Footsteps on the Shore (2 page)

‘Don’t tell me he’s escaped,’ Horton groaned.

‘He was granted parole in January after serving ten years of his fourteen-year sentence. He was given an automatic conditional release licence on the second of February.’

Horton eyed Bliss incredulously before swinging his gaze to Beverley Attworth. She shifted her large backside and looked both hostile and defensive.

‘He’d been a model prisoner,’ she said defiantly. ‘All his reports were favourable. He was truly repentant for what he’d done and he’d served over two-thirds of his sentence.’

‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ Horton answered flippantly.

‘Inspector!’

Bliss could ‘Inspector’ him all she liked. ‘Why weren’t we told he was out?’

Attworth answered. ‘Luke was assessed as a level one category. He’s deemed a low risk to the community. There was no need to place him on the Dangerous Persons Database—’

‘Hang on,’ Horton protested, his hackles rising even further. ‘We are talking about a murderer. I would say he posed a very serious threat to the public.’

Matt Boynton sat forward and brushed his floppy hair off his forehead. ‘Luke Felton’s been clean since undergoing the prison drug treatment programme. He’s completely reformed.’

There’s no such animal; once a villain always a villain
, thought Horton. ‘He’s on the streets where he could easily have access to heroin, or any class A drug, and once hooked he could kill for five pence if he thought it would buy him his next fix.’

But Boynton was shaking his head vigorously. He opened his mouth to reply, only Attworth got there first. ‘Luke Felton was being closely monitored—’

‘By whom?’ Horton scoffed.

Attworth and Boynton exchanged glances. Yeah, by nobody. Tersely Horton said, ‘Where’s Felton living?’

Boynton answered. ‘Crown House. It’s a supervised hostel in the city.’

Horton knew it well. It was in an area that was renowned for druggies and dealers; not the best place to house a former drug addict. As if reading his mind, Boynton added, ‘I don’t for a minute believe Luke’s returned to drugs, for the simple reason that two weeks ago he managed to secure a very good job at Kempton Marine.’

Horton quickly covered his surprise. That was his father-in-law’s company, where his soon-to-be ex-wife, Catherine, worked as marketing manager and her fat lover, Edward Shawford, as sales manager. Would this investigation bring him into contact with her? He tensed at the thought. He hadn’t seen Catherine since January and that had hardly been a joyous occasion. On impulse, and fuelled by anger and disappointment at being denied access to his daughter on Christmas Eve, as Catherine had agreed, he’d gone haring up to Heathrow Airport to meet them on their return from spending Christmas and New Year at Catherine’s parents’ villa in Cyprus. The memory of how Emma had run into his arms caused a lump in Horton’s throat and a stab at his heart. Briskly he pulled himself up and, addressing Beverley Attworth, said, ‘When exactly did Felton go missing?’

‘He didn’t show up for work on Wednesday or Thursday. Kelly Masters, the personnel officer at Kempton’s, called Matt this morning, who called me after checking with the hostel that Luke wasn’t there. The hostel supervisor, Mr Harmsworth, says he hasn’t seen Luke since Tuesday morning when he left for work.’

Horton rapidly ran through the litany of crimes since Felton’s disappearance but there had been no incidents involving serious assault except for the usual pub punch-ups and domestics, unless something had happened on his patch last night. And he hadn’t had time to check that.

Boynton quickly added, ‘Luke was very excited about his job. He wouldn’t abscond or slide back into crime and miss such a chance.’

‘Maybe the temptation was too great,’ Horton said. ‘Perhaps he was offered drugs and couldn’t help himself.’

‘No.’

There was no shifting Boynton. Horton tried another idea. ‘Maybe he met up with a friend, or a girl, and is shacked up with one of them?’

Boynton shook his head. ‘He hasn’t any girlfriends or friends in the area.’

Horton eyed him sceptically; he didn’t believe that for a moment. He said, ‘Do Natalie Raymonds’ family know that Felton’s been released on licence?’

Boynton answered. ‘I spoke to Julian Raymonds, her husband. He’s remarried.’

No reason why he shouldn’t, thought Horton. Perhaps it had helped him to get over the trauma of his wife’s death.

Beverley Attworth added, ‘Natalie’s mother died three years after Natalie was killed. Her father went to live with his son in Australia. Luke’s sister, Olivia Danbury, and his brother Ashley Felton, were also contacted about Luke’s release – their parents are dead. They both live locally and said they wanted nothing to do with Luke, so I don’t think he could have gone there.’

‘But you haven’t physically checked?’

‘Of course not,’ she said huffily.

Which meant
they
would. At a nod from Bliss, Horton rose. Crisply, Bliss said, ‘Mr Boynton will provide you with all the information you need about Luke Felton.’ Boynton scrambled up and smiled sheepishly at Horton as Bliss continued, ‘We keep this from the media, Inspector. I do not want members of the public unduly concerned.’

And they would be if the press got hold of the story and blew it up in their usual scaremongering style. For once Horton wouldn’t really blame them if they did. Felton shouldn’t have been released in the first place, but now that he had been they’d better find him, and quickly, before he committed another crime. Or perhaps Felton had already killed again and was in hiding, or lying somewhere in a drug-induced stupor.

Horton pushed open the door to the CID room leaving Boynton to trail in after him. Walters had returned from the canteen and Horton swiftly made the introductions, and brought Cantelli and Walters up to speed. Even before he’d finished speaking he could see that Cantelli recollected the case, which didn’t surprise him; what Cantelli didn’t remember wasn’t usually worth putting on the back of a postage stamp.

Cantelli said, ‘The murder of Natalie Raymonds wasn’t Felton’s first offence. He was convicted of assault and robbery on an elderly woman collecting her pension in August 1995, for which he received a community sentence. He was a middle-class, well-educated young man in his mid-twenties whose parents couldn’t believe it of their respectable son until they were told he was a druggie.’

Horton was even more impressed by Cantelli’s complete recall and must have shown it, because Cantelli quickly added, ‘I wasn’t working on either case but Charlotte, my wife,’ he explained for Boynton’s benefit, ‘knew Luke’s mother, Sonia. They trained as nurses together and worked on the same ward before Charlotte gave up work completely when Sadie was born. They kept in touch until Sonia Felton died, which wasn’t long after Luke was convicted for Natalie’s murder.’

Horton turned to Walters. ‘Any reports of violent assaults last night?’

‘Nothing with Felton’s MO on it.’

‘Get the case notes on the Natalie Raymonds murder, and apply to see Luke Felton’s prison files, including his medical records. Find out who visited him inside and start checking to see if he’s contacted any of them. Cantelli and I will talk to the sister and brother.’ To Boynton, Horton said, ‘Did Felton have any girlfriends
before
prison?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

Again Horton turned to Walters. ‘Call the hospitals in the area to see if he’s had an accident. I take it you haven’t already done that?’ Horton tossed at Boynton.

‘I didn’t even think of it. I suppose it’s a possibility.’ Boynton looked concerned.

‘A remote one, unless he had no ID on him and has got amnesia or is unconscious. Do you have a recent photograph of him?’

‘On file.’

‘Email it to DC Walters the moment you return to your office. Walters, when you get it, circulate it to all officers.’

Walters nodded. Horton again addressed Boynton. ‘If you hear from him, or learn anything about his whereabouts, let us know immediately.’

With a flick of his hair and a sniff, Boynton nodded agreement before slouching off. Horton glanced down at the paper on Cantelli’s desk containing the drawing of the symbol etched on his Harley. That would have to wait. Stuffing it in his pocket he said, ‘Let’s see what the hostel supervisor can tell us about Luke Felton.’

TWO

N
ot a great deal, it transpired. Harmsworth had last seen Luke Felton on Tuesday morning at about eight thirty when Luke had been on his way to work. But one thing was certain, thought Horton, following the hostel supervisor’s eighteen-stone frame up the narrow stairs in the gothic-style Edwardian building, which was as out of place in the middle of the run-down council flats and seedy second-hand shops as a pensioner in a night club, Harmsworth wouldn’t have been a regular visitor to Luke Felton’s room on the third floor. Horton doubted he’d even checked to see if Felton had been in his room when Matt Boynton had called him.

‘I would have thought Felton would have been under curfew,’ Cantelli said.

‘This isn’t a prison,’ Harmsworth wheezed over his shoulder.

More’s the pity, thought Horton. ‘Do you live on the premises?’

‘I’ve got a flat on the ground floor just behind the office, but officially I only work during the day. I’m not their nursemaid,’ he panted defensively. ‘They’ve got a key to the front door and to their own rooms. Luke was one of the better ones though. Polite, friendly, no drink and no drugs as far as I could tell,’ he added hastily. ‘He was grateful to be free, and swore he’d never do anything to risk being sent back to prison.’

‘They all say that,’ Cantelli said wearily.

‘No, Luke was different,’ Harmsworth answered vehemently. ‘You could tell he meant it.’

Luke Felton had certainly got his probation officer and this man wrapped around his little finger. They climbed the rest of the stairs in silence, or rather with Harmsworth panting like a rhino in childbirth. At the top he reached for his keys and unlocked the door.

Stepping inside, Horton was immediately struck by how clinically tidy the room was. Luke Felton obviously observed prison routine here. Its furnishings were plain and spartan; along with the wardrobe, there was a three-drawer chest and a single made-up bed. There were no dirty underpants or sweaty socks lying on the grey tiled floor; no clothes hanging out of the cheap melamine wardrobe; no books and no technology, not even a television set. Horton wondered what Felton did with himself in his spare time. This certainly didn’t look like the room of a drug addict.

‘He should come and keep house for us,’ Cantelli exclaimed admiringly.

Harmsworth made to flop on the bed but a look from Horton prevented him. Instead, the fat man took out a handkerchief, mopped his crimson face and propped himself up against the door post, puffing like an old steam engine. ‘Luke is very particular,’ he gasped.

Yeah, and how would you know, thought Horton, crossing to the wardrobe as Cantelli took the chest of drawers.

‘Was Felton friendly with anyone in particular?’ Cantelli asked, rifling through the drawers.

Harmsworth considered this for a moment while Horton flicked through the meagre belongings in the wardrobe: a checked shirt, pair of cargoes, trainers and that seemed to be it. No discarded needles or drugs, not even a can of lager.

‘He seemed to get on well with Tyler Yarland,’ Harmsworth answered. ‘Yarland’s on bail for car theft and vandalism. Comes from a rough background, parents dumped him into social services care when he was a kid and he’s been pushed from pillar to post ever since.’

And there but for the grace of God go I, or could have gone, thought Horton, pulling down the sports bag from the top of the wardrobe. He’d had some scrapes with the law as a kid until a foster father, who had been a policeman, had changed the course of his life for ever. There was nothing in the bag. He glanced at Cantelli, who shook his head to indicate he’d found nothing of any note in the chest of drawers.

‘Where’s Tyler Yarland now?’ Horton asked, as Cantelli lifted the mattress and checked under the bed.

Harmsworth glanced at his watch. ‘Probably still in bed. Most of them don’t get up until midday. There’s not much to get up for.’

‘Except to collect their social security giro and buy booze and fags,’ Horton quipped.

Harmsworth shrugged his fat shoulders. ‘Yarland’s room’s the third one along the corridor.’

Cantelli slipped out and Horton crossed to the window. They were at the rear of the building, overlooking the small car park. Horton watched a woman of about twenty-five emerge from one of the run-down flats opposite. She was pushing a crying baby, with a child of about Emma’s age, eight, trailing miserably behind. Why wasn’t the child in school? Classes had started two hours ago.

He thought of the boarding school that Catherine wanted to send Emma to and recalled with anguish his daughter’s sobs on the telephone because she didn’t want to go. He’d visited Northover School without Catherine’s knowledge two weeks ago and to his annoyance had found it excellent. He’d been looking for a reason to hate it and certainly to rescue Emma from its clutches. But it was small, homely and comfortable, and had facilities to die for. It was also select and very expensive, and the fact that his father-in-law, Luke Felton’s employer, had agreed with Catherine to pay the fees stuck in Horton’s craw. It was obvious to him what they were trying to do, and that was to ease him out of his daughter’s life. Well, they won’t succeed, he thought with furious determination. It was his responsibility and pleasure to make sure his daughter got the best of everything, and that would certainly be a darn sight more than he’d ever had as a child, including love.

His mind flashed back to his own childhood. This was his inheritance: a bleak and barren urban landscape, a tough school, the streets his playground, a succession of children’s homes and foster parents, emptiness, longing and anger. Yet there had been love and laughter with his mother before that terrible November day when he had waited for her to come home from work at the casino and she hadn’t. And he recalled again a memory that had returned recently while he’d been on the Isle of Wight. She’d turned, laughing, and called to him as they were walking across the golf course at Bembridge. Over the last few weeks he’d tried to remember more of that day, and whether they had been alone or accompanied by a man, but the memory had dissipated leaving him no further clues as to her whereabouts.