Deadly Waters

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'Thought you might like this,' Sergeant Cantelli said, placing a brown plastic beaker on Horton's desk. Horton stared at the frothy liquid that resembled dirty washing-up water and said, 'Are you trying to poison me?'

'It might help keep you awake.'

'Doesn't seem to be doing the trick with you.' Horton thought Cantelli looked like something they'd exhumed from Milton Cemetery. 'Sit down before you fall down.'

'My bones ache, my head's thumping and I think I've caught a cold.' Cantelli sneezed just to prove it.

'That's about all we did catch,' Horton replied with bitterness. All they had to show for over ninety minutes of surveillance, crouched in a fishing boat at Portsmouth's Town Camber in the pouring rain, was a bag full of stolen antiques and Mickey Johnson, who had conveniently lost his voice.

'Any joy finding out who Johnson's victims are?' Horton asked, spinning round in his chair and plucking his socks and trainers off the radiator where he had left them to dry after interviewing Mickey.

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