Death Surge (4 page)

‘So you didn’t trust Scott Masefield and his crew.’ Horton used the word ‘trust’ deliberately to provoke a reaction, and he got one.

‘Of course I trust them,’ Andreadis said curtly with a touch of acidity.

‘But why put a young man with such an experienced crew? Surely introducing a new crew member so late would unbalance the team.’

There was a moment’s pause as Andreadis considered the best way to answer this. Horton guessed he was reassessing his original view of him. Andreadis must now know he was talking to someone who knew about sailing.

‘OK, so I admit I was curious to see how Scott and the others handled that. In yacht racing, Inspector, crew members can get injured and pulled out at short notice. The skipper and crew need to be flexible, and Johnnie needed experience of being pitched into a team at the last moment.’

‘He isn’t a very good team member then?’

‘On the contrary, he is excellent, but he’s been sailing with the same team and working with me and the same staff for the last five years. I thought it was time he started to broaden his skills, and as I said he wanted to spend some time with his family.’

Horton picked up on this. ‘When was he due back?’

‘He had a week off after Cowes Week.’

Horton threw Cantelli a glance. He shook his head to indicate it was the first he’d heard of it. Not that there was anything suspicious in that. Johnnie might have intended to surprise his mother, or perhaps he had arranged to stay with someone else. Who though? A friend? And was he now with that same friend?

‘Was there anything troubling him?’

‘Not that I’m aware of.’

‘Has he ever disappeared like this before?’

‘Never. He’s very reliable and an excellent sailor. He has a lot of talent and a passion for it.’

‘There’s never been any illness?’

‘No. He’s a very fit young man.’

‘How did he travel to the UK?’

‘My secretary booked his flight.’

‘From where?’

‘Here, Sardinia.’

‘I’d like the details please.’

‘She’s away with her family until Monday.’

Horton saw Cantelli open his mouth to protest but stilled him with an upraised hand. He knew that Cantelli was thinking someone else could look up the information, or Andreadis himself could obtain it, it could only be a matter of accessing a computer, but obviously that was beyond the scope of a millionaire.

‘It is very urgent, sir,’ pressed Horton. ‘Johnnie could have had an accident, and we need to trace his movements to find out where it could have occurred.’

Again there was a moment’s silence before Andreadis answered. ‘I’ll call her now.’

‘We’d also like details of Johnnie’s bank account in case he’s been attacked and his debit and credit cards stolen.’

‘That information might take longer to obtain. My finance director is not contactable until Monday. I’ll get Sophia to call you, though. What number shall I give her?’

Horton relayed his mobile number. ‘I was wondering if you have a recent photograph of him we could circulate.’ Cantelli’s was OK but rather out of date.

‘There are many taken during racing. I understand you are at Cowes, Inspector. Why don’t you ask Sarah Conway? She’s a professional photographer who’s taken many pictures of my team, Johnnie amongst them. I’m sure she’ll let you have copies. I’ll also call her and ask her to give you every cooperation.’

‘Thank you.’ Into Horton’s mind flashed the image of the woman he’d seen hanging off the edge of the RIB which had cut across his path earlier. Horton hung up.

Cantelli threw himself back in his seat and said, ‘He’s lying.’

‘He’s not comfortable about something, that’s clear, but that might be annoyance because he’s been personally inconvenienced. This is a man who has everything done for him; he doesn’t normally have to bother himself with small matters like staff problems.’

‘The more I hear the less I like it.’

Horton couldn’t help agreeing but he wasn’t going to tell Cantelli that.

‘And it doesn’t get us much further.’

‘It does,’ Horton contradicted. ‘I’ll get a photograph from Sarah Conway and get it circulated. There’s nothing more you can do here, Barney, so get back to Portsmouth and liaise with PC Allen. Also find out if Johnnie said anything to Isabella or anyone else in the family about staying on here that extra week. Ask Isabella if there was any change in his manner or if he’d ever mentioned being fed up with his job.’

Mournfully, Cantelli said, ‘I’ve ruined your sailing.’

‘No, you haven’t,’ Horton firmly replied, thinking that by now he might have been well on his way to France but he was damn glad he wasn’t. And he was glad that Cantelli had summoned him back, though not for the reason he had. He watched a forlorn Cantelli leave and went in search of the photographer.

H
e found Sarah Conway in a corner of the marina office hunched over a laptop, drinking coffee and tearing hungrily into a Danish pastry. She looked up distractedly as he addressed her. Her expression quickly cleared as he explained who he was and showed his warrant card.

‘Xander said you’d find me.’ She waved him into the seat beside her, quickly removing from it her sailing jacket and camera paraphernalia.

The Greek millionaire had been hot off the mark; not that Horton was complaining about that – speed was vital if they were going to find Johnnie, and there had been a decided lack of it so far. The seriousness of his tone must have made an impact on Andreadis; at least he hoped so.

Horton eyed Sarah with interest. Despite the fact he’d glimpsed her hanging over the side of the high speed RIB, nothing had prepared him for her youth and natural beauty. She was much younger than he’d anticipated, about mid twenties, with the most unusual eyes he’d ever seen: pale blue with a darker blue surrounding the iris. She was wearing crumpled white shorts and a light blue T-shirt that had seen better days, no make up and her fair skin was only slightly tanned. Her boyish manner and very short hair reminded him of the pathologist Dr Gaye Clayton, only she was auburn whereas Sarah Conway was blonde.

‘Xander told me you’d like some photos of his crew.’ She pushed the rest of her pastry into her mouth as though she hadn’t eaten for hours, managing to make it a sensual gesture rather than a greedy one. Horton suspected she’d sacrificed food throughout the day in order to get some good shots and, judging by what he could see on the computer screen in front of him, they were superb.

‘Of Johnnie Oslow,’ he corrected.

‘He’s missing, is that right?’

‘Yes. Do you know him?’ She had a small piece of pastry left in the corner of her wide mouth but far from being off-putting he found it rather attractive and was suddenly filled with an impulse to reach out and brush it gently from her lips, but he quickly pulled himself up. His business here was serious.

She shook her head. ‘I’ve spoken to him a few times but I wouldn’t say I know him.’

‘Impressions? Thoughts?’

‘Seems a nice boy.’

He suppressed a smile. She could only be a couple of years older than Johnnie.

‘Always seemed very cheerful,’ she added.

‘And Xander Andreadis? How well do you know him?’

‘He’s a client, and a very good one,’ she replied earnestly with a broad grin.

I bet, and one who pays handsomely
. ‘And you must be a very good photographer for him to commission you, and I can see that you are.’ Horton jerked his head at the pictures on the laptop.

‘They’re not bad, are they?’ She ran the back of her hand over her mouth, brushing away the remains of the Danish pastry.

‘That looks like Scott Masefield and his crew.’ Horton pointed to one of several images on the screen.

‘It is. Xander wants a selection of shots from each of their races. They did well today but not well enough for Scott. He’s very competitive, but then show me someone in yacht racing who isn’t! Competitive and mad. Do you sail?’ she asked, eyeing him in a way that he found rather intoxicating. She was a tease and fully aware of her sexual charm. Even if he hadn’t witnessed her in action on that RIB her sense of adventure would have communicated itself to him. She’d be fun to be with, and he hadn’t had fun for a very long time. Neither did he have time now with Johnnie missing. But he found himself saying, ‘Yes. I sail.’

‘Thought so, you look the type.’

‘You mean laid back and relaxed?’ he suggested, tongue in cheek.

‘No.’ She laughed. It was full throated and infectious. Despite himself he found his body responding to it. ‘The complete opposite, I’d say.’

‘Mad and competitive.’

‘You bet.’

Once, maybe. But who was he kidding? He still was competitive and maybe mad too, he had to be to pursue his mother’s disappearance. But Sarah Conway’s enthusiasm suddenly filled him with a desire to return to competitive sailing; with whom though? He could enter single-handed races, he supposed … and suddenly he recalled the identity of the man Harriet Eames had greeted so warmly. It was Roland Stevington, one of the most successful single-handed sailors of all time, having won the gruelling Around Alone, and then the Velux 5 Oceans round the world yacht race, and who, he’d read, was gearing up to try for a hat trick. Horton thought
he’d
prefer to have company though. Harriet Eames? But she was off limits. Dr Gaye Clayton sailed, perhaps he’d ask her. And Sarah Conway? Did she sail? He’d only seen her on the RIB, but he knew she must sail.

‘Can you find me a couple of shots of Johnnie Oslow?’ he asked, pushing the thoughts aside.

‘Yes, hang on.’ She scrolled through her pictures. He noted there were no rings on her fingers. In fact she wore no jewellery at all. He guessed it would only have got in the way of her job. ‘There he is,’ she cried triumphantly, calling up one picture from a gallery.

Horton studied the photograph of a confident, bronzed Johnnie Oslow, a white visor shading his eyes. He was wearing navy shorts and a white polo shirt, the same as the rest of the crew, who were all hanging off the side of a white hulled yacht with white sails, racing through a choppy sea that was so blue it almost hurt his eyes. Behind them were about a dozen yachts. Johnnie’s team were in the lead. He was much more strongly featured than Horton recalled from the boy he had taken out sailing seven years ago and who he had placed in the sailing charity, Go About. Although he’d seen Johnnie in January when he’d returned to Portsmouth for his grandfather’s funeral, Horton had only caught a glimpse of him in one of the funeral cars. Horton hadn’t gone to the committal or the wake. But this was clearly Johnnie’s natural habitat, and it showed in his enraptured expression.

‘I took these at the St Maarten Heineken Regatta in the Caribbean in March,’ Sarah explained. ‘There were lots of different types of boats racing. I used a long telephoto lens to compress the fleet and slightly blur the background to make the lead boat stand out using a Nikon D200 three hundred millimetre lens … I’m losing you, aren’t I?’ She laughed, then seemed to remember why he wanted the picture. ‘Sorry, I get carried away.’

‘Please, don’t apologize. Could you email those to me?’ He could get the station to print them off. ‘And perhaps you could send one to my mobile phone.’

‘Of course.’

He handed her his card.

‘I’ll crop into Johnnie on one of them and enhance it; that’ll give you a good close-up shot of him.’

He watched as she did so, seeing Johnnie’s young suntanned face fill the screen and become more defined. He’d matured a lot in the last seven years. Horton could see, by the set of his jaw, that Johnnie had blossomed under Xander Andreadis’s patronage. He was far more confident, and determination was etched on his dark, good-looking features.

Sarah emailed the picture to the address on his card and sent it to his mobile phone where it appeared a couple of seconds later. He studied it. It was a very clear image. He’d got what he’d come for and should leave but he found himself lingering.

‘What made you take up yacht-racing photography?’

‘How long have you got, Inspector?’

He felt like saying
as long as you like
but he smiled and replied, ‘Not that long.’

‘Then perhaps I’ll get the chance to tell you some other time when you’re not so busy. We could go for a sail.’

‘I’d like that, but only if you promise not to take any photographs of me.’

‘Shame. But the shortened version of my life history is that I sailed competitively as a child before I could walk; my parents used to take me on their boat and strap me on deck in a small cage. They’d probably be done for cruelty now but I survived and grew up loving the sea. They’re sailing somewhere in the Caribbean at the moment. I graduated from that to competitive solo sailing and then with several teams competing in all major races including the Fastnet. I’ve always taken photographs, and it sort of developed from there into a business.’

‘Do you still race?’

‘Occasionally, but I prefer racing around taking photographs. I cover all the major races and as many others as I can get to.’

And Horton knew that involved a considerable amount of travelling around the world. So no personal commitments then, unless the man piloting the RIB was her partner or boyfriend. He didn’t ask.

‘Have you any idea why Johnnie is missing?’ she said.

‘I was going to ask you that.’

She shrugged. ‘Like I said, I don’t really know him.’

He left her to her photographs, wondering how long she’d work that evening. The idea of asking her for a drink played at the edges of his mind – it would have been a good way to unwind after a long and emotionally draining day which had come hot on the heels of a physically and mentally exhausting night. But he’d be poor company, probably too tired to make decent conversation and certainly too tired for anything other than that. Besides, she was probably due at the yacht club to take pictures of the race winners – and he had other things to do connected with Johnnie’s disappearance, and that took precedence over everything.

He’d barely gone two steps from the marina though when he was arrested by a cry of, ‘Daddy!’ He spun round to see Emma bolting toward him with a broad smile on her elfin face, and within an instant he’d swept his daughter up in his arms and was spinning her round in the air. Her laughter, and the smell and feel of her small body, made his heart ache, and out of nowhere a memory assailed him. He was on a pontoon, he’d run into his mother’s arms, she’d crouched down and hugged him, she was laughing. His stomach felt cold with the pain of the memory. Where had they been? Which marina? There was a large boat. A man on the boat. Was it London or here on the South Coast? Was it somewhere else in England? How old had he been? About Emma’s age? Eight. No, younger.