Undercurrent (33 page)

On showing his warrant card he was escorted into the Morning Room where Lord Eames was sitting, thankfully alone. Horton saw immediately that he knew why he’d come. Of course he’d know. He’d have been told about the events of the previous night.

‘Coffee?’

Horton refused. His stomach was like a tight hard ball. He’d played out this conversation several times in his head throughout the morning but no matter how many times he’d rehearsed it he knew it wouldn’t pan out as he expected because he couldn’t write Eames’ side of the script. He took the seat that Lord Eames offered him across the low coffee table. The room was deserted. Somehow Horton thought Eames must have arranged it that way.

He began. ‘Did you know that Bradley Marshall was Adrian Goring’s son?’

‘Who?’

‘And that Bradley Marshall killed Spalding and Daniel Redsall?’

Would Eames continue to deny his involvement? Would he continue to look blankly at him, and feign incomprehension at Horton’s meaning?

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Eames declared politely, with a slightly bemused expression.

So that was the way it was going to be. It was good, but it didn’t fool Horton. ‘You’d lost track of Goring’s son, is that why you allowed me to continue blundering around after nearly trying to kill me, to find him for you?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Inspector.’

But Eames did. He knew it all. Horton wasn’t going to leave it there.

‘Who was Daniel Redsall supposed to meet on the pontoon at Oyster Quays?’ Horton asked. He hoped to God it wasn’t Agent Harriet Eames, but it could be. Her father looked amused as though he could read his mind. It didn’t take much to see that Lord Eames had guessed at Horton’s liking for his daughter. If she hadn’t been off limits before, she bloody well was now. Horton badly wanted Redsall’s rendezvous to have been with Rupert Crawford and then he might just vent a bit of anger on the smooth, good-looking supercilious banker or find a way of booking him for something; anything would do, sneezing in public would be enough. But Horton knew it wasn’t Crawford.

‘Was it Ben Otis?’ he said, watching Eames carefully, not expecting the man to betray himself and he didn’t. Neither did he reply, which was an admission in itself. Horton continued. ‘Was it Otis who entered the Historic Dockyard from the naval base entrance on Monday night in order to kill Spalding as he was leaving the museum and take the briefcase containing the research?’ Horton knew that Otis’s name wouldn’t appear on any signing-in log. He’d have top-level security clearance.

‘You really do have a remarkable imagination, Inspector.’

‘Imagination enough to believe that when Otis arrived outside the museum he saw Dr Spalding staggering about clutching the briefcase. He grabbed it and then helped push him into Number One Dock, then left by the naval base entrance. Or perhaps he didn’t push him; perhaps Spalding, drugged by Marshall, thought he could fly and jumped. You must have been really pissed off when you discovered the briefcase was empty.’

Eames made no reply. He lifted his coffee cup and took a sip, looking at Horton over the rim.

‘From that you knew that Daniel Redsall was working in league with Spalding. Would he reveal that his father was bisexual and had worked as a spy for the British Government?’

‘Spy is such a melodramatic word, don’t you think? It smacks too much of fiction and James Bond.’

Horton’s eyes narrowed. His stomach was clenched hard as iron. ‘Beatrice Redsall came here on June twenty-eighth to tell you that Spalding had contacted her about his research. He had to be stopped. She couldn’t allow it to come out, and neither could you because it would spark too many questions. More dirty secrets and lies would be exposed, damaging some very highly influential people, those still alive and in government and top jobs. When you knew that Daniel must have taken Spalding’s laptop you told Beatrice to call her nephew and ask him to meet her on the pontoons at Oyster Quays on Tuesday night. She gave him the security number, which you had relayed to her.’

Again Horton didn’t know this for certain but Daniel’s mobile phone records would show him receiving a call from his aunt. Nothing wrong with that, and yes, when questioned she would admit she’d called him. She’d just forgotten she had or she hadn’t thought it was relevant. The intelligence services must have given her Daniel’s mobile phone number because Horton had believed her when she said she hadn’t had any contact with her nephew for years.

‘But Beatrice Redsall, who knew all about her brother’s past and not from Spalding, had no intention of showing up at Oyster Quays. And Daniel had no intention of giving his aunt the research material, but he was curious to see how desperate she was for it and how much she knew about her beloved brother, so he agreed to meet her there. And even when drugged his agreed rendezvous had stuck in his mind. But instead of Beatrice showing up you had arranged for Ben Otis to meet Daniel and take the laptop computer from him. Otis was to linger on Crawford’s yacht and follow the others to the restaurant, putting a sophisticated electronic device on the bridgehead security camera that made everyone think it was recording the pontoon live when it was in fact relaying a completely different image taken on a different day. Then Otis popped out of the restaurant, probably saying he was going to the gents, only he returned to the pontoon to meet Daniel Redsall.’ Horton wondered if Harriet Eames would confirm this or whether she’d been told to keep silent. He didn’t like to think so.

Horton continued. ‘But when Otis got there he found Redsall dead on Carl Ashton’s yacht and no sign of the computer. He could see that the rucksack was empty. He quickly returned to his friends and your daughter in the restaurant, removing the masking device on the security camera on his way.’

‘Like I said, Inspector, a remarkable imagination.’

‘And with Redsall dead that meant someone else knew the secret and that was dangerous. That’s when you realized the killer had to be Adrian Goring’s son, and you had to find him and quick. Maybe you had found him. Perhaps you didn’t care about him killing Erica Leyton. And now conveniently he’s dead. Did you hope that I’d drown too?’ Horton said angrily. ‘Because you, or whoever you work for, don’t like people asking too many questions, but I’ll tell you this.’ Horton leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘You will have to kill me because I’m not going to stop asking questions about the disappearance of my mother. I’m going to find the two remaining men in this photograph.’ He removed it from his jacket pocket and slapped it down on the table between them. He watched Eames’ eyes flick down to it. He wanted to see surprise and fear but he saw only confusion. He couldn’t be wrong. He was certain he wasn’t. It was confirmed when Eames said, ‘Two?’

‘Three of them are dead.’

‘That leaves one.’

‘Yes . . .’ Horton held Eames’ eyes . . . ‘What happened to Jennifer, Eames?’

He caught a flicker of something but couldn’t interpret what it was. Shock? Irritation?

‘Where did you get this?’ Eames said almost mockingly and yet Horton sensed his anger.

‘From a friend.’

Eames didn’t ask which friend. He knew Horton wouldn’t tell him. But would he continue to deny that the remaining man was him?

‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen it. I hardly recognized myself.’

Stiffly, with his gut churning, Horton repeated his question. ‘What happened to her?’

For a moment there was silence. Horton could hear his heart thumping against his chest and made every effort not to betray his fury and his fear.

‘I don’t know.’

Horton didn’t believe him. ‘She took this picture.’

‘Did she? I remember she was friendly with one of the men. James Royston, I think his name was.’

The one that Amos had told him had died of a drugs overdose.

‘She was Royston’s girlfriend?’ Amos had said not. Who did Horton believe? Neither of them.

‘Possibly. It was a long time ago. I was only at the London School of Economics because I’d been visiting a friend. I was at Cambridge. I came down because I thought it would be fun. Tragically Tim died in a motorbike accident, couldn’t have been very long after that picture was taken.’

‘Was Jennifer working for you?’

Eames raised his eyebrows. ‘I was a student.’

‘Why did she disappear?’

‘I didn’t know she had.’

Horton’s fists balled. This man had fucked up his childhood. He’d like to beat the shit out of him because he doubted he’d ever get the truth from those supercilious lips. He half rose when a voice hailed him.

‘I didn’t realize you were here, sir.’

Horton spun round to find Agent Harriet Eames behind him. She recoiled at the expression on his face. Her anxious eyes flicked to her father and back to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘I’m interrupting something.’

Horton rose and stuffed the photograph in his pocket. Tightly he said, ‘No. We’ve finished. For now.’ He threw a final glance at Lord Eames and left.

Outside he stepped across to the promenade and watched the yachts in the breeze with their white and coloured sails. He took a deep breath and unfurled his fists. Would she follow him out here? Did he want her to? Would her father tell her who he worked for? Would he tell her about Jennifer Horton and how the security services had used her and then allowed her to die? But maybe Agent Harriet Eames already knew it, or at least part of the sordid tale.

Had the security services left his mother to the ministrations of an evil man they’d been watching and who they wanted to do their dirty work for them, Zeus, just as they had done with Bradley Marshall? Had Jennifer been killed by Zeus because she knew too much, just as Erica Leyton had been killed by Bradley Marshall, both casualties of their sick machinations?

And where did DCS Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate and his mission to find the master criminal Zeus fit into all this? Did Sawyer know as much as he, Horton, now did, which wasn’t very much? Did Sawyer know about Lord Eames’ involvement? Should he pool resources with him?

Horton turned and began walking through the crowds of people, not seeing their faces or hearing their chatter. His head was spinning; his body ached with tension and frustration. Thoughts swirled around his mind like the tide around the chain ferry as it trundled its way across the narrow stretch of the Medina. He thought over what he’d learned and what there was still to learn about Jennifer’s disappearance.

He walked through the streets of East Cowes to the marina, seeing nothing, trying to feel nothing, his mind rapidly working. Discounting Professor Thurstan Madeley and Quentin Amos, because they’d been instructed what to tell him, there were four men who knew what had happened to Jennifer Horton: the remaining two men in the photograph, plus Edward Ballard, who had given him the photograph, and Lord Eames. And if they wouldn’t tell him then he’d find someone who would. He’d also find the truth behind the deaths of three of those men in the photograph. And he didn’t think he’d be given a great deal of time to do so.

As he drew level with his yacht he reached a decision. There was, after all, only one to make, and it was one that he knew would please DCI Bliss. With his mind made up he climbed on his boat and made ready to sail.