'Torch,' he commanded. Sunrise was still about an hour away and the overcast weather was making it darker than usual, and yet that fisherman had seen this. How? Had he motored so close to the mulberry that he was able to discern the pair of legs without a torch or light from his boat? Horton doubted it. Or had he collected some of his fishing paraphernalia from the mulberry, spotted this and scampered away, not wanting to get involved? Losing a day's fishing meant losing a day's wage. That was more like it.
He steeled himself and switched on the powerful beam. The seagulls wheeled overhead, diving low over them, cawing loudly. Horton could hear the drone of the traffic from the dual carriageway to the north of the harbour.
He clicked his fingers, 'Gloves.'
Elkins handed him a pair and Horton stretched his fingers inside the tight latex, as Elkins did the same with his gloves.
'Ready?'
Elkins nodded, breathing heavily.
Slowly and carefully Horton lifted the fisherman's nets. A hundred tiny crabs shot out.
'Jesus!' Elkins exclaimed, jumping back and almost slipping over.
'Get a grip, Sergeant.'
'Sorry. Never did like the little buggers, not even in a sandwich.'
Horton's heart was beating rapidly. 'Give me a hand.'
Together they slowly peeled back the netting until the bright beam fell on a face. Elkins retched. Horton dashed his head away, took a deep breath and slowly let it out counting to ten. Then, steeling himself, his stomach clenched, he turned back to stare at the body.
It was a woman. Her shoulder-length black hair was curled on to her forehead and what remained of her cheeks. She was wearing an emerald green blouse, black trousers and enough gold jewellery to sell from a suitcase in the market, he thought. Robbery couldn't have been the motive. Tiny crabs covered her face; they were crawling in her mouth and over her eyes, over the soft rotting flesh. The right-hand side of her temple was a mess of dried blood, bone and sea life. Thank God the nets had covered her face, Horton thought, or the seagulls would have pecked at her eyes. He felt sick and very angry that someone could have killed her and just dumped her here, like rubbish.
Who was she? How had she got here? Who could have killed her and why? He wanted to be in on this investigation. He wanted to find out what kind of sick bastard could do such a thing, and why. And he wanted to bring that person to justice. That was if Detective Superintendent Uckfield appointed him to his newly formed major crime team. There was no reason he shouldn't. After all, hadn't Uckfield promised him that just before going before the promotion board? It had been right after their last major murder case together: 'If I get the job, Andy, you'll be on my team.' And yet, so far, there had been nothing from Uckfield, just an ominous silence.
Horton climbed back on to the police launch and took out his mobile. Uckfield would be at his desk by now. Horton could see the first set of early commuters queuing for the Hayling Ferry. Usually it was a short journey of a few minutes from one side of the harbour to the other, unless the ferry was picking up any fishermen, then it would come close to the mulberry, and Horton didn't want any sightseers.
Leaning over the side of the police launch he addressed the harbour master. 'Tell the ferryman to keep well away from here.' Ray nodded, grim-faced, and sped off. 'Steve, it's Andy,' Horton said, as Uckfield grunted a response. 'We've got a body, on the mulberry, in Langstone Harbour. Female, Caucasian. I'm there now with Sergeant Elkins.'
'I'm on my way. I'll notify Dr Price, you call in SOCO.' Horton made a second call and by the time he came off the phone the harbour master had returned.
'The ferryman says it's just a straight crossing this morning. Wanted to know what was going on. I said I wasn't sure.'
'Did you see anyone in the harbour last night?'
'In that weather you must be joking.'
'What about the dredgers?'
Horton peered northwards through the grey morning. Beyond the small islands, which were nature reserves with restricted access, he could see the lights on the cranes at Bedhampton Wharf. His eyes flicked to the west. There was also Kendall's Wharf. Both supported a busy trade in seadredged aggregates.
'No, nothing went out.'
Horton asked Ray to collect the scene of crime team from the Portsmouth side of the harbour and then clambered back on to the mulberry where Elkins had recovered his equilibrium.
'She must have been killed and left here at high tide last night,' Elkins said.
High tide had been just after three a.m., Horton calculated, when he'd been questioning Mickey Johnson in a stuffy interview room. Elkins was right. If she had been put here on the previous high tide in mid-afternoon there wouldn't have been much left of her face. And to place her in daylight would have been too risky; someone might have witnessed it.
He scanned the handful of fishing boats and a couple of motorboats left in the harbour for the winter. Could one of them have been used for the purpose? Or perhaps the killer had come here on a boat out of the nearest marina, which was where Horton's boat was moored. Access in and out of that was via an automatic tidal flap gate, which meant the marina was only accessible three hours either side of high water. That could put the time anywhere between midnight and six a.m. Perhaps the victim had gone willingly on to a boat with her murderer. Or maybe the fisherman who had called up the harbour master had dumped her. Though if he had, then why report it?
And what about the residents either side of the harbour? Would they have seen anything? Horton doubted it. Too dark. He surveyed the area. To his right was the Hayling shore, which gave on to the Hayling Billy Coastal Path spanning the length of the western side of the small island, which was joined to the mainland at its northern end by a bridge. The shore curved round to the right leading to the grounds of the holiday centre known as Sinah Warren. Had anyone from there seen anything suspicious? It was worth asking. And they'd have to check with those people living in the chalet-style buildings to the right of Sinah Warren for any possible sightings.
His eyes swivelled to the left and the Portsmouth shore. There were a few large houses facing on to the harbour and behind them a tower block occupied by students of the University of Portsmouth. He doubted if any of them would have noticed anything untoward: too busy getting pissed, partying, studying or shagging.
He stared back at the body. It was a pretty strange place to dump it; did the mulberry have any significance? Was this woman's death connected with something that had happened during the Second World War? Surely not. She wouldn't have been born then, not for some time afterwards.
The throb of a powerful motorboat speeding towards them made him look up. It was another police launch and on it he could see the squat figure of Uckfield wrapped in an oversized camel overcoat. Beside him was the lanky, long-haired figure of Dr Price.
'Any ID on her?' Uckfield bellowed as soon as he was within hailing distance.
'I didn't want to disturb her. I thought the doctor could go through her pockets for us.'
Horton noted Price's horrified expression as he stared at the mulberry.
'You're expecting me to climb on to that to examine her!'
'She's hardly likely to come to you,' Horton retorted, feeling the usual stab of antagonism that Price always managed to engender in him. Whilst he didn't think Price totally incompetent he nevertheless considered him mediocre and unprofessional mainly because of his drink problem. That must surely cloud his judgement. Horton thought that Superintendent Reine, Head of Operational Command, could find a better police doctor than Price. But either Reine was too lazy to do so, or he owed Price and didn't wish to rock the boat. How long before Price retired he wondered, watching Price glare at the mulberry. Five years? Three?