Death Surge (30 page)

He said, ‘Get hold of the insurance report on the arson at the sailing club. Find out who lost what in the fire.’ He told Cantelli they’d have a list of the members from seven years ago in the morning and heard Cantelli’s unspoken thoughts:
What good will that do when Johnnie might be dead?
‘Also get the case file on the arson. Go through it with a fine toothcomb, read all the statements, see if anything unusual stands out or if you recognize any names. I’m on my way back.’

There was nothing he could do here. He headed slowly back along the residential street where Johnnie and his mates had fled that night. The trees on his right signalled that he was passing the grounds of the psychiatric hospital. It was in there that Johnnie and his mates had run as the siren of the fire engines had sounded in the distance. Horton found himself turning the Harley into the long tree-lined driveway. He wondered how far they had run and in which direction. Had it been into the trees and across the grass to his left or into the thicker trees and shrubbery to his right? They couldn’t have run as far as the roundabout he was now approaching, in front of the elegant brick building, because the security cameras would have picked them out. He drew to a halt in one of the parking spaces. Was it significant? Did it matter? He doubted it. What had Tyler Godfray said?
Haven’t seen him for years. Not since he dropped us in it … He went squealing to the police.
Yes, Johnnie had been the first to own up after the patrol car had stopped them. And if they had stayed hidden in the trees and bushes they might have got away with it, or at least they might not have been apprehended so quickly.

Something stirred in Horton’s mind. He continued to stare at the entrance to the psychiatric hospital, recalling more of what Tyler had said.
He got scared. Went running out of that mental hospital like a lunatic.
Like a lunatic. Was it just a turn of phrase prompted by the fact this was a psychiatric hospital? Why had he run out?

Horton’s mind jumped to Zachary Benham, one of those six men in that photograph from 1967, and Horton recalled what he’d read online about the fire in which he and twenty-three other men had perished. They had all been locked in their rooms. But mental health patients weren’t locked up any more, or were they? Yes, some were, but many weren’t, and what if Zachary Benham had witnessed something and had died for it? What if Johnnie had seen something which had so scared him that he’d run out of the grounds and into the arm’s of the police
like a lunatic
? The others had followed.

He felt a rush of adrenalin, sensing that he was on to something. If that was the case, then why hadn’t Johnnie mentioned it when questioned? Had it terrified him so much that he couldn’t bring himself to speak about it? Was it because he wasn’t sure of what he’d seen? Or because if he mentioned it he’d be laughed at? Maybe he thought it was an illusion, his mind playing tricks with him; many people were frightened of the mentally ill. But he
had
seen something here, or rather someone, and the killer, fearing that Johnnie and the lads would talk about it, had silenced them because of it. But why wait seven years?

He made his way to the entrance, his mind working overtime. There was an answer to his last question. The killer had been admitted here and had stayed here until recently. On his release or discharge, whatever term they used, he’d gone to live or work abroad, and that was where he had suddenly and unexpectedly come across the young man who had seen him in the grounds one night seven years ago.

Horton stood in the entrance for a moment and considered it. The killer had made it his business to find out everything he could about Johnnie, and he’d watched and waited to find out if Johnnie would recognize him. Maybe he did. Maybe not. But the killer wasn’t prepared to take that chance, because if it came out that he’d been here as a patient it would ruin him. Why? What was at stake here? His career? His marriage? Or was there no reason – the killer was mentally ill and viewed Johnnie as a threat for what he might reveal.

Horton made for reception and demanded to speak to the manager. She wasn’t there, but the assistant manager was. Horton waited impatiently for her, only to be told that he couldn’t have access to medical records or details of patients without a warrant. Horton felt like screaming, but she was adamant, and despite the fact that someone’s life was in danger, which he told her, she dug her heels in.

He left in a temper. There might be another way. Dr Claire Needham. But as he headed along the seafront towards her house he suddenly realized that he didn’t need the records or to talk to Dr Needham. He pulled over and removed his helmet, looking across the choppy Solent, which was growing steadily darker in the declining day. He just needed to put the strands of what he knew together. Think logically, he urged his tumultuous brain. Consider what you know, both the facts and the suppositions. The killer was a very competent sailor who knew the tides around Portsmouth and how to navigate narrow channels in the dark. How did he know that? Perhaps he had been raised here. He also knew the Hilsea Lines well enough to plant the bodies, so he could be someone who had either lived in the area, or who had worked in one of the units backing on to the bastions. Or perhaps, like Cantelli, his father had. Horton felt a frisson of excitement. This man had befriended Johnnie after coming across him while abroad. How had he met him? Through sailing, of course, either at a location where
Calista
had been moored or at one of the races Johnnie had participated in. He’d cultivated a friendship with Johnnie, who had been persuaded to keep it secret. Why? Because he had promised Johnnie something, a future racing with him, a special mentoring programme, oh yes, Horton was beginning to see it quite clearly. And on the sixteenth of July this man had met Johnnie and had taken him out sailing for the day – as a trial, he would have told him. But all the time he was pumping Johnnie for information about his past, his old schoolmates, their names and backgrounds so that he could trace them and plot how best to deal with them. Then when his plan was complete he had suggested to Andreadis that he send Johnnie over to compete with Masefield to see how he shaped up with a new crew. Or perhaps he hadn’t openly suggested it, perhaps he’d planted the idea in Andreadis’s mind or in Johnnie’s and it had somehow come up in conversation. Then Johnnie was here but was diverted to the Camber where the killer met him. Not on his yacht, that would have been too conspicuous, but on a borrowed RIB or small motorboat.

Farrelly’s dark eyes swam before Horton’s vision, and that pinprick of a memory he’d had when looking into them coalesced into recognition. He was looking for a fanatic. A man with passion, with a ruthless determination to succeed at all costs, a man who took risks and wasn’t afraid of the consequences, a man who could plan in advance and for whom danger held no fear, just like Sarah Conway. A man who would cold-bloodedly kill.

Horton donned his helmet and swung the Harley round. He might already be too late, but he had to take the chance. How to get him to reveal where Johnnie was though, he didn’t know, only that he had to try.

T
here was no sign of Stevington on-board his yacht. Horton’s hopes were dashed only to be lifted a moment later when a voice called out, ‘Looking for me, Inspector?’

Horton swivelled round to see Roland Stevington on the deck of a small hi-speed motorboat with a cuddy. ‘I was,’ he answered lightly, making his way towards him as casually as he could although his body was taut with anger and adrenalin.

Stevington said, ‘I hear that Sarah Conway’s been killed in a RIB accident. What a tragedy. She was a brilliant sailor and photographer; completely mad though.’

‘How did you hear?’

‘News travels fast on the sailing circuit. It’s been on the Internet and the radio. I also heard that a man’s being held for questioning regarding her death and that of the other lads who have died here recently. I’m assuming it’s Duncan Farrelly. Is it true?’

‘He denies having any involvement in the deaths of Ryan Spencer, Tyler Godfray and Stuart Jayston.’ The last name hadn’t been released, but Stevington showed no sign of surprise or puzzlement at Horton’s mention of it. ‘If he’s telling the truth then we’ve hit a brick wall with the investigation, and there’s still Johnnie Oslow to find.’

‘No progress on that then?’

‘None. But I’m not here about that. It’s regarding what you were saying earlier, about single-handed yacht racing. I’ve been giving it some thought. It’s been a hell of a couple of years for me, what with my suspension; Harriet might have mentioned it to you.’ He knew he was fishing.

‘She said something about an investigation that went wrong, but I don’t know the details.’

Stevington might not, but Horton bet Harriet Eames did. She might not have heard about it from her father though; anyone in the station could have told her.

Stevington said, ‘Still, you’re back in the job now.’

‘Yes, and I’m thinking of chucking it in. I’ve had enough, and now that my marriage is over there’s nothing to keep me here. I wondered if you had a moment to talk.’

‘Come on-board.’

Horton jumped on to the deck. ‘Not your usual method of transport,’ he joked.

‘No, but it’s useful for crossing to Cowes.’

And to the Hilsea Lines and the boat house on Hayling Island, thought Horton as Stevington added, ‘The marina has loaned it to me.’

‘I guess when you get to be famous you get quite a few things loaned to you.’

‘And given to me. Clothing, equipment, just as long as I’m willing to be photographed wearing it or using it. Drink?’

‘Diet Coke, if you’ve got one?’

Stevington slipped down into the small cabin and reappeared with a can unopened. Horton wouldn’t have drunk from it if it had been opened.

‘It’s not very cold, I’m afraid. No fridge on this thing, very basic. Just a cool bag.’

‘That’s fine.’ And in that cool bag would be food, drink and drugs for Johnnie. With relief, Horton realized he’d made it just in time. ‘I’m not delaying you, am I?’

For a moment a flicker of surprise showed behind Stevington’s deep brown eyes, before he smiled and said, ‘Not at all.’

In that instance Horton saw that Stevington knew why he was here, and it didn’t have anything to do with talking about single-handed round the world sailing. But they’d keep up the pretence a bit longer. Horton forced himself to appear relaxed although his body was filled with tension and his mind was working overtime on how to handle this.

‘Did you belong to a sailing club when you lived in Portsmouth? Hilsea, wasn’t it?’

‘No, Cosham.’

‘Not far from the Hilsea Lines then.’ Horton took another pull at his Coke, keeping his eyes on Stevington, who was sitting opposite him. Cosham was across Port Creek to the north.

‘My Dad worked at Alanco Aviation which practically backs on to it. Sometimes I’d meet him from work and play in the old ramparts and the moat.’

‘Before you discovered sailing and competitive racing.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you were always best sailing on your own?’

‘Yes. A bit like you, Inspector.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Because you’re here on your own, and you’re taking a chance. Hattie was right when she told me you would make a good single-handed sailor. You’re like me: someone who prefers to be alone, without encumbrances.’

And did Harriet tell you that too? Is that her view of me?

Stevington continued: ‘You like a challenge and you’re prepared to take risks, just as you’re doing now. No need to put on the bemused act, Inspector. You know I killed Ryan, Tyler and Stuart, and you want to know where Johnnie is and if he’s alive.’

Horton wasn’t surprised that Stevington had taken this stance; it was why he’d come here alone, without back up and without calling in, because if they had brought Stevington in for questioning he would simply have sat in the interview room, saying nothing and letting Johnnie die. Then they would probably have had to release him because of lack of evidence.

‘Is he alive?’ Horton asked almost casually, though his nerves were taut.

‘I’ll take you to him. It’s what you want, isn’t it?’

Horton saw the challenge in Stevington’s eyes: duck out now and you might get to live but you’ll never find out where Johnnie is, or come with me and take the slim chance that you’ll get the better of me if it comes to a fight and you might get to save Johnnie.

‘Thanks.’

Stevington cast off. As Stevington navigated out of the marina, Horton wondered if he could retrieve his phone from the pocket of his jacket and call in, but he wouldn’t be able to do so with Stevington so close to him in the small motorboat at the helm. No, he had to go along with this and find a way out of it once he knew where Johnnie was. Once he’d seen him.

He didn’t notice the drizzling rain now sweeping off the sea and blowing into his face as he sat close to Stevington under what little cover there was from the awning. He speculated on where they were heading, knowing it wouldn’t be the Hilsea Lines. Soon Stevington was passing through Portsmouth Harbour and into the Solent, keeping the Gosport coastline close on their right. Old Portsmouth and Southsea receded further in the distance on their left.

Horton said, ‘Why did you kill them?’

‘I couldn’t let them stop me from competing,’ Stevington tossed over his shoulder, speaking as though Horton would understand.

‘Would they have done that?’ he asked, making sure to maintain a conversational tone.

‘If they’d gone public with what they’d seen.’

‘You in the grounds of the psychiatric hospital seven years ago, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

And Horton knew that meant Stevington couldn’t afford to let him live either. This was a man who would risk everything for his passion. A fanatic who would let nothing stand in his way, who had defied danger and cheated death so many times that he had probably come to believe he was invincible. He was fit and ruthless. He took chances, and so far they had paid off. If one day they didn’t then maybe he would go out laughing – like Sarah Conway, Horton thought with a pang of sorrow. But however it ended Stevington certainly wouldn’t go without a fight, and Horton steeled himself for it.