Undercurrent (14 page)

‘His name is Daniel Redsall,’ prompted Horton, ‘does that mean anything to you?’

‘No. Should it?’ she asked, eyeing him, confused.

‘He might have known your husband.’

‘I never heard Douglas mention the name.’

Horton believed her. He said, ‘Daniel Redsall was found dead last night. We don’t know yet how he died but he was at your husband’s lecture on Monday night.’

‘I see.’ But clearly she didn’t see and neither did Horton, yet.

‘We’re just examining all possible links,’ he added.

‘And you think this man’s death,’ she indicated the photograph, ‘has something to do with Douglas’s?’

‘We don’t know.’ It was the truth.

She eyed him keenly. ‘Do you think Douglas killed himself?’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘But you’re still looking into it?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Yes.’

She took a breath then said, ‘You’ll tell me if you find anything?’

He promised he would. He again apologized for disturbing her and left feeling sorry for her and angry with Spalding if he had in some way brought this upon his family. But he didn’t know that for certain. Spalding could be an innocent victim in this – only why had he lied to both his wife and doctor?

He wondered what she had done before she’d become Mrs Douglas Spalding. She was intelligent and had probably held down a good job. He also wondered how she’d met her husband. Could she have been in the Navy? But somehow he couldn’t see that. He indicated right and turned into Nettlecombe Avenue where he found Ted and Brenda Crossley. Again he was offered coffee and again he refused.

‘We thought you might be the fingerprint officer,’ Ted Crossley said when they were in the kitchen. In the daylight Horton saw the room overlooked a well-tended garden with a neat square of lawn, a couple of trees provided shade for the tables and chairs positioned under them and a wide expanse of flowering shrubs bordered three sides.

‘I wanted to ask you if Daniel Redsall mentioned his aunt while he was here? Beatrice Redsall, she lives in Laden Mansions.’

‘But that’s just around the corner,’ Brenda Crossley answered, surprised. ‘He never said anything to me about her.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Did he mention a Douglas Spalding?’

‘No. Like I said last night he was a very private man. Didn’t say much at all. Hang on, Spalding you say?’ Ted Crossley paused, frowning. ‘Isn’t that the professor who gave that lecture on women in the Royal Navy?’ He flashed a glance at his wife.

‘Yes. Daniel Redsall attended it,’ Horton replied, trying to interpret the meaning of the glance between them.

‘Ah.’ Again Ted Crossley paused. Then said, ‘Wasn’t he . . . didn’t he have an accident in the dockyard? I heard something about it on the news.’

‘His body was found in Number One Dock.’

‘Good God, where the old Monitor is?’

‘You know it?

‘Of course. We’ve got leaflets on all the attractions in the Historic Dockyard for our guests and recommend a visit there. And Mr Redsall was at the lecture the same night Spalding had his accident?’

Horton didn’t care for the way Crossley said ‘accident’ but he couldn’t blame him for thinking it was more than that, which was certainly more than Uckfield thought.

He said, ‘We have to explore connections even if they don’t mean anything.’ He could see that he wasn’t fooling the Crossleys. They’d probably already fabricated a theory about why Redsall was dead and who had killed him (
if
he’d been killed, he silently added) along with how he had been killed. Maybe he should hand the case over to them. He withdrew a photograph of Douglas Spalding and asked if he had ever called upon Redsall here. They both agreed (with disappointment, thought Horton) that he hadn’t.

As he was leaving he remembered that look that had passed between them and the poster that had been exhibited above the registration desk, which he noted was no longer there. ‘You advertised Dr Spalding’s lecture, why?’

Again that glance between them. It was Brenda who answered. ‘We were both in the Navy. It’s how we met. I intended to go to the lecture but we had too much on with the guest house being full. It was a shame because I’d like to have heard what he had to say.’

‘How did you find out about the lecture?’

‘We’re on the mailing list for all the dockyard events. We do our best to help promote them.’

Of course. That made sense. Horton was tempted to leave the Harley parked outside the Crossleys’ guest house and walk the few hundred yards to Laden Mansions, but decided against it. Soon he was pulling into the rear of the 1930s elegant three-storey building and drew to a halt to the right of a block of garages. His phone rang. It was Walters.

‘Thought I’d better warn you, Guv, DCI Bliss wanted to know where you were. I said I wasn’t sure but I thought you’d gone to see an informant. Don’t think it did much for her blood pressure.’

Or my chances of staying in CID.
‘Did you tell her what you were working on?’

‘She didn’t ask but stormed off with a face like a fractured piston engine.’

Horton could well imagine. ‘Have you got anything to report?’

‘Oyster Quays are emailing over the CCTV footage. The marina manager says no one called Redsall signed in yesterday and I can’t get hold of anyone at Kings College. I’ll try again in half an hour, and so far no joy with the airports. They’re checking their passenger lists and said they’d get back to me.’

Horton rang off. As Redsall hadn’t signed in that meant he’d either arrived after the marina office had closed at dusk or he’d come by boat with someone who had signed in or who kept his boat moored there. Horton hoped the CCTV cameras had picked him up.

Bliss would no doubt be calling him soon and demanding his return. But now that he was safely out of flapping ears at the station, and while he waited for the uniformed officer to show, he’d try getting hold of Bliss’s new found admirer, Professor Thurstan Madeley. He stabbed the number on his mobile that Harrison had relayed to him earlier and got Madeley’s voicemail. Hesitating for only a moment he said crisply, ‘Professor Madeley, this is Detective Inspector Horton. I’d like to speak to you about the thirteenth of March 1967. Can you call me please?’

OK, he thought with a slight quickening of heart, let’s see what happens now. He was certain that Madeley would return his call but would he tell anyone about it? DCS Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate for example? But Horton had no evidence that Madeley was in league with Sawyer over the latter’s ambition to track down Zeus. There was also no evidence that Madeley knew anything about the disappearance of Jennifer Horton – why should he? He was just a professor who had been in charge of that archive project on the student sit-in protest.

He pushed the thoughts aside. Switched off his phone and went to break the news to Beatrice Redsall that her nephew was dead.

‘A
s you are accompanied by a female police officer, Inspector, am I correct in assuming you are the bearer of bad news?’ Beatrice Redsall said in a well-educated voice after Horton had introduced himself. He quickly assessed that this elegant woman in her mid-seventies, with short fine silver hair and dressed impeccably in camel-coloured trousers and a cream silk blouse was a no-nonsense sort of person. He doubted he’d need PC Louise Edmonds’ assistance at his side.

Removing a copy of the photograph of Daniel Redsall, he said gently, ‘Is this a relation of yours, Ms Redsall?’

‘Miss,’ she corrected, glancing at the photograph and then back up at Horton. ‘Yes, it’s Daniel, my nephew. He’s the only child of my late brother, Jonathan, and his wife, Rosemary. Jonathan died eight years ago and Rosemary nineteen years ago.’

‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that Daniel is dead.’

There was no reaction on her intelligent classically proportioned face or in the pale blue eyes. After a brief pause she said, ‘You’d better come in.’

She turned. Horton caught Edmonds’ curious glance before following Beatrice Redsall into a wide airy lounge. It was tastefully and expensively decorated with high-quality, classically designed furniture, pastel-coloured Chinese rugs, and pale blue and grey curtains. From where he stood Horton could see the boating lake opposite the flats and beyond it the sea. There were a handful of paintings on the wall and various
objets d’art
dotted about the room.

She waved a slender arm at the armchairs, sat down and Horton followed suit, nodding at Edmonds to do the same.

‘How did Daniel die?’

Still she showed no emotion – was that because she didn’t care? Perhaps she hadn’t known her nephew that well or liked him even.

‘We won’t know until after the autopsy, but when his body was found on a yacht in Oyster Quays there were no visible signs of cause of death.’

‘A boat? Daniel’s?’ she asked, raising beautifully shaped eyebrows.

‘No. It belongs to a man called Carl Ashton.’

The name seemed to mean nothing to her. Horton hadn’t thought it would but he wanted to check. ‘Do you know him?’

‘No.’

‘Did your nephew know him or his company Sail Away Events?’

‘I have no idea.’

Horton again left a short silence before saying, ‘You seem surprised that Daniel might have owned a boat.’ More than the fact that he was in Portsmouth, so perhaps he had visited his aunt.

‘I’d be
very
surprised if he did. Daniel was not interested in material possessions.’

It was said as though it were a flaw in her nephew’s character. He eyed her quizzically and said nothing, forcing her to add, ‘He was never happier than when dressed in old clothes and grubbing around in the mud of ancient harbours or in a diving suit at the bottom of the sea searching for artefacts.’

Horton got the message loud and clear. Beatrice Redsall disapproved of her nephew’s occupation. He wondered why.

‘I understand he was very well respected in marine archaeological circles.’ Horton had no idea if Redsall had been but he said it to provoke a reaction and gain further insight into the dead man and his relationship with his aunt.

‘He may have been but it’s not the career his father had chosen for him and it hardly makes a difference, does it?’

Horton quickly caught her meaning but decided to play dumb. ‘A difference to what?’

‘To society of course; to this insane world in which we live, Inspector, where greed and selfishness are the new gods and sacrifice and duty are words that no longer exist.’

It was said without bitterness.

She added, ‘The past can hardly matter to a generation obsessed with the here and now, the “me” culture.’

‘An understanding of the past can give us an insight into the future.’

‘Possibly, Inspector, but most of the time humanity chooses to ignore that insight and mankind continues to make the same mistakes. And that’s why we need people whose jobs really matter, so that they can pick up the pieces. People like yourself and my brother.’

‘He was a police officer?’ Horton asked, stumped for a moment.

‘Of course not,’ she said dismissively. ‘Jonathan was a Rear Admiral.’

Of course that, clearly according to her philosophy, was way above being a cop. It probably ranked even higher than a chief constable. Swiftly reading the undertones he said, ‘Your brother was disappointed then that his son didn’t follow in his footsteps and join the Navy.’

A shadow crossed her eyes for the first time; he didn’t think it was for her dead nephew but for her dead brother, whom she had obviously worshipped.

‘Daniel had such a bright future ahead of him. He was clever. He had the best education money can buy, Salisbury Cathedral School, Winchester College. He never wanted for anything, including encouragement. He was due to join the Navy after Winchester and had a place at the Britannia Royal Naval College but he threw it all back in his father’s face.’

‘They rowed?’

‘Of course not,’ she said stiffly, although Horton wondered if that were the truth. ‘But Jonathan could never understand why Daniel didn’t want a naval career and neither could I. Our family has served in the Royal Navy for generations. We can trace our ancestry back to 1769 and Sir Thomas Masterman Hardy who served as flag captain to Admiral Lord Nelson and commanded HMS
Victory
at the Battle of Trafalgar,’ she explained in case they didn’t know their history. ‘But Daniel decided to break with that tradition after centuries. He even went so far as to say he opposed acts of violence and was, as a principle, against wars. Principles are all very well, Inspector, but not very helpful when your country is being violated and your people terrorized and subjected to gross acts of humiliation. Bully boys thrive on people who are principled.’

Horton was growing ever more curious about Daniel Redsall’s background and motivations. ‘Did Daniel come to see you while he was in Portsmouth?’

‘I haven’t seen or heard from him since his father died. We didn’t even exchange Christmas cards.’

It was clearly the truth. So there was no point in asking her if she knew what her nephew had been doing here. ‘He named you as his next of kin.’

Again those perfect eyebrows rose and a frown knitted her brow. ‘How extraordinary!’ Then she paused and gave a slight lift of one shoulder. ‘But perhaps not. Daniel was always a loner. He didn’t make friends very easily and he obviously didn’t marry, or if he did it didn’t last.’

Horton was beginning to feel a little sorry for Daniel Redsall and he sensed that PC Edmonds was too. He got the impression of a lonely, sad child, desperate for his family’s affection and approval and never getting it. It would have been easy for him to have enlisted in the Navy and pleased everyone. Everyone, that was, except himself. So there had been a determined streak in Redsall that had made him defy his family’s wishes, and that showed a quiet, hidden strength.

He said, ‘Does the name Douglas Spalding mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

He retrieved the photograph of Spalding. ‘Have you ever seen this man?’

She glanced at it. ‘No.’

‘Daniel attended a lecture given by Dr Spalding at the National Museum of the Royal Navy here in Portsmouth the night before he died. And Dr Spalding died shortly after giving his lecture on Monday night.’