Undercurrent (11 page)

‘Perfectly.’

‘Great, that will lose me business.’

‘I don’t see why it should if none of them knew the dead man.’

‘Of course they bloody didn’t.’

‘We’ll still need to check.’

After a moment Ashton answered tersely, ‘Steve lives in Gosport and Melanie in Southsea. Simon Watson lives at Prinsted.’ Horton knew that to be a very small hamlet along the coast east of Portsmouth. It was expensive and bordered a quiet natural harbour. ‘He works for Longman Biomedical; they’re good clients of mine. I don’t know where Nigel Denton lives but he’s a director of an agricultural company, who I’m hoping to get as clients,’ Ashton said pointedly.

They’d get the addresses tomorrow and they could probably interview Steve Drummond and Melanie Jacobs here in the morning, because SOCO would have finished with the yacht by then. Horton was sure they’d be sailing it back to its base in Cowes, unless Ashton had another group of clients on board tomorrow. If he had though he’d have been bleating about it.

He said, ‘Did you touch the body?’

‘You must be joking. I could see he was dead.’

‘So you didn’t turn him over or look at his face to see if you recognized him?’

‘No.’ Ashton eyed him incredulously. And that meant it could still be someone he knew.

Horton looked up to see PCs Johnson and Bailey climb out of the police vehicle, as another drew up behind it. The activity was bound to attract the ghouls from the restaurants and bars along the waterfront and Horton for once was glad it was raining. It would keep them at bay.

Ashton, who was looking more haggard by the minute, said tetchily, ‘I called you because I thought we could avoid all this unnecessary fuss.’

‘Then you thought wrong,’ Horton brusquely replied. With instructions for Ashton to remain where he was and touch nothing, which drew a cynical look, Horton set off up the pontoon, swiftly glancing into the three moored craft opposite the MGB 81. No signs of life and no red ensign on the aft to show that anyone was on board. Turning right onto the lengthy pontoon that led up to the marina office he glanced across the small stretch of water to see Ashton’s huddled figure pacing the pontoon on the far side. Could he be involved in this death? For now Horton was keeping an open mind.

He gave Johnson instructions to ensure that neither Ashton nor any unauthorized personnel went on board the yacht and posted Bailey outside the marina office. PCs Allen and Barnes headed down the pontoon after Johnson with the canvas awning which they’d erect over the cockpit of Ashton’s boat in readiness for the doctor and SOCO. It would help to protect them from the worst of the rain driving off the harbour.

Horton met the security officer by the marina office. Flashing his warrant card he quickly explained what had happened, adding that they would need to view footage from their security cameras.

‘I’ll go back to the control room and let them know.’

Horton returned to the pontoon and had just reached Ashton’s yacht when he saw the white SOCO van pull up and behind it photographer Jim Clarke’s estate car.

‘Can I go now?’ Ashton addressed Horton irritably.

‘Not until the doctor turns the body over. I want to be certain you don’t recognize him. It would be a great help, Carl,’ Horton quickly added, seeing that Ashton was about to protest. ‘And the quicker we get this cleared up the better,’ he added for good measure.

‘Then can I have a fag?’

‘Only if you move further down the pontoon.’

Ashton trundled off, clearly unhappy and very wet, as Horton was. At least the cockpit was now fully covered and Horton sent Barnes and Allen up to the boardwalk to assist in keeping out unauthorized personnel.

He watched while Clarke took pictures and a video of the deceased before a movement on the pontoon caught his attention. Looking up he saw heading towards him a man and a woman. The reprimand that formed in Horton’s mind to Bailey for allowing them into the marina was quickly replaced with shock as he recognized the slender yet shapely figure of Agent Eames from Europol. What was she doing here? Was she on duty? Did this dead man have anything to do with a European investigation? Thoughts flashed through his mind as he watched her walk towards him with a hesitant smile on her lips. Dressed in a sailing jacket and jeans with her blonde hair getting steadily wetter she looked even more beautiful than he remembered. He didn’t know who the fair, suntanned athletic man beside her was but his instinct was automatically to dislike him because he was with Eames.

‘Nice to see you again, sir,’ she greeted Horton in that posh voice of hers which he’d recalled so many times over the last six weeks. It still had the same affect on him, of stirring his loins with desire while making him feel both hostile and defensive because it reminded him of how privileged and rich her life had been compared to his barren, empty one. With a father who was a peer of the realm she was clearly out of his league. And although she’d never given any indication of treating him as inferior, he knew that she made him feel that way and that made him angry, both with her but especially with himself.

‘Although,’ she added quietly, glancing at Ashton’s yacht, ‘the circumstances are not exactly happy. This is Rupert Crawford,’ she introduced the man beside her. ‘Inspector Horton.’

Crawford looked as though he was reluctant to shake hands with someone so low in the food chain but after a moment’s hesitation he did so with an irritated frown.

‘You’re on holiday, Harry,’ Crawford addressed Eames peevishly.

Harry? Short for Harriet or Henrietta? Horton hadn’t discovered her first name when working with her previously and he’d not asked because there had seemed no point. So she wasn’t on duty.

‘You don’t need to get involved.’

‘I know I don’t
need
to, Rupert,’ she answered pleasantly but firmly, ‘but I am a police officer and if I can help then I will. Why don’t you go back to the yacht?’

Yes, why don’t you? thought Horton.

‘I’ll join you in a moment,’ she added. ‘That’s Rupert’s yacht,’ she indicated the expensive sleek craft behind Ashton’s.

Horton’s heart sank; clearly Rupert was her lover and Horton wasn’t and never could be any part of Eames’s life. He watched the disgruntled Rupert walk off, pausing before climbing on board to exchange words with Ashton. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but after a few seconds Ashton with Rupert disappeared below decks.

‘Does he know Carl Ashton?’

‘I think his bank uses Sail Away for corporate hospitality and team racing events.’

‘His bank?’

‘Hamilton and Welland. Rupert’s an investment banker.’

No wonder I don’t like him.

Horton didn’t think she sounded that enamoured of Rupert Crawford herself – or was that just wishful thinking on his part? He asked her what time they’d arrived in the marina.

‘Just after seven, sir,’ she replied crisply, making him fully aware this was business. OK, if that was the way she wanted it. But then what other way could there be? She said, ‘This yacht was moored up but there wasn’t anyone on board.’

That tied in with what Ashton had told him.

She added, ‘There wasn’t anyone on the pontoons then or when we left for the boardwalk just after seven thirty. And I didn’t see anyone on any of the craft moored here.’

So where had the dead man come from and what had he been doing here? Horton’s attention was caught by the approach of a slim, auburn-haired man carrying a medical bag. Cantelli had been right when he’d said that Dr Freemantle looked barely out of medical school. But Horton wasn’t concerned about his age, only his level of competence. Taylor issued the doctor with a scene suit. Clarke stepped away from the body to allow the doctor on board and smiled a greeting at Eames.

After a few moments Dr Freemantle straightened up. ‘There’s no sign of rigor, or of a violent struggle. I’d say he’s been dead about two hours, four at the most.’

It was now eleven thirty-two so that put the death anywhere between seven thirty and nine thirty.

‘Cause of death?’ Horton asked hopefully, while preparing himself for a sarcastic reply or at least a negative one. He wasn’t disappointed.

‘Can’t say, Inspector. It’s a bit too wet and dark to conduct an autopsy here. Want me to turn him over?’

Horton nodded. First Freemantle eased off the rucksack and handed it to Beth Tremaine. Standing under the awning she unzipped the main compartment. ‘Empty, sir. And only tissues in the front compartment.’

So was theft the motive,
if
this was murder? Horton watched Freemantle ease the body over. Horton thought the pale face and the staring dark eyes looked shocked rather than afraid. He gave instructions for Johnson to fetch Ashton. Clarke took some photographs as Freemantle stood back. When he’d finished Freemantle again examined the body.

‘No signs of strangulation. No head wounds and no sign of bruising around the neck or face.’ He made to reach into the man’s jacket pockets when Horton forestalled him. He stood back and beckoned over Ashton. He smelt of alcohol, probably understandable in the circumstances.

‘Have you ever seen him before?’

Ashton’s face paled as he snatched a glance at the dead man. He shook his head and swallowed. Horton gestured for the doctor to empty the dead man’s pockets. Reaching into the trousers he extracted a wallet, which he handed to Taylor. In the other pocket was a set of keys, which again Dr Freemantle gave to Taylor who dropped them into an evidence bag.

Glancing at them Eames said, ‘They’re not boat keys. There’s no float on them. House key and two smaller padlock keys.’

Which could be to the compartments on the rucksack. He asked Taylor to open the wallet.

‘Credit card and bank debit card in the name of Daniel Redsall.’

That name sounded familiar to Horton. Why?

Taylor continued. ‘No photographs, a card for a guest house in Southsea, and there’s a pass for the University of Ulster.’

University . . . like Spalding
. Turning to Ashton, Horton said, ‘Do you know anyone called Redsall?’

‘No.’

Was that a lie, wondered Horton? It didn’t sound like one. Perhaps Ashton or one of his crew or clients had slipped away from the restaurant and met this man. But why? And as Freemantle had said there seemed no evidence of foul play.

‘I need the keys to the yacht, Carl. We have to examine it,’ he added.

Ashton handed them over grudgingly. ‘I need that yacht back in Cowes tomorrow morning.’

‘We should finish with it tonight if you want to wait.’

‘You know where to find me,’ Ashton growled before returning to Crawford’s yacht. Horton watched him go before his attention was caught by voices at the bridgehead.

‘That’s the rest of the team,’ Eames explained.

Team? Then she wasn’t alone on that yacht with Crawford. Optimism rose for a moment to be quashed almost instantly as Horton followed her gaze to a man in his early fifties with a stunningly attractive long-legged blonde woman in her mid-twenties. They were a foursome.

‘We’ve been practising for Cowes Week, the racing.’

He should have guessed Eames would return to England for one of the highlights of the social calendar.

‘Can they come down, sir?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘And tell Bailey he can let the undertakers on.’ He watched her make her way up the pontoon, admiring her figure and wishing he didn’t feel so attracted to her, then pulling himself up he dismissed her from his mind. He had a job to do. He turned his attention to the body. Daniel Redsall. The name struck a familiar note. Why? Could he be a criminal? But no, the university pass indicated otherwise. He thought of Douglas Spalding. He’d also had a university pass but for Portsmouth, not Ulster. And Spalding had also been found in an unusual place. Was it just coincidence or did the two men know one another?

My God! With a sudden rush of adrenalin Horton scrambled inside his pocket and pulled out the list of names and addresses Neil Gideon had given him earlier, which he’d forgotten to put in the file. And there it was. He let out a breath. Daniel Redsall. This man had attended Dr Douglas Spalding’s lecture. And now both were dead. Now let Uckfield tell him there was nothing suspicious about it. He reached for his phone.

‘T
heir deaths have to be linked,’ Horton insisted twenty minutes later. The Super had arrived in his usual foul mood. Horton had first called his home and awoken Alison Uckfield, who had told him her husband was on a late-night operation. Horton had then rung Uckfield’s mobile. He’d eventually grumpily answered and Horton knew that the kind of operation Uckfield was on had nothing to do with police work. Uckfield had arrived without giving any explanation of where he’d been. But then he didn’t have to, and Horton certainly wasn’t going to ask. It was none of his business.

Horton had insisted that the body remain until Uckfield had seen it. He’d told Eames to return to her friends who were now on Crawford’s yacht. There was no point in her getting any wetter than she already was, and there was nothing she could do. She had at first insisted on staying but Horton had been firm. It wasn’t her investigation. She couldn’t help. She’d gone reluctantly after she’d introduced the two other crew members as Ben Otis and Keely Lambeth, the latter of whom had PC Johnson drooling like a baby. Keely Lambeth was stunning, Horton had to admit that, and Johnson, Clarke and even Phil Taylor, who was usually unaffected by anything and everything, looked as though they’d dash to her aid if she fainted at the sight of the body. If Uckfield had seen her he’d probably have shoved his elbows in front of them to catch her first. But Keely Lambeth merely blinked her mesmerizing green eyes at the corpse, shook her long blonde hair and professed not to know or recognize him. Otis said the same. Crawford was fetched from his boat by Eames and he too declared that he’d never seen the dead man in his life.

Uckfield sniffed, pulling up his collar. ‘Just because this poor sod went to Spalding’s lecture and he worked at a university like Spalding doesn’t make his death suspicious. On the contrary, there’s no evidence to suggest that. He probably fell ill, climbed on board hoping to find someone on the yacht, collapsed and died.’