It was the early hours of the morning when Horton finally reached his yacht. He’d watched Martha’s body being taken to the mortuary and then he’d been given dry, clean clothes at Newport police station before rejoining Elkins and Ripley and being taken back to Portsmouth on the RIB where Uckfield, Dennings, Bliss, Trueman and Cantelli were waiting in the incident suite.
Dennings confirmed that they had found evidence of blood spatter on Martha’s coat in her flat and Robin Gamblin’s wallet, keys and phone. Horton relayed what she’d said, although he’d already updated Uckfield earlier on the phone. Cantelli shook his head sadly. Horton knew he understood Martha’s motivations. Cantelli had confirmed that Martha had suffered a nervous breakdown and had attempted suicide on two occasions following the death of her child. She’d spent years in and out of psychiatric hospitals in Portsmouth, Southampton and Basingstoke. She’d moved around, or been moved, restless and disturbed, and had gradually slipped through the system. It was easy now when there were so many demands and so many cutbacks. The vulnerable had become even more vulnerable.
‘Do you believe she didn’t kill Dennis and Evelyn Lyster?’ Uckfield had asked.
Horton had said he did, and he was still certain of that now as he climbed on board his yacht. Suicide for Dennis Lyster was possible but not natural causes for Evelyn. Someone had put that beta blocker in Evelyn’s flask and that someone could still possibly have been Robin Gamblin, aka Peter Freedman, the motive being that he intended to clean out Evelyn’s Guernsey account which the States of Guernsey police still hadn’t located. Evelyn Lyster had been clever and cunning and it would take time and resources to unravel the extent of her criminal activity, a task that neither he nor Uckfield would be involved in. It would be handed over to the fraud team who would liaise with Europol and Interpol, much to the relief of ACC Dean, who favoured Freedman or rather Gamblin as her killer because it tied up the case at their end and meant no further strain on their budget.
Horton removed the borrowed jacket and lay down on his bunk. He didn’t expect to sleep. Every muscle in his body ached but it was the mental anguish that was the most painful to bear. The memory of Martha’s smiling face in the Gravity café, her tormented expression on the pier, her despair and sorrow, the feel of her thin, struggling body in his arms and then her limp one as he failed to save her. She was at peace, he told himself as his eyes swivelled to the photograph of Emma pinned up beside him. Martha had died to be with her child. Would he do the same? Would he kill for Emma? He didn’t even need to ask that question.
What would Rowan Lyster make of the real life of his parents? Had he known what they were doing? But how could a child of ten have known? Horton’s mind turned to Jennifer. He’d been ten when she had left him. He’d known nothing of her involvement with the intelligence services. He still knew very little about her but slowly he was pulling together the pieces.
He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew it was seven o’clock and only just getting light. His body ached, his mouth felt like sawdust and his head was heavy and throbbing. He showered, changed and made himself a cooked breakfast, hoping it would pep up his sluggish brain and body. A strong injection of caffeine also helped. His mind cleared a little and his thoughts returned to what Martha had said about how Cary was cautious and a good sailor and that he would never have unclipped himself. Was that just a mother defending her son? Possibly but if it wasn’t and Cary hadn’t unclipped himself then that explained quite a lot, especially if he put it with what Cantelli had discovered from Norman Fyning, the head teacher of St Levan’s.
He hesitated before ringing Cantelli because it was Sunday and he was reluctant to take him away from his family – he’d already been deprived of them yesterday – but he knew that Cantelli would want to see this through. He gave Barney the chance of opting out, which he didn’t take, and said he’d meet him at the Lyster’s house but also asked him to call Norman Fyning at St Levan’s and find out if Rowan had been at school with a girl called Gina. He wished they had her maiden name. Cantelli could get it from the General Register Office but they didn’t have time.
Horton had another coffee then picked up his jacket, helmet and keys and locked up. Cantelli was waiting for him in his car, which was parked some houses down the road from the Lysters. He looked tired. Horton knew that it wasn’t so much the lack of sleep but emotional fatigue over Martha’s death.
‘Norman Fyning says there was a girl at school with Rowan called Georgina Paignton. She was very athletic like Rowan and good at water sports. A quiet girl, never boastful, just did as she was told – certainly when she first came to them. She was not academically bright, rather plain, and the only thing she seemed to like was swimming and being in or on the water. Her parents, like Rowan’s, were distant ones. She was their only child and he said a mistake and a disappointment to them. Also an encumbrance. Not that they expressed that but it was why she was sent to the school. They were top-class international lawyers. Tax exiles now, having made a fortune, which might explain why they didn’t attend their daughter’s wedding, if it is Gina. Fyning remembered she worshipped the ground Rowan walked on but Rowan never noticed her.’
‘Looks as though he finally did and Gina got her man.’
The Lysters weren’t at home but Horton knew where they’d find them – at Winner Watersports. He gave Cantelli directions, told him to request a patrol car and some officers and headed to the car park close to Fort Cumberland where he parked the Harley. A few minutes later Cantelli pulled up. There was only a small sports car in the car park. Gina Lyster’s. It was still early and bitingly cold. There wouldn’t be any windsurfing customers for the Lysters today. As they headed towards the hut that bore the company name Horton saw Rowan was there with Gina. Gina spotted them first. Her expression changed from surprise to wariness, while Rowan’s became more sullen and antagonistic.
‘Can’t you leave us in peace?’ he exclaimed grouchily.
Horton answered. ‘We thought you’d like to know who killed Peter Freedman.’
‘I can’t see—’
‘Or rather, I should say Robin Gamblin.’ Horton watched Rowan carefully to see if the name got a reaction. It did but not much of one. His eyes narrowed slightly before he turned away, busying himself with some rope in a kayak.
Horton continued, ‘Peter Freedman was really Robin Gamblin, the father of your friend, Cary, who drowned.’ Rowan didn’t look up. His hands were steady. ‘Robin Gamblin was killed by his wife, Cary’s mother, Margaret Gamblin.’
It was Gina who spoke. ‘Why did she do that?’
‘Because she never forgave her husband for letting their son go out on a yacht when a storm was forecast. And the reason why Dennis Lyster – your father, Rowan – had to go was because your mother insisted.’
Rowan looked up. ‘I was ten years old. Cary unclipped himself. He was stupid.’
‘Was he? That’s not what I heard.’
‘Then you heard wrong.’
‘Rowan,’ Gina cautioned and flashed them an anxious look.
Rowan threw his wife a hostile stare but she didn’t flinch under it as Constance Clements would have done. Horton could see both by her glance now and what he’d witnessed previously when they’d interviewed them together that Norman Fyning was right – she worshipped her husband but, unlike Constance, Gina was mentally strong. She’d got what she wanted and she was determined to hang on to it.
Horton continued to address Rowan. ‘Your mother and father, along with Robin and Margaret Gamblin, were engaged in criminal activity. Your father was stealing diamonds from his employers and your mother was selling them. In addition, your parents and the Gamblins were involved in insurance fraud, theft and blackmail. Your father was delivering something to a buyer on the day Cary died.’
‘Was he?’ Rowan said dismissively while continuing to handle the thin rope.
‘What evidence do you have?’ Gina asked sharply.
‘A confession from Margaret Gamblin before she drowned herself.’ If he was hoping to shock them or shame Rowan he didn’t succeed.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I was a child.’
‘You were and you couldn’t have known about the theft and fraud, not then. But you overheard your parents rowing at your wedding.’ Horton swivelled his gaze to Gina. ‘What was the row about, Gina?’
‘I’ve no idea. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Oh, but she did. He could see it in her eyes. Whether they’d get her to say though was a different matter.
Horton turned back to Rowan. ‘Cary’s death destroyed Margaret’s life. She ended up suffering a nervous breakdown and severe depression. His father went on a downward spiral until he ended up on the streets and then in prison before starting a new life. Dennis couldn’t bear to be in the same room, the same house, the same town as you, Rowan. Now why was that? And your mother rarely saw you, usually about once a year. Oh, yes, she was busy working, travelling, accumulating her wealth, making sure that Dennis continued to do as she bid but they both knew what you’d done. And they sent you away so that you couldn’t tell anyone or let it slip. They hoped that water sports, the other activities and the ethos of the school, which specialized in dealing with children not suited to mainstream education for a variety of reasons, would keep you occupied, and it did.’
Horton persisted, ‘Cary was a bright boy and a very talented and careful sailor. Maybe he unclipped himself as a dare. Is that what happened, Rowan? Did you cajole and challenge him to do it? Did you call him a coward? Did you provoke him into unclipping himself?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Rowan,’ Gina urged.
‘You didn’t like Cary, did you, Rowan?’ Horton interjected, seeing Martha’s pain-ridden haunted eyes flash before him. ‘But your parents insisted you play with him and insisted that he go out sailing with you. You hated the fact that he was cleverer than you but it was the fact that he was a better sailor which really goaded you, especially when you heard your father praising him and encouraging him. You were jealous. You didn’t like anyone being better than you. Not then or at school where, I suspect, if we questioned the staff and previous pupils, we’d find other accidents. A boy getting injured or sick. Someone accidentally slipping or his rope fraying. You’re fiercely competitive. So you unclipped Cary and pushed him overboard. And your father saw it.’
Gina quickly interjected. ‘You’ve got no right—’
Horton turned his angry eyes on Gina. ‘I have every right. A child died and his mother and father are also dead. What did you hear, Rowan, on your wedding day? What was the argument between your mother and father? Was it your father telling your mother that now he’d been sacked from his job he was no longer obliged to do what she wanted? Had six months of being unemployed developed in him a conscience or had he discovered that Evelyn had resumed her relationship with Robin Gamblin? That really stuck in your father’s claw and he was going to tell Robin and the police what really happened. Is that why you killed your father, Rowan?’
‘I got sick of hearing how brilliant Cary was.’
‘Rowan, don’t say anything.’
But he simply looked through his wife. ‘Cary wheedled his way into Dad’s affections. Dad was always going on about how good Cary was and what a delight he was to have along.’
‘He liked Cary more than you,’ said Horton.
‘I didn’t know he was going to drown.’ Rowan didn’t sound at all sorry. He said it as a matter of fact.
‘And your parents knew, even before that, that you’d destroy anything that would stop you from doing what you wanted. When you overheard your parents at your wedding, you couldn’t have your father ruining your career and your future, so you got your father on his own, probably here, on the beach, where you beat him over the head, probably with a paddle, and then you put his body in the safety dinghy and motored out into the Solent, where you tipped him over the edge and into the sea, to let his body wash up under the Ryde Pier.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Rowan said almost dismissively.
‘I think you do.’ Horton swivelled his gaze on Gina. ‘And so do you. Maybe you even helped your husband. Knowing that Evelyn was worth a fair bit of money and resentful when she wouldn’t give you more to buy equipment for the business, you put a beta blocker in her flask the Saturday you were in her apartment for dinner, knowing that she made her drinks up for the week on a Saturday.’ Horton remembered seeing the rows of flasks lined up in the cupboard in both the Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight apartments and recalled what Gina had previously told them about Evelyn’s fear of being without a drink. ‘You probably even offered to make her a couple of flasks of coffee. You didn’t care which flask it was or when she drank it. It just so happened to be on Monday when she was on her way to Guernsey.’
‘You’ve got no evidence. My parents are lawyers. I’ll call them.’
And Horton wondered if they’d come running. He thought that perhaps not. But she was right. They couldn’t prove it. They’d need a confession and Horton didn’t think Gina was going to give them one. Rowan would be different, though. He would eventually tell. He was much weaker than his wife.
Cantelli summoned up the uniformed officers who were waiting in the car park. They were there within seconds. Two officers took Rowan and the third officer Gina, who studied them evenly and confidently before turning. Cantelli would drive her back to the station, but as Horton’s phone rang he stilled Cantelli with a gesture and answered it, saying, ‘It’s Guilbert.’ He listened for a moment then thanked him.
To Cantelli, he said, ‘They’ve found Evelyn Lyster’s Guernsey account under the name of Brookes. It’s with Manley’s Bank. There’s also a safe deposit box and a property registered in her name, which must have been where she was heading, and where her belongings are, including possibly a laptop computer.’ Horton didn’t know how often she had travelled to Guernsey but it was fairly frequently, he thought, and always as a foot passenger and paying by cash, and possibly not always from Portsmouth. He suspected that sometimes she caught the train to Poole in the west and the ferry that sailed from there. The contents of the safe deposit box and the bank account might give them information on other properties she’d bought and sold and still owned as she cleaned her dirty money.
‘I’ll wait for SOCO to arrive. You’d better brief Bliss and Uckfield.’
Horton didn’t think they’d be able to pick up any traces of flesh and blood from the paddle or from the RIB. The sea and rain would have washed away much of it and Gina and Rowan the rest, and it had been months since Dennis had died, but it was amazing how sometimes just a small speck survived.
He gazed out to sea, watching a motor launch head across the Solent towards the Bembridge lifeboat station, and thought of Martha’s body, limp in his arms. If a spoilt and jealous child hadn’t pushed a boy into the sea eighteen years ago six people would still be alive. But could he really lay all the deaths at Rowan’s door? If the Lysters and the Gamblins hadn’t been so greedy and engaged in criminal activity then all of them might still be alive. So much pain caused and there would be more to come, more lives ruined. But Horton knew the futility of going down the road of ‘if onlys’. He’d played that game too many times in other investigations and in his own life. And now he thought of the latter.
He heard cars approaching but didn’t turn to look; instead he stared along the coast of the Isle of Wight to where he could see the trees that bordered the shore by Lord Richard Eames’ property, but it was the man Horton had met on Eames’ private beach in October who came to mind. The beachcomber who had called himself Lomas. His Lordship likes his privacy, he’d said but claimed not to know him. Maybe that was the truth, maybe not. Because Horton was beginning to believe that Lomas was in fact one of two men, Zachary Benham, who had either never been in that psychiatric hospital or who had been but had escaped the fire, possibly after starting it, or Gordon Eames, who had died in Australia in 1973 and whose body was supposedly in the family vault in the small private chapel on his brother’s Wiltshire estate.
His search to prove whichever one it was could wait because, as he heard footsteps crunching over the shingle beach, it was to Martha that his thoughts returned and to the little boy who had drowned. The vision of Emma swam before him. Nothing was going to bring back Jennifer and nothing would bring back Martha and Cary Gamblin. Emma was the present and very much alive. Emma was his daughter.
He gave instructions to the uniformed officers to seal off the area, and to Phil Taylor to examine the scene for traces of blood and flesh, then hurried to his Harley. Uckfield could wait too. Cantelli was there. He’d oversee things for him, and if Uckfield and Bliss didn’t like it then tough.
He climbed on his Harley and headed north out of Portsmouth to what had once been his marital home, hoping to find his daughter there. And if she wasn’t then he would wait until she came, he didn’t care for how long. All he knew was that he had to see Emma. He had to hold her in his arms. He had to tell her how much he loved her. And nothing or no one, especially not Catherine, was going to stop him.