Death Surge (21 page)

‘S
he won’t be difficult to spot,’ Elkins said ninety minutes later, on the launch heading for Cowes, when Horton asked if Sarah Conway was around. ‘She and her mad helmsman, Duncan Farrelly, will be the ones impersonating Kamikaze pilots.’

Horton gave a brief smile as the launch headed towards the myriad of yachts and pleasure craft. His mind flicked back to Amos’s envelope. He’d barely had time to consider it throughout the morning, what with Darlene’s revelation and then the interview with Stuart Jayston. Were the figures on the reverse some kind of code? If they were, perhaps a code-breaker could help him – except he didn’t know any. But surely Amos would have left a message that he knew he’d eventually be able to decipher? And if that was so, then anyone else would probably be able to as well, and maybe Amos hadn’t wanted that. So their meaning had to have a significance for him personally, and yet they rang no bells. Could they be the code to a safe deposit box containing information about Jennifer and her past? It was possible. But where? Amos had given no indication to him regarding that.

‘There she is.’ Elkins interrupted his thoughts.

Horton looked up to see Sarah leaning almost over the side of the RIB, lying on her back, photographing a yacht they were perilously close to. It belonged to Rupert Crawford and it looked as though Roland Stevington had again taken Harriet Eames’ place on the team.

‘Has she ever fallen in?’ Horton asked a little anxiously as Sarah Conway twisted and turned her lithe body in an attempt to get better and different shots.

‘Not here, but she must have done somewhere.’

Ripley made for the RIB as quickly as he dared without endangering the lives of the other boaters. Sarah straightened up with a broad smile on her face and made an O with her finger and thumb to her skipper to indicate she had all she wanted. She looked up and raised a hand in a cheerful wave to Elkins. He made a sign for her to come towards them. She nodded and gave instructions to Duncan Farrelly, who swung the RIB round and came alongside.

‘Can we talk?’ asked Horton.

‘I’ll come on-board.’

‘No,’ he quickly added as she made to climb from the RIB to the police launch, but he was too late. She was already on.

Elkins shook his head, saying, ‘You’re going to kill yourself one day.’

‘Better that than die a lingering death in old age,’ she answered cheerfully.

Elkins rolled his eyes and gave instructions for Ripley to head back to Shepards Wharf at a sedate pace and within the regulation speed limits. Farrelly followed in the RIB.

Sarah sat in the cockpit. ‘What I can do for you, Inspector?’

‘Do you remember if Scott Masefield and his crew were here for the Cowes to St Malo race in July?’

‘They were. I’ve got some great shots of them and of Andreadis’s yacht; would you like to see them?’

‘I would. When exactly were they here?’

‘The same time as we were – from the tenth to the seventeenth of July. The race set off on the thirteenth, and Duncan I and followed it across to St Malo.’

‘On the RIB!’

‘No. Duncan hired a high speed motorboat, but it’s not as good for taking shots as the RIB.’

‘When did you return?’

‘I can check the diary, but I’m almost certain it was the fifteenth. We got back just before the yachts pulled in. Then there was the party.’

‘Have you photographs of that?’

‘Of course.’

That meant Masefield was here when Johnnie had his day off.

‘Do you remember seeing them on the sixteenth of July?’ he asked.

‘Not off the top of my head, but the photographs will give me the time and date.’

‘Can you do that now?’

‘As soon as I get back; everything’s in the marina office.’

Ripley deposited them on one of the pontoons in the marina. Sarah went to have a word with Duncan, who had pulled up in the RIB a little further down. The marina was busy, and Horton’s gaze fell on a large motor cruiser and, on-board it, a man in his late forties who looked as though he could benefit from losing two stone. His suntanned face was a little too fleshy, his brown straight hair slightly over gelled and slightly too long, and his manner a little too overconfident, but then Horton guessed his view could be jaundiced because standing beside him was Catherine, so this had to be her new boyfriend, Peter. There was no sign of Emma. She must be with her grandparents. Catherine looked up. Irritation swept across her face as she registered him.

‘Ready?’ Sarah said, coming up behind him.

‘Do you know that man?’ Horton asked, indicating the cabin cruiser. Catherine’s irritation turned to surprise and then to hostility.

‘It’s Peter Jarvis. He’s some kind of businessman.’

Good, he’d got a surname. ‘Married?’

‘No idea. Not my type. Too old and too fat.’

Horton smiled. They headed towards the marina office. He wondered what Catherine was thinking. Would she wonder if Sarah was his girlfriend? Probably not. Catherine would surmise it had something to do with work, and she’d be right, he thought sadly. He said, ‘How well do you know Masefield and his crew?’

‘They don’t mix much, but they’re very serious about racing.’

‘Has Masefield sailed many races for Andreadis?’

‘Quite a few.’

‘Do you know which ones?’

‘I’ll have it on the photo files.’

Their conversation had taken them to the marina office where she greeted the staff and made for a small room at the rear. A few seconds later she emerged with her laptop. Horton offered to buy her a coffee and a baguette, which she accepted with alacrity, and by the time he returned she had the photographs on the screen. Drinking his own coffee and biting into a ham and cheese roll he watched as she pulled up the various yacht races. She didn’t ask why he wanted the information – perhaps because she knew he wouldn’t tell her.

‘Masefield and his team have sailed in nine races, ten if you include this week. Last year in July they were racing at Cork Week in Ireland, and then there was Cowes Week, followed by the Royal Dartmouth Regatta in Devon at the end of August. They were at Les Voiles de St Tropez in September; The Rolex Middle Sea Race in October, from Grand Harbour, Malta; and the next time I photographed them after that was at The Heineken Regatta in February, racing around the island of St Martin; then the Caribbean BVI Spring Regatta in March; Antigua Sailing Week at the end of April; and then the Cowes to St Malo Race here in July; and now again this Cowes Week.’

Horton rapidly linked this volley of information with what Harriet Eames had told them about the robberies. The first had been in an exclusive villa situated near Port De Saint-Tropez on the twenty-ninth of September, which tied in with the Les Voiles de St Tropez race. The next had been in a property close to Grand Harbour, Malta on the twenty-eighth of October, coinciding with The Rolex Middle Sea Race. The third, again in a top market villa near Simpson Bay Marina, St Marteen on the twenty-sixth of February, linked up with The Heineken Regatta. The last, on the twenty-third of April, had been just outside Falmouth Harbour, Antigua, linking with the Antigua Sailing Week.

He asked her to call up photographs of the Cowes to St Malo race in July and was soon looking at pictures of Masefield’s yacht in amongst several others, including Crawford’s. He looked to see if Harriet Eames was on-board, but she wasn’t. Then he spotted Andreadis’s yacht. He asked if Crawford’s yacht had been at the same races as Masefield and discovered that he hadn’t, but he had been at all the races where the robberies had taken place. Interesting. He asked her to email the pictures to him at work.

Sarah then called up photographs of the party on the evening of the sixteenth of July. Again Horton spotted Masefield and all his crew members, along with Rupert Crawford, and the crew he’d seen on-board on Saturday.

‘Have you got any pictures from last Wednesday and Thursday?’

‘Only a few. There wasn’t any racing, but Duncan and I went around the Island taking shots of pleasure craft and working boats.’

She didn’t have any of Masefield’s yacht. He asked if she had any for Monday, and soon he was looking at Masefield’s yacht racing in the Solent, again alongside Crawford’s, and they were all at the yacht club for the presentations in the evening. So neither Masefield nor any of his crew could have got to Hilsea, killed and set light to Ryan Spencer. But they could still be involved if someone else had done their dirty work for them.

Horton thanked her and headed for the pontoon, where he found Masefield and his crew. Judging by the joyous expression on their faces and the beer glasses in their hands they were obviously celebrating.

‘Congratulations,’ Horton said.

Masefield’s expression slipped a little as he looked up and saw who was hailing him. The others eyed Horton curiously and, he thought, a little warily.

‘Two more races and we’ll win the class.’

‘That will please Andreadis.’

Was this man Andreadis’s blackmailer, Horton wondered, or were he and his crew jewel thieves? He studied Leighton, Weatherby, Saunders and Creed as they sat drinking. Fit, intelligent, fearless, organized. Yes, it was possible. He asked Masefield if he could have a word alone.

Masefield stepped off the yacht, calling out to the others, ‘Won’t be long.’

You’ll be as long as I want
, thought Horton, recognizing there was something he didn’t like about Masefield, although he couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe that was how Don Winscom felt.

They walked along the pontoon in the opposite direction to the boardwalk. That was Masefield’s choice and Horton was happy to go along with it, though he wondered why Masefield had decided to walk to the seaward side rather than landward. Admittedly, it was quieter here but only just. Crawford looked up as they passed and then away again, not even bothering to acknowledge them, but Roland Stevington called out a congratulations to Masefield, who smiled his thanks.

The narrow stretch of the Medina was swarming with pleasure craft, which were obliged to stop and wait for the clanking chain ferry to make its noisy and laborious way from East to West Cowes.

Horton said, ‘I understand that you got your idea about sailing as therapy from your time at Go About.’

Masefield’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. ‘Yes.’

‘You were referred there by the services’ community mental health department.’

‘So?’

‘By Dr Claire Needham?’

‘I thought you were interested in finding Johnnie Oslow.’ There was curiosity in Masefield’s tone, but Horton also caught a hint of hostility.

He said, ‘I understand Martin Leighton was also referred to the charity.’ Horton looked back and saw the broad-shouldered, fair-haired Leighton glance their way.

‘And?’ There was again a small flicker of annoyance behind Masefield’s eyes.

‘Did you know the charity also helped Johnnie Oslow?’ He watched Masefield’s reaction closely and saw only surprise. Perhaps it was genuine, or perhaps Masefield was good at feigning it.

‘Did Don Winscom or any of the other volunteers mention Johnnie Oslow while you were there?’

‘No.’

But Masefield or Leighton could have accessed the records.

Masefield said, ‘Andreadis didn’t mention him either when I floated my idea past him. Perhaps that was why he was so willing to help – he already knew what the charity did. I guess it must have helped Oslow. But he wasn’t a serviceman, was he?’

You know damn well he wasn’t.
‘When were you at the charity, Mr Masefield?’

‘I suspect you already know that. But if you’re checking me out then I’ll humour you. I was there three years ago. I stayed for a year.’

‘And was this the same time as Martin Leighton?’

‘No.’

Horton had known that from Winscom.

‘I’m sorry I can’t help,’ Masefield said, making to leave, but Horton hadn’t finished yet.

‘How did you meet Andreadis?’ He thought he caught a flicker of exasperation in Masefield’s eyes.

‘I was sailing with another team in the Round the Island Race in June two years ago, just after I’d left Go About. We did well. Xander and I got talking in the club after the race, and I mentioned my idea to him and it went from there.’

And from there Masefield had got himself a yacht, a crew and had begun competing in his first race, which according to Sarah Conway was Cork Week in July of the following year. Not bad going. Horton was betting that Masefield had singled out Andreadis and targeted him, and he’d probably got that information from the files or from a conversation at Go About. He asked him when he had competed in his first race under Andreadis’s patronage, and Masefield confirmed what Sarah Conway had told him.

‘With the same crew?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you go on-board Andreadis’ personal yacht
Calista
at any time it was here in the Solent for the Cowes to St Malo race in July?’

‘No. We met a few times in the Castle Hill Yacht Club.’

‘I’d like a word with Martin Leighton.’ Horton made no attempt to move.

Masefield turned and walked briskly down the pontoon. Horton watched as he boarded the yacht and said something to the crew. Leighton’s eyes spun to Horton’s, but his expression was one of curiosity rather than concern. He headed towards Horton with an easy gait.

Horton didn’t waste time with unnecessary words because he knew Masefield must have given him the gist of his questioning. ‘Did you know Johnnie Oslow?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure his name wasn’t mentioned when you were with the sailing charity Go About?’

‘Why should it have been? Did he work there?’

Horton felt certain that Leighton had known he did. He was equally certain he was going to get nothing of value out of him.

‘Are you ex navy like Masefield?’

‘Yes.’

‘And the others?’

‘Eddie is ex Royal Navy, Declan and Craig are ex Royal Marines.’

‘How did you all end up together?’

‘Scott called me and asked if I wanted to join him, just like he did the others.’

‘Had you sailed before you were referred to the charity?’

‘Only on big ships,’ Leighton said with a slightly cynical smile.