Silent Running Read online

Marvik understood that. He’d faced death many times. That didn’t scare him; what did was being disabled and ill. Strathen’s disability didn’t seem to hamper him, but the thought of being incapacitated frightened the living daylights out of Marvik. And yet he still chose high-risk occupations, and he was choosing a high-risk assignment now. He didn’t stop to analyse why. Maybe he knew why. The psychiatrist, Langton, had said it was because he was running away. On the contrary, he’d never run away from danger in his life. It wasn’t that kind of running Langton had been referring to, though, but rather a running deep inside him that had started with his parents’ death. He pushed such thoughts away and concentrated on Crowder.

  ‘There is no doubt that Blackerman slept with Esther Shannon. He never denied that. But committing adultery is not murder. There is the possibility that he sees imprisonment as a punishment for that sin, but if that were the case,’ Crowder quickly continued, anticipating Marvik’s interruption, ‘then he’s been punished enough. Your job is to start asking questions of those who were involved in the Esther Shannon murder.’

  ‘How will I find them?’

  ‘There is some brief information in this file.’ Crowder tapped the Manila folder beside him. ‘But I can’t let you have the case files or trial notes because I don’t have them and I’m not going to request access to them.’

  Marvik swiftly considered this and put it together with the fact that Crowder was here alone and undercover. ‘You believe someone within the police is involved in Esther Shannon’s murder.’

  ‘Or is withholding evidence connected with it. Accessing the file would alert him and he’d make sure the trail that leads to him is wiped clean, including silencing Charlotte.’ Crowder delved into the holdall and withdrew a mobile phone. ‘It’s a pay-as-you-go phone and it doesn’t have GPS tracking. Don’t use the email on it. Call me if and when you need anything further or need a meeting, although I suggest we keep the latter to a minimum.’

  Marvik took it and saw that a number was already entered on it.

  Crowder packed away the laptop. ‘Don’t use your computer or your own mobile phone or landline for anything connected with this case. If you have to use a computer go to a cyber café or a library. Meanwhile the navy and the police will officially continue with their search for Charlotte. I don’t think it will take them as far as the Blackerman case, but it might bring them to you.’ Crowder slid out of the seat. ‘If there is any news of Charlotte I will call you. But the sooner you find the truth behind Esther Shannon’s death the sooner you find Charlotte Churley.’

  Marvik nodded and rose.

  In the cockpit Crowder said, ‘Start stirring things up, Marvik. I’ll leave you to decide where to begin but when you’ve read the details in that file, burn it.’

  ‘And if the people I question ask me how I found them?’

  ‘You’ll think of something to say.’

  Marvik nodded. He knew that he would.

  He watched Crowder leave, taking his farewell as though they were sailing buddies. He climbed on board a small but powerful motor cruiser further down the pontoon. Was it his or had it been hired for the purpose of affecting a meeting with him? Marvik scanned the horizon looking for other boats that were occupied, or people on the pontoon, but couldn’t see any evidence of anyone being connected with Crowder. He could possibly have colleagues on the boat he’d boarded who had been in the cabin below, perhaps even monitoring their conversation. Crowder could have been wired up. Or was he working completely alone? No, not completely; someone would have had to sanction the operation. Marvik waited to see if anyone followed Crowder’s boat out of the marina. They didn’t. He was keen to read what was in that folder and eager to get started. Every minute counted.

  He returned below and opened the folder and was surprised and slightly irritated to find that all it contained were two names and addresses and very little else. The first was Helen Shannon, Esther’s sister, who lived at Locks Heath, a large conurbation just off the M27 motorway between Southampton and Portsmouth. The other was DCI Duncan Ross of the Sussex police. There were some brief notes on him. He’d been a detective sergeant with the Metropolitan Police when working on the Esther Shannon murder investigation under DI Bryan Grainger. Ross had transferred to the Sussex police in 2000 when he’d been promoted to DI and then to DCI. He was due to retire in April. He spent most of his weekends restoring his boat in Littlehampton Marina. That was about forty-five miles by road and approximately thirty-four nautical miles to the east.

  Interesting that Crowder was pointing him in Ross’s direction. Why? There must have been many officers on the investigation who would be able to tell him about it, including Grainger. And what of the DCI or Detective Superintendent who had been on the case? Perhaps they were dead or living abroad. Or perhaps Ross and Grainger were the only officers in full possession of all the facts, or rather the officers Crowder suspected of knowing more about it than they had let on. There was only one way to find out. Committing the information to memory, he struck a match to the paper over the sink and watched it burn. Then he went on deck and set a course for Littlehampton Marina.

  FIVE

  He made good time. As he motored past the bleak stony shores of the West Beach to the entrance of the River Arun he radioed up Littlehampton Marina to say he was approaching and asked if they could accommodate him for one night, possibly two. They could. Marvik had assumed there’d be no trouble with that. At this time of the year the marina wouldn’t be full.

  Several times on the way he had wondered if he was wasting his time. This might be the one weekend Ross wasn’t working on his boat. He might be on an investigation or on holiday. But if Marvik read between the lines he was certain that Crowder had meant him to come here now. Ross wouldn’t show until tomorrow but that gave Marvik a night to reconnoitre the area. He’d had no need to return to the cottage. He had everything he required on board, and what he didn’t he could buy in Littlehampton.

  There was no sign of Ross, or anyone else, on the pontoons of the small marina. But Marvik located an old classic wooden boat that was most probably Ross’s.

  He reported to the marina office, where he paid a fee for one night, and then struck out along the road away from the marina, past a handful of small light industrial units on his right and a mobile home park on his left on the river side. After half a mile he turned left at the crossroads and walked briskly over the narrow footbridge that spanned the River Arun. There was a pub on each side but Marvik ignored both and made for the town centre wishing he could see Ross today rather than hanging about until tomorrow or possibly Sunday. It was time he could ill afford. Every minute counted in the search for Charlotte and he was frustrated at having to kick his heels waiting around. Despite what Crowder had said about the police looking for Charlotte he thought he couldn’t rely on them.

  He stopped at the Lifeboat Centre and stared across the river at the masts of the yachts moored opposite across the grey ebbing river. Two missing people in two days and in the same area, with him as the common factor. But he had no connection with Ashley Palmer. He’d never even met him – but could Charlotte and Palmer be connected? Was the common thread between them Terence Blackerman? He didn’t see how it could be but he reached for his phone and called Strathen. He asked first if there was any news of Palmer.

  ‘Nothing. None of the taxi drivers at the Cowes terminal on the Isle of Wight claim to have picked him up. The police have circulated his photograph to the bus drivers but as we said before I can’t see him boarding a bus to Rocken End, if there is one, or a bus to anywhere else come to it. They’ve also circulated photos to the marinas at both East and West Cowes.’

  ‘Did he take any clothes with him?’

  ‘The police don’t know, because neither they nor any of us know what was in his wardrobe. I gave them a description of the bag he usually carries and that’s not been found in his house, and neither is there a passport. I’m going through my contacts at the Border Agency to
see if he’s shown up abroad.’

  ‘Aren’t the police doing that?’

  ‘Probably, but I can’t leave everything to them,’ Strathen answered sarcastically, mirroring Marvik’s thoughts. ‘They’ve also searched that coastguard cottage and the area around it and drawn a blank.’

  As Marvik knew they would. He said, ‘Do you remember Charlotte Churley?’

  ‘Of course I do, she nursed me when I first got flown to the hospital from Camp Bastion. Didn’t you go out with her?’

  ‘Yes. She’s missing.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘As in AWOL?’

  ‘Yes. She came to see me Wednesday night after I’d returned from looking for Palmer. I dropped her off at the Town Quay yesterday morning. She didn’t show up for duty at the hospital. She never arrived in Birmingham. The police are involved but like you said, Shaun, we can’t leave everything to them. I need you to check her Internet profile, see if she’s posted anything about coming to see me. And I need you to see if there is a connection between her and Ashley Palmer. I can’t explain now, it’s too complicated, but I’ll give you all the details tomorrow.’ Marvik suddenly realized he’d spoken on his own phone and not the pay-as-you-go Crowder had given him. Had someone really tapped his mobile phone? If so he’d given little away except that he’d drawn Strathen into this.

  ‘Don’t call me. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

  There was a second’s pause before Strathen replied. ‘OK.’

  He found a supermarket and stocked up on provisions. He had intended eating on the boat but as he reached the footbridge he turned into The Arun View and ordered a beer and a meal and took a seat in the window overlooking the river. The pub was relatively quiet, it being early evening, but later he suspected it would be crowded with the first of the weekend revellers. From where he was sitting he had a good view up the river towards the marina and of the caravans and mobile homes that bordered the waterfront. He turned his attention to the pub. There were two families with young children on tables to his right and a few couples in the bar. There was also a man in his fifties reading a newspaper and another in his early thirties doing something with his phone. Towards the entrance there were another two men, both in their thirties and both well built. Cops? Marvik wasn’t sure this time. Were they on duty? And if so were they watching him? But why should they be – unless Crowder didn’t trust him, or wanted to keep tabs on him.

  His meal arrived. He ordered another beer and ate slowly without tasting the food, making sure to appear relaxed and at ease while acutely aware of the two men near the entrance who seemed to be making a pint of beer last a very long time. The man reading the newspaper left and the one on his phone was still playing with it while looking out of sorts. The children were growing noisier and the pub was filling up. The river was now in darkness and lights were on in the mobile homes opposite. It was time for Marvik to leave.

  He returned to the boat, walking slowly up the long wide road that led to the marina. The only turning was to his right into the caravan and mobile home park and the road terminated at the marina. He’d hear any vehicle approaching. But nobody passed him by car and nobody followed him on foot.

  He was keen for action but there was a waiting game to be played and, although impatient, he’d learned that preparation and waiting were part of the success of an operation. Well he could wait but his preparation for this operation was sadly lacking because the information he had was so meagre.

  As he lay on his bunk he listened to the sounds of the night, acutely aware of anything that sounded suspicious, fully prepared in case he needed to act. He slept the kind of half-waking sleep that could be shaken off in an instant and replaced by action if required. But none was. The cawing seagulls announced the dawn and he rose to find a grey light slowly filling the sky to the east. He changed and went for a run. His head was clear, his muscles screaming for more exercise, his eyes alert to his surroundings, his ears attuned for any danger. He took a circuitous route. He would have liked to run along the river’s edge into the flat marshy countryside but he chose the road, his eyes scanning the parked cars. Surely the police wouldn’t be stupid enough to be sitting in their car, and they weren’t. If those guys in the pub had been cops then they would have known he’d come by boat and could up anchor and leave at any time. He noted the cameras over the marina and along the road. The police wouldn’t have to physically watch him, they could be sitting behind a console in a nice warm operations room.

  By the time he returned to the boat the morning was bright and breezy with a wind from the north-east that brought an edge of sharpness with it. He watched two swans head further up the river towards the small historic town of Arundel before he made for the marina showers. After breakfast he took a stroll around the pontoons. It was a little after nine thirty but he’d already seen a slender, balding man about early-fifties arrive with a Border Collie. The cover was off the old classic yacht and the dog was lying on the pontoon in front of it. Good. It was easy to strike up a conver-sation with a person who had a dog but even if Ross hadn’t had a pet the yacht would have been a good enough topic. Marvik halted in front of the boat and bent down to ruffle the dog’s fur. It hauled itself up like an old man and sniffed around Marvik’s leg, thumping its tail.

  ‘You’ve made a friend,’ a voice hailed him and Marvik looked up to see a man’s head poking out of the cabin. The rest of him followed. He climbed up into the cockpit wiping his hands on an oily rag. ‘But then he’s everyone’s friend.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Rune. It’s a letter from an ancient Germanic alphabet. I looked it up. It’s related to the Roman alphabet. It’s a mark or letter of mysterious or magical significance, a secret.’

  Very apt, thought Marvik, wondering what secret Blackerman harboured that had kept him in prison for so many years.

  ‘But there’s nothing mystical about that old boy,’ the man continued, nodding at his dog who once again flopped down beside Marvik’s feet.

  Marvik smiled. He didn’t know for certain this was Duncan Ross but he’d bet on it.

  ‘You staying in the marina?’ the man asked.

  ‘Came in yesterday.’

  ‘From?’

  ‘The Isle of Wight,’ Marvik lied.

  ‘Lovely place. Sailed there many times. Not on this. On the boat I had before. This was meant to be my retirement project but I’ve had more time on my hands lately than I anticipated.’

  ‘You’ve been made redundant.’ Perhaps he’d got it wrong, or Crowder had, and this wasn’t Ross.

  ‘No. My wife left me.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Why should you be? I’m not. Hazard of the job.’ Marvik looked blankly at him, hoping he’d elaborate. He did. ‘I’m a police officer.’

  So it was Duncan Ross.

  ‘I’m amazed we stayed together for so long,’ Ross continued. ‘But with retirement looming in April we both came to the conclusion six months ago that we didn’t want to spend the rest of our days looking at one another and not knowing what the hell to talk about.’

  Marvik smiled. ‘Will you miss the job?’

  ‘No. Everything’s changed. It’s all paperwork, public relations, targets and human rights. We think more of the villains now than of the victims.’

  ‘Will you take up another job?’

  ‘I’ve been offered a couple – security, private investigation. I could even go back into the force in a civilian role, there are a lot of posts that are now being done by civilians. They’re even recruiting civilian investigators and superintendents. But I’ve done my bit.’

  ‘I’m thinking of joining the police,’ Marvik said, taking the opening presented to him. ‘The Met. I’m a former Royal Marine, Commandos.’

  ‘Tough job.’

  ‘So’s the police.’

  Ross shrugged and looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I was in the Met. But the wife wanted to move out of London. Said it was getting
too crowded, dirty and noisy. So we came to the seaside in 2000 and I transferred to the Sussex Police.’

  ‘A bit quieter on the crime front, I should imagine.’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘You must have had some interesting cases in London.’

  ‘A few,’ he answered, smiling wistfully. But Marvik thought he caught an edge of bitterness in those two words. Perhaps Ross had regretted leaving London and the Met. And now that his wife had upped sticks and deserted him, he resented it, and her, even more. Marvik thought he’d plunge in and see where it took him, especially as Ross seemed the friendly, talkative type.

  ‘I heard about a murder that happened at the services club in London, the Union Services Club, in 1997, when I was staying there some time ago now. One of the bar stewards told me a young woman had been killed, were you on that?’ He kept his tone light but eager. He hoped that Ross would be flattered into talking to a possible new recruit, demonstrating the range and depth of his career. In Marvik’s experience, showing a keen interest in someone’s job never failed to elicit information and confidences. And he wasn’t wrong now.

  ‘I was. DI Bryan Grainger was the guv’nor. He became Detective Chief Inspector Grainger after it. I was only a detective sergeant then.’

  Marvik’s interested deepened. There had been something in the way Ross had spoken that alerted him.

  ‘You mean he got promoted because of the success of the case.’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘But you’re not sure it was deserved.’

  Ross studied Marvik critically. He wondered if he’d pushed too fast and too hard. Perhaps he had sounded too eager.

  But Ross said, smiling, ‘You’ll make a good police officer.’

  Marvik returned the smile. ‘Because I’m nosy.’

  ‘You need to be.’

  ‘The case also caught my attention because I was told the man who was convicted was a navy chaplain and I’ve known a few chaplains and I can’t imagine any of them killing.’