Death Surge (A DI Andy Horton Mystery) Read online

  Horton consulted his watch. He hadn’t realized it was that late. No wonder his stomach was making peculiar noises. He hadn’t eaten since the very early hours of the morning, and then only sketchily. But he pushed thoughts of food aside. According to Elkins’ reckoning that left them with an hour to kick their heels but there were things they could do before then.

  ‘He’ll come into Shepards Wharf,’ Elkins added.

  Horton knew it. The marina was situated at the further end of the small town close to the chain ferry that clanked and rattled its regular way across the River Medina between West and East Cowes.

  ‘What do you know about Masefield?’ he asked as they stepped on to the crowded promenade.

  ‘Not much, only that the yacht is called Naiyah, and is sponsored by Xander Andreadis, who isn’t here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘No idea. Perhaps he had more important things to attend to.’

  ‘Does he usually race at Cowes?’

  Elkins shrugged. ‘Perhaps Masefield is here in his place.’

  Perhaps, thought Horton, catching sight of Cantelli weaving his way through the crowds and the many side shows on the promenade. With concern he noted that Cantelli’s usual leisurely gait had been replaced by agitated strides and a worried frown graced his lean, olive-skinned face instead of his normal easy, laconic smile. Horton’s heart went out to him. But emotion was no use, only action was.

  ‘I’ve tried Johnnie’s mobile phone again but the line’s still dead,’ Cantelli said the moment he drew level, briefly nodding a greeting at Elkins.

  Horton didn’t like the sound of that but there could be a logical explanation. Perhaps he’d broken it or lost it, or perhaps the battery had run down. But why not borrow someone else’s phone or use a pay phone to contact his boss and his mother? He was sure Cantelli had run through the same scenario. They sidestepped some dawdling holidaymakers and began to thread their way through the crowded winding streets towards Shepards Wharf.

  ‘When was the last time Isabella saw Johnnie?’ Horton asked.

  ‘In January when he came home for my dad’s funeral.’

  And that had been when Horton had last seen him too. ‘How did he seem then?’

  ‘Upset over his grandad’s death.’

  Which was to be expected. ‘Has he been in touch with any of his cousins since then?’

  ‘I’ve rung round all the family, and asked my kids, but no one’s heard from him for ages.’

  ‘Is that usual for him?’

  ‘Ellen says so.’

  Ellen was Cantelli’s eldest daughter and the nearest in age to Johnnie at seventeen.

  ‘What about any of the social networks? Could Johnnie have posted something on one of them?’

  Cantelli looked annoyed. ‘I should have thought of that. And I call myself a detective.’

  ‘You’re worried.’

  ‘Yeah, and that won’t achieve anything.’

  ‘Call Ellen now and ask her to check.’

  By the time Cantelli came off the phone they had reached the police station. ‘She’ll call me back.’

  ‘Let’s get a copy of the report.’

  It hardly told them anything except that Masefield had telephoned to report a member of his crew missing. He’d given the name and said he’d come along to the station after racing to give further details.

  ‘And you were satisfied with that!’ Cantelli declared in disgust, eyeing the young uniformed officer malevolently. Horton had seldom seen Cantelli lose his temper but he thought he was about to now and he didn’t blame him. He quickly interjected by addressing Cantelli.

  ‘Have you got a photograph of Johnnie?’

  Cantelli took a deep breath. ‘Only an old one on my mobile phone.’

  ‘Email it to this officer.’ But Horton wondered if it was worth them circulating it here in Cowes because as yet they didn’t know where Johnnie had gone missing. Again to Cantelli he said, ‘Have you checked the local hospitals?’ Horton could tell by Cantelli’s expression he hadn’t and that he was cursing himself for not doing so. Horton asked Elkins to do it and to let him know the outcome. Then he made his way with Cantelli towards the bustling marina where music and laughter seemed to mock their solemn mood.

  Horton asked in the marina office for the location of Masefield’s berth. It was at the far end of the marina. They headed towards it but still had half an hour or more to wait until the boat came in so he suggested they grabbed something to eat. Cantelli refused saying he wouldn’t be able to swallow a mouthful. But Horton insisted. ‘Starving yourself isn’t going to make Johnnie appear.’

  Reluctantly, Cantelli acquiesced. Horton ordered two baguettes and a large cup of tea for Cantelli and a black coffee for himself and managed to get a table outside with a good view of the pontoon where Masefield would moor up. His phone rang. It was Elkins with the news that no one fitting Johnnie’s description had been admitted to the hospital on either the Isle of Wight or in Portsmouth. Horton relayed the information to Cantelli but it wasn’t much comfort to him. And Ellen’s call to say that Johnnie hadn’t used the most popular social networking sites for at least six months didn’t raise his spirits.

  ‘This isn’t looking good,’ Cantelli said, anguished. He’d hardly touched his food.

  ‘Let’s get some facts first. If we can find out exactly where he was last seen that would help.’ And Horton looked up to see two large sleek yachts approaching, one of which by Elkin’s description was Scott Masefield’s. But it was the one behind it that drew Horton’s attention. Or rather the slender attractive woman in her mid thirties at the bow who caught his interest and sent his pulse rate up. Only a few hours ago he’d brushed past her in a fury after his meeting with her father, Lord Eames. Did Harriet Eames know that her father worked for British Intelligence? Had he told her about Jennifer’s disappearance? Did it matter if he had? No, because he could forget any chance of a relationship with her; Agent Harriet Eames would return to her job at Europol in The Hague, and he would get on with his. And the sooner the better, he thought, rising.

  ‘Masefield’s yacht.’

  As they made their way towards it, Horton’s mind went back to his first meeting with Harriet Eames in June when she’d been seconded to an investigation he’d been working on. Cantelli had been on holiday. From the beginning Horton had felt attracted to her. He’d got the impression the feeling was mutual but that was about as far as any relationship between them, apart from a professional one, had got and was ever going to get. Their backgrounds were poles apart, but even if he ignored that, her father’s involvement with Jennifer made it impossible for him to consider developing a relationship with her. He knew it wasn’t her fault who her father was. His argument wasn’t with her. But he could never get close to someone he thought might relay confidences to a man he believed was partly to blame for ruining his childhood – a childhood that had taught him to trust no one and suspect everyone.

  He saw her raise her arm in a greeting, and her fair face lit up with a broad smile, and for one brief heart-stopping moment he thought it was directed at him, before a broad-shouldered man, in his early forties, with short-cropped dark hair, stepped forward, took the line as she jumped off the yacht and threw his arms around her. She didn’t look as though she was protesting. She laughed and gently pushed him away, and as she did her eyes caught his. Another smile formed on her lips and faded as quickly as it had appeared. He didn’t return it. He glanced at her coolly, aware that his expression conveyed none of his mixed-up feelings for her but perhaps hinted at hostility. He had enough problems without getting involved with Harriet Eames, so the less encouragement he gave her, and the more he steeled himself against feeling anything for her, the better. He turned his thoughts to the more important and pressing matter of Johnnie Oslow. Addressing the lean man who leapt off Masefield’s yacht, he said, ‘Mr Masefield?’

  ‘He’s at the helm.’

  TWO

  ‘We had instruction
s to pick him up from Oyster Quays in Portsmouth on Wednesday at four thirty. He didn’t show.’ Masefield, an athletically built man in his late thirties, studied Horton with keen, intelligent brown eyes. They were sitting in the main cabin. Horton could hear the four crew members moving about on deck.

  ‘Didn’t you think that strange?’ Cantelli asked, his voice unusually sharp as he looked up from his notebook. The fact that he had made no protest about going on-board or that he didn’t look the least bit conscious of being on the water was testimony to his anxiety. They’d agreed not to mention that Johnnie was related to Cantelli in case it made Masefield or one of the others more reticent or skew the facts. Horton hoped that Cantelli’s feelings weren’t going to betray him. He couldn’t blame him if they did, but Cantelli was a professional and hopefully his training would help him to keep a lid on his emotions.

  Masefield said, ‘I thought he’d missed the flight or the train from London, and that he’d make his own way over to the Island.’

  ‘You didn’t try calling him then?’ Horton quickly asked before Cantelli could, throwing him a swift glance which he knew the sergeant would correctly interpret as take it easy. He caught a slight flicker of acknowledgement in Cantelli’s dark and troubled eyes.

  ‘No. Why should I? It was nothing to do with me.’

  ‘He was a crew member,’ Horton said incredulously.

  ‘Yes, but not one of the crew.’

  Horton looked puzzled, as did Cantelli.

  Masefield explained, ‘Xander Andreadis owns the yacht. He decided to send Johnnie Oslow over to make the team up to six, although we were and are quite capable of racing with five.’ There was no mistaking the bitterness in Masefield voice. This was confirmed when he added, ‘Maybe Andreadis thought a bunch of damaged ex-servicemen would run amok on it.’

  ‘Damaged?’ Horton hadn’t seen any physical signs of that. On the contrary, he’d seen five very fit suntanned men aged between mid-thirties and early forties on-board.

  Wearily, Masefield said, ‘Not all damaged servicemen and women are those who lose limbs or who are physically scarred by their experiences.’

  Horton got the point. ‘You mean mentally damaged.’

  ‘Traumatized, yes.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Yep. Me too. Royal Navy, and that’s all you’re going to get out of me and the others about our service backgrounds. I don’t know theirs and they don’t know mine. It’s part of the deal. We don’t talk about it. We accept each other as we are from the moment we meet, we don’t know about each other’s past, and we don’t ask questions.’

  ‘So the sailing is therapy.’

  ‘Yes. I got sick of the system of counselling, of going over and over things, again and again; dredging it up only seemed to make it worse. Sailing, and particularly yacht racing, helped me to put the past behind me, and I thought it would help others. In racing you need to be focused and fit, able to work in a team and respect each other.’

  ‘A bit like being in the services then.’

  ‘Yes,’ Masefield answered, evidently surprised that Horton had understood. ‘It’s also dangerous and daring, so you get that adrenalin kick.’

  Horton knew that, having raced himself. ‘How did you get on today?’

  A shadow of annoyance crossed Masefield’s face. ‘Came second. Crawford’s yacht won.’

  And that had been the yacht Harriet Eames had been aboard. No wonder she had looked radiant. Horton had met Rupert Crawford on a couple of occasions. The fact that he was an investment banker was one reason why Horton hadn’t taken to the blonde, aloof and arrogant bastard; the other had been that he had believed he was Harriet Eames’ boyfriend. But perhaps Crawford had been given the elbow in favour of the man she’d greeted so warmly on the pontoon. Horton got the impression that he knew him from somewhere, but he couldn’t place where. He wasn’t about to waste time trying to remember either.

  ‘So how did you get Andreadis to sponsor you?’

  ‘I approached him two years ago with the idea, and he liked it.’

  Cantelli interjected, ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘I met him on the sailing circuit.’

  And clearly, judging by his expression, that was all Masefield was prepared to tell them.

  Cantelli said, ‘Then you know Johnnie?’

  But Masefield was shaking his head. ‘No. I’ve never met him. Andreadis told me last Monday that Oslow was coming over. He said he was an experienced sailor and that he not only crewed for him on his Superyacht but also raced on one of his yachts.’

  ‘But you still resented it,’ put in Horton provokingly.

  Masefield eyed him steadily and with a slightly patronizing exasperated air. ‘I didn’t resent it. I just didn’t see that it was necessary.’

  ‘And did Andreadis say why he was sending Oslow?’

  ‘Said the experience would be good for him.’

  And perhaps he’d said more than that, but again Masefield wasn’t going to divulge what that was. Maybe he didn’t think it worth mentioning, or perhaps he thought it reflected badly on his abilities.

  ‘So you didn’t phone Johnnie Oslow or Xander Andreadis when Johnnie didn’t show up?’

  ‘I didn’t have Oslow’s mobile number, and I didn’t see any reason to bother Andreadis about it. We sailed back here, went out sailing on Thursday and didn’t get in until late. I had no idea Oslow was missing until Andreadis phoned this morning to wish us luck. He asked how Oslow was getting on and I said he hadn’t arrived.’

  ‘And Andreadis’s reaction?’ asked Horton before Cantelli could.

  ‘He was surprised, said he’d make some calls and get back to me. He did about an hour or so later to confirm that Oslow had definitely left Sardinia on Wednesday morning and that Nat Boulton, Andreadis’s skipper on his personal yacht Calista, had telephoned Oslow’s family, who said they hadn’t heard from him. Andreadis told me to report it to the police and to keep him informed. But as we were just about to race I telephoned the local police, gave them the gist of it and said I’d call in afterwards. Guess I don’t need to do that now you’re taking the details. Andreadis has obviously called in the big guns. Still, he can do that. No point in having wealth if you can’t use it.’

  Again Horton thought he detected a hint of bitterness, but perhaps that was just Masefield’s manner, because the man should certainly be grateful to Andreadis for distributing some of that wealth in his direction by coughing up at least a quarter of a million pounds for this yacht.

  Masefield didn’t seem at all concerned about Johnnie’s disappearance, but then as he’d never met him he probably didn’t see any need to worry. In fact, thought Horton, Masefield might even be glad that he hadn’t shown up and that he and his crew didn’t have to worry about a new boy fitting in and disturbing their rhythm.

  Horton said, ‘Why didn’t you contact the Portsmouth police? It’s where you had arranged to meet Johnnie Oslow.’

  ‘I didn’t have their number, and it hardly warranted dialling nine nine nine. The number of the local station is in the marina office. Oslow probably just wanted a free trip home on Andreadis and has either had enough of working for him or is shacked up with a girl.’

  ‘Is there a reason why he should have had enough of working for Andreadis?’ asked Horton.

  Masefield shrugged. ‘He’s young, perhaps he wanted a change. I’ve no idea. I’ve never met him.’

  ‘So you said.’ Horton held Masefield’s steely gaze and thought he saw a hint of amusement in it. He hoped Cantelli hadn’t seen it, but by his glowering expression and white knuckles gripping the pencil hovering over his notebook he guessed he had. And Horton had the impression that Masefield had registered the reaction and was mildly interested but not enough to comment on it. But he was right about the big guns. No one of Horton’s rank or even Cantelli’s would be allowed to investigate this unless Johnnie was vulnerable, underage, had done something criminal or posed a danger to himself or oth
ers.

  Horton’s mind flicked back to the disappearance of his mother: she’d only got a PC, and one who he now believed had been bribed into conducting only the skimpiest of investigations. PC Adrian Stanley was dead so Horton couldn’t prove that, but the fact that Stanley had tried to tell him something as he lay dying in hospital recently about a brooch worn by Mrs Stanley, his dead wife, which had since gone missing along with all photographs of it, was suspicious enough for Horton to believe that Stanley had either stolen it from Jennifer’s flat, or been given it as payment for keeping his investigations low key and his mouth shut. Horton doubted the intelligence services would have bribed Stanley with money or jewellery – their methods were bullying and threats – so it was likely that someone else had urged Stanley to keep quiet … and that someone could have been connected with a master criminal code-named Zeus, who DCS Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate had told Horton he was after, and who Sawyer believed Jennifer had run off with. That theory looked a lot less likely to Horton, however, now he knew about Lord Eames’ involvement.

  He said, ‘Where is Andreadis now?’

  ‘Porto Cervo.’

  Cantelli explained, ‘Northern Sardinia on the Costa Smeralda. It’s where all the celebrities and millionaires hang out.’

  ‘Andreadis is on-board his Superyacht,’ Masefield added.

  ‘We’ll need his number.’

  As Masefield relayed it, Cantelli jotted it down. Horton didn’t think there was much more that Masefield could tell him for now. He asked if they could talk to the rest of the crew.

  ‘Be my guest.’

  As Cantelli went through the same questions they’d asked Masefield, Horton studied the crew. They’d introduced themselves and Horton found himself wondering what acts of war had traumatized each of them. All looked extremely fit and healthy but behind the dark eyes of Craig Weatherby, a muscular man in his early-thirties; Martin Leighton, mid-thirties, sturdily built, brown-eyed with an open face; Declan Saunders, lean, shaven-headed, wide mouth, late-thirties; and Eddie Creed, broad-shouldered, fair-haired and grey-eyed were horrors that Horton could only guess at and barely imagine. He doubted if the sea could completely banish them.