He turned away and found an all-night cafe where he drank several cups of coffee and ate another plate of egg, chips and bacon, not tasting it. He splashed his face in the Gents and returned to Catherine's house. It was now half five in the morning, and it was Saturday. In two hours' time he would be able to knock on the door and demand to see his daughter. He felt a flutter of excitement inside him, then panic. What if Emma rejected him?
He steeled himself. Catherine's light came on, then Emma's.
It was time. He'd almost called it off several times as he had waited through the long, cold hours of the early morning, but the thought of holding his little girl in his arms had kept him there. He walked steadily forward. These were some of the most frightening steps he'd ever taken.
He pressed a finger on the bell and drew himself up. The door opened and there, staring up at him in her pink pyjamas, was his beautiful bright-eyed little girl with her shining dark hair and laughing face; she was clutching a doll under her right arm. God, he thought he was going to die. His whole body was swamped with a love so strong that it made him ill. He couldn't breathe. His world spun. He felt dizzy. He thought his heart had stopped beating. Then recognition dawned in her face and a great beam of a smile filled her tiny being. She shot into his arms, shouting, 'Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.'
He lifted her up and swung her round. Holding her tightly, he buried his face in her hair as he fought back the tears. He smelt her shampoo, felt the smoothness of her cheek against his own rough skin. Jesus! How could he have left her for so long? How could he go through the rest of his life not being a part of hers?
After a while he became aware that she was struggling a little. Smiling he put her down and crouched down besides her, ruffling her hair. 'I hope I haven't made you all wet, pumpkin.'
She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the house. 'Mummy! Mummy! Daddy's come home.'
Oh, what sweet, agonizing words. If only they were true. If only he could turn back the clock and forget the last year of his life.
Catherine stepped out of the kitchen with a face like thunder. Emma turned to look at her mother and then back at Horton, her small face contorted with confusion. Horton would like to have balled Catherine out for being so insensitive. Instead he said, deliberately keeping his voice light, 'It's all right, darling. I surprised Mummy, that's all.'
Emma still looked uncertain but at a forced smile from Catherine she brightened up.
Horton stooped down on his haunches so that he was the same level as Emma. 'Did you miss me?'
'Lots and lots. When are you coming home, Daddy?'
He dashed a glance up at Catherine. He'd like to have said soon, or now, but the look on his wife's face told him a very different story. Nothing could ever be the same again. He felt a dull ache inside him, a hollowness as though someone had scooped out his heart and left a gaping hole in his chest.
Forcing himself to sound bright for his daughter's sake, he said, 'I don't know, darling. But that doesn't mean I won't see you.'
Her slate-grey eyes, so like his, were gazing up at him, shrewd and intelligent.
Catherine grabbed Emma's hand, 'Go and clean your teeth, Emma. You'll be late for ballet classes.'
'I don't want to go.' Emma snatched her hand away and turned to her father. 'Daddy, I want you to come home.' She looked as though she was about to cry. Horton thought he might join her, if she did.
Catherine gave him a look that said: Now see what you've done. Didn't I tell you that you'd upset her? Instead she said, 'Daddy's been very busy lately.'
'I want to stay with Daddy.' Emma began to cry.
It tore at Horton's heart. He steeled himself and took hold of his daughter's hands. 'Go and get ready for ballet, there's a good girl and then I can come and see you again.'
She looked dubious. He heard Catherine suck in her breath. He went on. 'We'll go out together soon, just the two of us for a special treat. Would you like that?'
'Andy-'
'Would you?' Horton said more firmly, looking at his daughter. Her eyes shone this time with pleasure, not tears.
'Can we go to the fair?'
The fair was one of the places that Catherine banned her daughter from being taken, along with all fast food outlets. He said, 'Of course, sweetheart, anywhere you like. Now do as your mother says.'
Reluctantly she turned and began to climb the stairs, looking back at him. With every step she took, Horton felt as if a part of him was being wrenched away. When she disappeared from sight Catherine rounded on him.
'What the hell do you think you're doing? You have absolutely no business coming here like this,' she hissed, keeping her voice low.
Horton forced himself to reply evenly. 'I have every business. I am her father and I am not giving her up. I've been very patient, Catherine. Six months away from my daughter is six months too long. I'm going to see a solicitor, and I'm going to ask for regular access to Emma.'
'You can't-'
'Why are you so determined to prevent me from seeing her?' It was all he could do to keep control of his temper. 'I've done nothing to hurt her or you. I haven't been unfaithful — you have. She is my daughter and I will see her.'
He turned and marched swiftly back to the Harley, afraid that if he stayed a moment longer he might do or say something to jeopardize his chances. He climbed on but before donning his helmet he glanced up at his daughter's bedroom. With a jolt, he saw her sad little face staring at him. It ripped his heart apart. For a moment he thought Catherine was right. He shouldn't have come. He shouldn't see his daughter; her sorrow was too much to bear. Perhaps it would be better if he stayed away. But the thought lasted just a second. He forced a smile from his lips, blew her a kiss, and got a beaming smile back. He swivelled his eyes to Catherine still at the door. She turned on her heel and slammed the door. He started the bike. Emma was still waving at him. Then Catherine appeared and persuaded her daughter to leave the window. Horton let out a breath, swung the bike round and headed back to Portsmouth.
Ten
Saturday: 9 A.M.
Showered, shaved and changed, Horton tried to concentrate on Uckfield's briefing but his mind kept returning to the picture of Emma waving to him from her bedroom window, and with it came the raw emotions the reunion with his daughter had conjured up. With an effort he pushed them aside. His eyes fell on Cantelli. He'd spoken to him briefly this morning, but hadn't told him about his nocturnal trip to Petersfield. But then Cantelli looked as if he had problems of his own, his face was pale and his eyes were red. He was almost constantly sniffing, or blowing his nose. The cold he had mentioned earlier now seemed to be in full flow.
As Uckfield summarized the case, Horton surveyed the rest of the group. How many of them now knew that Dennings would be taking over from him on Friday? He guessed the majority. The station rumour grapevine was remarkably swift, and he had heard mutterings on his arrival this morning. That, and the sidelong glances and sudden silence as he had entered the CID office, told him the news had spread. Horton never for a moment doubted Cantelli's loyalty. Rather he guessed that Dennings himself had been heavy-handed with innuendo, and soon the announcement would be displayed on the station notice board.
'Inspector Horton.'
Uckfield's sharp command jolted Horton back to the case. He stepped to the front of the room and said crisply, 'I want the house-to-house around Langley's flat stepped up. Did anyone see Langley's car parked outside her apartment block that evening? The forensic team have said that her flat is clean, so did anyone see her or anyone else drive a red TVR away? Did they see her arrive home from school and if so what time?'