Suffocating Sea

For my mum and dad

Author’s Note

This novel is set in Portsmouth, Hampshire, on the south coast of England. Residents and visitors of Portsmouth must forgive the author for using her imagination and poetic licence in changing the names of places, streets and locations. This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

One

Wednesday 17 December: 7.45 p.m.

The blue pulsating lights of the fire engines radiated out of the dense freezing fog like revolving spotlights on a stage as Sergeant Cantelli swung into the car park at Horsea Marina.

Inspector Andy Horton shivered. A cold, clammy feeling fingered its way up his spine. He’d been to hundreds of fires in his career, and had seen burnt and shrivelled corpses before.

This was no different, he told himself, yet instinctively he knew it was.

The fog and smoke curled together like a snake and seemed to ooze their way inside the car, bringing with them the smell of danger and death. They clawed at his throat, making it hard for him to catch his breath. A premonition so strong that it was almost audible was urging him to turn back and leave this to others, but it was too late for that. Cantelli was already drawing to a halt in front of the police vehicle straddling the fire engines. Beyond, somewhere on the pontoon, thought Horton, was a burning boat and inside it a charred corpse.

He shuddered as Barney Cantelli said, ‘Quite a crowd for a night cold enough to freeze the whatsits off a brass monkey.’

Horton surveyed the spectators’ gawping features. There were about twenty of them, but thankfully no journalists that he could spot, though for a moment he thought he recognized a dark-haired woman in her mid-thirties dressed in a smart trouser suit and three-quarter-length raincoat.

As their eyes connected, she stepped away from the crowd and hurried towards a car. He couldn’t see which one because a middle-aged woman, wearing a felt hat shaped like a flowerpot pushed low over her forehead, blocked his view.

Cantelli said, ‘You’d think they’d have better things to do with Christmas looming.’

Christmas. Horton grasped at the thought like a drowning man clutching a lifebelt. Not because he liked the season, on the contrary he hated it, but there was one bright spot in the festive calendar: he was going to spend Christmas Eve with his daughter, Emma. A whole day, and the first since his marital split in April. He half expected and dreaded that Catherine would have second thoughts by next Wednesday and deny him access. But his solicitor, Frances Greywell, said that Catherine
couldn’t
change her mind. You wanna bet, he thought, stepping out of the car as PC Seaton came hurrying towards him.

‘The boat’s called
Enterprise
, sir,’ Seaton said excitedly.

‘You know, like the star ship . . .’

‘I am acquainted with
Star Trek
,’ Horton replied, striding past the fire engines, noting that his curt tone didn’t extinguish Seaton’s grin. It seemed totally out of place in the circumstances, but Horton told himself that Seaton was young, keen and ambitious. And he probably didn’t have any hang-ups over seeing shrivelled corpses. Of all the deaths Horton feared in his job, with the exception of children’s, the one caused by fire was his worst. It was that rictus smile, so grotesque, inhuman and mocking, and the smell of roasted flesh which was exactly reminiscent of fried bacon or roast pork. He wouldn’t be able to look at that kind of meat, or be within sniffing distance of it for days, weeks even, without recalling what he was about to see here.

‘The boat went up like the clappers,’ Seaton enthused. ‘The fire investigation officer called us because he thinks it’s a suspicious death.’

Horton drew up in front of the bridgehead. On the pontoon he could see the firefighters reeling in the hoses but the boat, or what was left of it, was hidden by the thick fog. He hesitated and silently cursed himself for his foolish fears and uncharacteristic indecisiveness. Hoping he wasn’t betraying what he was feeling, Horton glanced at Cantelli who was chewing gum and frowning at the site of the fire. Perhaps he should confide his fears. Cantelli, with his more intuitive nature and half Italian blood, would understand about premonitions.

But what the devil could he confide? A feeling? It sounded crazy and weak.

His new boss, DCI Lorraine Bliss, would put him on sick leave if she knew what he was thinking. Either that or have him sectioned. And maybe she would like that. She was taking some getting used to and they hadn’t exactly started off on the right foot. Horton could still recall her reaction when he’d questioned her efficiency on the case where their paths had crossed before her promotion.

‘Have you seen the victim?’ he asked Seaton.

‘The fire officer wouldn’t let me on board. He said it wasn’t safe.’

He looked so disappointed that Horton felt like admon-ishing him but he held his tongue. Instead he asked, ‘What about an ID?’

Seaton began to look uncomfortable. ‘I haven’t had the chance to check it out at the marina office, and WPC Somerfield is asking around for anyone who witnessed the explosion.’

Something inside Horton snapped. Enthusiasm was all very well, but when it got in the way of procedure then it was sloppiness.

He heard himself say, ‘Your first priority, Constable, is to control this crowd, secure the scene, and ascertain the identity of the victim, not jigger up and down as if you’ve wet your pants at finding some poor bastard burnt to a crisp.’

‘Sir,’ Seaton snapped to attention, staring straight ahead.

Horton could feel his disappointment and it irked him that he’d been so harsh because he recalled his own sense of excitement at a high-level incident when he was a young PC.

He knew that Seaton’s enthusiasm was only natural. He also knew that he was a fine one to talk; procedure could, and often did, go the way of the dodo if Horton thought he was on to something. Sod it!

‘Secure the area, and get Somerfield cataloguing everyone who goes on to the bridgehead. See that no one gets within spitting distance of those fire appliances except those who are authorized to do so, and if you’re not sure who that is then you’d better go back to basic training,’ he said stiffly.

Seaton scurried off like a scalded cat and Horton caught Cantelli looking at him mildly surprised.

‘Seaton won’t be so bloody chipper after he’s seen the body,’

Horton grumbled, heading towards the security gate that led on to the pontoon.

Damn it. Why was he feeling and behaving like this? Perhaps he’d been working too hard. He’d had a traumatic year after being charged and subsequently cleared of rape. That, and fighting to gain access to his daughter against a wife who was clearly out to prevent him from doing so at every opportunity just to spite him, was enough to make any man break, he consoled himself. But even as he did so he despised the excuses.
Concentrate on the facts. You’re a policeman; bloody
act like one.

He peered at the security gate that led from the bridgehead on to the pontoons. It was wedged open for the firefighters, but normally admittance would only be allowed after tapping a security code on to the digital keypad, and that code was regularly changed.

Horton examined the opening mechanism. ‘There’s no sign of a forced entry, which means that if it is a suspicious death, our killer must either have known the victim, be a boat owner or a member of the marina staff. Either that or he slipped in behind another boat owner.’

‘Perhaps the fire investigation officer is wrong and this is an accident,’ Cantelli said, unravelling another piece of gum and popping it in his mouth.

‘Let’s hope so, for all our sakes. We’re enough officers down already with this bloody flu bug, and with only a week to Christmas managing a murder investigation will be a night-mare.’

‘Yeah, but not yours, Andy,’ Cantelli said quietly.

Horton glared at him. ‘Thanks for reminding me that I failed to get into the major crime team, or get promoted. For a moment I’d almost forgotten.’ But Horton couldn’t take offence; he’d known Cantelli too long for that and respected and valued him as a friend. Besides, he knew what Barney was doing. He took a breath trying to release some of his tension. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

Mentally he began to prepare himself for what he was about to see, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that this was going to be no ordinary victim and no ordinary case. The fog didn’t help to dispel his jitters either. Its freezing tendrils rolled up from the sea as dense as a featherbed wrapping itself around them like a cloak that smelt as though it had been doused in diesel, plastic, wood and salt. It was suffocating and evil.

Above the booming foghorns he could hear the throb of the fire-engine pump but the rest was just silence. Not even the sound of laughter and music from the restaurants on the boardwalk penetrated the thick grey blanket. It was as if they were suspended in time and place.

Cantelli broke the silence. ‘This reminds me of a scene from
The Ghost Breakers.
Paulette Goddard inherits this West Indian mansion haunted by ghosts and zombies and surrounded by foggy water.’

Horton didn’t think they’d meet any zombies, though he could name a few coppers down at the station that bore a remarkable resemblance to the species: DI Tony Dennings for one. But no, that was unfair of him. He was just piqued because Dennings had become Uckfield’s DI on the major crime team, when Uckfield had promised him the job.

And ghosts . . . Horton felt as if they were all around him, which was ridiculous because he didn’t even believe in them!

As they drew nearer to the boat, he saw Cantelli shiver. His body tensed and Horton knew that he too had finally caught the scent of danger.

A tall man with a balding head and a round jolly face greeted them. ‘Jim Maidment, Fire Investigation Officer.’

Horton bristled at his cheerful tone so out of place in the circumstances but he shook hands and did the introductions.

Then he stared at the remains of what had once been a very large and no doubt very expensive motorboat. There was nothing supernatural about that. The tangibility of it made him feel better and once more in control. There wasn’t much left of it, but Horton could see by its shape that it was a trad-itional trawler yacht rather than one of the sleek powerboat models. He guessed it was a Grand Banks.

Maidment said, ‘We managed to get to it before it sank, and thankfully there were no boats either side otherwise the fire could easily have spread. He’s over here.’

As Horton followed Maidment further down the pontoon he felt the anxious tightening in his stomach that always heralded the viewing of a corpse, only this time it was stronger than usual. He slowed his breathing and tried to relax his facial muscles. Glancing at Cantelli he knew he felt the same and was steeling himself to face the ordeal. At their feet was a small bundle covered by a grey blanket.

Horton didn’t want the blanket removed. He sensed it as a defining moment. There’s still time. Turn back, the silent voice urged him, but he had never ducked responsibility before or run away from danger, and he wasn’t about to start now.

He nodded and Maidment drew back the blanket. Horton took a breath and stared at the leering, empty grin and hollow sockets of the roasted face, willing the contents of his stomach to stay in place. The smell of burnt flesh was overwhelming and sickening. The body had taken up a pugilistic attitude where the heat of the fire had contracted the muscles. It looked grotesque, like some evil goblin sent to ridicule him.

‘Poor bugger,’ Cantelli said quietly.

Maidment pointed to the right-hand side of the victim’s head and, despite not wanting to look closer, Horton knew he had to.

‘See here,’ Maidment said, ‘his skull’s caved in. It looks to me as if he’s been struck. We found him lying face down. His buttocks and the lower half of his back aren’t quite so badly burnt because a cupboard fell on him and covered them from the worst of the flames.’

‘How did the fire start?’ asked Horton, nodding at Maidment to cover the victim.

The blackened, contorted face disappeared from sight, but not from Horton’s mind. He heard Cantelli let out a long slow breath and felt like doing the same himself but didn’t want to appear relieved in any way in front of Maidment. As they stepped away from the corpse, Cantelli once again resumed chewing his gum.

‘It’s difficult to tell without further investigation,’ Maidment said, frowning and scratching his nose. ‘It could have been a leaking gas cooker pipe and when he lit a match the whole thing blew, or gas could have built up in the bilges, and he went to light the cooker for his supper and bang, got blown off his feet and struck his head. But, with that hole in his skull, my guess is he was knocked out and someone threw a lighted match on to the boat to ignite the gas, having made sure the gas pipe was loosened beforehand.’

It wasn’t a very nice way to go, except for the fact the poor man wouldn’t have known much about it. If this was murder then whoever had done it was a very nasty piece of work.