Undercurrent (5 page)

Horton left her to break the bad news to him and went in search of Lewis Morden. He found him in the museum shop. In his mid-thirties, he was what the medical profession would class as obese, though Horton doubted Morden thought of himself as that. The loose-fitting black museum T-shirt did little to disguise the huge paunch or the fat that hung around the top of his thighs. His face was clean shaven and podgy with no definable chin. Horton asked if he could have a word and they stepped outside. The white SOCO van was parked on the far side of Number One Dock and behind it a blue car. Horton could see two fingerprint officers working on the railings but there was no sign of Taylor or his colleague Beth Tremaine, which meant they were in the dock.

Morden lit up a cigarette and drew heavily on it. ‘So it’s true that Dr Spalding’s dead,’ he said, exhaling, his cockily confident blue eyes widening in his bland chubby face.

‘Did you see him leaving the museum on one of the monitors?’

‘Yes. It was about nine forty. Julie let him out of the front entrance and then came to tell me everyone had left. I shut down the monitors and joined her in a sweep of the museum.’

‘And you left when?’

‘Just before Julie, must have been about ten o’clock.’

‘You signed out at the Victory Gate.’

‘Yes. I come to work on my bicycle. I only live ten minutes away in Southsea.’

At least he got some exercise, Horton thought, though not nearly enough. ‘So you left the museum by the rear entrance?’ That was where Horton had seen the plastic-roofed bike shed.

‘Yes.’

‘In which direction did you cycle?’

Morden looked bewildered for a moment before cottoning on to Horton’s meaning. Inhaling, he said, ‘Not towards Number One Dock.’ He nodded in its direction and, following his glance, Horton saw Neil Gideon heading towards it in the company of a worried, smartly dressed woman in her early forties. He was surprised to see Gideon still on duty.

Morden, letting the smoke trickle out of his nose, added, ‘I went the opposite way, came out just at the end of the museum building, turned into the main drag and up to Victory Gate.’

Shame, thought Horton. ‘Did you see or hear anything that struck you then or now that was unusual, or different?’

‘No, but I didn’t hang around because of the rain.’

It was the answer Horton had expected. He saw Gideon was gesturing towards him. The woman beside him followed his gesture and looked anxiously at her watch. Horton could guess the reason for her concern. He had little idea of the time but he knew that the dockyard opened to the public at ten o’clock. He had just a few more questions to put to Morden.

‘When Dr Spalding left was he carrying anything?’

‘Only a briefcase.’

So that seemed definite. ‘Did you see him while he was giving his lecture?’

‘In the Princess Royal Gallery, yes.’

‘How did he seem?’

‘OK.’ Morden exhaled and stubbed out his cigarette with his foot then bent down to retrieve the stub.

‘And you were in the control room all evening?’

‘Yes, from seven o’clock.’

‘You didn’t leave to go to the toilet?’

‘No.’

Horton eyed him carefully, not sure whether he believed that, but Morden held his gaze and didn’t appear to be lying. Even if he had popped out to relieve himself, Horton couldn’t see that it mattered anyway with the audience ensconced in the Princess Royal Gallery.

‘Are you always in the control room?’

‘No. I generally work in the shop and occasionally take a party around the museum, but I usually volunteer to do the control room when there’s an evening function because it gives me a bit of overtime, and with a wife and three kids to support I need all the money I can get.’

Horton thought of Spalding’s two children.

Morden said, ‘Is it true he threw himself into the dock?’

Horton made no reply but thanked Morden and headed for the SOCO van grateful that at least the storm of the previous night had passed, leaving behind an overcast humid day with little wind. It would have taken Spalding less than two minutes to reach the place where he’d fallen.

A haggard looking Gideon swiftly introduced the woman with him as Karen James, the Communications Manager for the Historic Dockyard. ‘Will we have to close any attractions?’ she asked Horton anxiously.

‘No, that won’t be necessary.’ Spalding hadn’t been inside any of them except for the
Victory
and the museum and his briefcase hadn’t been left there. It had to be either in the dock, or the surrounding area. But another thought suddenly occurred to Horton, which fitted with his earlier theory of Spalding having been taken ill and trying to get some air by heading for the quayside. Could Spalding have dropped the briefcase into the sea before staggering back here? He’d grabbed the railing around the dock to steady himself but had doubled over and fallen in.

‘We hope to be finished here by the time you open,’ he said.

She looked understandably relieved. ‘Do the press know?’

‘We haven’t informed them, Ms James, but they sometimes have a way of getting hold of this sort of information.’

‘Then I’d better prepare a statement. It would help if I could have a brief comment from you, Inspector.’

He gave her one saying that the deceased was Dr Douglas Spalding and they were currently investigating the circumstances surrounding his death. Let the media ferret out more if they were so inclined and he knew they would be. He hoped he’d be gone by the time they arrived but he’d call Cantelli to tell him to warn Mrs Spalding that the press might be on to her.

As Karen James hurried off, Horton turned to Gideon. ‘Julie Preston says that Dr Spalding had a briefcase with him. Did you see him carrying one when you walked him over from HMS
Victory
to the museum?’

‘No. But he’d probably left it in the Princess Royal Gallery earlier.’ Gideon dashed a puzzled glance at the dock. ‘I didn’t see a briefcase down there by the body.’

Neither had Horton. He said, ‘Could your officers make a search of the dock, this area and around the outside of the museum? Oh and we need to check the deck of the Monitor in case it landed there. Also if there is any sign of a computer memory stick.’

‘I’ll get on to it now.’

Horton turned to the fingerprinting officers. He asked if they’d got any identifiable traceable prints. Not really was the answer, as he’d expected. He peered down into the dock and saw two white-suited figures at work close to the bow of the Monitor. He surveyed the area and the steep stone steps. There was no sign of a briefcase and neither could he see one on the deck of the old Monitor.

One of the white-suited figures looked up. Taylor, seeing Horton, shook his head. Horton guessed there would be nothing to find except blood, skin and traces of bone fragments, and obviously no sign of a small computer memory stick. His phone rang. It was Cantelli.

‘How did it go?’

‘As you’d expect,’ Cantelli said solemnly, his voice tinged with sadness. ‘Mrs Spalding identified her husband’s body though there wasn’t really any doubt it was him. Tom had done his best to make the face look half decent. Ronald Spalding was very distraught. I thought he was going to keel over. While he stepped outside to get a breath of air she told me that Douglas was an only child and that Ronald lost his wife five years ago. He worshipped the ground his son walked on. Neither of them could think of any reason why Spalding would commit suicide, in fact Ronald was most adamant that his son would never consider it. He was very angry that I’d even suggested it. And Mrs Spalding said her husband was in very good health. Their GP is Dr Deacon, Southsea Medical Centre, and Mrs Spalding said she’d ask him to give us his full cooperation.’

‘And the briefcase?’

‘Tan leather, very well worn, like an old-fashioned school master’s, and he left the house carrying it. She said he took his laptop computer with him.’

Horton relayed his theory about the missing briefcase possibly ending up in the sea and what Julie Preston had told him about Spalding looking as though he had a headache. ‘It’s looking more like an accidental death brought on by an illness. He could have suffered a heart attack, aneurysm or stroke.’

‘Want me to check with the doctor?’

‘No, I’ll do that. See what Walters has got in the way of background and whether he’s had any joy contacting anyone at the university.’

‘Mrs Spalding said her husband’s boss is a Dr Sandra Menchip. She might be away as it’s the holidays but I’ll see if we can track her down. I’ve got Spalding’s mobile phone number, do you want to apply to access his account?’

Horton did. He rang off and checked the time. It was five minutes past ten and ahead he could see the first trickle of tourists beginning to drift in. He hailed Gideon who had emerged from behind the naval museum with a shake of his head.

‘Nothing so far.’

‘Call me after you’ve finished searching.’ Horton relayed his number. ‘Is Matt Newton still on duty?

‘No. He went home hours ago. I can give you his address if you’d like it.’

Horton said he would. He followed Gideon to the security office situated halfway down the main thoroughfare where the security officer jotted down Newton’s address. Handing the piece of paper to Horton he said, ‘His wife’s very ill – cancer.’

‘OK, but we’ll still need to interview him.’

‘He’ll be on duty tonight and so will I if you need anything more. Otherwise you can reach me at home or on my mobile.’ Gideon gave his address which was, like Newton’s, in the north of the city.

Horton asked for the full contact details of all the guests and the caterers. Gideon extracted some papers from a file and ran them through the photocopier. Handing them over he said, ‘We did a security check on all of them before the lecture as a matter of procedure. Nothing showed up and the caterers have been security cleared at a higher level, being regular visitors.’

Horton took his leave, checked the details of one address, then tucking the papers in his pocket headed for Ivor Meadows’ apartment.

‘H
ow did he die?’ the little barrel of a man in his mid sixties tossed over his shoulder as he led Horton through the small entrance hall of the fifth-floor flat in Old Portsmouth and into a spacious lounge. It had more navy memorabilia in it than Horton had seen in the naval museum, including in the attic rooms. Scores of photographs also covered the ochre-painted walls and judging by their composition it didn’t need three guesses to know what Ivor Meadows had once done for a living. Clearly the Navy had been this man’s life and equally clearly he was reluctant to let go of it. This room had all the hallmarks of a shrine.

Horton gave his stock answer. ‘It’s too early to say. We’re—’

‘Of course,’ Meadows interrupted. ‘You have to wait for the post-mortem. And you can’t give out that kind of information even if you knew it.’

Horton caught the smug gleam in the grey eyes that studied him. He had expected someone younger though nothing in Julie Preston’s remarks had hinted at that. ‘We’re trying to piece together the last moments leading up to Dr Spalding’s death and I understand that you talked to him for some time last night.’

‘I did. We had a most interesting conversation.’ Meadows waved him into one of the three armchairs in the room.

Had Dr Spalding thought so? ‘About?’

‘The Royal Navy, of course,’ Meadows announced promptly and proudly, easing his squat body into the seat opposite Horton. ‘Joined as a boy sailor at seventeen. Could have retired with my pension at thirty-nine but I stayed on until I was fifty-five and then was asked to stay on as a security consultant until I was sixty. And glad to. Retired four years ago.’

And had never let go of the past, thought Horton wondering if Meadows had really been asked to stay on until sixty. He found that hard to believe. Perhaps it was what he had hoped for and in his imagination he had been attached to the navy while in reality he’d been working for a private security company. Doing what? Horton wasn’t going to ask. It wasn’t relevant, and besides, Meadows was in full flow.

‘I was Master at Arms, Warrant Officer, in charge of discipline and investigating crime when called upon to do so, like you. Liaised with you lot many times.’ Meadows puffed out his chest. ‘I did consider joining the police when I was thirty-nine but it was not long after the Falklands conflict and we’d proved to the government we were still needed. Are still now but this short-sighted bunch are no better than the last lot, wouldn’t see a conflict brewing if it was shoved under their noses. They’ll call on us again, you’ll see; there’ll be another Falklands, Iraq, Gibraltar and when they need us they’ll have no ships and no men to respond.’

‘If you could tell me—’

‘I’ve worked through the Cold War, the Falklands, the Gulf War and the Kosovo conflict, and on several high-level investigations with Special Branch and others in British Intelligence,’ he said conspiratorially and self-importantly. ‘Can’t speak about that, of course. Official Secrets Act.’

But Horton had the feeling that he was about to hear Meadows’ service history from the moment he joined until he retired. No wonder Spalding had looked as though he had a headache. He’d only been listening to Meadows for five minutes and that was enough to bring on a migraine. Trying to be charitable, however, Horton told himself that Meadows was probably lonely – there seemed to be no evidence of a Mrs Meadows – but that didn’t mean he had to suffer his reminiscences. Before the silver-haired man could launch on his trip down Memory Lane, Horton quickly said, ‘Dr Spalding’s lecture—’

‘About the Women’s Royal Navy. I told him what my views on that subject were after the lecture. I’ve seen what they do at first hand. Women were first allowed to serve on surface ships in 1990 and I saw their disruptive influence on the men. They’re distracting, they cause unnecessary rivalry and jealousy, they’re often manipulative and they use their sex to get what they want.’

Blimey, no wonder there wasn’t a Mrs Meadows – she probably took off years ago. For a moment Horton had the desire to interview Meadows in front of DCI Bliss. He’d love to see her reaction. He also wondered what Spalding had made of Meadows’ views. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He suspected it was Gideon calling him.