Lost Voyage Page 18

  ‘Bradshaw worked with you all.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Stapledon hadn’t mentioned that. Why had he omitted Bradshaw? Could he simply have forgotten he worked with him? Unlikely.

  Royden continued, ‘I took over the contract for the Celeste because Duncan could no longer meet the commitment to scrap her, and he was only too willing for me to do so and to buy his company.’

  ‘And you felt so guilty that you gave a whacking great wad of money to the Mary Jo memorial fund.’

  ‘OK, so I did, but not for the reasons you’ve said,’ Royden was stung to retort. ‘I originally pitched to buy the Celeste along with Helmsley and we were all set to get it when the owner decided to sell to Helmsley, thanks to Ian Bradshaw. I hoped it would go wrong. I wanted it to be one gigantic cock-up, even though I knew Tim Landguard and he was a damn good salvage master, but I never sabotaged the Mary Jo.’

  ‘Bradshaw was involved in some kind of side deal.’

  ‘I couldn’t prove it. He said he’d bring the Celeste to Britain for recycling, which didn’t sound a bit like him, because not only would that cost more but Helmsley would get less on the salvage value. India was a much better location for scrappage, for getting maximum value, along with lower overheads and cheaper wages.’

  ‘So it didn’t make good business sense to bring it to Britain.’

  ‘Not unless you were going to be paid to do so.’

  ‘Bradshaw took a bribe from the company who would recycle it?’

  ‘Either from them or from someone in government who had an interest in boosting our fledging ship recycling industry, which is still struggling to get off the ground.’

  ‘He was crooked even when you worked with him at sea?’

  ‘He was always looking for a chance to make money.’

  ‘Like you.’

  Royden’s lips tightened. ‘No. Not like me,’ he said stiffly. ‘All my deals have been strictly legal.’ But his shifting eye contact said something else. ‘I was amazed Duncan took on Ian Bradshaw. They were total opposites and never really hit it off at sea. Bradshaw was flashy and crass, and a womanizer, which was why he loved working on the cruise liners. It didn’t suit Tim, who did a stint on them but left to go into the salvage industry and then to work for Duncan, who like him was serious and played it straight. I stuck to the cruise ships for a while but, like Martin Elmsley, I wanted to be my own master and not of a ship. Bradshaw was a good talker, though, and probably persuaded Duncan and Martin to take him on. When Martin died Duncan was completely lost. Bradshaw was running the show. By the time we got hold of the Celeste no one was remotely interested in where the thing was scrapped.’

  ‘So you did a deal directly with Bradshaw, who sold it on to you for one price but told Duncan you’d paid less. He falsified the invoices to cream off some money. Or perhaps you agreed a figure and shared the cut.’

  ‘No. The deal was done through the same broker Ian Bradshaw used the first time, Marcus Kiln, and it was simply a case of transferring the contract to us on the same basis. Helmsley bought the Celeste “as and where seen”, selling everything there was to sell on her when she was stripped down and broken up to earn back the outlay and gain a profit. As I said, India is very good for getting the best prices for metals and other equipment on board ships.’

  ‘And did you profit?’

  ‘Yes. Nothing wrong in that,’ he declared defensively.

  Marvik recalled what Crowder had told him. ‘There was some valuable property on board: aluminium, bronze, ornamental balustrades, murals, gilt, gold, even.’

  Royden looked taken aback by Marvik’s knowledge.

  ‘Must have swelled Almbridge’s coffers or was it your own personal bank account that got a boost in a deal you did with this Marcus Kiln?’

  A cloud crossed Royden’s eyes. ‘It was all properly recorded and accounted for.’

  ‘Was it?’ Marvik scoffed. He doubted that. Someone had overseen the dismantling of the Celeste and, judging by Royden’s body language and expression, some of that profit had most probably found its way into an offshore account under Royden’s name.

  ‘Where can I find Marcus Kiln?’ Marvik asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him since then. It’s true,’ he hastily added. ‘He must have left the shipping industry right afterwards. We did the deal and that was it.’

  Marvik eyed him disbelievingly. It sounded too convenient. Was Royden making this up? Did this Kiln really exist? Had Royden invented him in order to divert attention from himself and his profiteering on the side and his attempts to escape the taxman?

  ‘What did he look like?’

  ‘I don’t know. I never met him. All our negotiations were conducted by email and phone. It was a very straightforward transaction.’

  Marvik studied him. Was that a lie? Royden was looking increasingly frazzled.

  ‘But he oversaw the dismantling operation in India?’

  ‘No. We liaised with the manager at the Indian recycling plant.’

  ‘You trusted them not to cream off anything?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Marvik wasn’t too certain about that.

  ‘I swear we had nothing to do with the loss of the Mary Jo.’

  ‘But you came here mob-handed. Not sure I believe you, Alec.’

  ‘We just wanted you to stop asking questions.’

  ‘Afraid I can’t do that.’

  ‘Then at least wait another week and the deal with Drakes will be done. Their chairman, Terry Keydell, is very strict on ethics. If there is one sniff of anything untoward in the history of a company he wants to acquire that’s it, he drops the deal.’

  ‘Even if it’s profitable?’ Marvik said incredulously.

  ‘Yes. He’s eccentric, reclusive and principled.’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to hope it doesn’t reach his ears, or the fact that you’ve fiddled the taxman.’

  ‘Fat chance of that,’ Royden scoffed. ‘It’s a small industry. Everyone knows everyone.’ He paused and took a breath as his brow furrowed in thought. ‘And we don’t know you,’ he added decisively. ‘Just why are you so interested?’

  ‘Because I’m eccentric and principled. Out,’ he commanded. Royden slid out of the seat, followed by Bowman. ‘If either of you try anything I’ll break more than your knuckles. And I’ll start spreading stories so fast that you’ll be lucky to get so much as a contract to salvage a row boat. Where can I find Stapledon?’

  Royden hesitated. Marvik took a step forward.

  ‘He lives just off the Old Willingdon Road in Friston.’

  Not far from Meryl Landguard’s house in East Dean, just the other side of the A259.

  Royden gave Marvik Stapledon’s address.

  ‘I take it you said you’d phone him after this visit?’

  Royden nodded.

  ‘Then pass the message on.’

  Royden looked puzzled. Marvik elaborated. ‘I’m not sure his donors and the Charity Commission will be too pleased when I start telling them how one of their fundraising directors has been pocketing the funds.’

  ‘But that’s a—’

  ‘Lie? Is it? Where can I find you if I have more questions to ask?’ Marvik added threateningly.

  Royden’s face fell. ‘Either here, on my boat—’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘A Sealine F46 motor cruiser.’

  The same make of boat that Colbourne had been on but the marina night-duty manager had said that Colbourne had been heavy-set, muscular, about forty. The description didn’t fit Royden, although he was bulky. But if Royden had been one of those men in Eastbourne Marina talking about taking out a ‘target’ then why go to Eastbourne Marina, enter via a lock and be seen when he could have met his accomplice here in private?

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Bayrisca.’

  Boat names could be easily changed. ‘And if you’re not here or in your office, where will you be?’

  Royden shifte
d uneasily. ‘At home. Dukes Haven, Alfriston.’

  Which Marvik knew was only a few miles north-east of Seaford and about ten miles to Eastbourne.

  ‘But don’t come there. My wife’s pregnant and I don’t want her bothered and upset.’

  Marvik said nothing. He watched them climb off the boat. Royden turned before heading down the pontoon back to the shore. Marvik didn’t need to see his expression in the dark, wet night because he knew it would be troubled. But how deep was he in?

  He quickly locked up and followed them through the car park to the road that bordered the recreation ground. The two men were so deep in animated conversation that Marvik doubted they would have noticed or heard him if he’d been directly behind them. Bowman was nursing his bruised hand and possibly broken fingers and complaining vociferously about it. They came to a halt beside the two cars parked in the lay-by, still arguing. Marvik stepped back into the shadows. Bowman zapped open one of the cars but he didn’t climb in. Marvik couldn’t hear what they were saying but by Bowman’s gestures and catching the occasional raised word, it sounded as though Bowman was insisting on Royden driving him to hospital. Royden was refusing. Then he looked as though he was pleading with Bowman who, after a moment, zapped his car shut and stormed off in the direction of the sea, but Marvik thought his destination was the pub at the end of the road, close to the beach, and a stiff drink before calling for a taxi to take him to Accident and Emergency.

  Royden climbed into his car and reached for his phone. Swiftly, Marvik tailed Bowman and as he reached the curve in the road at the entrance to the fort car park, only sixty yards away, where Marvik had directed Moorcott. Marvik struck him on the back of his head with his torch, enough to make him fall and pass out but not enough to kill him, and dragged his body into the shrubs. The streets were deserted and Royden wouldn’t have seen him because of the bend in the road.

  Deftly, Marvik searched the pockets and, retrieving a mobile phone and car keys, ran back towards Royden’s car in time to see its tail lights in the distance. Marvik climbed into Bowman’s car and followed. Royden could be going home; he could be reporting back to Stapledon but Marvik was guessing he had already done that on the phone. He was curious to see what he would do next, and there was that driving instinct deep inside him that said Royden could lead him to some answers as to what had really happened to the Mary Jo.

  Royden headed east out of Newhaven on the A259 towards Seaford, in the correct direction for his home. Marvik hung back. There were two cars in front of him. The road wasn’t busy. Instead of turning off for Alfriston, though, Royden drove on towards Eastbourne. He crossed the narrow bridge over Cuckmere Haven, an area of floodplains where the River Cuckmere led down to the English Channel and the beach. It had been very popular with smugglers over the centuries. The car in front of Marvik pulled off to the left. They were almost on the road that turned off to Friston, but instead of indicating into it, Royden continued. He wasn’t going to visit Stapledon then but Marvik saw him indicate right, taking the road to East Dean and the Birling Gap. He followed, keeping his distance. Royden was driving fast, taking the wet country lane at speed. They’d already passed Meryl Landguard’s house. Soon they would be at the entrance of the car park at the Birling Gap, which at this time of night and in this weather would be deserted, as was the road.

  The dark shape of the Downs loomed on Marvik’s right and lights from a handful of houses on the approach to Crowlink glimmered through his rain-spattered windscreen. Still keeping his distance, Marvik registered a large black four-wheel-drive vehicle ahead on the edge of the car park almost at the same time he saw Royden approach the bend. It happened in a flash. The vehicle pulled out right in Royden’s path. Instinctively, he swerved to avoid it. His car spun round, left the road, flipped over and rolled several times until it struck a tree with force. Marvik quickly pulled over and was out of the car running towards Royden while noting the four-wheel-drive vehicle’s tail lights disappearing up the hill in the distance. Only the wind and the rain drumming on the roof of the upturned vehicle now disturbed the night. There were no houses close by and no other vehicles on the road.

  Marvik reached the upturned vehicle. He shone his torch inside it at the same time as trying the car door, but it was locked and his beam picked out the grey, immobile, strong-featured face and staring eyes of Alec Royden, the blood running from his nose. Royden was dead.

  He took a breath and remained motionless for a moment. Whoever had been driving the other vehicle had taken a chance that Royden would be killed. He could have survived such an impact, albeit seriously injured, but that would have been enough to have put him out of action for some time and maybe even in a coma for many days or weeks. Maybe if the driver hadn’t seen Marvik’s lights he would have stopped to make sure Royden was dead, and if he wasn’t he’d have finished him off.

  Marvik turned away and climbed back into Bowman’s car. He swung it round but instead of making for Newhaven he made for Friston and Hugh Stapledon.

  EIGHTEEN

  The lights were showing from behind the curtains in the detached house on the small estate but that didn’t mean Stapledon was at home. Marvik pulled up outside and walked up the short driveway where a new saloon car was parked. He hadn’t expected to see the four-wheel-drive vehicle that had forced Royden off the road because he didn’t believe Stapledon had been driving it, but he could have instructed an accomplice to do so. Except if Stapledon was the killer, why wasn’t he living in greater luxury rather than this modest 1980s detached house? Had he really sabotaged a boat and killed seven men just so that he could live like this? The same applied if Stapledon had been fiddling the charity’s funds. Marvik would have expected a much larger and more prestigious property. But then, for all he knew Stapledon could have huge debts. He could be a gambler or a drinker or both. He could be paying his ex-wife a very hefty alimony, not to mention having to cough up for his son’s wedding. He could have money stashed away and be living a double life. And there was a shiny new car on the driveway.

  Marvik pressed his finger on the bell and kept it there until the door was opened by a haggard Stapledon, who hadn’t changed out of the suit Marvik had seen him dressed in that morning at the wedding. It seemed incredible that it was less than eleven hours ago.

  Stapledon’s bony face registered alarm, then fear and he made to close the door, but Marvik thumped the flat of his hand on it and pushed it open.

  ‘I’ve got nothing more to say to you,’ Stapledon said stiffly.

  ‘But I’ve got plenty to ask you.’ Marvik stepped inside, roughly pushing Stapledon back so that he hit the wall. Marvik couldn’t hear anyone moving about, only the sound of the television. And no one came rushing to see what had caused Stapledon to cry out.

  ‘What did Alec Royden tell you when he phoned an hour ago?’ Marvik demanded.

  ‘He hasn’t phoned me.’

  Marvik stepped forward and balled his fist. The colour drained from Stapledon’s narrow face.

  ‘He hasn’t. I swear it.’

  ‘Give me your mobile phone.’

  ‘It’s in the lounge.’

  ‘Then let’s get it.’ He grabbed hold of Stapledon and roughly pushed him into the room on their right where the television was on. There was a half-empty bottle of whisky and a glass on the table in front of a tired-looking sofa, along with the mobile phone. Marvik grabbed it and scrolled through Stapledon’s last calls. There was nothing from Royden, or at least his name didn’t flash up. The last call Stapledon had received had been earlier that morning from a woman called Eileen Jepson. Marvik ignored it. And the last call Stapledon had made had been shortly after Marvik had left him that morning. It was to Alec Royden. Stapledon watched on nervously.

  So who had Royden called from his car? He should have retrieved the mobile phone from Royden’s body. That had been a mistake. But he swiftly told himself that even if he had, he was certain the number would lead him nowhere. It would be disconnected by
now. This killer was no fool. And the police would discover the same when they checked it or Royden’s mobile phone records, except they had no reason to do so because they would believe his death was an accident. It would be assumed that Royden had taken the bend too fast and swerved to avoid an animal. Stapledon hadn’t killed him or arranged to have him killed, but Marvik was certain that Stapledon had something to hide just as everyone connected with this mission seemed to have.

  Marvik reached for the television remote control, pressed the mute button, threw the device on the sofa but kept hold of the phone.

  ‘Tell me about the Mary Jo.’

  ‘I’ve already told you everything I know,’ Stapledon cried with exasperation.

  Marvik stepped forward.

  Hastily, Stapledon gabbled, ‘I don’t know anything more about it.’

  Maybe he didn’t. His fear and protest sounded and looked genuine.

  ‘Marcus Kiln. You know him?’

  ‘I know he was a ship broker,’ Stapledon quickly answered.

  ‘Describe him?’

  ‘I can’t. I’ve never met him.’

  Marvik looked for the lie but he couldn’t see it in Stapledon’s expression.

  Stapledon, looking fearful and bewildered, hastily continued, ‘I’ve heard of him. He brokered the deal between the owners of the Celeste and Helmsley and then between Helmsley and Almbridge. Alec will know more about him than me.’

  ‘Alec Royden is dead.’

  ‘Dead? What do you mean? My God, you’ve killed him!’ Stapledon said, horrified, his skin turning ashen. He stepped back fearfully from Marvik.

  ‘I haven’t but someone has, even though his death was made to look like a car accident. It’s the same man who killed Ian Bradshaw and who by now has probably killed Meryl and Stephen Landguard.’ He thought of Karen Landguard and her son and prayed silently that they were still safe in the cottage at Jevington.