Dead Man's Wharf Part 25

'I did, to the agency nurse, when I came on duty Monday night. I a.s.sumed she'd left a note or told Angela in the morning.'

'The bruises weren't there Sunday night?'

'No.'

And Marion Keynes was off sick then, so she couldn't be responsible for them. It could be this agency nurse, he supposed, or had the bruises been inflicted during Monday? He recalled Angela Northwood's hara.s.sed expression, but somehow he couldn't see her forcibly grabbing the old lady.

His phone rang. Hoping and praying it was Cantelli, he stepped into the hall to answer it. Again he was disappointed. It was Chalky White.

'Don't know if this is important, Mr Horton, but you said you wanted to know if Ian Keynes or his misses were pa.s.sing off stuff.'

'What have you got?' Horton snapped impatiently.

'Ian Keynes was talking to some bloke in the gents' toilet of the Black Swan about an hour ago. I was in one of the traps and heard them. I peered over the top of the door, nearly broke my bleeding neck getting down off the pan.'

'For heaven's sake get on with it.'

'Keynes gave this bloke a piece of paper and said, "Here's what you want. Take that to any chemist and you'll get your tablets." This bloke gave him a wodge of money, couldn't see how much, but it looked like a b.l.o.o.d.y expensive prescription to me. Cheaper to get it on the NHS I would have thought.'

'Not the tablets he wanted I expect,' Horton said, ringing off after telling Chalky White he'd done his bit.

Certain pieces of the puzzle were finally dropping into place: Dr Eastwood's hostility when he and Cantelli had interviewed him in his consulting room; that photograph on Marion Keynes' mantelpiece of Ian Keynes in diving gear; Eastwood's eagerness to respond to an out of hours call taken on his mobile phone so early in the morning and it wasn't out of duty to his patients.

Returning to Cheryl, he found Mrs Kingsway flinging her arms about.

'She thinks she's swimming,' Cheryl explained. 'She says she used to have a lovely big house in the country, in Surrey, with a swimming pool, but I don't think it's true, after all she wouldn't have been moved here by social services if she had had that much money. And her son's never mentioned it or so the daytime staff have told me. He's worked abroad for years. We didn't even know he existed until early December when he showed up here. I guess they didn't get on. Now he visits her regularly. Shame it's too late for her to recognize him. She does give him a hard time. She thinks more of that diver on the television than she does her poor son.'

Cheryl gazed sadly at the programme where Farnsworth's handsome smiling face filled the screen.

Several thoughts flashed through Horton's mind, but one shone brighter than the others. G.o.d, what an idiot he'd been! The outraged son, the alleged intruder story, the bruises on the old lady's arms...No one had spoken to Mrs Kingsway to get her version of the intruder story and even if they had done, she could have claimed that her son was the intruder because in her mind he was a stranger.

What kind of man could hurt his mother like that? Horton wondered. An evil b.a.s.t.a.r.d, came the answer, and one angry and frustrated because of his mother's continual rejection. Those bruises clearly weren't the first if Cheryl was to be believed, and he had no reason to doubt her. He hurried down the corridor to Marion Keynes' office.

'I thought you'd gone.' She looked up, annoyed.

'I want to see Mrs Kingsway's personal file, now,' he snapped.

'It's confidential.'

He leant over the desk, thrusting his face close to hers, and in a low voice said, 'A doctor will be here soon to examine the bruises on Mrs Kingsway's arms and unless you give me her file, I will arrest you for a.s.sault.'

'That's a lie. You can't do that!'

He held her gaze. Her indignation was genuine. There was, however, the matter of the prescriptions and Dr Eastwood.

'Then let's try something that's closer to the truth,' he said, easing back and sitting down opposite her. 'Whose idea was it to kill Daniel Collins, yours or your husband's?'

'You're mad!'

She didn't look frightened and neither did she look smug, simply amazed.

Undeterred he continued. 'Daniel discovered that you and Dr Eastwood are working a prescription scam. Eastwood writes false prescriptions using the names of the residents, which you or your husband then sell. Did you get Eastwood to willingly partic.i.p.ate or have you got something on him?'

Marion Keynes glared at him, but he detected a slight s.h.i.+ft in her body language that told him he was right.

'Perhaps he just wanted to supplement his income. After all doctors aren't that well paid,' he continued with heavy sarcasm. 'Or had Dr Eastwood made a mistake somewhere along the line, or eased a difficult or troublesome patient to his or her death and you discovered it. In return for your silence and understanding you forced him to co-operate?'

Alarm and fear crossed her flabby face. At last he'd got to the truth. So that was how it had started. Christ, what a pair! If Cantelli had been here he'd have exploded. But Cantelli wasn't here.

Clearly Marion Keynes wasn't going to confess yet.

'I believe the prescriptions are for a range of powerful anti-depressants and painkillers. There's a growing market for them, particularly amongst the young,' said Horton. 'They are addicts, just like those addicted to heroin and crack cocaine, and supplying them is a serious crime. Did you want to say something?'

She'd opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to protest or explain, but she snapped it shut again and continue to glare at him through eyes like slits in a battlement.

'If they can't get the quant.i.ties they need from their GP, or the Internet, they buy prescriptions on the black market. Daniel discovered your secret and threatened to tell in return for money. You or rather your husband killed him.' He rose. 'Marion Keynes, I am arresting you for the murder of-'

'No, wait.'

Horton eyed her closely, but he didn't resume his seat.

'All right. I admit to the prescription fraud and selling the drugs, but I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about with Daniel. He died in a car accident. We haven't killed anyone,' she insisted. 'That's the truth.'

He wasn't sure if Marion Keynes would know the truth if it jumped out and bit her.

'Then give me Mrs Kingsway's file.'

She rose and wrenched open the filing cabinet. After a moment she handed it across to him and he slipped it inside his jacket.

'About the prescriptions...'

At the door he turned and said, 'I think you'd better find yourself a very good lawyer.'

The fear on her face was a reward in itself. Outside he rang Trueman and told him to get a unit over to the Rest Haven and to Marion Keynes' home immediately. Then, wondering if Marion might already be warning her husband, he asked Trueman to put out a call for Ian Keynes' arrest. He briefly told him what had happened and asked him to alert the Prescription Fraud Team and arrest Dr Eastwood. If they trod on the Intelligence Directorate's toes then tough.

'Any sign of Nathan Lester?'

'No.'

'What about Barney?' Horton felt his heart knock against his ribs.

'He's not phoned in and I've been trying his mobile every ten minutes.'

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 c.r.a.p, Lee. This is no time to play silly b.u.g.g.e.rs. 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 c.u.mberland, he knew that nothing on earth would prevent him from doing that.

TWENTY-ONE.

The 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 a.s.sault 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 G.o.d'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 b.u.g.g.e.r 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 doc.u.ments 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 ma.s.s 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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.

He was no longer in the car park. He knew that immediately by the darkness pressing on his eyeb.a.l.l.s, the stench, and the filthy water in his face. His neck was as sore as h.e.l.l 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 c.u.mberland 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.