Undercurrent (20 page)

‘My pleasure,’ he said, also rising. ‘And thanks.’
Do something, say something, for Christ’s sake, say that next time I’ll buy you a drink and it won’t have anything to do with work.
But he said nothing. He watched her stride across the car park and climb into her red Mini. Cursing himself as she drove away he hoped that perhaps she’d wave or turn back, but she didn’t even glance in his direction. He picked up his helmet then froze. A dark saloon car had pulled out and turned left. Nothing unusual in that – or was there? Only one way to find out. He hurried towards his Harley; he could easily catch them up, but before he reached it his phone rang. Damn. He could ignore it but glancing quickly at the number he knew he couldn’t. It was the one call he’d been waiting for. Professor Thurstan Madeley. Cursing its timing but with a quickening heartbeat he answered it.

Madeley introduced himself and without preamble said, ‘Why do you want to know about the thirteenth of March 1967, Inspector?’

‘I’d like to meet up and talk to you about it. When would be convenient?’

‘Is this police business?’

Horton took a silent deep breath. He’d anticipated the question and his answer. ‘It concerns a current investigation.’ He wasn’t sure whether Madeley was fooled by his evasive answer, probably not. Quickly Horton continued. ‘I’m based in Portsmouth but I can visit you.’

There was a moment’s pause before Madeley replied. ‘I’m going over to the Island tomorrow for Cowes Week. I could meet you at the Castle Hill Yacht Club in Cowes.’

Madeley moved in exalted circles: that was a very exclusive place.

‘Would you be able to get away from your work?’ Madeley asked.

Horton would. In fact it fitted in with his work perfectly,
if
he could dodge Bliss’s eagle eye, because there were a couple of people on the Island he wanted to interview such as Melanie Jacobs and Steve Drummond. And he wanted to ask Carl Ashton about Simon Watson. He was under orders not to pursue the case but that wasn’t going to stop him.

He made arrangements to meet with Madeley at three o’clock with the proviso that the time and date might have to change depending on his workload. Madeley seemed happy with that. Horton rang off letting out the breath he’d been holding. He’d become so accustomed to disappointment and dead ends that he didn’t dare hope for an answer to even one of his questions, but if Madeley could recall the name of just one of those men in the photograph, or give him something that could lead to one of them, then it would be something.

Climbing on his Harley he wondered about Dr Clayton. Had that dark saloon car been following her? Would she be allowed to conduct her tests? But how could anyone stop her? They might have covered up the results of the tests on Spalding but he didn’t think they’d be able to do the same with Redsall – whoever
they
were. There was nothing more he could do for the moment.

He headed for the yacht. The lack of sleep was finally catching up on him and he hoped for once he’d be able to slip into oblivion for seven hours; six would do. He’d even settle for five if it was dreamless. But although exhausted he decided that he needed a run along the seafront to release his tension and clear his mind. Besides, physical exhaustion might also help him sleep more readily and peacefully.

By the time he’d reached South Parade Pier it was dark, and he was both exhausted and hungry. Time to head back. He turned right at the end of the esplanade by the swimming baths into Melville Road, past the caravan site, which seemed to be doing a brisk trade with disco music booming from the club house accompanied by the laughter of children and adults. Soon though he was leaving it behind and running along a deserted and darkened road longing for a shower, food and sleep. His trainers pounded the tarmac in a rhythm that kept him going. Not far now.

The sound of a car engine behind him caught his attention. There was plenty of room for it to pass and the flashes on his running vest would be picked up by the vehicle’s headlights. But the car didn’t seem to want to pass, obviously a cautious driver. He could stop and let him go but if he did he didn’t think he’d be able to start running again. He could walk the remaining few hundred yards but that was against his rules. The sweat was pouring off him. He wiped it from his face. The shore was on his left now and a narrow strip of grass to his right bordering the fenced-off ground of Fort Cumberland. The engine behind him revved up. Glancing over his shoulder the full beam of the headlights blinded him. Dazed, he almost stumbled but quickly rectified a faltering step. His heart leapt into his throat as a terrible feeling swamped him. He knew in his gut that the only way this driver was going to pass him was by running right over his body. Shit. He increased his pace, finding energy from reserves he didn’t realize he had. The car’s engine revved again. It was a four-wheel drive and it was coming straight for him. Christ! His eyes glanced wildly around. If he dived to the right the car would drive right over him, and to the left there were now large slabs of concrete bordering the shore, but he could leap over them. He might injure himself but he’d still be alive.

He had seconds. The car would get him on the slight bend. He’d wished for oblivion. He was about to get it. His heart was racing. His head was throbbing. His limbs screaming in agony. The car behind him sped up. Then suddenly out of the night came the throb of a motorbike and there it was bearing down on him. If the car behind didn’t get him the bloody motorbike ahead looked set to. It all happened in a split second. The motorbike rider saw the car speeding towards him, the car driver registered the bike; it swerved to the left, the bike swung and swerved to the right. Horton ran on. There was the squeal of brakes and the throb of the motorbike as it revved up and sped away. Horton, his chest heaving, craned his head back in time to see the four-wheel drive career over a bank of grass to its left, almost topple over, straighten up, reverse and then screech off down the road away from the marina and away from Horton, leaving him with only a glimpse of the colour, black, and nothing of the registration number, which must have been hidden, and only a vague impression of a man inside it.

T
he shrieking of his phone startled Horton out of a troubled sleep. He woke in a sweat, his bones aching and his muscles burning. He felt as though he had been running all night. It had taken him hours to drift into sleep with his mind whirling through the events of the night. The same questions remained now as he surfaced into wakefulness. Had whoever tried to kill him been sent by Zeus to prevent him from finding out the truth about Jennifer’s disappearance? Or was the incident connected with Spalding and Redsall? If the latter was it someone from the intelligence service or a terrorist faction? He didn’t know. Only that they’d try again.

He picked up his mobile. It was Cantelli.

‘We’ve got a suspicious death, Andy. At the Round Tower at Old Portsmouth.’

Horton leapt out of bed and groaned.

‘You all right?’

‘Yes. Man or woman?’

‘Man, about late sixties, Caucasian. It’s a vicious attack.’

‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’

As he showered, shaved and dressed Horton thought of the Round Tower, a grey stone edifice built in 1420 to protect the harbour entrance from a French invasion during the Hundred Years War. It was now a popular viewing point for people watching the hundreds of ships and naval vessels coming in and out of Portsmouth every year. Its opposite number, the Square Tower, some few hundred yards to the east along a raised walkway above the small shingle beach, had been built later in 1494 before the dockyard had existed. In those days the King’s ships had been moored in the Camber where he’d sat last night drinking with Dr Clayton. He wondered if she’d managed to re-examine Redsall’s body. Had whoever tried to run him down seen him talking with Dr Clayton? His heart did a somersault. He should have called her to make sure she was OK. He rectified that now.

‘I’m fine,’ she said in answer to his concerned enquiry. ‘Just having my breakfast, why?’

He didn’t want to tell her about his dice with death. The saloon car that had pulled out behind her hadn’t been the same one that had tried to flatten him into the tarmac last night, which he knew to be the same black Ranger with tinted windows that he’d seen following him from Beatrice Redsall’s apartment. ‘Just wondered if you’d had a chance to look over Redsall’s body?’ he dodged her question.

‘I did and with the largest magnifying lens I could find, not a sign of a pin prick. I’ll take some more tissue samples for tests, which I’ll conduct myself this morning.’

‘You might be delayed, we’ve got another body.’

‘Any connection with Redsall’s death?’

‘No, it sounds like a mugging gone wrong. I’m on my way there now.’

‘Call me if you need me.’

He said he would and headed for Old Portsmouth, thinking of the body he was about to view. Had the victim tried to resist his attacker and got killed as a result? It must have happened some time after eleven when the pubs in the area had closed and when it was dark with fewer people around to come to the victim’s rescue because it was a popular area for locals and tourists.

Heading along the seafront he knew that he’d have to postpone his trip to the Isle of Wight and his meeting with Professor Madeley. He might also need to put on hold his investigation into the deaths of Spalding and Redsall. He was loath to do both.

He indicated left at the junction between Pembroke Road and the High Street and headed towards the sea with the Cathedral on his right before swinging right and turning into Broad Street where he saw that Cantelli had already marshalled SOCO and there were two cars behind the white van; one he recognized as belonging to Dr Freemantle, the other was Jim Clarke’s. The area had been cordoned off from the base of the Square Tower on Horton’s left, to the far end of the fortifications to the west taking in the Round Tower and the wide pavement area which encompassed the Pioneer Statue erected in 2001 as a permanent legacy to those who had set sail to create a new home in America. The raised walkway on the fortifications had also been sealed off and he could see a uniformed police officer standing at the entrance to the Round Tower from the walkway.

They had already drawn a large audience and in the houses and apartments opposite many residents were standing at their doors watching them. Horton hoped that someone would remember seeing something that could lead them to a quick arrest. Soon the media would arrive with their cameras, microphones and Dictaphones.

‘It’s nasty,’ Cantelli greeted him solemnly as Horton ducked under the tape. He noted the sergeant’s dark sorrowful eyes and pale skin.

Horton steeled himself for the ordeal as they crossed to the stone steps where Beth Tremaine issued them with crime-scene suits.

‘Who found him?’ Horton asked.

‘The woman over there talking to PC Kate Somerfield.’ Cantelli jerked his head at a smartly dressed lady in her late fifties wearing a denim skirt and a floral blouse. ‘Mrs Smithson. She came to set up an art exhibition inside the Round Tower but went up to the top first to look across the Solent as it was such a lovely morning. She’s a level-headed woman and called us immediately, although she’s obviously distressed at what she’s seen.’

They logged in at the inner cordon and with Tremaine behind them began to climb the steps. Pushing a fresh strip of chewing gum into his mouth, Cantelli continued. ‘I couldn’t see a murder weapon within the immediate vicinity of the body but his killer could have thrown it into the sea.’

They reached the top where Taylor and Clarke nodded a greeting. Dr Freemantle, wearing a scene suit, straightened up. Horton saw the crumpled figure at the doctor’s feet lying awkwardly in front of the seats that overlooked the narrow harbour entrance. His stomach clenched with tension and he controlled his breathing as he noted the silver hair, the crisp navy-blue trousers, the checked casual shirt and the bloody and battered head.

‘Been dead about seven or eight hours,’ Freemantle announced. ‘Severe trauma to the skull. He was struck more than once, probably three or four times, but the pathologist can confirm that.’

Horton stepped nearer the body. There was something familiar about it. The man’s face was turned to its right and Horton, looking more closely, started with surprise.

‘My God! It’s Ivor Meadows.’

Cantelli flashed him a look. ‘The man at Dr Spalding’s lecture?’

‘Yes, and the last of the guests to leave.’ He turned his troubled gaze on Cantelli. ‘You know what this means?’

‘He must have witnessed something.’

‘Yes, and that means Spalding’s death wasn’t suicide and Redsall’s death wasn’t Sudden Death Syndrome.’ Now let Uckfield tell him the deaths weren’t connected and weren’t suspicious.

He stepped away and reached for his phone, leaving Cantelli to thank the police doctor and instruct Taylor, Clarke and Tremaine. The seagulls dived overhead, squawking and squealing as Horton rapidly considered the implications of this latest murder while waiting impatiently for Uckfield to answer. Meadows dead. He was sickened by it and furious. He couldn’t help thinking that if Uckfield had sacrificed his promotion chances for just two days and had continued to investigate Spalding’s death, Ivor Meadows might still be alive.

When Uckfield at last came on the line Horton said brusquely, ‘Ivor Meadows, the last of the guests to talk to Douglas Spalding before he walked out into the night and ended up dead in Number One Dock, has been brutally murdered and there’s no sudden death syndrome or suicide about this one. He’s been bludgeoned to death.’

There was a brief silence while Uckfield assimilated this. ‘Any of his belongings missing?’

Horton in his eagerness hadn’t checked. His gut tightened. ‘Hold on.’ He instructed Taylor to empty the dead man’s pockets. ‘Only a handkerchief, sir.’

With a silent groan Horton said into his mobile. ‘There’s no wallet or house keys. I’ve no idea if he had a mobile phone.’

‘Sounds like a mugging to me.’