Death Surge (23 page)

‘He’s probably with some tart and forgot he had to meet me, but I’m telling you that’s it, he’s out.’

‘Gordon, he’s young.’

‘Young or not he’ll get a piece of my mind and the sack,’ Jayston declared, standing with his short legs astride and glowering at his wife. ‘I’m sorry if we’re wasting your time, Inspector.’

Horton didn’t think they were. He’d noted Stuart’s car on the driveway but not the van he had been driving that morning. But then he hadn’t expected to see that there. He addressed Jean Jayston: ‘Does he usually go off without telling you or stay out of contact this long?’

‘No. Never.’

Her husband snorted. She flinched as though he’d physically hit her or personally abused her – maybe he had by slagging off her precious son. But her anxiety made her brave enough to say, ‘He’s never not shown up when he’s meant to be meeting you, Gordon.’

‘Too bloody right. I’ll give him what for.’

‘When did you last see your son, Mr Jayston?’ Horton asked without his voice betraying any of his concern.

‘This morning. He was lounging about in the kitchen drinking tea and fiddling with his bloody phone. I told him to shift his arse and do some work. I got a grunt for my troubles as usual. I didn’t have time to hang around. I’ve got another big job on over at Cosham – we’re renovating a garage, and we’re running behind schedule. The small jobs I leave to Stuart, and he can’t even handle them. I’ve had to pull everyone off that house on Hayling Island because the bloody wood hasn’t arrived, which it would have done if he’d remembered to order it when I told him to.’

‘And you, Mrs Jayston?’

‘Stuart left here at about nine thirty.’

‘Did Stuart tell you that I interviewed him this morning?’ Clearly, by their shocked expressions, he hadn’t. ‘I went to the Hayling Island property to ask him if he has seen or heard from Johnnie Oslow.’

‘Johnnie? No, of course he hasn’t,’ Jean Jayston replied.

Horton eyed Gordon Jayston carefully.

‘That again!’ Mr Jayston exploded. ‘Don’t you ever let it go?’

‘Not when we have a suspicious death, sir,’ Horton answered evenly. Jean Jayston went paler and her husband glowered. Horton continued: ‘Ryan Spencer is dead, and Tyler Godfray and Johnnie Oslow are both missing.’

‘Well, Stuart has nothing to do with that or them,’ Jean Jayston cried while twisting the tissue in her hand. It was almost in shreds. She appealed to her husband.

‘He better not had. I gave him a right bollocking last time when I knew the kind of trouble he’d got into. I still can’t believe that a son of mine could have done such a stupid thing like setting a fire. High jinks, yes, I can accept that. But arson, no. His mother spoilt him; he’d had too much of his own way and that made him weak. I hoped that he’d show a bit more spunk if I gave him responsibility. Huh, I might just as well have been pissing in the wind.’

Jean flinched again, and the tissue was now pulp in her skinny fingers.

‘Why did you engage Tyler Godfray then?’ asked Horton.

‘That’s a bloody good question! Why did I? Because Stuart asked me to and his mother
begged
me to. I thought OK, let’s give him the chance, but he’s lazy, arrogant and useless. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just wants a couple of days’ holiday.’

‘He’s done this before?’

‘Yeah, phoned in sick with some illness that no bugger’s ever heard of. A load of old flannel. This time he probably forgot to call in, or thought he could get away with it because he’s Stuart’s friend. Tyler’s already had two warnings. He’s late so many times with enough wild excuses that would make an adventure novel sound boring. Either the ferry’s broken down, the skipper’s had a heart attack and they had to be boarded by the Pilot, they had to wait for a battle cruiser to sail up the channel, or the Border Agency stopped them to search for drugs or a criminal. You name it he’s claimed it. Lives in a ruddy fantasy world. This time he’s out.’

‘Was Stuart worried Tyler hadn’t shown for work?’ Horton asked, thinking he hadn’t sounded worried when he’d interviewed him, but he recalled that he had been uneasy.

‘No. I don’t think he cares for him much now anyway.’

‘Have you seen Johnnie Oslow in recent years?’ Horton probed, in case one of them had come across Johnnie while on holiday. But they both shook their heads.

‘You can’t think that Stuart has anything to do with them missing and this … this death?’ Jean Jayston asked, ashen faced.

‘We’re just gathering information, Mrs Jayston, but we do need to speak to Stuart again and we are concerned for him. We’ll put out an alert. If you could let me have a recent photograph.’

She swallowed and grabbed her mobile phone. ‘I’ve got one on here.’

Horton handed her his card and she sent the photograph across to his phone with fumbling fingers. Her nails were bitten down to the quick. ‘I’ll try Stuart’s mobile again.’

Horton could see by their expressions that they were now far more concerned than when he had first arrived.

‘I can’t seem to get through to his number,’ she said anxiously.

That sent alarm bells ringing through Horton, but he disguised his fears.

‘I’ll get this picture circulated. There’s a chance that he’s got held up drinking with friends you don’t know and his phone battery’s run down.’

It was bluff, and they both knew it.

‘If you could give me his mobile phone number.’ Jean Jayston relayed it. Horton said, ‘Does Stuart have a computer?’

Gordon Jayston answered, ‘Yes, a laptop.’

‘Is it here?’

This time his wife replied. ‘It’s in his room. I’ll check.’

She looked at her husband for approval. He gave a curt nod, and she scurried out.

Eyeing him with suspicion, Jayston said, ‘Why are you interested in that?’

‘He might have sent an email arranging to meet someone.’

‘He’d have done that from his phone.’

‘Possibly. But there’s always a chance that he didn’t.’

Jean Jayston hurried back slightly breathless. ‘It’s not there. He must have it with him.’

Horton’s apprehension deepened. ‘Is that usual?’

She looked confused.

‘Did you see him leave with it this morning?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Could he have returned home today when you weren’t here?’

‘I suppose he could have done. I had to go shopping. It didn’t look as though he’d been home though. There were no cups of tea lying around. You think something’s happened to him, don’t you?’ she added, her voice shaking. She dashed a glance at her husband. Horton, following it, caught a flash of something in Gordon Jayston’s eyes and it wasn’t just concern. There was fear and suspicion. Despite his angry denials, Horton could see that Jayston was actually considering if his son
was
responsible for Ryan’s death.

He said, ‘Can you tell me where Stuart was last Wednesday afternoon and evening?’

Gordon Jayston answered promptly: ‘Working on Wednesday and here in the evening.’

‘You were here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he have a girlfriend?’

‘No.’

Horton said, ‘I’ll keep you informed. Meanwhile if you hear from your son, please call me.’

Gordon Jayston showed Horton out into the hall. His voice hard he said, ‘You’re wrong, Inspector, dead wrong. Stuart was a bit wild in his youth thanks to being easily influenced and weak willed, but he knows better than to get involved in anything like arson again.’

‘Does he though, Mr Jayston?’ Horton said calmly, holding his gaze.

‘I bloody hope so,’ he muttered, miserably.

Horton called the station and asked someone to check with the hospital. He relayed the details the Jaystons had given him and emailed over the photograph. He didn’t think there was any point in disturbing Uckfield or Bliss. It was now just after eleven thirty. He returned to the boat. There was nothing more he could do that night. But tomorrow morning was different. And he knew exactly who he was going to see. They needed help. He just hoped she’d be able and willing to provide it.

H
orton was surprised when Dr Needham answered the intercom at the gates to her house. He had expected muscle man. He said he needed to consult her urgently, and without commenting she buzzed him through. He rode slowly up the gravel drive recalling his phone calls earlier that morning. The Jaystons had reported that there was still no sign of their son and no contact from him, while the station had confirmed no sightings of the van. Horton had then rung Uckfield and updated him but he’d said nothing about coming here. Horton knew that Uckfield wouldn’t approve and neither would Bliss but he didn’t need their approval. He just needed results.

‘Come in,’ Dr Needham said, opening the door to him, her tone a little more guarded than at their previous meeting. He suspected she was anticipating him trying to pump her about Masefield and Leighton. She was again wearing trousers, but this time they were a rose brown and complimented by a white cotton shirt that showed no cleavage or bra beneath it and which was tucked into the waist of her trousers. He thought of Harriet Eames’ neat waist and shapely figure and tried not to think of Roland Stevington enjoying it last night.

‘Coffee? It’s freshly made.’

He could smell it. He accepted with alacrity and followed her into a bright, modern and spacious kitchen at the rear of the house, where the dark-haired man with muscles like Jean-Claude Van Damme was drinking from a mug. He eyed Horton without showing any emotion.

Claire Needham said, ‘My brother, Art.’

Art nodded at Horton but didn’t offer his hand. At what must have been a minute gesture from Dr Needham he left the room. Horton gazed around it. It was divided in half by a low-slung sofa which faced a row of built-in bookshelves and a large plasma television screen showing a politician pontificating about something. Horton was about to mentally tune him out when Claire Needham stabbed a button on the remote control and the oily politician disappeared. In front of the sofa was a coffee table covered with paperwork. She crossed to it, retrieved the mug on it and, taking it to the coffee machine, poured herself a fresh cup and one for him. Handing it to him she said, ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

He took neither. She invited him to sit at the breakfast table in the middle of the kitchen and took the seat opposite him, sipping her coffee and studying him with her keen hazel eyes. The scent of the intoxicating perfume on his previous visit was absent. In fact he couldn’t smell any perfume at all, but her make-up was again exquisite and there was still an erotic air about her that would have sent his blood pressure up if he hadn’t been so worried.

He began: ‘Everything I’m going to tell you is confidential.’

‘Of course.’

‘The press have some of the details and Detective Superintendent Uckfield will be giving a press conference in about half an hour, but a great deal of what I am going to tell you the media won’t be told and I’d like it to stay that way.’

‘If you don’t trust me, Detective Inspector Horton, then I suggest you drink your coffee and leave.’

He took a breath. He almost called it off then, but he thought what the hell – Cantelli needed all the help he could get, and if this meant he’d get reprimanded then it was a price he was willing to pay. And what was one more reprimand to those he had already accumulated? Besides, he needed information desperately. He had to trust her for Cantelli’s sake. He said, ‘I apologize. I need someone unconnected with the case both professionally and emotionally and—’

‘Your bosses don’t know you’re here.’

He nodded and swallowed some coffee. It was good.

‘You’re going out on a limb for this. Why? Because you’re personally involved?’ A small frown puckered between her perfectly shaped eyebrows as she studied him with interest.

He told her about Johnnie Oslow’s background, the arson he’d committed with the other boys when they were sixteen, and how Johnnie had been rehabilitated by the same sailing charity as Masefield and Leighton, and no doubt others she’d referred there. That drew a slight look of surprise from her but no comment. He gave her the details of how and when Johnnie had gone missing but didn’t mention Johnnie’s relationship to Cantelli or Cantelli to himself.

She listened in silence without interrupting, giving only the occasional nod while keeping comfortable eye contact to show he had her full attention. Neither did she say anything when he relayed that Johnnie had been working for and sailing with Xander Andreadis, just as Masefield and Leighton now were, and that on the day he’d disappeared Johnnie had been due to be collected by them from Oyster Quays. He’d arrived in Portsmouth just over a week ago and had vanished. Now one of the boys who had committed the arson with him was dead and the other two were also missing.

When he’d finished she said, ‘Hence your previous questions about Scott Masefield and Martin Leighton. You want to know if either man is capable of kidnap and killing. Even if I told you that they could be that doesn’t make them suspects or killers. Many people are capable of doing vile deeds sometimes committed because of extreme provocation, other times the result of professional training or because the individual is disturbed and suffers from a personality disorder, as you in your job well know.’

He made to speak but she held up her beautifully manicured hand and continued. ‘I know nothing about Johnnie, or the other boys, other than what you have told me, so let’s explore the other possibilities and the one which is concerning you. Could Johnnie have returned to his old ways, killed Ryan Spencer and set the fire to cover his tracks?’

She’d gone right to the nub of one of the theories that had been espoused, which he should have expected because he hadn’t mentioned Johnnie’s possible involvement in the international jewel thefts or Uckfield’s theory of Andreadis being blackmailed. So she had no reason to suspect Masefield and Leighton of any involvement. But he was dismayed and discouraged that she had so readily grasped at that theory. It confirmed to him what he had voiced to Cantelli, that if the press got hold of the connection between Johnnie and the death of Ryan they might hint at or print the same theory. And now with Stuart and Tyler missing they’d fairly leap to the same conclusion. There was no hard evidence to back this up, and there were several unanswered questions about how they’d got to the Hilsea Lines and where the remaining three men were, but when had facts got in the way of a good story?