled out of Kingsway's car. His heart was so heavy with sorrow that he could hardly breathe. Charlotte. Barney's five kids. He shivered uncontrollably. If he had a choice he'd rather be dead if it meant Cantelli could live.
It was an effort to move, the pain of his loss was almost too much to bear, but he forced himself into an upright position. Was there still hope that Barney might be alive? He had to cling on to that.
He tried to focus his eyes. It was pitch black. He could see nothing. His senses told him though that he was underground. And his reasoning, which was slowly surfacing through his throbbing head and the pain of his sorrow, said that he must be in one of the tunnels under the Fort Cumberland earth mounds. He dug his nails into his palms and felt the sweat trickle down his back. The tunnel was pressing down on him. His stomach heaved. His heart raced. He could hear his breathing coming in gasps. Air. He had to get air. But there wasn't any. He struggled to rise, but his bonds were too tight and limiting. Desperately he tried to fight off the rising attack of claustrophobia.
Calm, keep calm. Think rationally. Think of Cantelli, he might still be alive and if he is, then he
needs your help to get out of here. What use are you to him as a quivering heap? Charlotte is relying on
you. Barney could be in here somewhere within reach.
He emptied his lungs slowly. It did the trick. He wasn't sure how long it took, but gradually his heart rate settled down, though not to normal. This wasn't bloody normal. There was a noise to the right of him. Sharply he brought his head round, then wished he hadn't when a shaft of pain shot through him almost making him lose consciousness. A shape loomed out of the darkness.
'Let's see you, Kingsway,' he shouted, though his throat was dry and his voice hoarse.
A powerful torch swung full beam on Horton. He blinked and tried to snatch his head away from the glare, but it wouldn't go.
'You shouldn't have attacked me,' came the voice from the darkness. 'I'm sorry you've been involved.'
'What do you want? Forgiveness?' Horton snarled, but he recognized the whining tone of self-justification that was so familiar to him when hearing a confession to a crime.
The beam swung away and Horton watched Kingsway settle himself opposite, on the trolley that had brought him and Cantelli here. He quickly scanned the area and picked out the slumped body of Cantelli about nine feet from him. His heart plummeted to the depths of his being.
'Is he dead?' he asked in a flat resigned voice.
'He might be now.'
Horton clenched his fists and tried to leap up, but once again he was defeated by his bonds. He fell back deflated, but anger stirred within him, fuelling his determination to get out of here alive and feed Kingsway to the seagulls. He told himself there was still a chance that Cantelli was alive. Kingsway had said 'now' which meant he hadn't killed Cantelli outright. Horton clung to that hope. It was all he had. And it meant he had to find a way to overpower Kingsway or persuade him to give himself up.
'Why make things worse for yourself, Kingsway? Let us both go and I'll see that you get a fair trial. With a good solicitor you might not get long.'
But Kingsway didn't hear him. Almost regretfully he said, 'If she hadn't let that grinning idiot of a diver fool her, then none of this would have happened.'
Horton quickly saw the way Kingsway's mind was working. Here was a man seeking to apportion blame for his own crimes and shortcomings. Something Horton guessed Kingsway had done for most of his life. Nothing would ever be his fault. Perhaps if he appeared to understand and empathize with him, he could eventually talk his way out of this. But what had Farnsworth done to an old lady like Marjorie Kingsway? Sex wasn't the motive for his actions and neither was it love or success, but it could have been power and the type of power that came from exerting influence over a vulnerable person to give Farnsworth the money and possessions he craved.