Death Surge (17 page)

Horton’s interest was deepening. It was sounding much more likely that Masefield was mixed up with Johnnie’s disappearance. ‘You don’t like him,’ Horton asked, picking up the vibes.

‘I didn’t say that.’ Then Winscom smiled. ‘I forgot I was talking to a policeman, an expert at reading undertones. But the kind of money he’s given Masefield for one boat and one crew could have helped a hundred of my people. But, like I said, Andreadis is a businessman, and if Masefield and his crew win races then that’s good business for Andreadis.’ Winscom eyed Horton over the top of his mug. ‘And it’s my own fault. I was the one who mentioned Xander Andreadis to Masefield.’

This was proving illuminating. How it helped him find Johnnie though, Horton didn’t know, but there were far too many links here for him to ignore. ‘So tell me how this referral system works,’ he said eagerly.

‘Those who get referred to us by the services’ community mental health department come from all branches of the services: navy, army, air force, marines. They learn how to sail alongside the young people we get referred by you and other agencies. For those who already have some experience of sailing, like Scott, we put them crewing with a team and then if they show ability make them up as skippers.’

‘Do any of them talk about their experiences in the forces?’

‘No. That’s part of the deal. Just as it is with the young people you refer to us. Their past is irrelevant. It’s how they behave and operate here and now that counts. If they talk outside the training then that’s entirely up to them. Of course, it doesn’t suit everybody, and we’ve had a few drop out or go off the rails, both from the services and from you.’

‘And Scott Masefield took your idea of rehabilitation and sold it to Xander Andreadis.’

‘Masefield is a natural sailor, an excellent team leader and skipper. I’m sure he’ll be very successful.’

‘Do you know any of his crew?’ Horton recalled the fit athletic group of men with their wary eyes and reserved manner. ‘Eddie Creed, Martin Leighton, Craig Weatherby, Declan Saunders?’

‘Only Martin Leighton. He was here, but not at the same time as Scott. He joined six months after Masefield had left.’

‘I’d like a list of everyone who was here at the same time as Johnnie.’ Horton thought that there might be someone he’d become friendly with or met up with recently and who he might have confided in. And there was still the chance that Sawyer was wrong. Horton wasn’t ruling out the possibility that Johnnie had become infatuated with a woman and gone off with her.

‘I’ll have to go through the database. I’ll call you as soon as I have it.’

And there was no harm in checking out Masefield and Leighton. Masefield and his crew had claimed not to know Johnnie, but Horton wasn’t so sure they were telling the truth. Even though both Masefield and Leighton had been at the sailing charity at different times to Johnnie it was possible that one of them had discovered that Johnnie worked for Andreadis and had used that information to target him. But none of Masefield’s crew could be responsible for the charred body at Hilsea. They’d all been in Cowes last night.
If
they were responsible though and the body
was
Johnnie’s then they had to be working with someone.

He asked Winscom who had referred Masefield and Leighton.

‘Dr Claire Needham.’

He got the address of the community health department from Winscom, promised to return for a sail as soon as he could, and then set off, only to discover that on Tuesdays Dr Needham worked in her private clinic. Armed with her address, he headed there and within ten minutes found himself looking up at a large cream-painted Victorian house in one of the most prestigious parts of Southsea, not far from the Common.

After announcing himself in the intercom at the double wooden gates he was permitted entry. Clearly, clinical psychologists did very well for themselves, he thought, if this house and the very expensive motor with the personalized number plate standing on the drive was anything to go by.

He noted with approval the security cameras above the three stone arches that guarded the front entrance, and there were other cameras at several strategic points around the two-storey house. He was being watched. He didn’t mind. This property would be a target for some of the lowlife dregs of humanity that lived in the city.

The door was opened by a stocky dark-haired man in his late forties with an impressive display of muscles bulging from beneath the short-sleeved white T-shirt. His deep brown eyes studied Horton coolly before carefully scrutinizing his ID card. Perhaps clinical psychologists employed bodyguards, thought Horton, stepping inside. The man didn’t introduce himself, in fact he didn’t speak, but opened a door on Horton’s left and nodded him inside. The door closed quietly behind him. He was alone.

Horton eyed the elegant, tastefully and expensively furnished pale-yellow lounge. He looked for cameras and couldn’t see any but he got the impression he was being watched. He wondered if Dr Needham had been threatened by one or more of her unbalanced patients.

Peering out of the open long sash window into a beautifully tended and landscaped garden he caught the strong smell of freshly mown grass and the sight of the man with muscles digging over a flower bed. As though sensing his gaze, he straightened up and looked towards Horton for a full four seconds before continuing to dig with a slow methodical rhythm. Horton wondered who he was and at the same time whether Dr Needham thought Horton himself might be a prospective patient. Police officers suffered a high level of stress not only from having to tolerate low life criminals and witness the appalling things people did to one another but also because of the occupational hazard of having the living daylights kicked out of them and worse.

The door behind him opened, and he turned to find a tall, shapely and long-legged woman in her early forties. Her short blonde hair framed an exquisitely made-up face, and she was studying him with hazel eyes that oozed charm and sexuality. She was dressed in tight black trousers and a small floral patterned silk top that accentuated her breasts and nipped in at her waist before folding gently over her hips. He could see her white bra beneath it. She wore low-heeled sandals and advanced towards him with an outstretched hand; she had long nails, varnished pink. He didn’t look to see if the colour matched that on her toes. He knew it would.

‘I’m Dr Needham,’ she announced in a slightly deeper voice than he’d expected. It added a hint of warmth to the hazel eyes, which otherwise would have been a little too probing and possibly a little too cool. Her handshake was firm. Horton returned the pressure. ‘I’m not what you were expecting,’ she said with a smile, showing very white, even teeth.

He didn’t think he’d shown any reaction but maybe he had. ‘I wasn’t sure what to expect,’ he said truthfully, but now that he’d seen her he wondered what Scott Masefield and Martin Leighton had made of her, and she of them. Had either or both of them fancied her and tried it on? He wouldn’t have blamed them if they had.

She gestured him into the room behind her. There was no couch as such but the leather chaise positioned between two long sash windows clearly substituted for one. The room was furnished in a more modern style than the one he’d just vacated; along with the leather chaise there was a modern black ash desk with a laptop computer on it and a matching low coffee table and four easy leather armchairs around it. Dr Needham gestured him into one before taking the seat next to him. The scent of her spicy perfume and her closeness caused him a few moments of unease. He sensed an air of gentle teasing about her that he found both sexually arousing and alarming. Maybe she lured her male patients into a sexual trap and once enslaved they opened up their minds and hearts to her. He steeled himself to guard against her charms, which wasn’t that difficult for him; all he had to do was remind himself she was a psychiatrist, a breed he trusted almost as little as some of the crooks he had to deal with, after having been subjected to some members of the species as a troublesome child.

He apologized for disturbing her and showed his ID. ‘I’d like your help with a current investigation.’

‘You’re here officially?’

He wasn’t sure if the small frown puckering her smooth forehead was of irritation or surprise because she’d misjudged his visit. ‘You can bill us for your time,’ he answered, a little more curtly than he had intended.

‘I didn’t mean that,’ she dismissed lightly and pleasantly, but he caught a slight tension in her manner that hadn’t been there before. ‘It’s just not normal procedure.’

‘This is not a normal case, if there is such a thing.’

‘Not in my experience.’

No, and not in his either. ‘Time is critical, and I thought I’d take a chance that you were available and willing to see me, but if you’d rather we request your assistance formerly then—’

‘No, not at all. I don’t have any patients on a Tuesday. I clear my paperwork.’

He flashed a glance at her desk where there was no evidence of paper of any kind, a bit like DCI Bliss’s. ‘You seem to have succeeded. Wouldn’t like to do mine, would you?’

She laughed lightly, and he found himself comparing it, and her, with Sarah Conway. There was almost twenty years between their ages. Their personalities, mannerisms and occupations were vastly different, and yet he was betting that both women knew the effect they had on men, and both used it to their advantage.

‘How can I help, Inspector?’ she asked, eyeing him curiously.

He put his full attention on the reason why he was here. ‘I understand you assess those who are traumatized by their experiences in the services and refer some patients to Go About, the sailing charity.’

‘I do, yes,’ she answered, clearly perplexed by his line of questioning.

‘Scott Masefield and Martin Leighton being two of those who have been referred by you.’

She sat back, her expression now solemn. ‘I can’t tell you anything about that. It would be breaching patient confidentiality.’

‘Pity, because I was hoping I wouldn’t have to request a warrant to see their medical files.’

‘Even with one I doubt you’d get access unless the navy give you permission. Why the interest in them?’

‘It’s my turn to use the confidentiality let-out clause, but they could have something to do with the disappearance of a young man whose life could be in danger and the suspicious death of a man found at Hilsea Lines last night.’

‘I heard about that on the news this morning. But I still can’t give you the information you need.’

‘Not even if it means saving a young man’s life?’

‘I’d be only too willing to help if I could, but not without the proper authorization.’

‘I didn’t think you’d be a “more than my job’s worth” sort of person,’ he retorted, trying to provoke her, but he was wasting his breath.

‘You don’t know what sort of person I am, Inspector. But I
am
a professional and I
do
respect my patients’ confidentiality.’

Horton knew she wouldn’t budge. ‘OK, then perhaps you can give me some general background. How do service personnel get referred to you?’

She sat back and crossed her legs, studying him for a moment before speaking. ‘In 2001 a government review resulted in the treatment of defence mental health patients moving from inpatient care to community-based services in the form of military Departments of Community Mental Health. Since then there has been a number of comprehensive studies and a further review looking into the support given to service personnel and veterans who may suffer from mental health problems because of their experiences in the services. To cut a long story short a number of initiatives resulted from that, including providing early intervention for those suffering from stress, provided by experienced clinicians.’

‘Such as yourself.’

‘Yes. I work with both veterans and serving members who experience stress and mental health problems. Most mental health problems treated in the military are the same as those for any civilian: a difficulty coping when something happens, such as a relationship ending. This can create anxiety or depression, a dependency on drugs or alcohol.’

Tell me about it, thought Horton, making sure to keep his expression completely neutral. Not that he’d turned to drugs, but he’d certainly turned to drink.

‘Service men and women are also more likely to be exposed to violent and traumatic events while serving. But not everyone in the services who has experienced violence is damaged mentally, just as not every police officer or firefighter is damaged mentally by what they see and have to deal with. The services are good for many people. Not everyone suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.’

‘But some do?’

‘Yes.’

‘Masefield and Leighton?’

‘Hospitalization for a mental health problem in a military context is associated with a low rate of retention in service, whereas an outpatient occupational mental health service returns a substantial number of patients to occupational fitness within the armed forces. That is where I and my colleagues come in.’

He noted she hadn’t answered his question.

‘We offer specialized psychiatric services, including psychiatrists, community psychiatric nurses, clinical psychologists, mental health social workers and occupational therapists. Don Winscom’s sailing charity is just one organization which provides occupational therapy for those veterans and serving members of the forces who are likely to respond to it.’

‘On your recommendation.’

‘Not just mine but the teams who are looking after that individual.’

‘And it’s worked so well for Masefield that he has enlisted the help of a millionaire to buy him a yacht and aims to set up a charity to help service personnel and veterans by competing in yacht racing as therapy.’

‘He does? That’s excellent news.’

‘You didn’t know.’

‘He’s no longer my patient.’

‘How long does someone remain a patient?’

‘It depends. Usually a year, possibly longer if they have underlying problems.’

‘I won’t bother asking you how long Masefield and Leighton were patients because I doubt you’ll tell me.’