Death Surge (6 page)

‘I wondered if I could have a word, sir.’

He turned to find himself facing Agent Harriet Eames. What else could he say except, ‘OK.’

‘Scott Masefield told me you’re looking for one of his crew who’s gone missing,’ she said, climbing on-board. Her blue eyes looked troubled, and her fair face was creased with concern. He thought it genuine, but that didn’t erase his suspicions that her father might have sent her here to find out what he knew about Jennifer’s disappearance, or rather about her father’s involvement in it.

She was wearing tailored navy blue trousers, deck shoes and a tight fitting blue and white T-shirt, all of which showed off her figure to perfection … and it was a nice figure. He caught the soft smell of her perfume as she descended into the cabin, and he thought of Sarah Conway. Not because she had worn perfume or smelt as soft as Harriet Eames, but both women heightened the ache of his loneliness. He’d been too long on his own. His marriage was over. Catherine was never going to be his again, and he didn’t want her, but he wanted something, someone. He’d thought that he had found that person not long after the breakdown of his marriage, in January. But Thea Carlsson, a woman he’d got close to during an investigation into her brother’s death, had returned to Sweden, her home country. She hadn’t been ready for a commitment, and neither had he, but he missed her and she’d made it difficult to find her. He hadn’t tried.

Harriet Eames was standing so close to him that he had only to reach out and touch her. He had the feeling she wouldn’t resist. But it was a boundary he couldn’t cross, not with her. Her father had made any relationship with his daughter impossible.

‘Is it true that the missing man is Sergeant Cantelli’s nephew?’

‘How do you know that?’ They hadn’t given Masefield that information, and Harriet Eames hadn’t met Cantelli. He saw a flicker of surprise in her blue eyes at the sharpness of his tone.

‘Scott told me why you were at the marina, and then I ran into Sarah. She said a good-looking detective had wanted a photograph of Johnnie Oslow. I called the police station and got the details. I thought you and Sergeant Cantelli had left the Island, but the Commodore of the yacht club told me that he’d given the police berth to a Detective Inspector Horton.’

And why did he tell you that?
How had his name come up in conversation? And if Agent Harriet Eames knew he was here then her rich daddy certainly knew too.

She said, ‘I’ve come to see if I can help.’

Did he believe her? He recalled the scene in the yacht club earlier that morning when she’d stumbled on him and her father in a heated exchange. Maybe she did want to help in the search for Cantelli’s nephew, but he also knew there was another reason why she was here.

He said, ‘And you’re curious to know what my argument with your father was about.’

She eyed him coolly. ‘Yes, but I don’t expect you’ll tell me any more than he did when I asked him, so I’m not even going to waste my breath. I’d like to help you find Johnnie Oslow.’

‘Why? You don’t even know Cantelli,’ he said with a touch of scorn. He was cross with her for making him so hostile.

‘That doesn’t stop me caring or being a police officer,’ she sharply rejoined. ‘And don’t say that because I’m at Europol I’m just pen pusher. I’m not, and you know it. So, do you want my help or not?’

‘What about Rupert?’ Horton sneered.

‘What about him?’

Horton held her angry eyes. Did she mean it? Could he trust her? God, he wanted to, and badly. But trust was something he found so very hard to give. The small voice inside him warned caution. She could be here under daddy’s instructions to wheedle her way into his affections (which wouldn’t be difficult) in order to discover what he would do next in his search for his mother. But would Lord Eames use his daughter in that way? The answer came back almost immediately: you bet he would. Whether Harriet Eames would allow herself to be used though was another matter. He didn’t know the intricacies of her relationship with her father, only that he remembered her telling him the first time they’d met in June that her family hadn’t approved of her choice of career. With that thought came the memory of a fleeting expression of sadness crossing her face when they’d been on-board the ferry together, sailing to the Island from Portsmouth while on duty, and she’d told him her father owned a house there. But whatever his feelings for her and her father, they were nothing compared to his concern for Cantelli and his family over Johnnie’s disappearance. That took priority. He needed all the help he could get, whatever form it came in. And the form couldn’t get better than Harriet Eames.

His phone rang. ‘It’s Cantelli,’ he said, quickly answering it.

‘There’s no one on duty who was working on Wednesday,’ Cantelli said dejectedly. ‘The guard on that train from London Waterloo will be on duty tomorrow. I got his home address and telephone number but there’s no answer. I’m outside his house now in Portsmouth. He’s not in. I’ll try tomorrow.’

And tomorrow meant another night of not knowing, just like the many nights Horton had experienced throughout the years of not knowing, maybe never knowing. No, he didn’t even want to consider Cantelli and his family experiencing that.

Cantelli continued: ‘The security manager said that they’d be able to tell if Johnnie’s ticket had gone through the automatic barriers on leaving the station because of the bar code on it. If we can get hold of the ticket booking reference number then it would speed things up, otherwise they can conduct a computer search if the ticket was booked in his name or if we give the name of the person booking it.’

‘Sophia can tell us that.’

‘Yeah, and probably not until tomorrow or Monday,’ Cantelli said, somewhat exasperated.

‘Even if she had it now, Barney, I can’t see any IT department working on this overnight or on a Sunday.’

‘I guess you’re right,’ Cantelli reluctantly agreed. ‘The security officer is looking out the CCTV footage for me and so are the Oyster Quays security team. I might get them tonight, but it’s more likely to be tomorrow.’

‘You’ll have fresh eyes on it then, Barney.’

‘I know. I just wish there was something more I could do.’

There was nothing, except to issue Johnnie’s photograph to the London police, which Cantelli said he would see to, and Horton knew that would have about as much effect as dropping a grain of sand in a sandcastle. He rang off without telling Cantelli about his guest. There was no need.

‘Drink?’ he asked her.

She held his eyes. ‘Tea would be nice.’

Horton flicked the switch on the kettle and gestured her on to the bench seat the other side of the galley table. She slid on to it, and while he waited for the kettle to boil he relayed what they’d discovered, which didn’t take him long, ending with the fact they didn’t know where Johnnie had gone missing except that it had been in England.

‘Would he have gone missing deliberately?’ she asked.

He turned away to pour hot water on her tea bag and on the instant coffee in his mug. ‘Cantelli swears not. Even if he was in trouble I can’t see him causing his mother so much anguish.’ But as he spoke he thought back to the arson. Johnnie hadn’t given a thought to his mother’s feelings then, although there had been extenuating circumstances.

As he handed her the mug of tea her fingers brushed lightly against his causing a slight hiatus in his pulse. Taking his coffee he sat opposite her, his knees almost touching hers. If he moved an inch he’d connect with her. The music and laughter from outside carried on the night air to them. He said, ‘Johnnie does have a criminal record.’ He told her about Johnnie’s conviction for arson. ‘It was following the sudden death of his father. He got in with the wrong crowd.’

She looked thoughtful. ‘He was easily led astray once, he could have been again.’

‘But the circumstances now are completely different from then. He has a good job, one which he loves—’

‘He might have grown sick of it.’

‘Xander Andreadis told me that he was keen to expand Johnnie’s experience, which was why he was here to race with Masefield, but perhaps Johnnie thought Andreadis was trying to push him out.’

‘And Johnnie decided to jump ship rather than wait until he was pushed.’

‘But why not tell his family?’

‘Perhaps he’s too scared, knowing that everyone will think him foolish for throwing in a good job. Maybe he thought he’d wait until after Cowes Week to tell them.’

‘But that doesn’t explain why his mobile phone is dead.’

‘Perhaps he dropped it and it’s broken.’

She was voicing many of the thoughts he’d had. ‘He must have known that sooner or later during the week someone would start to ask questions about why he wasn’t here for the racing. But Masefield didn’t seem bothered, and if it hadn’t been for Andreadis calling him to wish him luck and asking after Johnnie no one would have known now.’

‘Perhaps Johnnie was counting on that.’

Horton considered this. Was it usual for Andreadis to call up his teams before a race and wish them luck? He didn’t know but he’d like to. He eyed her keenly. Perhaps Harriet Eames could tell him that and more. ‘So, tell me about Xander Andreadis.’

‘What makes you think I know him?’ she asked, eyeing him steadily.

He began to count off on his fingers. ‘One, you’re a Europol Agent and Andreadis is Greek; two, you move in the same exalted sailing circuits where Andreadis is known; and three, why else are you here if, as you say, it’s to volunteer your help? You didn’t expect to carry a torch and search the streets and marinas for Johnnie, so it must be because you have information.’

There was a moment’s pause. He wondered if she was considering how much to tell him. She nodded and smiled. It was a nice smile if a little reserved, but he didn’t blame her for that. He wasn’t exactly being friendly towards her.

‘OK, official Europol background first. Xander Andreadis, as you are already aware, is a very wealthy man. Aged thirty-seven, he is the oldest son of Christos, now in his early sixties, and brother to Giorgos, who is thirty-three. Mother died when he was eighteen. The family are worth just over six billion dollars.’

Horton emitted a low soft whistle. ‘No wonder Xander Andreadis can experiment by buying yachts for the likes of Scott Masefield without batting an eyelid. How did the family make their money?’

‘We’re not quite sure of the origins but—’

‘Dodgy?’

‘Not necessarily, but it’s true to say that Christos started with nothing. He worked on the Greek-owned Chandris fleet as a deckhand, sailing on the
Patris
, the Australian migrant ship, taking migrants from Italy and Greece to Australia during the 1960s until 1975. Christos left it while it was moored in Darwin for nine months providing emergency accommodation for those made homeless by Cyclone Tracy on Christmas Day in 1974. He took a passage working his way to Singapore then came to England where he arrived in 1977, returning to Greece in 1979 where he began to build his empire. In various articles written about him Christos claims he made a couple of shrewd investments using money he had saved while working in England. Records certainly show he worked in the Savoy as a barman and at other top-class establishments in London prior to leaving the UK, which would hardly have given him a fortune.’

‘You’ve investigated him?’ Horton asked, interested.

She shook her head. ‘No. There’s never been anything suspect about his dealings.’

‘As far as you know.’

She shrugged. ‘Perhaps he was lucky in roulette or won on the horses. Anyway, he returned to Greece in 1979 with money to invest, firstly in a couple of bars, and then he bought up a number of hotels. The golden touch, or so the articles claim. He certainly seems to have had that. The Andreadis family now own several businesses – not only hotels and clubs, but shipping, petroleum, telecommunications, computer software and hardware companies, and they seem to be thriving despite the dire economic climate and austerity cuts in Greece, which have hardly dented their fortune. And so far there’s not even a hint of corruption or tax evasion.’

‘You suspect some?’

She shrugged again.

‘But you’ve checked?’

‘Both sons entered the business, but Xander Andreadis, the more academic of the two, came to England in 1995 and gained a PhD in Economics at the London School of Economics.’

Horton paused with his coffee cup halfway to his lips.

‘Is there something wrong?’ she asked, studying him.

It was a coincidence, that was all, because the timing was years away for any connection to the men in that black and white photograph from 1967. He swallowed a mouthful of coffee. ‘Go on.’ He noted she had avoided answering his question about the Andreadis family being investigated.

‘On his return to Greece, Xander took a major role in the business, eventually taking over from his father, making it even more successful, and diversifying into the custom-built luxury mega-yacht market – both the motorized and sail type – and into private jet hire. He also indulges his passion for yacht racing, as you know.’

‘And his brother, Giorgos?’

‘He also works in the business, but the rumour has it that he’s not so keen and that Xander tolerates him. Giorgos’ passions are fine art, property, cars and women, not necessarily in that order. Divorced twice, and about to be for the third time, while Xander is still married to number one, Diona, and has two daughters, aged fifteen and thirteen.’

‘Do they sail?’

‘Of course.’

It wasn’t relevant. They were too young to be of interest to Johnnie, because the idea had flitted through Horton’s mind that Xander might have wanted Johnnie out of the way if one of his daughters had become rather too keen on him. ‘And Giorgos, does he have children?’ Horton asked.

‘A son, Yannis, aged fifteen from his first marriage, another son, Zoi, aged ten from his second marriage and a girl, Theodora, from the third, aged four.’

So that ruled out that theory.

She continued: ‘Christos Andreadis is not in the best of health, having suffered two heart attacks, and he no longer takes an active part in the business, but he’s still a very strong influence and is fully aware of what is going on.’