Death Surge (12 page)

With curiosity and a sense of eagerness he rang it and found that he was speaking to a firm of solicitors. Mr Teckstone was out of the office and wouldn’t be back until late afternoon. Was there a message?

Horton asked if anyone else could help him, but Teckstone’s secretary claimed not to have any knowledge of her boss’s telephone call to him. He asked what area of law Mr Teckstone specialized in and was told he was a general practitioner, which Horton thought covered a multitude of sins. ‘Criminal law?’ he inquired of the secretary. No, he was informed, which meant that Teckstone’s call couldn’t be about an investigation. He said he’d ring back. He’d been tempted to ask if Amos was one of their clients but he curbed his impatience and threw himself into his work. He’d just finished writing up his report from the previous investigation when he heard Walters return. Glancing up at the clock, he was surprised to see it was almost four. Walters had taken his time, which meant that despite his warning Walters had managed to get stuck on the ferry, a fact he confirmed when Horton joined him and Cantelli in CID.

‘I couldn’t interview the crew while they were loading up,’ Walters quickly explained before Horton could complain. ‘So I travelled across on the twelve thirty, talked to them all and then hung around at Fishbourne and caught the two o’clock sailing back from there and interviewed that lot on the way back to Portsmouth. No one remembers seeing Johnnie.’

Cantelli also despondently reported that the officers making inquiries at the Camber had drawn a blank with Johnnie’s photograph and no one they had interviewed remembered seeing Masefield’s yacht. The phone records still hadn’t arrived. And neither did they have Johnnie’s bank details. He was about to try Andreadis again when Harriet Eames called on him on his mobile. He hoped with the information they wanted.

‘I called Xander as soon as I picked up your message. He gave me the finance director’s number and I rang him immediately. I have the details of Johnnie’s bank account.’

Oh, the power of personal contact. She relayed it. Horton jotted it down and handed the scrap of paper to Cantelli, who immediately picked up his phone. It was a local branch of a national bank. ‘How did you get on today?’ Horton asked Harriet Eames.

‘Came first.’

He heard the triumph and pride in her voice and imagined her fair, lovely face flushed with exhilaration. It filled him with a longing to have been with her on-board that yacht, minus Rupert Crawford and Roland Stevington –
if
the latter had been there, because with Harriet Eames on the team Stevington would probably have been surplus to requirements. The whole ruddy crew would have been surplus as far he was concerned if he had been with her, he thought, despite his resolve not to get emotionally involved. Masefield would be pissed off at not gaining top place and that rather pleased him. He passed on his congratulations, rang off and waited for Cantelli to come off the phone.

‘I’ve got an appointment with the manageress in fifteen minutes,’ he said eagerly, gathering up his jacket.

Although she might not let them have full details of the account without an official request, they knew her well enough to obtain the date, time and location of the last transaction and to put a stop on the account. It was now just before five, and Horton rang Teckstone’s. This time he was in luck.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,’ Clive Teckstone announced solemnly after Horton had introduced himself. ‘I regret to tell you that Dr Quentin Amos died on Sunday evening.’

Horton started with surprise. He had known that Amos was terminally ill, but he hadn’t expected his death to be so imminent. He thought he’d have time to speak to him again. His tactic of doing nothing had backfired on him. Controlling his disappointment, he said, ‘His death seems rather sudden.’

‘He suffered a heart attack.’

Brought on by natural causes or induced, wondered Horton, his suspicions in overdrive. Could Lord Eames and his cronies have engineered this to prevent him from speaking to Amos again? But why was Teckstone telling him this?

‘Before he died Dr Amos left explicit instructions for me to contact you as soon as possible after his death.’

So the trail wasn’t dead. Dare he hope?

‘Dr Amos deposited a document with us, which is to be given to you personally, on receipt of formal identification.’

‘What kind of document?’ My God, was he finally going to learn the truth? Did Eames and the intelligence services know about this document?

‘I have it in the safe. How soon can you collect it?’

‘What time do you close?’

‘In five minutes, I’m afraid, and I’m due at a meeting so I can’t stay on.’

Horton silently cursed.

‘Could you collect the document first thing in the morning? We open at nine.’

Then he would be there at two minutes to nine. He got the address and rang off, his mind racing with thoughts. He’d waited so long for the truth and faced disappointment so many times that he didn’t dare to hope. But the thought that this might be one of Lord Eames’ tricks tormented him. He had decided to do nothing, to see what the intelligence services would do next. Hastening Amos’s death seemed a bit extreme, but doing so – and making sure there was some kind of document for Horton to collect – seemed even more outrageous, because Amos must have deposited this document some time ago. Or had he done so after Horton’s visit to him last week? Damn, he hadn’t asked Teckstone that. He was tempted to call him back but didn’t. He’d find out soon … but not soon enough.

Cantelli called him. ‘The last time Johnnie used the account was in London last Wednesday. He bought something to eat and drink from an outlet at Waterloo station. Nothing since. The account has been stopped. I thought I’d try Stuart Jayston again.’

Horton was about to say go easy but didn’t. He dealt with some more paperwork, read through Walters’ report, and the reports of the officers who had questioned the boat owners and staff at the Camber, in case something new occurred to him. It didn’t. Then he called it a day after making sure that Uckfield got
his
report. He managed to avoid Bliss, who was in one of her interminable meetings, and headed for his yacht.

On arrival he saw he had a message from Cantelli to say that Stuart Jayston wasn’t at home. He’d waited for a while but didn’t think it worth hanging on for longer. ‘He could be out all night,’ Cantelli had added. ‘I’ll try him first thing in the morning.’

Horton went for a run, showered and made himself something to eat, but he’d only managed to take one mouthful when his mobile rang. It was the station. It was five minutes past ten. A call at this hour could only mean one thing: trouble. And was that connected with Johnnie, he thought with consternation, answering it.

‘There’s been a fire at the Hilsea Lines, the old bastions, sir.’

That wasn’t usually his province unless it was arson, and even then uniform would deal with it and report it to the fire investigation officer. But he knew why he was being informed, and he felt a cold shiver run down his spine. They had a body. This was confirmed by the officer’s next words.

‘Any ID?’ Horton asked anxiously, unable to stop himself thinking about Johnnie.

‘I don’t know, sir. They didn’t say.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Hastily, he locked up. As he made for the north of the city he mentally ran through what he knew of the bastions that formed Hilsea Lines. There were several of them, originally built to protect the north of the island from attack in 1544. Since then they had been rebuilt, some time in the 1700s, he thought, and again, he seemed to recall, in 1871 with the renewed threat of a French invasion, which had never happened. They had belonged to the army, providing barracks, ammunition stores and a series of tunnels beneath the earth mounds, before becoming derelict and overgrown with grass, shrubs and trees. But some years ago (he forgot when), the Hilsea Lines had been designated a conservation area with a series of nature trails around the moat and the creek which made Portsmouth an island; or rather it would have done, but for the two road bridges over it and the motorway on the western shores.

Was it Johnnie, he thought fearfully. But it couldn’t be, because the bastions were about four miles from where Johnnie had last been seen at the southern end of Portsmouth. But despite telling himself that several times as he made his way through the dark, humid night, he couldn’t shake off the terrible feeling that he was about to look upon the charred remains of Cantelli’s nephew.

‘T
he fire was just inside one of the tunnels on the top of a bastion to the east. It’s where the body is,’ the fire service watch manager reported to Horton as he joined him and DC Maitland, the fire investigation officer, in the small gravel car park at one of the entrances to the Hilsea Lines. The area was bathed in lights from the two fire engines and the police vehicle. Horton had steered the Harley through the outer cordon where a small crowd, mainly residents from the nearby houses and flats, were being kept at bay by PC Benton. To the south were a number of small industrial units, while a footbridge to the north led over the motorway to more houses, shops and offices. The air was heavy with the smell of smoke.

‘Man or woman?’ asked Horton.

‘Can’t tell.’

‘That bad?’

‘Well, there’s not much left of whoever it was.’

Horton suppressed a shiver.

The watch manager continued: ‘We’ve put up a temporary light at the scene. We’re still beating down around the area, but the fire’s out and it’s safe enough for you to view the body.’

‘We’ll need these, Andy.’ Maitland opened the rear of his grey van and indicated the protective clothing.

Decked out in a thick scene-suit, stout boots, fire resistant gloves, a hard hat, and carrying a torch, Horton followed the lean figure of Maitland up a short track lined with trees and shrubs, at the top of which they turned right. Soon they were walking along the top of the bastions, which were burrowed beneath them in the grass and earth. Mentally, Horton began to prepare himself for what lay ahead. Perhaps it was a tramp who had come to shelter in one of the bastions for the night. He’d lit a fire or a cigarette, had fallen asleep and set fire to the place. He’d had no time to get out. But as Horton weaved his way along the narrow footpath, he still couldn’t rid his mind of the thought that it might be Johnnie. If it was his body though, why now? Why not soon after he’d disappeared, and where had he been since Wednesday? Why come here? No, it couldn’t be him.

He heard the drone of the traffic on the motorway to the north and occasionally caught a glimpse, through a gap in the foliage, of headlights flashing past. The smell of burnt earth grew stronger, and thoughts of another fire sprang to mind: in that psychiatric hospital in 1968, where the body of Zachary Benham had been discovered. Had anyone grieved for him? And who would grieve for Dr Amos, Horton wondered. Did he have any relatives or friends? Perhaps tomorrow when he visited Teckstone’s he’d find out, along with what Amos had bequeathed him in an envelope.

‘Who reported the fire?’ Horton addressed Maitland.

‘Anonymous,’ Maitland tossed over his shoulder. ‘The call came from a mobile phone, but I’m betting it’s a pay as you go one which we won’t be able to trace and which is now either at the bottom of the moat or in the creek.’

Horton didn’t like the sound of this. ‘You think it’s murder?’

‘The timing of the call to the fire brigade is wrong for it to be a dog walker or someone who just happened to see the smoke and wanted to remain anonymous. It was timed at twenty-one fifteen; the first appliance was here at twenty-one nineteen and the fire had only just started.’

Horton didn’t need Maitland to spell out what that meant. ‘The fire setter called the emergency services before setting the fire.’

‘Looks that way.’

Which had given the perpetrator only four minutes to get away, maybe eight maximum, allowing for the firefighters to reach the fire. It wasn’t long, but in the dark, and with the dense cover of the summer foliage, not to mention the number of tracks that sprang off this place, it would have been fairly easy for the fire setter to do so without being noticed. Horton wasn’t certain how far into the nature trail they were, but tomorrow in daylight he would check. And by the sounds of what Maitland was saying it probably ruled out the body being that of a tramp. If this was murder, which was looking highly likely, then it would take precedence over the investigation into Johnnie’s disappearance.
Unless it was him.

Maitland halted. Horton could see some firefighters beating the bracken to their left, making sure the last of the embers were out, while others were reeling in a hose. They’d obviously drawn some water from the moat. The ground was muddy, and the lights of the cars on the motorway were visible through the blackened and twisted remains of the trees.

‘Ready?’ asked Maitland.

As ready as I’ll ever be
. He nodded and followed Maitland a few paces down a track to their right, where Maitland paused. In front of them was a step that led down to a brick archway, now blackened by the fire, as was the vegetation around and above it. The air was heavy with a smell of burnt flesh that reminded Horton too much of roast pork.

The archway was about three feet wide and five feet high. There were four steps down to it and then another step into the entrance. Horton ducked his head and followed Maitland inside the narrow tunnel, which came to a halt after about three yards. To Horton’s right, about two feet inside the entrance was a small brick chamber, and there Maitland shone his torch. In the far right-hand corner Horton saw what was left of a human being. His stomach heaved. The watch manager had been right. There was no way of knowing from the blackened remains whether this was male or female; only Dr Clayton would be able to tell them that, and hopefully more. Making an effort to keep his stomach under some control he steeled himself to study the body more closely, without moving towards it. He didn’t want to disturb the scene for Maitland and SOCO. There were no clothes left on it, and there didn’t seem to be any remains of personal belongings lying around the area or anything to say this person had been sleeping rough.