Death Surge (32 page)

Stevington lunged forward. Horton threw the grit in his face, rolled over and jumped up as Stevington faltered, his hands flying to his face. But only for a second. Quickly recovering, he hurled himself at Horton. But Horton stepped aside, wrong footing Stevington, who stumbled. Horton lashed out with the rock on the back of Stevington’s head, drawing blood. He staggered. As he drew level with the fireplace Johnnie threw his body forward, causing Stevington to crash to the ground falling over and on to Johnnie. Horton didn’t waste time: he lunged forward, thrust his forearm around Stevington’s throat and hauled him up.

But Stevington was strong. He rammed his elbow into Horton’s midriff. Winded, Horton lost his grip. He staggered back, and suddenly he was down. He sensed rather than saw a boot come up and in a split second rolled away, preventing it from coming into contact with his side, while managing to grasp it and twist the leg. It took all Horton’s strength to bring Stevington down. His heart was heaving fit to burst as he hurled himself on Stevington’s back and, sitting on him, grabbed his hair and smashed his face into the ground not once but three times, and then because he felt like it he did it again. Then he reached into his pocket for his cuffs, pulled Stevington’s hands behind his back and slapped the cuffs on him. Pushing a hand into Stevington’s sailing jacket he retrieved the line he’d brought ready to strangle him with and fastened it as tight as he could around Stevington’s ankles.

Straightening up, Horton went to Johnnie and swiftly untied him. Stripping off the gag he said, ‘Are you OK?’

Johnnie nodded and after a moment grinned, and in that instant Horton saw Cantelli’s smiling face. He reached out, took Johnnie’s right hand firmly in both of his and clasped it tightly. ‘I’ll get help.’

H
e watched as the paramedics took Johnnie away strapped into a stretcher chair which he’d tried desperately to refuse. He’d wanted to walk out but he was too weak despite his determination. After calling for the ambulance Horton had rung Cantelli and had broken the news to him.

‘He’s dirty, cold and hungry but he’s unharmed,’ he’d added.

‘Thank the Lord.’ Cantelli’s voice had shaken with relief and emotion.

‘He’s a plucky lad. And that’s what saved him from being killed instantly by Stevington. If he’d grovelled and pleaded for his life or broken down, Stevington would have had nothing but contempt for him and would have disposed of him as soon as he could. But then a better idea occurred to him and that was to frame him for murder and then cover up his death by making it look like suicide, something Stevington has specialized in. Johnnie’s on his way to hospital, just for a check-up.’

‘I’ll tell the family and get up there at once. Andy, I can’t ever thank you—’

‘Then don’t,’ Horton cut off his gratitude, then added more gently, ‘There’s no need, Barney. He helped save me.’ Johnnie had sensed there was more than one person heading towards him; perhaps he’d caught the sound of their footsteps in that echoing empty building and had pretended to be unconscious in the hope that help might be on its way and he could seize whatever chance presented itself. And he had.

Prison would be another challenge for Stevington, which he probably believed he’d be able to conquer, just as he’d conquered treacherous seas, and maybe he would but Horton knew that being confined would be a fitting punishment for him. He’d miss the wide space of the sea, although there would be danger enough to overcome inside prison walls. He’d be psychiatrically assessed and with his background would most probably end up in a secure mental institution anyway.

‘He’s inside,’ Horton said to the uniformed officers. A few seconds later they led out a bloodied and stunned Stevington. ‘He cut himself shaving,’ Horton tossed at the enquiring glances of the officers. Horton refused a lift, saying he’d take the boat back to Haslar Marina where he had left the Harley. He had called Uckfield immediately after breaking the news to Cantelli. Uckfield said he’d get Stevington brought round to Portsmouth and they’d question him there, but Horton was certain that Stevington wouldn’t say anything until his lawyer showed.

He walked down the shore and to the boat. The Fort had been sealed off with police tape and an officer posted until Taylor and his SOCO officers could go over the place where Johnnie had been kept and Jim Clarke could take photographs. That would be in the morning; they’d need them to present the case against Stevington.

The sound of the sea washing up on the pebbled shore helped to soothe Horton’s ragged nerve ends. The drizzling rain had turned into a soft mist but through it Horton could make out a few lights on the hilly streets of Ryde on the Isle of Wight, where he guessed Stevington had dropped Johnnie on the sixteenth of July in the motorboat. And it was in the motorboat that he must have collected Johnnie from the Camber on Saturday. Horton didn’t think he would have risked taking Johnnie back to Haslar Marina or Gilkicker Fort in daylight, so he’d probably taken him out into the Solent and drugged him, just as he must have done Tyler Godfray. He’d then kept Johnnie hidden in the small cabin until it was dark, when he’d taken him to Fort Gilkicker. Johnnie would be able to fill the details in later.

The tide was coming in, and Horton only had to push the small motorboat a little further before it was bobbing on the sea. He started the engine and watched the lights on the Wightlink ferry as it sailed past on its way to Fishbourne. His mind was churning over all that had happened in the last six days and how Stevington’s obsession and passion had led him to kill so many times. What was Harriet Eames going to think about Roland Stevington now? And what would Stevington’s sponsors do? Easy, they’d pull out because there would be no yacht to sponsor. Maybe he should approach them and ask them to sponsor him to sail in Stevington’s place. But he wasn’t ready for that yet. Maybe in a few years’ time, and before then he could compete in other races as a team member. With Scott Masefield? He smiled at the thought. He didn’t think Masefield would welcome him with open arms. And in the meantime he could attempt to get sponsors. Andreadis might give him a start, and Lord Eames might even throw money at him to get him off his back. But then that might not be what Eames really wanted … which brought him back to thoughts of his mother and the code that Dr Amos had left for him on the back of that envelope.

He surveyed the Gosport shore on his left. Looming in the mist was a fort built to defend Portsmouth Harbour during the war of American independence and remodelled in the 1880s by Lord Palmerston. He’d stood next to it earlier, fenced off from prying public eyes by security wire, cameras and lighting because it was still in use by the military … Suddenly, his nerve ends jangled, and he slowed the boat to a crawl as he studied the dark shape on the shore. Was this the reason Amos had given him those location references, either of his own free will or because he’d been instructed to do so by someone? Amos hadn’t been steering him towards Haslar Marina or even the hospital but to Fort Monckton, because it wasn’t only used by the army but it was also reputed to be a training establishment for the intelligence services.

He stopped the boat and considered this further. Had Jennifer been heading there on the day she disappeared, or had she been waylaid from her rendezvous with someone and had been taken here? But by whom and why? Had it been used by the intelligence services in 1978? If so his chances of discovering who had been at Fort Monckton then were nil and perhaps the person she had met had only been there temporarily, or simply visiting. Maybe she’d never reached there. Maybe Amos’s reference had nothing to do with Fort Monckton or the marina. Perhaps it wasn’t a location at all. But somehow Horton felt it was. Or was that because he
wanted
to believe it?

He’d been fortunate to find its meaning so quickly. Maybe too fortunate. Amos couldn’t have known about Johnnie being missing and that his inquiries would lead him to Go About, and neither could Lord Eames, not at the time when Amos had called his solicitor and given him the envelope to deposit. But if he hadn’t made the connection between the numbers on the envelope and the location would Eames, or someone else who knew about Amos’s envelope, have devised a way to get him to discover what the figures meant?

He sighed heavily and throttled up. Perhaps the location was only an obscure reference to his mother. But if he put it against everything else he’d discovered and speculated about in the last few months then his conclusions were simple. Everyone was pushing him to find someone, and it wasn’t Jennifer Horton. It was someone that the intelligence services, with all their resources, couldn’t find, so what hope had he? The answer slapped him in the face. Because they didn’t know who it was but if
he
made enough noise this person would show himself or make contact with him,
because
of Jennifer. And why were they so keen to find him? Because whatever this man knew it was dangerous. Whether that was dangerous to an individual or a country, Horton didn’t know; maybe it was both. They were running scared. They had used Sawyer and the Zeus story to tempt him to cooperate, but that hadn’t worked. So they had used Ballard and his photograph, leading him to Professor Madeley and Dr Amos. And they were using him. He didn’t much care for that. And he didn’t like the game he was being made to play. So did he play it? Or did he quit? Could he quit?

He headed into the mouth of Portsmouth Harbour and then into the marina, tying up where he and Stevington had left two hours ago. It was quiet. Across the water he saw the lights of Oyster Quays where the restaurants, bars, nightclubs and the waterfront were buzzing with life. His mind turned to thoughts of the deaths of Ryan, Tyler and Stuart and of Sarah Conway. He recalled her laugh, the tiny piece of pastry lodged in the corner of her mouth that had seemed so seductive, her smile, her passion, her wildness and her love of danger, and suddenly the words Amos had spoken to him a week ago about Jennifer came to him.
She didn’t like towing the line. Keeping silent and being a good little girl wasn’t her style. She was too radical, too involved with the students … Jennifer liked living dangerously … She liked action …
Just like Sarah Conway.

And did that action mean Jennifer was directly involved with the intelligence services? Horton stood on the pontoon, surveying the boats but not seeing them. Could she have been working for the intelligence services? Was that why Amos had given him the location reference?

Swiftly, he remembered what else Amos had said:
She never mentioned him and I never saw her with him, but there was definitely someone
… Someone she was in love with. Someone she got pregnant by, his father. Someone from the intelligence services she was working for? Her control? Was that who she’d been coming here to see the day she disappeared? Was he being fanciful? Could it really be possible? Could he trust Amos’s words?

He walked slowly down the deserted pontoons toward the car park. What else had Amos said?
Secrets and lies. Someone’s kept silent for a long time. They might want it to stay that way.
He’d thought that was Lord Eames and his cronies in British Intelligence. He was wrong.
You might think the days of spies and the Cold War are over and that I’m an old man seeing shadows across every ripple of the sea, but they’re not over, there is always evil below. Be careful, Andy Horton.

At last he was beginning to understand. He was beginning to pierce the murky waters and see the evil below. As he crossed the road and headed for the Harley he knew that he was close to the truth and that he would do what Lord Eames and his cronies wanted. He’d play the game. He’d find this man for them. He had no choice, because he knew that only then would it end, one way or another.