Footsteps on the Shore by Pauline Rowson Page B

he had to say they interviewed him and snapped him up.’
    ‘The computer unit will tell us which sites he visited and who he emailed.’ Horton paused as he climbed out of the car and quickly scanned the area. Only two cars passed them; one with an elderly man driving and the other a woman in her twenties, neither likely to be his stalker. ‘You might have been rubbish at science but you’re a damn good sergeant.’
    ‘And I hope to stay that,’ Cantelli answered, as they made their way to the front entrance.
    They found Harmsworth in his office. He showed no reaction to Horton’s cut and bruised face, but then that was hardly surprising given his clientele at Crown House.
    ‘Have you found Luke Felton?’ he said, looking up from his shabby and shambolic desk.
    ‘We want a word with Ronnie Rookley.’
    ‘You’ll be lucky. He’s not been back since after your visit yesterday.’
    Horton considered this, first puzzled, then annoyed. Clearly, Rookley had done a runner. And he’d probably warned the rest of the dealers that the police were sniffing around. Horton didn’t think he was going to be flavour of the month with the drug squad.
    ‘We’d like a look at his room.’
    ‘Be my guest.’ Harmsworth reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. ‘First door on your left at the top of the second floor.’
    Cantelli didn’t bother to knock. There was no need if Rookley wasn’t there, and he’d probably not have bothered even if he had been. He tried the door first before inserting the key and crashing in, shouting, ‘Wakey, wakey, rise and shine.’ Then he stepped back, almost colliding with Horton. ‘My God, this place stinks! Has something died in here and crawled under the bed?’
    ‘Well, it’s not Rookley,’ Horton answered, swiftly crossing to the empty unmade bed and peering under it. He wished he hadn’t. The smell was vile. Rookley must have forgotten where the toilet was. The room was littered with beer cans, foil containers of leftover curry and fast food which appeared to have things crawling in it. ‘He could be hiding in the wardrobe,’ Horton added, straightening up.
    ‘Nope,’ Cantelli replied, holding his nose between the thumb and forefinger of one hand while opening the creaking door with the other. ‘Though something unidentifiable might be.’ He took a chance and peered inside again. ‘Just filthy clothes.’
    Horton gazed around at the discarded newspapers, fag packets, beer cans and whisky bottles among the soiled underpants, socks and clothes. What a contrast to Luke Felton’s pristine room and Venetia Trotman’s immaculate period house, which reminded him that he still needed to give his mobile phone to Trueman so that he could take from it a recording of the anonymous call. He couldn’t see any needles or drugs but he wanted this room searched. And he pitied the poor plods who’d have to do it.
    ‘Lock it up, Barney, before we throw up.’
    Horton knew they could ask the occupants of Crown House if they’d seen Rookley or knew where he was, ditto Luke Felton, but they’d probably get better results talking to a brick wall.
    They left Harmsworth with instructions that he call them the moment Rookley showed up. Outside Horton looked for Hans Olewbo, but there was no sign of his car or the black man, and neither could he see signs of anyone else from the drug squad. That didn’t mean they weren’t there though.
    In the car, he said, ‘When you get the chance, check out Rookley’s background and see if he could have gone to ground anywhere.’
    ‘He might have gone to his sister’s, although, if my memory is correct, she can’t stand the sight of him.’
    ‘Not many can. Circulate a picture of his ugly mug to all units and get a unit to check with the bus drivers for any sightings of the scumbag catching a bus to Milton Locks last night. He shouldn’t have been difficult to spot with those shifty eyes, greasy hair and earrings. I can’t see him