change of clothes and the chance to bathe his grazed and bloody face. But as he climbed on board he froze. There was something pinned to the hatch. Who the blazes was leaving him notes? Then surprise gave way to a cold grip of fear as he found himself staring at the same symbol that had been etched on his Harley, only this time executed in a thick black pen on paper. Rapidly, through the sheeting rain, he scanned the marina and the car park, but there was no one in sight.
He ripped off the drawing, noted that the lock on the hatch was still intact, and descended into the cabin where, flicking on the light, he studied the symbol: a cross and a funny-shaped circle above it. What the devil did it mean? Who had left it? It certainly wasn’t Ronnie Rookley. Then it occurred to him that maybe the attack had nothing to do with Rookley either. And that meant someone was following him. He hadn’t seen anyone, so whoever it was, he was very good.
The hairs pricked at the back of his neck. He didn’t like the thought of being stalked and he didn’t like not knowing what his stalker wanted. If the symbol meant death, then why not knife him instead of hitting him across the shoulders?
He strained his ears, listening for the slightest movement outside that would tell him his persecutor was back, but only the wind whistling through the halyards and the rain drumming on the coach roof answered him. His assailant, the graffiti artist, had gone – for now. But the question that troubled Horton was, when would he return and what would he do next?
EIGHT
Saturday, 14 March
‘ W hat happened to you?’ Walters quickly shoved his Daily Mirror in his desk drawer and eyed Horton’s cut and bruised face with surprise.
Dumping his jacket and helmet in his office before re-emerging almost immediately, Horton saw Cantelli’s frown of concern. ‘I’ll tell you both over breakfast.’ He hoped he could do so before DCI Bliss put in an appearance, though it was the weekend and that usually meant the senior management team would be conspicuous by their absence. Except for Uckfield, who had a major crime to solve – his car was already in the car park, along with Dennings’ car.
During the night Horton had done a great deal of thinking about his stalker, not much of it resulting in anything very productive, except to give him an even worse headache than he’d had after the attack. Early this morning he’d once again viewed the CCTV tapes that Eddie in the marina office kept, but there was no sign of any furtive figure in the marina car park or on the pontoons, and no new visitors. Eddie also confirmed that the visiting yachtsman who had been present when Horton’s Harley had been defaced had sailed on to waters new. And no one else had arrived. So who the devil was Horton dealing with? The invisible bloody man? It seemed so. But one thing was clear; he needed to discover what the symbol meant, as Cantelli had urged.
He bought breakfast for them all, earning himself a brownie point with Walters, and grabbed a table at the window overlooking the station car park. From here he could watch for Bliss’s arrival in case she decided to stick her beaky nose in.
Cantelli said, ‘So what happened? You look as though you’ve done two rounds with Joe Calzaghe.’
Horton felt as if he had, though the pain in his neck and head was getting better the more he moved it; either that or the strong painkillers he’d swallowed earlier had kicked in. He gave a succinct account of the previous night, leaving out the bit about the note pinned to his yacht and his growing suspicion that his assailant was out for some kind of twisted revenge. He might confess that to Cantelli later, out of Walters’ earshot.
Cantelli asked, ‘Do you think Rookley assaulted you?’
‘No.’ Horton hadn’t seen his assailant but he’d got the sense of a bulkier man. Plus he couldn’t see a squirt like Rookley having the strength, or the height, to strike him across
He ripped off the drawing, noted that the lock on the hatch was still intact, and descended into the cabin where, flicking on the light, he studied the symbol: a cross and a funny-shaped circle above it. What the devil did it mean? Who had left it? It certainly wasn’t Ronnie Rookley. Then it occurred to him that maybe the attack had nothing to do with Rookley either. And that meant someone was following him. He hadn’t seen anyone, so whoever it was, he was very good.
The hairs pricked at the back of his neck. He didn’t like the thought of being stalked and he didn’t like not knowing what his stalker wanted. If the symbol meant death, then why not knife him instead of hitting him across the shoulders?
He strained his ears, listening for the slightest movement outside that would tell him his persecutor was back, but only the wind whistling through the halyards and the rain drumming on the coach roof answered him. His assailant, the graffiti artist, had gone – for now. But the question that troubled Horton was, when would he return and what would he do next?
EIGHT
Saturday, 14 March
‘ W hat happened to you?’ Walters quickly shoved his Daily Mirror in his desk drawer and eyed Horton’s cut and bruised face with surprise.
Dumping his jacket and helmet in his office before re-emerging almost immediately, Horton saw Cantelli’s frown of concern. ‘I’ll tell you both over breakfast.’ He hoped he could do so before DCI Bliss put in an appearance, though it was the weekend and that usually meant the senior management team would be conspicuous by their absence. Except for Uckfield, who had a major crime to solve – his car was already in the car park, along with Dennings’ car.
During the night Horton had done a great deal of thinking about his stalker, not much of it resulting in anything very productive, except to give him an even worse headache than he’d had after the attack. Early this morning he’d once again viewed the CCTV tapes that Eddie in the marina office kept, but there was no sign of any furtive figure in the marina car park or on the pontoons, and no new visitors. Eddie also confirmed that the visiting yachtsman who had been present when Horton’s Harley had been defaced had sailed on to waters new. And no one else had arrived. So who the devil was Horton dealing with? The invisible bloody man? It seemed so. But one thing was clear; he needed to discover what the symbol meant, as Cantelli had urged.
He bought breakfast for them all, earning himself a brownie point with Walters, and grabbed a table at the window overlooking the station car park. From here he could watch for Bliss’s arrival in case she decided to stick her beaky nose in.
Cantelli said, ‘So what happened? You look as though you’ve done two rounds with Joe Calzaghe.’
Horton felt as if he had, though the pain in his neck and head was getting better the more he moved it; either that or the strong painkillers he’d swallowed earlier had kicked in. He gave a succinct account of the previous night, leaving out the bit about the note pinned to his yacht and his growing suspicion that his assailant was out for some kind of twisted revenge. He might confess that to Cantelli later, out of Walters’ earshot.
Cantelli asked, ‘Do you think Rookley assaulted you?’
‘No.’ Horton hadn’t seen his assailant but he’d got the sense of a bulkier man. Plus he couldn’t see a squirt like Rookley having the strength, or the height, to strike him across
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