Death Surge (27 page)

He applied his thoughts to the more urgent matter of Johnnie’s disappearance and the deaths of Ryan Spencer and Tyler Godfray. There was something playing at the back of his mind, something he’d missed – that they’d
all
missed, he thought, ignoring the curious glances of the dog walkers and hikers as he trudged on in his biker leathers towards a mound of green earth rising from the pebbled beach. He stopped in front of it. Behind the earth, hidden from view at this angle, was Fort Gilkicker, an ancient monument that was about to be developed into more exclusive houses and apartments. He gazed up at it. There was nothing to see except the revolving coastguard radar on top of what had once been gun casements, but behind it, hidden from view, lay a row of derelict red-bricked barracks, stores and offices, which were to be converted to houses. The fort had originally been built in 1871 to protect Portsmouth harbour and to defend the deepwater anchorage at Stokes Bay. It had been abandoned by the military some years ago and left to rot by the council; surrounded by a wire fence, it was out of bounds to the public, and the builders had yet to move in. The deep throb of the hovercraft caught his attention, and he turned to watch it ride the tops of the small waves across to the Isle of Wight where he could see the yachts racing out of Cowes. It made him think of Catherine, with her new boyfriend, and Emma. He tried hard to push away his personal problems and willed his mind to concentrate on the matter in hand: Johnnie Oslow and the deaths of his old schoolmates. What was it that was bugging him?

His gaze fell on the Portsmouth horizon, taking in the council tower blocks one of which he’d lived in with his mother. He remembered how he’d look out of the window for hours watching the ships on the Solent. Perhaps he might have joined the navy if his young life hadn’t been so disrupted. For a brief moment he considered what might have been if his mother hadn’t vanished, but only briefly, because he knew those kinds of thoughts only led to bitterness. His gaze swept along the coastline of Southsea to the pier, and then the castle that Henry VIII had commissioned to protect the coast. More fortifications. That elusive thought niggled at him. He frowned in concentration, trying to grasp it.

He let his eyes look back westwards to the oldest part of Portsmouth. The cathedral rose behind the ancient walls of Old Portsmouth, with its Round Tower, originally built in the fifteenth century, and its Square Tower, built in 1494. More sea defences, like the fort behind him. Then it clicked. He spun round and stared at the fort and then back at the sea. Of course. What an idiot. It had been staring him in the face. He must have been blind not to see it!

His pulse quickened as he rapidly recalled what he’d seen that morning with Cantelli while climbing to the top of the bastion from the car park. Uckfield too had missed it, and he shouldn’t have done because he was also a sailor. It was so obvious that he was furious with himself for taking so long to realize that the killer hadn’t met Ryan at the ramparts, or driven Tyler’s body there. No, he’d take them there by sea.

It was simple. The killer had made his way up Langstone Harbour and into the Hilsea Channel and along Port Creek. It must have been a small boat without a mast, because one with wouldn’t have been able to get under the bridge that spanned the dual carriageway of the Eastern Road. It would have been dark on both occasions, but a small light on the boat would have helped the pilot to navigate. There were no houses overlooking the area, and the cars flashing past on the motorway wouldn’t have seen it either. The creek was navigable at high tide.

Swiftly, he took his tide timetable from his pocket, although he didn’t really need to consult it. Yes, high tide on Monday night, when Ryan had been found, had been at eighteen minutes past nine, and the fire had been reported at fifteen minutes past nine. The killer had carried Ryan’s body from the nearest accessible point from the creek up to the tunnel, dumped it, and then set light to it. Then he’d called the emergency services from a mobile, which had now been dumped, before setting the second fire, and had then calmly taken the boat back into Langstone Harbour. Where he had gone or come from was another matter entirely. He could have travelled from so many points along the coast. But whoever the killer was he was fit enough to carry a body, unless there had been two or maybe three of them. Two to carry the body and one to remain in the boat.

High tide last night had been at eleven o’clock, so Tyler’s body could have been dumped anytime between nine p.m. and one a.m. They hadn’t had to carry him very far, just under the railway bridge and around to the far corner of the moat. Men trained to be super fit. Men who had been in the services. Men who knew about tides and navigating in the dark. Masefield and his crew. But they were all in Cowes. Or were they? And if it was them then Dr Needham’s theory about Cantelli was shot to pieces. And Sawyer’s theory was right back in the frame.

He reached for his phone and called Trueman.

‘What have you got on Masefield and his crew?’ Horton asked eagerly as soon as Trueman came on the line, hoping that by now he had something and that Harriet Eames was still out of the office.

‘Not much,’ Trueman answered. ‘Scott Masefield and Craig Weatherby are both former Special Boat Service members.’

Masefield had said he’d been in the Royal Navy, and Leighton had confirmed this. Neither had made any mention of being in the Special Boat Services. A deliberate lie or just an evasion of the truth to avoid being asked further questions? Horton wasn’t sure but he knew that the Special Boat Service was an elite band of men trained to carry out highly secretive and dangerous missions not only on sea and along coastlines but also on dry land operations, including those undertaken in Afghanistan and Iraq. Men more than capable of navigating a narrow creek in the dark.

Trueman continued. ‘Eddie Creed was in the Fleet Diving Squadron, served in Iraq, Dubai, Malaysia and the USA; Declan Saunders was also Royal Marines but Commandos, and Martin Leighton was Royal Navy, Corps of Royal Engineers, amphibious engineer. I can’t get access to their medical records, but all five men were discharged from the services on medical grounds.’

Horton explained his theory. ‘They must have another boat at Cowes they are using to get across the Solent when it’s dark. And while some of them are making an appearance in the bars the other two or three are slipping away. It’s either a small high-speed motorboat or a RIB.’

‘Aren’t they taking a chance on being seen crossing the Solent?’

‘What’s another RIB at this time of the year? There are hundreds of them, and especially around Cowes Week. And why shouldn’t they be out on it? Masefield claims not to have met Johnnie at Oyster Quays, which I believe, but there’s nothing to stop one of the others, or an accomplice, meeting him at the Camber on the RIB. And that’s what Tyler and Stuart witnessed.’

‘And Ryan Spencer?’

‘Johnnie told whoever picked him up who the two lads he was talking to were and also mentioned Ryan Spencer. It took the crew a few days to track them down and plan how to kill them, but these are resourceful men and they’d manage it.’

But there was still that matter of Ryan Spencer having a phone. Then he saw it. Tyler and Stuart hadn’t seen Johnnie meet Masefield last Wednesday week, but they
had
seen him with the crew, or one or more of them, on the sixteenth of July, and by then Masefield was already planning to dispose of Johnnie.

But although some of the pieces fitted there were still a lot that didn’t. Maybe under questioning they’d get slotted in. The important thing was to find out where the crew were holding Johnnie and get to him and Stuart before they were killed.

He continued: ‘Johnnie must have discovered or suspected that they were involved in these thefts that Sawyer and Eames have been investigating. They were racing in all the relevant locations at the time.’ He silently recalled what Sarah Conway had told him. ‘Every safe had been expertly blown using the latest in sophisticated explosives and the scene wiped clean, a neat and quick in and out job. In other words a highly professional operation carried out by a very specialized team which Masefield carefully put together for just such a purpose. They thought Johnnie knew too much. Maybe they engineered it for Andreadis to suggest Johnnie join them.’

But why had Johnnie asked the taxi driver for the fare to Hayling Island? Could the taxi driver have been mistaken?

‘Is Uckfield there?’

‘No. He’s in with the ACC and DCS Sawyer.’

Horton cursed. He didn’t have time to hang around waiting for them to finish their meeting. ‘Tell Uckfield we need to bring them in for questioning and bugger what DCS Sawyer says. If it cocks up his operation then tough.’

But Sawyer might overrule Uckfield. ‘Tell him I’m on my way over to the Island to apprehend and question them.’

‘Andy—’

‘I know. But I’ve got to force the issue. If Uckfield or Sawyer want to bollock me then tell them they’ll need to come over and do it there.’

These were clever men though. Horton knew they wouldn’t talk. And they had no evidence to charge them. All they had to do was remain silent and wait until the time limit for questioning them was up and then they’d be released. The minutes and hours would tick by and Johnnie and Stuart would be dead. He couldn’t let that happen. He had to make one of them talk before Sawyer got there.

H
orton called Elkins and asked him to collect him from Haslar Marina as quickly as he could. It took Horton eight minutes to reach the marina, and it took Elkins and Ripley another eight before they arrived in the police launch, which to Horton seemed like the longest eight minutes of his life. Finally, though, he was on-board donning a life jacket and Ripley was speeding across the Solent towards the mass of sails swarming around Cowes and out of Cowes.

‘Where’s Masefield?’ Horton shouted above the throb of the engine. He’d already asked Elkins to locate him.

‘Getting ready to race. His class start at twelve thirty,’ Elkins replied.

Horton consulted his watch. Good, that gave them at least half an hour, which was enough time to prevent Masefield from competing, and that would hit him where it hurt.

‘But, Andy, I’ve been checking him and the crew out like you asked, and they have good alibis for last night.’

‘All of them?’

‘Yes, they were in the yacht club receiving the trophy for winning their class and they didn’t leave until gone midnight.’

That was worrying – or it would have been, except that Horton was now becoming convinced, beyond all doubt, that the crew had an accomplice. There was no other explanation. ‘Did you notice if they made contact with anyone in particular?’

‘Not really, but I wasn’t watching them the entire time, and I wasn’t at the yacht club.

‘And Tuesday evening when Tyler went missing?’

‘They were all in the bar at Shepards Wharf until eleven thirty.’

And that ruled them out but not an accomplice. Someone outside the immediate crew, but who was working with them. Someone with a RIB who had been at all the locations where the robberies had taken place. Someone on the sailing circuit who cased out the properties, listened to the gossip in the marinas and knew Xander Andreadis’s movements. But that accomplice wasn’t Johnnie. Somehow Johnnie had stumbled on who it was, or the accomplice believed he had, and therefore Johnnie had to be disposed of. When the accomplice had picked Johnnie up in the RIB at the Camber at Old Portsmouth he’d seen Johnnie talking to Tyler and Stuart, and he could possibly be identified, so Tyler and Stuart had to be dealt with. And so too had Ryan because one of the lads could have spoken to him.

As Horton’s brain raced to pull the remaining threads together he saw, ahead, just coming out of the Medina, Sarah Conway and her helmsman, Duncan Farrelly, on their RIB, making towards the buoy that marked the start of the race, ready to take photographs. They’d both been here during the Cowes to St Malo race in July when Johnnie had been on
Calista
.
And Sarah Conway and Duncan Farrelly had been at all the other race events where those properties had been targeted. Now he knew who Masefield’s accomplice was alright. Duncan Farrelly.

He reached into his pocket for the lists he’d picked off Winscom’s desk, cursing himself for not looking at them earlier. With mounting excitement he rapidly ran his eye down the names until he came to one. He drew in his breath. There he was, Duncan Farrelly, another of Dr Claire Needham’s referrals two years ago.

To Elkins he said, ‘What do you know about Duncan Farrelly?’

‘Not much. He hardly speaks, worships the ground Sarah walks on, which is understandable, and is an ex commando.’

That figured. He was strong and fit. Certainly strong enough to carry a dead weight up a bank and hide it in a bastion, and to carry another body from a RIB and place it in the moat. It was what he had been trained to do. That, and to kill.

‘Head them off.’

‘I thought we were after Masefield.’

‘Sawyer can deal with them. Farrelly’s in league with them.’

Elkins looked surprised but gave instructions to Ripley at the helm. Horton watched Sarah Conway’s RIB draw closer. The broad shouldered helmsman’s face was serious and set. Farrelly tossed something over his shoulder at Sarah, who was standing behind him, photographing the yachts in her wake and those just leaving the marina. She moved to stand next to him, then she pointed the camera at the police launch and kept clicking until the RIB was level with them.

Horton hailed them. ‘Sarah, I want a word with Duncan.’

‘Can’t. Not now, Inspector, the race is about to start.’

‘I don’t think you’ll be photographing this one. Or if you are then you’ll need to do it without Duncan.’

‘Why? What’s he done?’ she asked, smiling.

‘We’ll escort you back to the quay.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Inspector. This is my job.’

‘And I’m doing mine.’ And time was running out. Farrelly was their killer, and he would know where Johnnie was. And if he was still alive. He didn’t have time to piss about.