Footsteps on the Shore Read Online Free PDF Page B

judging by the generalized bloating and the fact the body is greenish-black, I’d say it’s been in the water for sixty to seventy-five hours, possibly more.’
    Horton did some rapid calculations. Seventy-five hours took them back to Tuesday morning when Luke Felton had been seen going to work by Harmsworth, and had, as far as they were aware, been at work all day. They would check. But sixty hours took them to 11 p.m. on Tuesday night, and that meant it could be Felton.
    Horton said, ‘It is a man then?’
    Price shrugged his bony shoulders. ‘Difficult to tell. Even if what is left of his clothes wasn’t covering his private parts, the fish will probably have taken a fancy to them. Dr Clayton will tell you.’ And with a grunt he shambled off slightly unsteadily, waving a hand as he passed Taylor and his two colleagues, Beth Tremaine and the photographer, Jim Clarke.
    The sea was getting perilously close. For once Horton was glad of Dr Price’s brevity. To Taylor, he said, ‘You’ve got about twenty minutes before the tide hits here.’
    ‘There’s not much we can do anyway, except photograph and video the position of the body and take samples from where it lies,’ Taylor replied mournfully, frowning at the sea, obviously annoyed with it for having the gall to interfere with his usual thorough procedure.
    Cantelli came off the phone. ‘Elkins says there are no reports of abandoned or drifting boats anywhere in the Solent. And none of a man overboard or reports of a missing seaman.’
    ‘So if it is foul play he could have been thrown overboard from a boat and left to drown, or been killed or knocked unconscious and then tossed overboard.’
    ‘Or he could have walked into the sea to commit suicide, or fallen from a cliff on the Isle of Wight.’
    ‘Call Walters and ask him to check if anyone’s been reported missing in the last seventy-five hours.’
    Cantelli threw a worried glance at the advancing tide.
    ‘You can do it ashore,’ Horton said, swivelling his gaze to Mr Hackett, who was holding court among his buddies outside the timber hut belonging to the Portsmouth Net Fishermen’s Association. ‘And talk to Mr Hackett. See if there’s anything else we should know about.’
    With a look of relief, Cantelli hurried down the causeway while PC Johns looked enviously after him, before turning back to glare at the sea as though by sheer force of will he could hold it back. Others more noble had tried and failed, so Horton didn’t hold out much hope of a humble and burly PC succeeding.
    As Taylor’s team did their stuff under the curious eyes of travellers and onlookers on the elevated road, Horton tossed up whether to tell DCI Bliss about this development and decided not to. It would only send her flapping around like a distressed seagull. He also saw no reason to call in Superintendent Uckfield of the major crime team, not unless it proved to be murder.
    He quickly scanned the crowd for journalists, saw none he recognized, but knew they’d be here soon enough; along with photographers and camera crew who would be able to pick out a flea on an elephant’s arse if there had been elephants in Portsmouth Harbour. They’d have no problem with something as large as a corpse.
    Was it Luke Felton, he wondered, watching a grey naval ship making its stately way out of the harbour. The vessel seemed so close he could almost touch it. It was travelling slowly, but nevertheless Horton eyed its wash with concern. But if the corpse was Luke, then why had Rookley gone to the cemetery? Had he simply been taking a short cut through the graveyard on his way to meeting one of his criminal friends? Or had he seen them following and decided to throw them off the scent by diving into the cemetery? But Horton didn’t credit Rookley with that much intelligence. Rookley was a nasty piece of work, with a record of theft and violence that stretched back to childhood, but he’d never been done for drug dealing. Still, there