Undercurrent (32 page)

He said, ‘So Adrian was confronted about his relationship with Redsall. When he threatened to tell about the commander selling naval secrets, MI6 said they’d expose his affair with Redsall.’ Horton knew how these things worked. ‘But that was a lie. MI6 could now use Redsall to help feed information to the Communists and dispose of this commander who was a security risk. Redsall was sound in terms of his loyalty to his country, it was just he made a mistake with his choice of sexual partner. He probably claimed it was just the once, it would never happen again, and that he was led astray by your father.’ Horton took another small step closer. ‘How did Spalding uncover all this?’

‘Documents had been released by the Public Records Office that revealed that many commanders had buried a series of sex scandals in Singapore including homosexual affairs, transsexual prostitutes and male brothels. Spalding researched and cross-checked the records of the officers and enlisted men who had been dismissed, and those who had died shortly after 1969, the height of the scandal. He was very thorough and meticulous. He found an unusually high number of fatalities on board one ship and a young officer who had been rapidly promoted. Spalding sensed he was onto something. He interviewed those he could find who had served on board HMS
Neirne
. Some had kept private diaries; some had been close to Adrian. Others who felt they no longer had anything to lose by speaking out told him what they’d seen and heard. Gradually Spalding’s facts began to back up what had been rumours and supposition. It took him a long time to pull it all together and he had to keep his research very close to his chest.’

And that was why he had lied about what he was really researching. But the intelligence services had been alerted by someone or by something Spalding had requested.

Marshall said, ‘Eventually he tracked me down even though my mother had remarried. He asked me if my father had left any diaries or letters. He hadn’t. If he did at the time then they were almost certainly taken by the security services and destroyed.’

And Horton knew that must have been what had happened to his mother’s diaries. On the day she’d vanished, while he’d been at school, someone had slipped in and cleaned out anything incriminating from their flat, including photographs. Had that man been Ballard? Had he kept two photographs, the one of Jennifer which had been in the tin he’d given his foster father, and the one of those six men? Horton knew he was correct. But time to think about that later – at least he hoped he’d be alive to do so – which meant bringing his full attention back to Marshall. He eased another step closer.

‘Presumably Spalding asked Daniel Redsall the same question when he visited him in Northern Ireland in July.’

Marshall nodded. Horton wondered if Beatrice Redsall knew about her brother’s shady past. And the answer came back immediately that of course she did. It was why she had travelled to the Isle of Wight and the Castle Hill Yacht Club on 28 June. Spalding had also visited her, or perhaps her nephew had telephoned her.

Marshall said, ‘Jonathan Redsall probably said he’d do anything to cooperate with the intelligence services and keep it silent.’

‘So your father was dismissed on a trumped-up charge and not for homosexuality.’

‘Supplying drugs from the medical unit to the locals who all swore they’d got them from him, well they would, wouldn’t they, if they didn’t want to be imprisoned. The woman who ran the brothel was too scared to stand up for my father. Redsall was recruited to feed false information to the Russians and the commander died of a heart attack, three months later.’

Very convenient, and that incident must have triggered many questions in Spalding’s sharp analytical mind. But which side had induced it? The Russians or the British?

‘Who was this commander?’

‘Spalding didn’t say and it wasn’t in his research. He just used the initial “C” when referring to him.’

Horton’s mind was spinning. Had MI6 always known that Adrian Goring’s son was Bradley Marshall and had kept tabs on him? Spalding had found him so it was likely that the intelligence services had. And perhaps they’d sat back and watched to see whether Marshall or Daniel Redsall would do their dirty work for them, eliminate Spalding and destroy his research.

He thought back to what Beatrice Spalding had told him about her nephew. ‘Spalding told Daniel Redsall this. He wanted it all to come out. His father and his family had made his life a misery. He was angry at the lies they’d told him. Spalding thought he had the two of you on his side; you would want it exposed for the sake of justice and revenge, but that wasn’t how it worked out.’

‘No. Redsall contacted me. He said it was the last thing he wanted. He hated his father but he’d made a new life for himself and one he enjoyed. He was well respected. It was the past and he wanted it buried. I did too. My father means nothing to me. My mother changed her surname by deed poll and then remarried. I went to university, thanks to my stepfather, and I have an excellent job and one I’m passionate about. Redsall and I joined forces to silence Spalding.’

‘But you killed Daniel Redsall.’

‘I had to. I needed his help to get the material from Spalding but I couldn’t risk him telling anyone that I’d killed him. He might have stayed silent but I couldn’t chance it.’

‘So Daniel Redsall came over from Northern Ireland and attended Spalding’s lecture. You had poisoned Spalding earlier in the day; you’d arranged to meet him over at the refreshment stall opposite where you added the hyoscine you made in the lab to his tea.’

‘His coffee.’

‘Daniel took the contents of Spalding’s briefcase, including his laptop computer and memory stick, from the Princess Royal Gallery while everyone was having their refreshments and he stuffed them in his empty rucksack, replacing the computer with a couple of heavy books he’d carried in.’

‘Wood.’

‘Then Redsall walked out carrying his rucksack. What happened to the briefcase?’

‘Spalding must have dropped it in the sea.’

But Horton wasn’t so sure about that. ‘Did you know there were security cameras in the Princess Royal Gallery?’

‘No.’

And Marshall wouldn’t have cared if Morden had been looking at the monitors because he had made sure that Redsall’s trail wouldn’t lead back to him. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Marshall, Horton said, ‘And the next day Redsall met you at the shore somewhere near here and you went out on the boat. I presume you moored up somewhere and reviewed what Spalding had put on his computer.’

‘Yes, a quiet spot in Thorney Channel off Thorney Island. Spalding’s research was all there. It made interesting reading and it gave me access to his backup files.’

Horton had been correct about that then. ‘But you didn’t poison Redsall then.’ He recalled what Dr Clayton had said. ‘You left that until later in the day before dropping him back to Oyster Quays. How did you moor up without being seen?’

Marshall smiled. ‘I didn’t. I dropped him at the Camber.’

Horton had been right about that too.

‘The poison would take about two hours to work. I had no idea where he’d end up, just as long as it was nowhere near me.’

‘Did he say he was meeting someone?’

‘No.’

Soon Horton would take his chance but there were a couple more things he wanted to know first. He steeled himself for action. ‘Where’s Erica?’

Marshall’s eyes flicked downwards towards the water in the raft. Horton’s blood ran cold. The bastard. He’d killed her while she’d been working here. She’d had to die because she might have worked out or could inadvertently reveal that every time Spalding consulted her he also saw Bradley Marshall. The
Challenger
research project had merely been a cover so that Spalding could see Marshall.

‘Did she see you with Spalding at the cafe? Were you afraid she’d put that together with the fact that Spalding always saw you when he came to visit her at the institute? Had she become suspicious?’ Horton steeled himself for action.

‘It had to be done.’

And Marshall had returned tonight to move her body and dump it out at sea. ‘Which section is she in, Marshall?’ Horton snarled, preparing himself; he had a split-second to act. ‘Which one?’ he shouted. ‘Where have you put her?’

‘That one.’ Marshall jerked his head to his left. Horton sprang forward, dealt a violent blow to Marshall’s right hand and knocked the torch from it. As Marshall cried out, taken by surprise, he twisted to stab the syringe into Horton’s side but Horton was quicker and fitter. With a karate chop he dislodged the syringe, grabbed Marshall’s arm and twisted it behind his back. Marshall screamed in pain. Horton rammed Marshall’s body against the railings, looking around for something to tie him there, but there was nothing to hand. He needed to call in but his phone was in his right-hand pocket. Still with a fierce grip on Marshall, Horton caught sight of a length of rope to their right.

‘Move,’ he shouted, wrenching Marshall up and pushing him along the narrow deck to the right past the half railing where they’d climbed on-board.

The surface was wet and slippery. The moon suddenly disappeared behind a bank of cloud. Marshall lost his footing and slipped. Horton went down with him, in the process loosening his grip. It was enough for Marshall to twist and squirm his way out, and within seconds he’d slid through the lower gap in the railings and into the sea.

‘Shit!’ Horton scrambled up and played his torch on the black swirling mass in front of him. He thought he saw the dark shape of Marshall trying to swim to the shore – the man was an idiot, he wouldn’t make it. The current was lethal in the harbour.

Clambering around the edge of the raft, holding the railing to guide him, Horton reached where they’d come on board and slipped down into the boat. He might be able to get to Marshall and throw him a line. Where the hell was he though? The bloody boat wouldn’t start. He tried again. The third time it spluttered into life. Horton released the line and pointed the rudder towards the shore, but there was no sign of Marshall.

He needed light, the pathetic little torch had petered out and it was no bloody use anyway. He threw it down in disgust. He needed to alert the Lifeboat. With his hand on the tiller he could feel the tide sweeping him out of the harbour much faster than he cared for. He turned, flicked open the seat behind him and grappled blindly into it for a flare. His hand curved around something as the coast of Hayling on his left and Eastney on his right raced past him with alarming speed. Releasing his hand from the tiller and letting the tide take him further out he let off the flare. It shot into the sky, bright orange, and lit up the dark pool of water ahead. Yes, he thought he could see something, but was it Marshall? He needed another distress flare. He reached for one. Again orange lit the night sky but already he wondered if he was too late. The current was taking him out into the Solent and there was no sign of Marshall. He reached for yet another flare, praying that someone would see it and call the Lifeboat. His prayers were answered some minutes later when, heading towards him from Eastney, was a high-speed RIB.

Horton bellowed across the engine noise as it drew alongside him, mouthing and pointing at the sea. ‘Man in the water.’ He indicated ahead.

A member of the crew nodded, put his thumb up, relayed it to the others. They were used to this notorious stretch of water and he watched as they made a circuit ahead as Horton tried to steer the small craft to the shore. He couldn’t, the current was too strong. Then ahead he saw another rescue boat making towards him. This time Horton took the line that was thrown to him and allowed his craft to be escorted out to the comparative safety of Southsea Bay. He looked back. The first rescue boat was still searching but he knew they wouldn’t find Marshall.

H
orton had called Uckfield and told him where he could find Erica Leyton’s body. He relayed what had happened. Uckfield had listened in silence before saying, ‘I’ll call Dean.’

‘Yes, do that,’ Horton had snapped and rung off. He’d returned to his boat and made it ready for sailing. Then he had switched off his mobile and set the alarm for four a.m. The Cill to the marina would be open by then and at four thirty he was motoring into Langstone Harbour in the breezy dark morning, passing close to the raft where arc lights had been set up but were no longer switched on. Everything was quiet. Erica Leyton’s body had been brought up. She had done nothing to deserve death and neither had Spalding and Redsall.

He sailed across to the Isle of Wight, letting the sea and the wind soothe his troubled mind, and watched as the dawn came up. It worked to some extent but not completely because he knew what lay ahead. He thought it doubtful he’d find a berth in Cowes at the start of Cowes Week so he called Carl Ashton, woke him from his beauty sleep and, cutting off his angry protests, got him to give him the berth he wasn’t using that went with his marina flat in East Cowes. Horton said nothing about his suspicions of Steve Drummond being Ashton’s vandal. That would lead to Drummond being given the sack. When this was over he’d have a quiet word with Drummond and persuade him to move onto another job and to hope that Melanie would tire of Ashton. If she didn’t it was certain that Ashton would tire of her and then maybe Melanie would look for a comforting shoulder to cry on. But for now there was some unfinished business. He knew it would probably remain that way, but after considering what Marshall had told him Horton couldn’t let it rest.

He reached Cowes just after seven thirty, showered, changed and took the chain ferry across to West Cowes where he ate breakfast in the Yacht Haven and watched the throng of visitors on the pontoons making their yachts ready for a day’s sailing.

The weather looked set to be fair with a wind strong enough to please most. He thought of Catherine and Emma and wondered if they’d be on-board his former father-in-law’s yacht. And would Agent Harriet Eames be on another with Rupert Crawford and Ben Otis? Maybe even with her father, Lord Eames, but he hoped not the latter. And he hoped, as he made his way to Castle Hill Yacht Club, that he’d find Lord Eames there.