Beyond the marina was Langstone Harbour and from here he could see the mulberry. Had seeing the mulberry from here given Boston the idea of dumping her body there? Perhaps the nursery rhyme had nothing to do with her death. Perhaps Boston had never even heard of it.
He turned away as Cantelli called out. 'Beds made up and he's got some nice suits in the wardrobe: designer stuff.'
'How would you know? Most of your clothes are bought from the chain stores.'
'Hey, nothing wrong with that!'
Horton smiled and made his way into a second bedroom, which Boston had made his study, and promptly stopped in his tracks. He gazed in amazement. Hundreds of photographs covered three walls and they were all of Timothy Boston.
Cantelli came up behind him and drew up sharply. 'Wow!'
Horton couldn't have put it better himself. In the pictures, Timothy Boston appeared in various guises, and with a variety of actors. These were obviously stills taken from film and television programmes. And there were photographs of Boston, as himself, alongside actors whom Horton recognized, which was quite a feat for him because he rarely watched television and never had time to go to the pictures or theatre.
'Is Boston famous? Should we know him?' asked Horton.
'I wouldn't unless he was acting in the thirties and forties.'
Horton began to rummage in the desk, which wasn't locked. He pulled out a pile of large spiral bounds books. There were six in total. 'Scrapbooks.'
Horton gave a couple to Cantelli and flicked through the remainder himself. He was staring at pages of press cuttings. Boston had by all accounts been a successful stunt man before becoming an actor; only he wasn't called Boston but Timothy Mellows. A headline caught Horton's attention, quickly he scanned the article: Boston had once been tipped as a possible James Bond, and he'd ended up teaching drama! What had gone wrong? The press cuttings didn't say. But Horton was beginning to wonder if Timothy Boston had previous form as Mellows, and that little fact had slipped through his security clearance at the school. Something registered in Horton's brain. He'd seen the name Mellows before. With a racing pulse he pulled out his phone and called the station.
'Dave, check the list of registered boat owners for a Tim Mellows. No, I'll hold.'
Cantelli said, 'There's an article here that says Mellows suffered multiple injuries whilst performing a stunt: broke both legs, his pelvis and arm. After that it says he turned to acting.'
'And didn't make it, according to what he's doing now,' Horton rejoined, just as Dave Trueman came back on the line.
'There's a boat called Soap Opera registered to Mr Timothy Mellows and berthed at Gosport Marina.'
Yes! Horton wanted to punch the air with joy. Instead he said, 'Ask Elkins to check if it's in the marina, but not to alert Mellows. Call me back.'
Mr Selsmere wasn't very happy when Cantelli asked to keep the keys and gave him a receipt, but he seemed a little mollified when he heard that an unmarked police car with two plain clothes officers, rather than uniformed officers in a patrol car would keep a watch on the apartment for Boston's return.
Horton's phone rang. It was Trueman. 'Mellows' boat is in the marina. Sergeant Elkins thinks there might be someone on board.'
'He's to do nothing. We're on our way. Get Elkins to pick us up at the Town Camber.'
It had started raining heavily and the wind was whipping itself into a fury as Cantelli headed back along the seafront to Old Portsmouth and the Town Camber. The sergeant didn't look very pleased.
As they clambered on board the police launch, Horton tried to reassure Cantelli. 'You'll be OK, we're only going across the harbour.'
'That's far enough,' Cantelli muttered, pulling up his collar and stepping inside the cabin. 'You wouldn't want me to have a relapse.'
'Perish the thought. Charlotte would skin me alive.'
Horton stayed on deck. He didn't know what to expect, but disappointment featured in it somewhere. It couldn't be this easy. Boston wouldn't be sitting on his boat in October, sipping wine, and waiting for them, only to say, 'It's a fair cop, guv.'
Horton's adrenalin began to pump as Elkins pulled into the marina. Horton jumped off and secured the boat to the pontoon. Elkins silenced the engines. With Cantelli, Elkins and PC Ripley following behind him, Horton hurried along the pontoon. The rain was sheeting past him, driving in his face and the wind was rattling the halyards against the masts. Boston had to be there. Boston was their man. He was the mastermind behind the antiques thefts. And he was a killer. He'd killed Langley, perhaps it now occurred to Horton, because he was sick of her cruel taunts about how he'd failed as an actor. Both Ranson and Daphne Edney had said how cutting she could be. And he'd killed Edney, because the poor man had suspected him. This couldn't be another blind alley.
As soon as he turned on to the pontoon Horton could see a light in the cabin. He guessed this was how Boston had taken the stolen antiques out of the country, and he wouldn't mind betting that on his other robberies he had moored Soap Opera in Town Camber for a quick get-away.
Gesturing Elkins to the aft, Ripley at the bow and Cantelli amidships, with his heart beating fast and furious, Horton climbed carefully into the cockpit. The large glass door leading into the cabin was open. There was no sign of Boston, but he wouldn't fail to feel the boat rock to Horton's tread. Horton waited to be hailed, but no one stirred. The hatch was open. He could see no shadows and there was no sign of any movement. There was a coffee cup on the table to Horton's left and a used plate in the small sink to his right. A kettle was on the hob next to it. Horton tensed. He felt the boat move gently as someone came on board behind him. It was Cantelli.
'Police. It's over, Boston. We know all about the robberies,' Horton shouted.
Silence greeted him. Horton tensed.
'We're coming down.' He heard Cantelli suck in his breath, and knew what he was thinking. He hoped Boston wasn't waiting with a knife or even a gun in his hand.
He wasn't. In fact Boston wasn't waiting at all.
'Empty,' Horton called up, disappointed.
'Must have got wind we were after him,' Cantelli said.
Horton frowned, puzzled. 'If he's gone, why not take his car?' Elkins had told him it was in the marina car park.
Horton gazed around the interior. There wasn't much to see, just one main cabin and a cubicle with a toilet and washbasin. The boat wasn't designed for a long stay away; it was more suited for one day or weekend fishing excursions. Ideal for Boston who just needed a boat with a powerful engine that could get him across to Guernsey, Jersey or France so that he could pass on his stolen antiques. There was a navy blue holdall on the bunk. Delving into it Horton retrieved a passport. 'He won't get far without this.'
'Perhaps he's got another one.'
Cantelli could be right. Horton opened it. 'This is in the name of Timothy Boston; perhaps he also has a passport in the name of Tim Mellows. Come on, there's nothing here for us.'
Horton climbed back on deck. 'Elkins, keep watch for him and call for back-up the moment he shows. I'll keep a unit watching his car. Let's get out of this bloody awful weather.'
He climbed off the boat, and Cantelli followed suit. Horton gazed across the harbour to Oyster Quays wondering where Boston had gone. The boat was well secured. The deck was dirty and the marina manager had confirmed it had been taken out that morning and had not long returned. If Boston had been warned that the police were on his trail then why come back here? Why return to Portsmouth at all? Why not take his passport and his car and drive to the airport?