Dead Man's Wharf (18 page)

  No alibi then. Farnsworth had trusted his killer enough to meet him and Jackson fitted that bill. Then Horton had another thought. Perhaps it had been another of Farnsworth's stunts, which had backfired. He'd ended up falling into that pit and Jackson had hastily made it look like murder by hacking off his colleague's fingers. It would be interesting to see what the post-mortem revealed.

  'Do you own a boat, Mr Jackson?'

  'Yes, but what has—?'

  'Where do you keep it?'

  'I have my own berth adjoining the house.'

  'Which is where?

  'Hythe Marina, Southampton,
if
you must know. Look, just what are you driving at?'

  Jackson could have brought his boat to one of the nearby marinas or moored it on a buoy. He could have used it to take Farnsworth either dead or alive to Oldham's Wharf. Horton would ask Sergeant Elkins of the Marine Support Unit to check if it was still in the marina. And if it was, could Jackson have had enough time to dump the body, then pilot the boat home to Southampton this morning before returning to Portsmouth by car? It was

perfectly feasible. Another thing that Elkins could check up on.

  Horton said nothing of this to Jackson, instead he said, 'Southampton's less than thirty miles away. Why are you staying in the Queen's Hotel when you could have driven here daily?'

  'I hardly think that's your business,' Jackson sniped. 'If you really must know,' he added tersely, 'there is a considerable amount to do in preparation for the series. It made perfect sense to get as much done as we could in a week. And have you seen the traffic on that motorway every morning? Well, then you know that commuting is a nightmare. I chose to use my time productively not stuck in a car on the M27.'

  Jackson was now clearly annoyed and exasperated at the line of questioning. Fear had touched him when he thought he might be the next victim or the intended one, but what Horton hadn't seen was any kind of sorrow over his partner's death. And there was a great deal that Jackson should be asking him, which he wasn't, such as how had Nick Farnsworth died? Who could have killed him? But then perhaps he already knew the answers.

  'Did Mr Farnsworth own a boat?'

  'He preferred to use other people's. Cars were more his taste. Now, if you don't mind, Inspector, I have a great deal to do. There are calls I need to make.'

  Horton held Jackson's hostile stare, looking again for a small glimmer of grief. He didn't find it. There was a lot more that Horton wanted to know about Jackson and his relationship with Farnsworth, but he judged that now was not the right time to discover it.

  He rose. 'We'll need to talk to you again. Please let us know if you intend checking out of the hotel.'

  Jackson was already reaching for his mobile phone before Horton had extricated himself from the desk, but at the door Horton paused, and in true police fashion said, 'Oh, just one more thing. Who inherits Mr Farnsworth's estate?'

  'I haven't the faintest idea.'

  Horton contrived to look surprised. 'Wouldn't he have made a will, diving being a dangerous pastime?' He saw, with satisfaction, Jackson flush at the word 'pastime'.

  Clearly restraining himself with difficulty from rising to the insult, Jackson said, 'He might have done, but that doesn't mean to say he told me about it.'

  No, thought Horton, perhaps he hadn't. He heard Jackson address Corinna, as he closed the door and turned to find Nathan Lester hovering nervously in the outer office. Leaving Cantelli taking an obsessive interest in a wall chart next to the door of the office, Horton asked, 'Where is everyone?'

  'Oh, no one works here. This is just a resource centre for the divers registered on the Marine Archaeological Project.'

  'And you're one of those divers?'

  'Yes, so are Perry and Nick. How did Nick die, Inspector?'

  Looking anxious and pale, Lester had asked the question that Jackson should have done. Horton wasn't yet prepared to divulge any information surrounding Farnsworth's death.

  'How well did you know him?' he asked.

  Lester sat down heavily. 'We've been diving together a few times. I can't believe he's dead.' He withdrew a handkerchief from the pocket of his casual trousers and blew his nose noisily.

  'What is the Marine Archaeological Project?' Horton asked. He could still hear Jackson's

voice rumbling in the background.

  'There's a group of us that dive in and around the Solent area. We register what we find on a central database.' He pointed to the computer. 'We're making a map of the underwater heritage in order to help preserve it. Nick was our patron. He'd managed to get some funding for it and get all this equipment donated. He was due to speak at an international conference in June about the project.'

  He ran a hand through his hair. Horton thought his face seemed to have grown thinner in the last twenty minutes.

  'Perhaps Mr Jackson will step in?'

  Lester looked anxiously towards the door and dropped his voice. 'Perhaps he will, but it won't be the same.'

  Horton thought there was something strangely akin to hero worship in Lester's voice. And, seeing how distressed he was over Farnsworth's death, Horton was beginning to wonder if it was more than that. On Lester's part at least. Horton had no doubts as to where Farnsworth's sexual proclivities lay.

  He also wondered how Jackson felt about Nick being chosen to speak at such a prestigious conference. Horton had a couple more questions, but not about Farnsworth. He said, 'Did you know Daniel Collins?'

  'Yes.' Lester looked surprised. 'He died in a car accident on Christmas Eve.'

  'When was the last time you saw Daniel?'

  'Just before Christmas. The twenty-first.'

  'Did Mr Farnsworth know him?'

  'I don't think so. Nick never said.'

  'He didn't go diving with him?'

  'No. If you want to know who Daniel went diving with, then you can check the sub aqua club's record book.'

  Manners hadn't mentioned that. Horton looked blank and Lester elaborated. 'Every diver has to check his equipment, sign to say he or she has checked it and then log the time they leave, state their intended dive location and sign in again on their return. It's good diving practice.'

  Cantelli was indicating that Jackson was coming off the phone. Horton thanked Mr Lester and took his leave.

  Outside Cantelli said, 'Jackson didn't sound like he was comforting Corinna Denton from what I overheard. He was more worried about where this left him and the programme.'

  And was Jackson glad to rid himself of Farnsworth? Horton's phone rang. It was Trueman.

  'We've found Farnsworth's car. It's in the car park at Southsea Marina. The recovery unit's on its way.'

  Horton stared north across the grass of Fort Cumberland. He could just see the masts of the boats in the marina. Had Farnsworth's killer dumped the car there or had Farnsworth driven it to the marina after being released? He could have met his killer and together they could have travelled by boat to Oldham's Wharf, even in the appalling weather of last night.

  To Trueman he said, 'We'll be there in thirty seconds.'

'A
nything?' Horton asked, as Cantelli peered inside the Range Rover.

'No sign of any missing fingers. If that's what you mean.'

'Pity.'

  Cantelli smiled. 'And there's nothing lying about on the seats. It's locked,' he added, trying all the door handles.

  'Call Elkins and ask him to check if Jackson's boat is at Hythe Marina and if it's been taken out over the last twenty-four hours. Then pop across to the sub-aqua club and check those diving records.' He hoped someone was there. 'Get copies of every dive Farnsworth made. And while you're there also get a copy of Daniel Collins's dives. I'm going to have a word with the marina staff.'

  Horton found Eddie, a lithe 53-year-old with a weather-beaten wrinkled face in the marina office. Horton asked him if any boats had left the marina last night.

  'No. Why? Something up?'

  'You could say that.' Horton gave him the news about Farnsworth's death, leaving out the bit about the fingers and how the body had been found, although not
where
it was found. It would be in all the newspapers and on the radio and TV anyway. It was still troubling him that Jackson hadn't been curious about that.

  Eddie said, 'It was silent as the grave here last night. Oh, except for a nice little yacht, which came in yesterday afternoon, and an even prettier party on board. A dark-haired girl with smouldering eyes and bit of a sharp tongue.'

  Horton's interest picked up on that. Hundreds of girls could meet that description, but he could name one who matched it perfectly. 'Daisy Pemberton.'

  'You know her?' Eddie asked, surprised.

  'I've met her.' She hadn't said she'd arrived by boat, but then why should she? Had Farnsworth returned after being released to apologize or make it up with her? Or perhaps all that stuff about being dumped had been an act for his and Lee's benefit? Could Daisy Pemberton have motored to Oldham's Wharf and killed Farnsworth? But Eddie had said nothing had left the marina. And somehow Horton just couldn't see Daisy Pemberton as a murderer. He also didn't have Farnsworth down as the apologizing type.

  'Where is she?'

  'Pontoon J. It's called
Sunrise.
'

  Horton quickly made his way there, wondering why Daisy had chosen to arrive yesterday. Was there anything sinister in that or had she just been hoping that Farnsworth would go sailing with her? How could a woman like Daisy have fallen for such a slimeball? he thought, punching in the security code to the pontoon. But then he didn't know how his estranged wife could go for an overweight, balding, puffed-up, pompous prat like Edward Shawford.

  Thank God Shawford hadn't gone on holiday with her and Emma over Christmas to Cyprus. It was bad enough thinking of Emma being with him on ordinary days without imagining him spending Christmas with her. But why hadn't he? Horton wondered. Was the romance over? If so, how did he feel about that? Pleased, yes, but it was too late for him and Catherine to resurrect their marriage.

  His thoughts had taken him to
Sunrise
. Eddie was right, she was a lovely yacht. Not brand new, but obviously well cared for. She was far bigger than
Nutmeg
and about five times more expensive. Psychologists must be well paid, he thought, if Daisy actually owned this yacht.

  'Hello!' he called out.

  'Hello yourself, Inspector,' a voice inside echoed back. 'Come on board.'

  'How did you know it was me?' he asked, after sliding open the hatch and climbing down into the cabin. She was dressed in jeans and a large red sweatshirt, which seemed to accentuate her dark looks and make those smudgy blue eyes even more appealing. Or was that just the way she was studying him? He just couldn't see her killing Farnsworth, and as for chopping off his fingers . . . OK, so that was possible. There was something gritty behind the urchin face and determined chin and though the eyes were beguiling they were also intelligent, cool and assessing. In front of her, across the table, were spread papers and a laptop computer, alongside which there was a mobile phone.

  'I saw you by Nick's car. What's he done now? Forgotten to renew his licence?'

  'Did you see him last night after he left the club?' he asked as casually as he could, yet to his ears he still sounded like PC Plod asking dumb questions.

  'No. Close the hatch; it's freezing. I must have been mad to come here in January.'

  'Why did you?' he asked, after doing as she requested.

  'Why do you think?' She gave a wry smile.

  'You could have stayed with him at the Queen's Hotel.'

  'I could have done, but those kinds of places are not my style.'

  Was that true? he wondered, eyeing her curiously. Perhaps Farnsworth had put her off because of his affair with Corinna Denton. He could see Daisy following his train of thought.

  'It was my idea to come by boat. I happen to like sailing. Please sit down, Inspector. You make the cabin seem even more cramped than it usually is.'

  'It's bigger than my boat
Nutmeg
,' he said, before he could stop himself.

  'You have a yacht?'

  Damn. He hadn't meant to reveal anything about himself. But what did a little thing like that matter. 'I had,' he added, sliding on to the bench seat and facing her across the narrow table in the centre of the cabin. He realized too late that he was already saying too much to a woman who was trained to hear nuances and interpret body language, just as he was.

  'You sold her?'

  His knees brushed against hers and he shifted his body so as to angle his legs to avoid contact. She appeared not to notice, but he had a feeling she had registered the gesture and thought it interesting as well as significant.

  'Someone set fire to her.'

  Suddenly he was back there, listening to the footsteps on the pontoon, knowing he had only seconds to escape his assailant, fear constricting his throat and sending his heart into overdrive. He recalled the heat of the fire on his back before he'd dived into the icy black water and couldn't prevent himself from shivering at the memory.

  'How awful,' she said gently.

  He pulled himself up, knowing he had given some hint of his fear and cursed silently for exposing himself so quickly and easily to someone who would instantly see his weakness. For a moment he had lost control. And control was everything. It was the way forward, the only option. Perhaps one day, because of it, he'd lose everything he valued – love, friendship, his daughter – until he was completely alone. The thought swam up in him, terrifying and isolating, reminding him of the pain of the loneliness of his childhood. The fire had consumed all he'd had left to remind him of his mother except his memories, and they weren't much except anger.