Death Surge (22 page)

‘So you learnt while with the charity?’

‘Yes. But Scott had sailed before then. Eddie, Declan and Craig were all experienced sailors when they joined.’

Horton left feeling uneasy. There was a lot they weren’t telling him and had no intention of telling him. He diverted to the bar and asked if the manager or any of his staff remembered seeing Masefield and his crew in there a week ago, Wednesday evening.

‘They’ve been in every evening for the last week, at least for a while,’ the manager, a man in his mid-fifties with a slight squint, answered. ‘So I guess they were here last Wednesday, but the days go so fast I can’t remember.’

That wasn’t a great deal of help, but one of the bar staff remembered they were definitely in the bar on Wednesday. ‘It was my birthday, and Scott insisted on buying me a bottle of champagne. I told him I couldn’t drink on duty, but he said I was to take it home and celebrate in my own time. I thought it was a lovely gesture.’

And an extravagant one at the prices the bar would charge. And was it done deliberately so that the date would stick in her mind? But Masefield couldn’t have engineered her birthday. But if had been a deliberate act in case someone came asking then he’d have found another reason to make the date memorable. Horton asked if all the crew were there.

‘Yes. They must have been.’

That wasn’t the same as saying they were there.

He called Elkins and said he was ready to return to Portsmouth. As he waited for the police launch to come alongside he looked around for Peter Jarvis and his luxury cruiser, but he, Catherine and it had gone.

On the police launch he considered what he’d been told. The dates of the jewellery thefts fitted with Masefield’s sailing itinerary, and despite what Masefield and Leighton claimed they must have known Johnnie. Masefield in particular because of his relationship with Andreadis.

By the time he returned to the station it was late afternoon, and he found Cantelli and Walters in CID. Cantelli reported that he’d assigned a female police officer to liaise with Karen Godfray, and Karen had asked if Tyler could have gone off with Johnnie – a natural assumption given their line of questioning on Monday.

‘I told her we were checking every possibility. But I couldn’t find any evidence in his room to suggest it. The high-tech unit might get something from his computer though. Neither Tyler nor Stuart were at the property in Old Portsmouth on the sixteenth of July because Jaystons didn’t start working on it until the twenty-second of July, and the Gosport ferry staff don’t remember seeing him crossing on Tuesday night.’

Horton addressed Walters: ‘Anything from the CCTV footage?’

Walters shook his head. ‘Can’t see him on the Hard or approaching the railway station or ferry.’

Horton was about to relay what he’d discovered on the Island when Uckfield stormed in with a face like a constipated turkey. He jerked his head at Horton’s office. Horton could guess what this was about. With glance at Cantelli he followed Uckfield in and closed the door behind him.

‘I
’ve just had my arse chewed off by Wonder Boy.’

One of Uckfield’s more complimentary terms for ACC Dean. Horton walked around to his side of the desk but didn’t sit and neither did Uckfield.

‘Sawyer’s complained to Dean, who wanted to know why I gave you permission to question Masefield.’

‘News travels fast. Who told him I was there?’

‘No bloody idea. He claims they won’t attempt a robbery now.’

‘That’s one happy householder then who will keep hold of his possessions. Sawyer believes it
is
Masefield then?’

Uckfield threw himself in the chair the other side of Horton’s desk. ‘I don’t know.’

Horton sat. ‘His yacht was at all the locations where the robberies took place and on the relevant dates. Sarah Conway gave me photographic evidence. I know that’s not enough,’ he added hastily, stalling Uckfield’s predictable reply, ‘but if they are the culprits then me showing up asking about Johnnie isn’t going to scare them off. There are too many connections with Johnnie to ignore the fact they could be involved in his disappearance. I believe they’re working with someone here on the mainland, but don’t ask me who because I haven’t a clue.’ An idea was forming in the back of his mind, though – one which he’d examine later. He also had an idea of who might have tipped off Sawyer about his visit to Masefield. Perhaps Rupert Crawford had rung Harriet Eames and told her he was over there nosing around.

‘You’re not to go near Masefield or any of his crew again.’

‘Not even if they lead us to Johnnie, and to Ryan’s killer?’

‘
If
they do then
I
put it before Dean and he decides. Or rather Sawyer does and tells the gnome what to do.’ Uckfield rose. ‘I’ve got a press conference to give tomorrow morning. DCI Bliss will be on it with me.’

That would please her. ‘Are you putting out an appeal for Johnnie?’

‘You heard what Sawyer said earlier. No. We concentrate on getting information that can help us with the inquiry into Ryan’s death, which you’re supposed to be working on.’

‘Are you going to mention Tyler Godfray’s disappearance?’ Horton asked, ignoring Uckfield’s jibe. He
was
working on it. If Godfray was mentioned alongside Ryan Spencer, then some clever dick journalist such as Leanne Payne would look them up in back issues of the newspaper and come up with a connection to Johnnie Oslow and Stuart Jayston.

Uckfield said, ‘Just Ryan Spencer.’

Good, but Horton didn’t think that would stop Karen Godfray from going to the press, especially as she’d be anxious to get as much assistance as she could in trying to locate her son. And no one could blame her for that.

After Uckfield had left, Horton shelved his thoughts on the case for a few minutes and looked up Peter Jarvis. He didn’t have a criminal record, but then Horton hadn’t expected him to have one. He probably had a big bank balance though, because according to the Internet he was chief executive of an international packaging conglomerate. Catherine was moving in wealthy circles, which would please her and her snotty-nosed parents no end. Jarvis was also divorced and had a son, aged sixteen. Horton hoped Jarvis was decent, honest and normal, whatever that was. He didn’t care what Catherine got up to, but he was particular about who was spending time with his daughter. He thought the sooner she returned to boarding school the better.

He dealt with some messages and emails with only a third of his mind on the job; the other two thirds were occupied by thoughts of the numbers on the envelope, and of the murder of Ryan and disappearance of Johnnie and Tyler. Sarah Conway had sent over a whole swathe of photographs complete with times and dates on them, which Horton studied before sending them across to Trueman and calling him to explain what they were and why he’d asked for them. ‘Anything on the crew yet?’

‘No, but I might have something later tomorrow.’

‘Is Agent Eames still there?’

‘Left half an hour ago.’

To go where? wondered Horton. Back to the Island to spend the evening with Crawford and Stevington in the yacht club, or to join her father at his house? Or was she reporting to Sawyer? Or perhaps she’d returned to a hotel to spend the evening alone going over the case notes or the jewellery robberies. It wasn’t his concern.

By the time he took a couple of telephone calls, both unconnected with the case, it was gone seven. Walters had left twenty minutes ago, bleary eyed, he claimed, from staring at the screen with zilch result. Cantelli came in to say that he and his brother Tony were going to ask around the shops, pubs and bars in Oyster Quays, Old Portsmouth and in Guildhall Walk to see if anyone remembered seeing Johnnie. At the same time they’d show Tyler’s photograph. Horton doubted they’d get a result, and Cantelli knew that. ‘I’ve got to do something, Andy,’ he said before leaving.

Yes, thought Horton with frustration and agitation as he made his way to his yacht. And
he
should be doing something, but what, for Christ’s sake? Poor Barney was growing leaner and more haggard by the hour. Cantelli had told him that Isabella was still working in the seafront café, to keep herself occupied, but Horton knew she must be wearing herself to a shadow with worry.

He changed into his running gear as soon as he arrived at the yacht and, after locking up, made for the promenade. He still favoured Masefield for playing some part in this and considered the idea that had occurred to him earlier, which he’d put to the back of his mind – could Masefield have recruited someone who had been at Winscom’s sailing charity but who hadn’t joined the sailing team for some reason? A former armed service colleague who had been referred by Dr Claire Needham, perhaps? He thought it was viable, and although Don Winscom had sent through the list of those who had been at the charity when Johnnie had been there, that had been before the community health department had begun referring service personnel and veterans. And the latter list was the one he wanted. Cantelli and Walters would start checking through the first tomorrow to see if any of the people on it had a criminal record, had been in touch with Johnnie or had visited any of the localities where he’d been.

He reached the old hot walls where he descended to street level and swung left, with the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour and Gosport on his right and Oyster Quays behind him. The seats outside the pub that faced on to the harbour were packed with people enjoying a drink and meal in the tranquil, humid night. He noticed a couple sitting close, their heads together over their drinks. His heart skipped several beats as the woman looked up, and Horton felt a searing surge of jealousy. Harriet Eames’ blue eyes registered surprise. Roland Stevington followed her gaze. She waved a hand, gesturing him over, but Horton stabbed a finger at his wristwatch, smiled and ran off, the smile instantly vanishing when he was out of sight. His envy was irrational because he’d already acknowledged that he was never going to have a relationship with her, but he couldn’t help feeling it nonetheless. And why shouldn’t she be enjoying herself and carrying on as though nothing of importance was happening? He could hardly expect her to be stuck in some hotel room alone worrying about Cantelli’s nephew.

He tried hard to get thoughts of her out of his mind but it was difficult, so it was with surprise and annoyance that on entering the marina car park he found himself facing DCS Sawyer. He’d been caught off guard.

‘Have you thought any more about my offer, Inspector?’ Sawyer asked. ‘The chance to find your mother.’

‘And Zeus.’

‘Yes.’

How much did Sawyer know of his recent research? Was he in Professor Madeley’s and Lord Eames’ confidence? Were the intelligence services using Sawyer and the Zeus story to divert him from finding out the truth? Did Zeus really exist, and if so, had Jennifer had some connection with him? Horton couldn’t trust anyone.

‘Why do you think Jennifer ran off with Zeus?’ he asked.

‘I told you, we have certain information.’

‘Yeah, from an informant who is now dead. Why don’t you officially reopen the case into her disappearance?’

‘You know why – it would alert Zeus, or certainly one of his operatives, who would report back to him.’

‘And do you know who these operatives are? No, I thought not. So all you’ve got is the word of some toerag criminal that someone called Jennifer Horton once had an affair with this top guy code-named Zeus. Not much, is it? But publicly putting around that Detective Inspector Horton, the son of Jennifer Horton, is now working for the Intelligence Directorate might provoke one of them out of the sewer and into the daylight, especially if you then leak that I’m engaged in looking into a series of jewellery robberies. Why not simply leak the information about who I am and hint that I’m working on the thefts anyway? Ah, but then you wouldn’t be able to keep such close tabs on what happens as a result.’

‘And I wouldn’t want you to come to any harm,’ said Sawyer smoothly.

‘And Zeus might slip through your fingers. I’m happy as I am, sir,’ Horton said, beginning to move away.

‘You might not have a choice.’

Horton halted. He knew that Sawyer was referring to the fact that he might be forcibly transferred out of CID into the Intelligence Directorate, or possibly into a dead-end desk job that would positively make him beg Sawyer to take him on. ‘There’s always a choice,’ he said evenly and walked away.

His phone rang as he stepped on-board his yacht. Tense and troubled by Sawyer’s visit, he answered it. It was the station.

‘Jean Jayston has reported her son, Stuart, missing,’ the officer said. ‘I thought you’d like to know.’

Horton glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes to ten. It was a bit early to worry about a grown man’s absence, or rather it would have been in normal circumstances, but these were far from that.

‘They called in five minutes ago, sir. I took the details and suggested that he might be with friends, but she’s contacted everyone they know and no one’s seen him. He was supposed to be meeting Gordon Jayston, his father, at a prospective client’s house at seven o’clock, and he didn’t show up. Mr Jayston called the men who were working on the property on Hayling Island with his son and they said he left there at four thirty, and that seems to be the last time anyone saw him. Mrs Jayston has tried her son’s mobile phone several times and left messages but he hasn’t called her back.’

That sounded more than just a lad going off with his mates. Horton relayed the registration number of the van and asked for an alert to be put out for it. ‘Tell the Jaystons I’m on my way.’

Twenty minutes later Gordon Jayston, a short, stout balding man in his mid-forties, showed Horton into the lounge of the large modern house, situated on the main road that headed east out of the small town of Havant. Horton remembered him quite clearly now from the court appearance of his son. He’d lost a lot of his hair in the last seven years but he was still the same blunt angry-faced man.

‘I’m pissed off with him, and he’ll get a piece of my mind when he does come in,’ Jayston declared. ‘I told Jean not to call the police, but you know what women are like.’ He darted a hot, angry glare at the listless woman sitting on the cream leather sofa shredding a tissue. Her streaked flat blonde hair fell around a lined, sallow face. Horton calculated that she must be a similar age to her husband, but she looked a lot older and indeed had aged since he remembered her from the court. Back then she was a much smarter woman, dressed fashionably and heavily made-up.