Undercurrent (4 page)

He threw his leather jacket and helmet on the floor and cleared a space on his desk by pushing all the files, messages and scraps of paper over to one side and, while waiting for his computer to fire up, he opened the window and let in the traffic noise and petrol fumes. There was still no sign of Uckfield’s car. He wondered what he’d make of Dennings’ report when he read it. Very little, he expected, because Dennings would have said very little.

Resuming his seat Horton picked up the phone and called the mortuary. Tom, the mortuary attendant, informed him that the autopsy on Douglas Spalding was scheduled for ten thirty but it wasn’t Dr Clayton who was performing it. She was on holiday until tomorrow. Horton asked to be contacted as soon as they had the preliminary results. Ringing off he wondered where Gaye Clayton’s holiday had taken her. He knew that like him she was a sailor. He wouldn’t mind going sailing with her.

There was a knock on his door and Cantelli entered. ‘SOCO and the fingerprint officers will be at the dockyard within the next thirty minutes. Here’s a copy of the signing-out logs. Walters says that Spalding is clean, no previous, not even a traffic offence. I told him not to be so disappointed. There’s no one at the university offices yet. He’ll try again in half an hour.’

Horton glanced up at the clock above his door; it was just on eight thirty.

Cantelli continued. ‘I’ll be off in a moment to Mrs Spalding’s. I’ve arranged for PC Kate Somerfield to come with me.’

‘Good.’ Horton eyed his laden desk.

‘Sorry about that, Andy. I tried to handle what I could but the stuff seemed to multiply quicker than rabbits.’

‘And most of it is probably rubbish,’ Horton said, dismissing Cantelli’s apology. ‘Let me know how it goes at the mortuary.’

Cantelli said he would. Horton cast a despairing glance over his desk, then at his computer. He dreaded to think how many emails he had – perhaps enough to crash the entire system, he thought hopefully. It would take days to clear this lot. He picked up a file labelled ‘performance targets’ and then another entitled ‘telephone customer survey’ and groaned. What the hell did that have to do with real policing? He should be out there trying to solve crime, not filling in pointless forms and acting as a telephone sales clerk just so they could massage government figures. Bliss would disagree. But then Bliss wasn’t here. And there was nothing to keep him chained to his desk. He found Clarke’s email and the photographs of Spalding’s body, printed them off, rose, stuffed the copies of the security logs in his pocket, picked up his leather jacket and helmet and went to ask Julie Preston what time Spalding had left the museum.

‘I
t was about nine forty.’ Julie Preston’s concerned brown eyes studied Horton behind her square-framed modern spectacles. Her tanned, attractive face looked worried rather than upset, which suggested that she hadn’t known Spalding that well. But then there was no reason why she should have known him. She was in her late twenties, dressed in tight-fitting navy blue trousers and a pretty white, blue and pink flowered low-neck blouse that showed the outline of her white bra beneath it and a cleavage above it. They were sitting in her roomy, extremely untidy and cluttered office on the first floor of the naval museum that made Horton’s look poky and positively tidy. In the small window behind her Horton caught a glimpse of the Gosport skyline on the other side of Portsmouth harbour. According to her evidence that left just under an hour before Spalding’s body had been found.

‘Had everyone left by then?’ he asked.

‘Yes. The caterers left at nine thirty.’

That tallied with the signing-out lists Horton had seen.

Julie Preston added, ‘There was only me and Dr Spalding left. I didn’t expect him to stay that long but then he had been collared by Mr Meadows and
he
didn’t leave until the caterers did at nine thirty.’

Again that tied in with the signing-out log.

‘I didn’t think Mr Meadows was ever going to go, you know how insensitive some people are to time and hints. I tried to steer him away but eventually I had to be quite forceful and tell him we were closing. He must have bored Dr Spalding to death . . . Oh God, I didn’t mean that.’ She pushed a slender hand through her mahogany-highlighted poker-straight long hair.

‘What happened after Mr Meadows left?’

‘We both breathed a sigh of relief.’ She gave a small and sad smile as she obviously recollected the moment, before adding, ‘Dr Spalding did look tired though and he was rubbing his forehead as though he had a headache, which wasn’t surprising after the lecture and being pestered by Mr Meadows.’

Horton was getting a very distinct picture of Ivor Meadows. His suspicious mind wondered if there had been any friction between Meadows and Spalding that could have led to an altercation between them outside. But if it had then either the timing of them leaving the museum was wrong, or Meadows had fabricated his signing-out time on the log and Newton, the security guard, had missed it.

‘You know Mr Meadows well?’ he fished.

She gave a wry smile. ‘He’s often in the museum, telling us how we should organize the exhibits or giving the staff a history lecture, and he regularly visits the naval museum library. It’s in the naval area of the dockyard just before you reach this building,’ she explained.

It didn’t take much for Horton to see that Meadows was a pain in the arse. ‘Did Dr Spalding know him?’

‘I don’t know. He might have met him in the naval museum library, I guess.’

‘So how well did you know Dr Spalding?’

‘I didn’t, not really. I obviously liaised with him over the arrangements for last night but that was all. I can’t believe he could have killed himself.’

So that’s what Gideon had told her. It was the logical assumption, and might still be the right one.

‘Perhaps I could see where the talk took place.’

‘Of course.’ She stood up.

As Horton followed her along the narrow corridor he asked her about the arrangements for the previous night.

‘There was a drinks reception on board HMS
Victory
from seven o’clock until seven thirty, which the caterers handled. Then Neil Gideon walked the guests over here. I met them at the entrance on the ground floor. We escorted them up to the first floor. Here.’ She pushed open the door and they stepped into the wide landing with a wooden floor so ancient that it looked as though it had been lifted off one of Henry VIII’s ships. ‘A few people used the lift.’ She indicated the glass-encased cubicle totally at odds with the historic brick building. ‘The rest came up the stairs. They hung their coats up on the stand to the right of the lift and I showed them into the Princess Royal Gallery.’

As she’d been speaking they’d crossed to a set of double doors just beyond the lift. Pushing them open Horton entered a spacious, carpeted and well-lit room, broken up by cream-coloured steel pillars. Chairs were laid out in rows, theatre style, with a wide aisle through the centre and at either side of the room. At the far end, opposite them, was a large projector screen, to its right a lectern with a microphone on it and next to that a small empty low table. ‘Is this how it was set up last night?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What equipment did Dr Spalding use?’

‘The lectern and microphone, and one of our laptop computers.’

‘So he didn’t bring his own?’

‘He might have done but he had his presentation on a memory stick, which I put into the computer.’

He asked if Spalding had been carrying a briefcase.

‘Yes, a tan leather old-fashioned one. It looked very battered. Why do you ask?’

‘He left carrying it?’

‘Yes.’

So where was it? ‘And you gave the memory stick back to him?’

‘No. He must have taken it out of the computer himself.’

‘Did you check?’

‘Er no.’ Her face flushed.

He asked her to do so now. She left the room and Horton gazed around it looking for some indication as to why, after giving his lecture here to an audience of forty-six people, Douglas Spalding had ended up dead in Number One Dock. He was none the wiser when she returned a few minutes later.

‘It’s not there.’

So he must have taken it. ‘Tell me about the lecture?’

She shifted and ran a hand through her hair. ‘It finished at eight thirty then there was ten minutes for questions and the buffet was served outside in the adjoining Woolfson Room, just behind the lift.’

That wasn’t what Horton had asked but it was an easy misunderstanding. ‘I meant the lecture itself.’

‘Oh.’ Her eyes darted away. She was clearly nervous. He was doing his best not to intimidate her but he knew that questioning could make some people incredibly uneasy. ‘It was about women in the Navy,’ she said. ‘I didn’t hear all of it because I was in and out making sure everything was OK with the caterers. Marcus Felspur was there though; he’s the naval museum’s librarian. He can give you more details.’

Horton recalled seeing the name on the list. He asked to see the buffet area and followed Julie outside to where long thin tables covered with green cloths were stretched out behind a glass partition wall.

‘The guests helped themselves to the buffet,’ she indicated the tables, ‘although the catering staff were here to assist and they served the drinks, then people milled about and spilled out onto the landing.’

‘How did Dr Spalding appear to you last night when he was giving his lecture?’

‘He seemed OK,’ she answered uncertainly, clearly not sure what he wanted her to say. He’d noted earlier her remark about Spalding looking tired and rubbing his forehead and he was beginning to wonder if he’d been taken ill. Perhaps once outside Spalding had tried to make his way to the quayside to get some air but instead he’d staggered against the railings of Number One Dock and had toppled over.

He said, ‘What happened after everyone had left?’

‘Lewis and I did a security sweep of the museum.’

‘Lewis?’ Horton swiftly tried to recall seeing the name on the list.

‘Lewis Morden. He works for the front-of-house staff and was on duty in the CCTV control room last night until we closed.’

Horton’s hopes rose. That meant they might actually have some footage of Spalding leaving. Did Cantelli know this? If he did he would have said though. Had Gideon told Dennings about the cameras last night? Horton remembered seeing the name Morden on the signing-out log. His was the last entry for the Victory Gate, which meant he hadn’t left by car.

‘Can you show me the control room please?’

They descended to the ground floor where Julie pushed open a door leading into a narrow corridor before knocking on a door to her left and entering. Horton followed her into a small room with a bank of eight monitors, showing different areas of the naval museum, and two of the rear entrance. At the desk in front of the screens sat a large woman in her fifties who swiftly quashed Horton’s hopes of a firm sighting of Dr Spalding outside the museum by telling him that none of the footage was recorded. He’d need to speak to Morden, who would be in shortly. But, Horton thought with disappointment, if Lewis Morden had been conducting his security sweep of the museum with Julie Preston then he wouldn’t have seen anything of Spalding on the CCTV cameras, and in all likelihood had probably switched them off by then.

As they left the control room, Horton asked her about the caterers. ‘They parked at the rear entrance, two vans, and they brought the food up the back stairs and prepared it in the staff room, just along the corridor from my office.’

Horton had glimpsed it earlier. He asked to be shown the rear entrance and Julie went ahead of him a short distance along the corridor where she pushed open one of two big white wooden doors. Horton stepped outside and surveyed the narrow road. To his left it ran between the museum and a two-storey red-brick building whose arched windows had been bricked up long ago for a reason he didn’t know and didn’t need to know. Opposite him was a bike shed with a plastic corrugated roof and three cycles, then another building to his right, this time single storey without windows. The road led towards Number One Dock, which he couldn’t see from where they were standing because it was situated further to the right of a brick building, which faced onto the end of the short road. To the left of this Horton could see the top of a pale grey crane and part of a naval ship moored up on the dockside.

Julie said, ‘The caterers unloaded the drinks and food from here and entered via the back door and stairs further along to our left.’

Horton could see them. ‘You let them in?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, now looking very concerned about his line of questioning.

‘We have to check everything,’ he reassured her with a smile.

She returned it, but hesitantly. Turning back inside, Horton said, ‘This security sweep of the museum – what does it involve?’

‘There’s a set procedure: we start at the top in the attics where various artefacts we haven’t got space to exhibit are stored. Would you like to see it?’

Horton said he would, though he wasn’t sure how it would help him discover what had happened to Dr Spalding. He followed her through the museum shop and up two flights of stairs, admiring her figure and the sway of her hips in those tight-fitting trousers as he went, a pleasant distraction from his thoughts of the mangled body he’d seen in the dock last night.

At the top she turned left and pressed a switch on the wall. The room with its low sloping ceiling became flooded with light and revealed a wealth of naval artefacts: ship memorabilia, lifebelts, ancient rifles, a ship’s bell, a model ship in a glass case – it seemed endless.

‘We check that no one’s here then I move across the landing to the other attic.’

He followed her. More ships in glass cases and here she told him was stored Captain Scott’s skis, as well as fabric and jewellery from Lady Hamilton’s dress.

‘Valuable?’ he asked.

‘I guess so. There’s a market for everything, isn’t there?’

She was right about that. As he followed her down the stairs her mobile phone rang and, snatching it up with a worried frown, she said to Horton, ‘It’s my boss, David Kalmore.’