Death Surge by Pauline Rowson Page B

here then perhaps you’ll feel more like it at the station.’
    ‘All right, keep your hair on. I had something to eat and was in there all afternoon.’
    ‘Anyone vouch for that?’
    ‘A few of me mates and the barman.’
    They could check, but Horton was beginning to think there was no need. But to make sure he said, ‘Ever been abroad on holiday?’
    Ryan looked so shocked at the question that Horton knew the answer before he spoke, and that it was genuine.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Do you own a car or a motorbike or scooter?’
    ‘No.’
    Johnnie hadn’t met Ryan Spencer.
    ‘Is there anything else, ‘cos I’m cold, hanging around out here.’
    ‘In August!’
    ‘Yeah. Why? You going to arrest me for that?’
    If only … Horton held his lairy, hostile glance. He was sick of Ryan Spencer, and by Cantelli’s expression he was too. Abruptly, Horton turned, giving a nod to Cantelli.
    When they reached the car Horton turned back, but Ryan Spencer had already slunk into his shabby house.
    Cantelli exhaled and let down the car window as though wanting to get the stench of Ryan and his wasted life out of his nostrils. Horton didn’t blame him.
    ‘Thank God Johnnie got away from that,’ he said, starting the engine but not moving off. ‘And I’ve got you to thank for that, Andy.’
    ‘The sailing did it, not me. Come on, let’s hope that Tyler Godfray is a little more intelligent and pleasant.’
    He might have been if he’d been at home.
    ‘He’s at work,’ announced his mother, a lean, neat and tidy brunette in her mid forties. Karen Godfray stood in the narrow, spotlessly clean hall in one of the terraced houses not far from the waterfront of Gosport. Horton recalled her from the Magistrates’ Court. She’d sat upright and tight-lipped as she’d listened to the charges against her son and the punishment meted out to him. He remembered Tyler Godfray as being dark-haired and dark-eyed, and that he had avoided looking at his mother.
    ‘He’s not in trouble, is he?’ she asked sternly rather than anxiously. Horton wondered why she had leapt to that conclusion instead of being alarmed that he might have been involved in an accident, which was the usual assumption of many people when police officers appeared on their doorstep.
    He said, ‘We just want to talk to him.’
    ‘I told Tyler that if he got into trouble with the police again he’d be out on his ear. Not having a dad to discipline him, I’ve had to be strict. It’s not easy bringing up a kid on your own,’ she added defiantly, and a little defensively, thought Horton.
    ‘What happened to his father?’ he asked out of curiosity, wondering if Tyler had also rebelled following the trauma of his father’s death.
    ‘He died in an accident on the building site when Tyler was three,’ Karen Godfray answered. ‘A wall fell in on him. Of course I didn’t want Tyler to end up on the sites, but what can you do?’
    ‘He works in the construction industry?’
    ‘He’s a painter, went to college after that bit of trouble with Johnnie Oslow, a bad influence, and that useless, worthless article Ryan Spencer. God knows where they are now – prison more than like. And I don’t want to know, and neither does Tyler.’
    This wasn’t turning out to be a good morning for them, and particularly not for Cantelli. ‘Can you tell us where to find Tyler, Mrs Godfray?’
    She drew herself up and eyed him squarely. ‘I don’t want him bothered at work. His boss might get the wrong idea.’
    ‘Where is he working, Mrs Godfray?’
    She hesitated. Horton waited. After a moment she said grudgingly, ‘Portsmouth, on a house redecoration.’
    ‘Where exactly?’
    ‘Old Portsmouth. I don’t know the number. It’s in White Hart Road, not far from the Isle of Wight ferry terminal.’
    Horton’s ears pricked up at that, and he sensed Cantelli’s heightened interest. ‘Have you and Tyler ever been abroad on holiday?’
    ‘Yes. Why? What’s that got to do with