Death Surge (7 page)

‘And is that anything illegal?’

‘Not that we have discovered.’

Evasive. ‘But you’re still checking.’ He thought he detected a hint of hesitation before she answered.

‘Xander Andreadis races yachts around the world. He goes in and out of ports, but we have no reason to suspect him of any illegal activity, or his brother, who doesn’t sail.’

No
reason
perhaps, but
suspicion
maybe. And was that why she was here and interested in Johnnie’s disappearance? Did she suspect that Johnnie had discovered something about Xander Andreadis’s sailing exploits that had prompted his disappearance? If that was the case then it didn’t bode well for Johnnie, he thought with trepidation. And it meant she must have called in to her bosses as soon as she got the missing persons report from the local cop shop. It crossed his mind that her arrival at Cowes might not be purely for the racing or to be reunited with her family. Perhaps she was working. But if so, then had she and her bosses expected Xander Andreadis to show up? Or had they been waiting for Johnnie? If the latter, though, surely she would have discovered he’d gone missing before now and alerted the police. Perhaps she had – but not the local force, clearly.

A prickling sensation between his shoulder blades made him wonder if she’d alerted Europol and Interpol. And now that Johnnie’s absence had been brought to the attention of the local police she’d been ordered in to help find him. Perhaps she and her bosses hadn’t known that Johnnie was the nephew of a local copper.

‘So on to your second point,’ she said, placing her mug carefully on the table in front of her and holding his gaze. ‘You’re correct, I have moved in the same exalted sailing circuits as Andreadis, not only because of competing in races but also because my father is a personal friend of Christos.’

He might have known. ‘And that means you know Xander Andreadis.’

She nodded. And knowing what he did about her father that made her appearance at Cowes Week even more suspect, along with his growing conviction that she must know her father worked for British Intelligence.

She said, ‘Xander was here in July.’

‘That recent!’

‘For the Cowes to St Malo race. One of his yachts,
Medussa
, was entered. He was here from the tenth of July to the seventeenth.’ Before he could ask, she added, ‘You’re wondering if Johnnie was with him.’

He nodded and drank his coffee.

‘He wasn’t on
Medussa
with Xander, but he might have been on-board Xander’s personal Superyacht,
Calista.
It was moored off the Island. You might remember seeing it – a 1930s retro design fore-and-aft rigged yacht, with three closed decks. Two hundred and sixty feet long, with an owner’s suite on the lower deck and four guest cabins.’

A classic beauty, and he had seen it, but he’d had no idea who it had belonged to. The fact that Cantelli had said none of the family had seen Johnnie since January should have meant he wasn’t on-board … but Horton had an uncomfortable feeling that he might have been, and this reluctance to contact his family concerned him deeply.

She said, ‘I’ll ask Xander if Johnnie was here.’

But Horton wondered if she already knew the answer. And if she did, then why not tell him? Perhaps she needed authority to divulge that information. But why, for heaven’s sake? Eyeing her closely, he said, ‘Has Europol got anything on Johnnie Oslow?’

‘Not that I’m aware of,’ she answered steadily, but he knew she was lying and her eyes said
don’t ask me again because I can’t tell you
. Not yet, maybe, but she would. He’d make sure of that.

She slipped out of the seat. ‘I’ll find out about Johnnie’s movements in July and contact you. Will you still be here?’

‘No. I’m heading back to Portsmouth early tomorrow morning.’

‘OK. I’ll call you.’

He watched her leave with mixed feelings. His heart wanted to trust her, but his head and his gut told him he couldn’t. She halted on the promenade, and her head turned to the right as if someone had hailed her. Following the direction of her gaze he saw Stevington join her. He kissed her – not passionately, but with enough vigour to cause Horton a twinge of jealousy, especially as she didn’t put up any kind of protest. They broke apart as another couple joined them. It was Sarah Conway and the skipper of her RIB. Stevington said something. They all laughed. Horton turned away, feeling sore. But why shouldn’t they laugh? Johnnie meant nothing to them and he meant nothing to Harriet Eames.

He stood in the cabin, trying to ignore the smell of her perfume and his confused feelings for her. It was late, but he knew sleep would elude him, and there was only one way to banish that perfume. He made the yacht ready to sail.

H
orton swung the Harley into a side road close to Oyster Quays on the Portsmouth waterfront. It was just before nine. He felt refreshed after a good night’s sailing and six solid blissful hours of dreamless sleep, which surprised him given there was so much to occupy his thoughts. He hadn’t heard from Cantelli which meant there was still no news of Johnnie, and as he made his way through the busy Wightlink car ferry terminal and past the modern apartments that fronted on to the narrow strip of Portsmouth Harbour he didn’t even want to think they might never find him, or discover the truth behind his disappearance, because he knew how that could destroy a family.

There had been no chance of Jennifer’s disappearance haunting her parents though because he’d discovered through the Register of Births, Deaths and Marriages that her father had died when she was seven and her mother shortly before Jennifer had taken herself off to London aged sixteen. As far as he was aware she’d had no brothers or sisters. He’d also checked to see if there was a record of her death, but there wasn’t – not in that name, and certainly not in the UK. He’d never looked further into her family background, and the social services files on him had conveniently gone missing, but the fact that no relative had come to claim him made him believe there wasn’t anyone, or if there were then the last thing they had wanted was to be saddled with a child. And if that was how they had felt, then the last thing he wanted was anything to do with them.

He located the marina manager and asked him what time Masefield’s yacht,
Naiyah
, had moored up there last Wednesday. The manager, a bulky man with a shock of light grey hair and a wide friendly grin, consulted his records and confirmed that it had been three forty-five p.m. ‘It left just after five,’ he added, pointing to the log on the narrow counter in front of them.

Half an hour after Johnnie was supposed to have met them. Masefield hadn’t hung around for very long.

‘Did you see anyone join them?’ Horton could see from the log that Johnnie hadn’t signed into the marina, but there would have been no need if he’d been leaving almost immediately by boat.

The marina manager shook his head.

Horton showed him the photograph of Johnnie that Sarah Conway had sent to his mobile phone, but the manager didn’t recognize him and neither did the other two members of staff who had also been on duty on Wednesday. It seemed likely then that Johnnie had never arrived, and perhaps the railway station security cameras and IT department would confirm that he’d never alighted from that train from London.

Heading for the station, Horton again wondered why Masefield hadn’t been given Johnnie’s mobile phone number to liaise with him in case of a problem with travel arrangements, which given the change of flights and the rail journey would have been highly likely. Was Masefield telling him the truth? Or did he simply not want to get sucked into the investigation when clearly he hadn’t been too keen on having Johnnie along in the first place? He’d ask Sophia and Andreadis if either of them had relayed the number to Masefield – something he should already have checked, he thought, annoyed with himself for not doing so. But then he couldn’t see Masefield being caught out in so simple a lie.

There was no sign of Cantelli’s car in the car park which meant he might be interviewing the guard. Horton hoped it would be with a positive result. There was also no sign of DCI Bliss’s sports car or any other senior officers’, but that was to be expected. Good. He could not only pursue his personal research but also that of Johnnie’s disappearance without the wicked witch of the north poking her beaky nose into both.

The smell of disinfectant from the cells followed him through the rear entrance to the canteen, almost putting him off any breakfast. But at least that was better than the stench of puke and piss, he thought, ordering a bacon sandwich and a coffee. He took them to a table by the window where he’d spotted PCs Kate Somerfield and Dennis Seaton. Both were keen to get into CID but with government cutbacks that seemed unlikely for a while. They showed no surprise at his appearance which, he thought, was a sad reflection on his private life rather than his dedication to duty. Swiftly, he gave them an outline of what had happened. They both looked concerned. He sent a picture of Johnnie to both their mobile phones and asked Seaton to print off copies.

‘Show them around at the Hard; ask the taxi drivers if any of them remember seeing Johnnie or picking him up as a fare.’ He didn’t expect a positive outcome because he was growing more convinced that Johnnie had never reached Portsmouth, but it was worth a try.

With his bacon sandwich and black coffee he headed for CID, where he made his way through the deserted room to his office beyond. Balancing his breakfast on a pile of files and paperwork he opened the window to let in some of the hot sultry August air and to let out the smell of food, and then fired up his computer.

He called Xander Andreadis, but his phone was on voicemail. It was what he should have expected. Andreadis might be deliberately blocking his calls, or perhaps he was sailing. Horton left a message and asked him to call back. He hoped that Harriet Eames might have more luck. He wondered how long she and Stevington had stayed drinking in the yacht club last night. It was none of his business if they had partied all night, he thought irritably, calling Sophia, but with the same result – no answer. He left another message requesting information about Johnnie’s train ticket and asked her to call him back. Then, biting into his sandwich, he was about to begin his inquiries into Antony Dormand and Rory Mortimer when his fingers froze over the keyboard.

He put down his sandwich and sat back. Picking up his pen he began to twirl it idly, his thoughts returning to Harriet Eames’ visit to his boat last night and before that the niggle he’d experienced in Cowes Police Station. The niggle began to take shape. Finally, it crystallized into a question. What was Lord Eames expecting him to do?

The answer was precisely what he had been about to do: try and trace the other two men in the photograph from 1967; request the coroner’s reports and investigation details into the deaths of Zachary Benham, James Royston and Timothy Wilson; re-interview Dr Quentin Amos; and continue with his search for Edward Ballard and the truth behind Jennifer’s disappearance. But if Eames and his colleagues in intelligence had fed him Professor Thurstan Madeley and Dr Quentin Amos then they had a reason for doing so, and that reason was that they wanted him to find either Ballard, Dormand or Mortimer, or the person who had taken the picture. And if all the resources at the disposal of the intelligence services couldn’t locate whoever it was they wanted flushing out, then how the devil could he?

So what if he did nothing? He threw down the pen and sprang up. Turning, he stared out of the window into the almost deserted car park. If he took no action, what would happen next? What would Eames or one of his cronies or even Eames’ daughter throw at him? Perhaps they’d toss him another piece of the past for him to try and fit into the puzzle. And what would that be? To date, he’d been given a reference to Jennifer by a criminal she’d associated with who was now dead; a brooch that had gone missing, as had all pictures of it; Ballard’s photograph from 1967; and Thurstan, Amos and the names of the men in the picture. So what next?

He resumed his seat. No doubt he’d find out, and soon. Abandoning his personal research he called up the details of the arson attack committed by Johnnie and his mates seven years ago. He remembered most of the facts, but he wanted to be sure. He hadn’t investigated it because he’d been seconded to Basingstoke at the time and Cantelli had been working at Gosport. But before he could begin reading, a noise in CID caught his attention and he looked up to see Cantelli enter.

Horton called out to him, and a few moments later Cantelli flopped dejectedly into the seat across from Horton’s desk.

‘The guard can’t remember him. The train was packed, and he didn’t get through all the carriages.’

That wasn’t really surprising. London Waterloo to Portsmouth was a very busy commute. ‘There’s still the fact we can track the ticket, and there’s the security camera footage to view both from the Oyster Quays and the railway station.’

Cantelli hauled himself up. ‘I’ll start running through them now.’

‘Get yourself something to eat and drink first.’

‘I—’

‘You’re no good to anyone if you keel over.’

Cantelli gave a tired smile. ‘Yeah, OK.’

Horton watched him trudge out before returning his attention to his computer screen. The four youths with Johnnie who had been convicted of arson on the Locks Lake Sailing Club were Ryan Spencer, Tyler Godfray, Kyle Proctor and Stuart Jayston; all had been aged sixteen at the time. The sailing club was at the end of a long road that contained mainly residential properties, but on the north side, not far from the end of the road which led down to Langstone Harbour, were the grounds and main entrance to the psychiatric hospital. Locks Lake gave on to Langstone Harbour, to the south of which was Southsea Marina, where Horton lived on his boat. Fortunately, no one had been in the club, which had been in the process of being refurbished, but it had gone up like the clappers because of the paint and other inflammable materials inside, and the fire had spread to the dinghy park outside. It had caused several thousand pounds worth of damage, and it had been a miracle the boys hadn’t been injured or killed. Eye witnesses from the nearby houses had seen youths running away at approximately eleven twenty p.m. They had been arrested as they’d run out of the grounds of the psychiatric hospital by a patrol car on its way to the scene.