Death Surge (2 page)

Ahead, in the distance, he could see the Wightlink ferries crossing in the middle of the Solent. Cantelli would be on the one heading south for Fishbourne, his mind conjuring up all kinds of possibilities as it did when someone went missing; it was a word that filled every parent with dread and which for him had cast a long shadow over his life, leaving an empty yawning chasm made even more painful because as a child he’d been led to believe his mother had abandoned him for a lover. Even though he now knew that not to be true it didn’t ease the constriction in his chest at the memory of his lonely childhood.

He stretched a hand in his pocket and returned his attention to the photograph. Mentally, he ran through what his investigations had unearthed since he’d discovered it on his boat. Fact one, it had been taken during the first student sit-in protest at the London School of Economics on the thirteenth of March, 1967. Fact two, three of the men in the picture were dead: Zachary Benham had died in a fire in a psychiatric hospital in Surrey in 1968; James Royston of a drug overdose in a bedsit in London in 1969 and Timothy Wilson, Lord Eames’ friend by his own recent admission, had been killed in a motorcycle accident on the A345 from Salisbury to Marlborough the same year. Fact three: Professor Thurstan Madeley, an expert on crime, and a consultant to various UK police forces including Horton’s own in Hampshire, had compiled an archive file on the student sit-in protest but hadn’t included this picture because it had been in a private collection. He claimed to know nothing about the men in the photograph but he’d given Horton a name, Dr Quentin Amos.

Horton recalled the skeletal, sharp-brained man in the dingy urine-smelling flat in Woking. Amos had been easy to find. He had several criminal convictions not only for assault during violent protests throughout the years but also for importuning in a public place and having sex with under-age males. Amos had told him that Jennifer had worked as a secretary at the London School of Economics in 1967 and that she’d also helped to organize the Radical Student Alliance, which all these men with the exception of Lord Eames had belonged to. She wasn’t in the photograph but Amos had said her connection with the Alliance had got her the sack. So what had happened to her after that? Amos had intimated that one of these men might know. With three of them dead and the fourth, Lord Eames, a peer of the realm who was clearly going to continue denying any knowledge of Jennifer that left Horton with two to trace: Antony Dormand and Rory Mortimer.

Clearly, Amos had more to tell him, and he had no reason to lie – he was a dying embittered man. But Horton had caught the smell of fear about him and the sense that although Amos might not have lied, he’d said what he’d been told to say. So what did the intelligence services have over him that would make him obey their instructions by giving Horton only the information they wanted him to have? Or was he just being paranoid? Perhaps. Because he also believed that Professor Thurstan Madeley, who had pulled together the archive project on the student sit-in protest, was in league with Lord Eames.

The Solent was now getting busier. He’d need all his concentration to get through the hundreds of boats. Stuffing the photograph back in his pocket he pushed thoughts of his own personal investigation aside and turned his mind to Johnnie. Perhaps their fears would be unfounded and by the time he and Cantelli reached Cowes Johnnie would have shown up with an apologetic grin on his dark features wondering what all the fuss was about. God, he hoped so.

He caught sight of the police launch heading towards him, weaving its way gently through the yachts and motor cruisers. Then suddenly out of nowhere a RIB appeared and shot across its bows causing Ripley to veer off course. Horton eyed the idiot hanging off the side of the RIB with a camera pressed to her face. The helmsman spun the RIB round and headed out into the Solent. Horton turned the yacht towards the pontoons and a few minutes later he was tying up as Ripley came alongside him.

‘Who was the fool in the RIB?’ he asked Elkins, climbing back on-board his yacht.

‘Sarah Conway, one of the official photographers,’ Elkins replied, handing Horton a line. ‘Mad as a hatter. I warned her yesterday about being reckless. She said, “What are going to book us for, sergeant – dangerous driving or being drunk in charge of a boat? Not guilty on both counts.”’ A brief smile crossed Elkins’ malleable face; Horton could see he had a soft spot for Sarah. Then Elkins’ expression fell as he recalled why Horton was here. He instructed Ripley to stay with the police launch and contact him by mobile phone if they were needed on the water, and together they headed towards the promenade. Elkins continued: ‘Scott Masefield’s currently racing. He’s expected in at about three thirty.’

Horton consulted his watch. He hadn’t realized it was that late. No wonder his stomach was making peculiar noises. He hadn’t eaten since the very early hours of the morning, and then only sketchily. But he pushed thoughts of food aside. According to Elkins’ reckoning that left them with an hour to kick their heels but there were things they could do before then.

‘He’ll come into Shepards Wharf,’ Elkins added.

Horton knew it. The marina was situated at the further end of the small town close to the chain ferry that clanked and rattled its regular way across the River Medina between West and East Cowes.

‘What do you know about Masefield?’ he asked as they stepped on to the crowded promenade.

‘Not much, only that the yacht is called
Naiyah
, and is sponsored by Xander Andreadis, who isn’t here.’

‘Why not?’

‘No idea. Perhaps he had more important things to attend to.’

‘Does he usually race at Cowes?’

Elkins shrugged. ‘Perhaps Masefield is here in his place.’

Perhaps, thought Horton, catching sight of Cantelli weaving his way through the crowds and the many side shows on the promenade. With concern he noted that Cantelli’s usual leisurely gait had been replaced by agitated strides and a worried frown graced his lean, olive-skinned face instead of his normal easy, laconic smile. Horton’s heart went out to him. But emotion was no use, only action was.

‘I’ve tried Johnnie’s mobile phone again but the line’s still dead,’ Cantelli said the moment he drew level, briefly nodding a greeting at Elkins.

Horton didn’t like the sound of that but there could be a logical explanation. Perhaps he’d broken it or lost it, or perhaps the battery had run down. But why not borrow someone else’s phone or use a pay phone to contact his boss and his mother? He was sure Cantelli had run through the same scenario. They sidestepped some dawdling holidaymakers and began to thread their way through the crowded winding streets towards Shepards Wharf.

‘When was the last time Isabella saw Johnnie?’ Horton asked.

‘In January when he came home for my dad’s funeral.’

And that had been when Horton had last seen him too. ‘How did he seem then?’

‘Upset over his grandad’s death.’

Which was to be expected. ‘Has he been in touch with any of his cousins since then?’

‘I’ve rung round all the family, and asked my kids, but no one’s heard from him for ages.’

‘Is that usual for him?’

‘Ellen says so.’

Ellen was Cantelli’s eldest daughter and the nearest in age to Johnnie at seventeen.

‘What about any of the social networks? Could Johnnie have posted something on one of them?’

Cantelli looked annoyed. ‘I should have thought of that. And I call myself a detective.’

‘You’re worried.’

‘Yeah, and that won’t achieve anything.’

‘Call Ellen now and ask her to check.’

By the time Cantelli came off the phone they had reached the police station. ‘She’ll call me back.’

‘Let’s get a copy of the report.’

It hardly told them anything except that Masefield had telephoned to report a member of his crew missing. He’d given the name and said he’d come along to the station after racing to give further details.

‘And you were satisfied with that!’ Cantelli declared in disgust, eyeing the young uniformed officer malevolently. Horton had seldom seen Cantelli lose his temper but he thought he was about to now and he didn’t blame him. He quickly interjected by addressing Cantelli.

‘Have you got a photograph of Johnnie?’

Cantelli took a deep breath. ‘Only an old one on my mobile phone.’

‘Email it to this officer.’ But Horton wondered if it was worth them circulating it here in Cowes because as yet they didn’t know where Johnnie had gone missing. Again to Cantelli he said, ‘Have you checked the local hospitals?’ Horton could tell by Cantelli’s expression he hadn’t and that he was cursing himself for not doing so. Horton asked Elkins to do it and to let him know the outcome. Then he made his way with Cantelli towards the bustling marina where music and laughter seemed to mock their solemn mood.

Horton asked in the marina office for the location of Masefield’s berth. It was at the far end of the marina. They headed towards it but still had half an hour or more to wait until the boat came in so he suggested they grabbed something to eat. Cantelli refused saying he wouldn’t be able to swallow a mouthful. But Horton insisted. ‘Starving yourself isn’t going to make Johnnie appear.’

Reluctantly, Cantelli acquiesced. Horton ordered two baguettes and a large cup of tea for Cantelli and a black coffee for himself and managed to get a table outside with a good view of the pontoon where Masefield would moor up. His phone rang. It was Elkins with the news that no one fitting Johnnie’s description had been admitted to the hospital on either the Isle of Wight or in Portsmouth. Horton relayed the information to Cantelli but it wasn’t much comfort to him. And Ellen’s call to say that Johnnie hadn’t used the most popular social networking sites for at least six months didn’t raise his spirits.

‘This isn’t looking good,’ Cantelli said, anguished. He’d hardly touched his food.

‘Let’s get some facts first. If we can find out exactly where he was last seen that would help.’ And Horton looked up to see two large sleek yachts approaching, one of which by Elkin’s description was Scott Masefield’s. But it was the one behind it that drew Horton’s attention. Or rather the slender attractive woman in her mid thirties at the bow who caught his interest and sent his pulse rate up. Only a few hours ago he’d brushed past her in a fury after his meeting with her father, Lord Eames. Did Harriet Eames know that her father worked for British Intelligence? Had he told her about Jennifer’s disappearance? Did it matter if he had? No, because he could forget any chance of a relationship with her; Agent Harriet Eames would return to her job at Europol in The Hague, and he would get on with his. And the sooner the better, he thought, rising.

‘Masefield’s yacht.’

As they made their way towards it, Horton’s mind went back to his first meeting with Harriet Eames in June when she’d been seconded to an investigation he’d been working on. Cantelli had been on holiday. From the beginning Horton had felt attracted to her. He’d got the impression the feeling was mutual but that was about as far as any relationship between them, apart from a professional one, had got and was ever going to get. Their backgrounds were poles apart, but even if he ignored that, her father’s involvement with Jennifer made it impossible for him to consider developing a relationship with her. He knew it wasn’t her fault who her father was. His argument wasn’t with her. But he could never get close to someone he thought might relay confidences to a man he believed was partly to blame for ruining his childhood – a childhood that had taught him to trust no one and suspect everyone.

He saw her raise her arm in a greeting, and her fair face lit up with a broad smile, and for one brief heart-stopping moment he thought it was directed at him, before a broad-shouldered man, in his early forties, with short-cropped dark hair, stepped forward, took the line as she jumped off the yacht and threw his arms around her. She didn’t look as though she was protesting. She laughed and gently pushed him away, and as she did her eyes caught his. Another smile formed on her lips and faded as quickly as it had appeared. He didn’t return it. He glanced at her coolly, aware that his expression conveyed none of his mixed-up feelings for her but perhaps hinted at hostility. He had enough problems without getting involved with Harriet Eames, so the less encouragement he gave her, and the more he steeled himself against feeling anything for her, the better. He turned his thoughts to the more important and pressing matter of Johnnie Oslow. Addressing the lean man who leapt off Masefield’s yacht, he said, ‘Mr Masefield?’

‘He’s at the helm.’

‘W
e had instructions to pick him up from Oyster Quays in Portsmouth on Wednesday at four thirty. He didn’t show.’ Masefield, an athletically built man in his late thirties, studied Horton with keen, intelligent brown eyes. They were sitting in the main cabin. Horton could hear the four crew members moving about on deck.

‘Didn’t you think that strange?’ Cantelli asked, his voice unusually sharp as he looked up from his notebook. The fact that he had made no protest about going on-board or that he didn’t look the least bit conscious of being on the water was testimony to his anxiety. They’d agreed not to mention that Johnnie was related to Cantelli in case it made Masefield or one of the others more reticent or skew the facts. Horton hoped that Cantelli’s feelings weren’t going to betray him. He couldn’t blame him if they did, but Cantelli was a professional and hopefully his training would help him to keep a lid on his emotions.

Masefield said, ‘I thought he’d missed the flight or the train from London, and that he’d make his own way over to the Island.’

‘You didn’t try calling him then?’ Horton quickly asked before Cantelli could, throwing him a swift glance which he knew the sergeant would correctly interpret as
take it easy
. He caught a slight flicker of acknowledgement in Cantelli’s dark and troubled eyes.

‘No. Why should I? It was nothing to do with me.’

‘He was a crew member,’ Horton said incredulously.

‘Yes, but not one of the crew.’