The body was lying sprawled face down in the cockpit of Ashton’s yacht, partially under cover of the awning by the hatch. Horton had checked for signs of life knowing instantly that he wouldn’t find any. And he’d checked for any obvious cause of death; no knife wound in the back, no gunshot wound either. The back of the dark-haired head was intact and there wasn’t a speck of blood emanating from under the lean figure. The dead man’s neck showed no signs of strangulation either, from the back view at least. From what Horton could see of the face, which wasn’t much, he judged the deceased to be somewhere in his forties. The right hand and arm was pushed under the body, but the left arm and hand were exposed, the fingers were slender, there was no ring, but resting half over the arm and half on the deck was a navy-blue lightweight rucksack, which looked as though it contained very little.
‘Who is he?’ Horton asked Ashton, who was standing at the helm behind him, hunched over the wheel as though for support.
‘I’ve no bloody idea,’ he cried, running a hand through his wet hair, his feverish anxious eyes skittering around the yacht and the pontoon as though searching for an escape.
On the way here it had crossed Horton’s mind that the dead man might have been mistaken for Carl Ashton and the threats had escalated into murder, but now seeing the corpse Horton was inclined to dismiss that idea. The dead man was leaner and darker. His clothes – faded jeans, stout and worn trainers, and a lightweight navy walking jacket – were also completely unlike Ashton’s smart chinos, deck shoes, and Henri Lloyd sailing jacket.
Ashton said, ‘Look, can we go somewhere? Do I have to keep staring at him?’
Horton had no intention of negotiating their way around the dead man to the cabin below. There was nowhere else to go except on to the pontoon.
‘Let’s get off the boat.’
Ashton hastily climbed off and stood moodily on the pontoon, shoulders hunched against the steady rain, collar of his sailing jacket enveloping his petulant jaw.
Horton said, ‘Tell me what happened.’
Taking a deep breath, Ashton said, ‘I came here shortly before six thirty, had a chat with the clients – we’ve had two on board today, along with Melanie Jacobs, my skipper, and Steve Drummond, crew. We all went up to a restaurant on the boardwalk. I left there just after ten thirty, came back here and found . . . him.’ Ashton jerked his head at the body. ‘I called you. You arrived ten minutes later. Longest bloody ten minutes of my life. Can’t you call an ambulance and move him?’
‘Not as simple as that, Carl,’ Horton replied, wondering why Ashton hadn’t done that immediately himself. It’s what many would have done unless they’d felt for a pulse and, realizing there wasn’t one, called the police. Ashton had called him. Horton didn’t think Ashton had checked for a pulse though. And even if he had called an ambulance it would have been no use to this poor man. He said, ‘This is a suspicious death, which means I’ve got to call it in.’
Ashton rounded his angry and troubled eyes on Horton. ‘You mean police, scene of crime and all that bollocks.’
Horton nodded.
‘But the poor bugger probably died of a heart attack!’
Horton stepped a short distance away from Ashton and, reaching for his phone, thought of another poor bugger who had been found lying at the bottom of a dock not very far away. He’d once considered that death as a possible heart attack and now it had been deemed suicide. But this man couldn’t have killed himself – why would he do so on one of Ashton’s corporate yachts? Horton toyed with the idea that he’d been killed and planted here as part of this hate campaign against Ashton in an attempt to frame him and ruin him. That seemed a bit extreme though and although people did weird things he didn’t think it was a workable theory. Could the dead man have been threatening Ashton? He’d come here intent on causing damage to one of Ashton’s yachts, only Ashton had caught him as he was about to break in. They’d quarrelled, Ashton had struck out, the man had suffered a heart attack and died. It was possible, he guessed. So until he had clear evidence that this man had died of natural causes he was treating this as a crime scene, which was why he’d wait before going through the corpse’s pockets to check for identification.
Horton requested uniform assistance, the police doctor, and SOCO. He also asked that the Oyster Quays security team be alerted. The marina office at the top of the bridgehead was closed at this time of night but Horton relayed the touch-pad security number giving access to the pontoons, which Ashton had given him earlier. Taylor and the patrol unit would need it. He could call Cantelli, who was still duty CID officer, and go home, but he didn’t see any need to disturb the sergeant’s night. And at the moment he also saw no need to call Uckfield. He’d wait to see what the doctor had to say.
Ringing off he surveyed the area through the rain sweeping off the sea. There were several boats in the marina but only two moored up on this short pontoon, which was based the furthest away from the marina office, Ashton’s yacht and another large sleek one behind it. There were no signs of life on board but the ensign flying at the rear meant that someone was on board, only judging by the lack of signs of life they were ashore. He didn’t think the dead man had come from that yacht but he could be wrong.
The pontoon turned sharp right where two yachts and one small motor-boat were moored, but again there were no signs of life on board. It was possible that one of the craft could belong to the dead man, although he wasn’t dressed for boating. But that didn’t mean much. Opposite these was a pale blue, unusually shaped motor-boat, which Horton knew from reading the sign on the boardwalk above it many times that it was a motor gun boat built in 1942, an MGB 81, and used to protect the coast during World War Two. If he remembered correctly they had been nicknamed the ‘Spitfires of the Seas’, and inspired by the PT boats of the United States Navy. Another touch of history he thought, recalling the dock and the Monitor lying in it along with Spalding’s body. But then history seeped out of almost every orifice in the city. There was nothing sinister in that.
Returning to Ashton he said, ‘Why did you come back to the yacht?’
‘Because Melanie was going to debrief me on how the day went.’
Horton glanced at his watch. It was just after eleven. ‘Bit late for a debrief,’ he said archly, wondering if Ashton and Melanie had the physical kind of debriefing in mind.
‘I don’t keep office hours and neither do my staff,’ Ashton snapped.
‘Is Melanie coming here as you instructed?’
‘No. I rang and told her not to. I didn’t mention the body.’
Horton wondered how she’d taken that if their meeting had been a romantic assignation. ‘Is she still in the restaurant?’
‘She and Steve were just leaving when I called her. The other two had already left.’
‘Where do Steve and Melanie live?’
‘Why do you want to know that?’ Ashton eyed him suspiciously.
‘Because we’ll need to interview them and your clients.’
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Great, that will lose me business.’
‘I don’t see why it should if none of them knew the dead man.’
‘Of course they bloody didn’t.’
‘We’ll still need to check.’
After a moment Ashton answered tersely, ‘Steve lives in Gosport and Melanie in Southsea. Simon Watson lives at Prinsted.’ Horton knew that to be a very small hamlet along the coast east of Portsmouth. It was expensive and bordered a quiet natural harbour. ‘He works for Longman Biomedical; they’re good clients of mine. I don’t know where Nigel Denton lives but he’s a director of an agricultural company, who I’m hoping to get as clients,’ Ashton said pointedly.
They’d get the addresses tomorrow and they could probably interview Steve Drummond and Melanie Jacobs here in the morning, because SOCO would have finished with the yacht by then. Horton was sure they’d be sailing it back to its base in Cowes, unless Ashton had another group of clients on board tomorrow. If he had though he’d have been bleating about it.
He said, ‘Did you touch the body?’
‘You must be joking. I could see he was dead.’
‘So you didn’t turn him over or look at his face to see if you recognized him?’
‘No.’ Ashton eyed him incredulously. And that meant it could still be someone he knew.
Horton looked up to see PCs Johnson and Bailey climb out of the police vehicle, as another drew up behind it. The activity was bound to attract the ghouls from the restaurants and bars along the waterfront and Horton for once was glad it was raining. It would keep them at bay.
Ashton, who was looking more haggard by the minute, said tetchily, ‘I called you because I thought we could avoid all this unnecessary fuss.’
‘Then you thought wrong,’ Horton brusquely replied. With instructions for Ashton to remain where he was and touch nothing, which drew a cynical look, Horton set off up the pontoon, swiftly glancing into the three moored craft opposite the MGB 81. No signs of life and no red ensign on the aft to show that anyone was on board. Turning right onto the lengthy pontoon that led up to the marina office he glanced across the small stretch of water to see Ashton’s huddled figure pacing the pontoon on the far side. Could he be involved in this death? For now Horton was keeping an open mind.
He gave Johnson instructions to ensure that neither Ashton nor any unauthorized personnel went on board the yacht and posted Bailey outside the marina office. PCs Allen and Barnes headed down the pontoon after Johnson with the canvas awning which they’d erect over the cockpit of Ashton’s boat in readiness for the doctor and SOCO. It would help to protect them from the worst of the rain driving off the harbour.
Horton met the security officer by the marina office. Flashing his warrant card he quickly explained what had happened, adding that they would need to view footage from their security cameras.
‘I’ll go back to the control room and let them know.’
Horton returned to the pontoon and had just reached Ashton’s yacht when he saw the white SOCO van pull up and behind it photographer Jim Clarke’s estate car.
‘Can I go now?’ Ashton addressed Horton irritably.
‘Not until the doctor turns the body over. I want to be certain you don’t recognize him. It would be a great help, Carl,’ Horton quickly added, seeing that Ashton was about to protest. ‘And the quicker we get this cleared up the better,’ he added for good measure.
‘Then can I have a fag?’
‘Only if you move further down the pontoon.’
Ashton trundled off, clearly unhappy and very wet, as Horton was. At least the cockpit was now fully covered and Horton sent Barnes and Allen up to the boardwalk to assist in keeping out unauthorized personnel.
He watched while Clarke took pictures and a video of the deceased before a movement on the pontoon caught his attention. Looking up he saw heading towards him a man and a woman. The reprimand that formed in Horton’s mind to Bailey for allowing them into the marina was quickly replaced with shock as he recognized the slender yet shapely figure of Agent Eames from Europol. What was she doing here? Was she on duty? Did this dead man have anything to do with a European investigation? Thoughts flashed through his mind as he watched her walk towards him with a hesitant smile on her lips. Dressed in a sailing jacket and jeans with her blonde hair getting steadily wetter she looked even more beautiful than he remembered. He didn’t know who the fair, suntanned athletic man beside her was but his instinct was automatically to dislike him because he was with Eames.
‘Nice to see you again, sir,’ she greeted Horton in that posh voice of hers which he’d recalled so many times over the last six weeks. It still had the same affect on him, of stirring his loins with desire while making him feel both hostile and defensive because it reminded him of how privileged and rich her life had been compared to his barren, empty one. With a father who was a peer of the realm she was clearly out of his league. And although she’d never given any indication of treating him as inferior, he knew that she made him feel that way and that made him angry, both with her but especially with himself.
‘Although,’ she added quietly, glancing at Ashton’s yacht, ‘the circumstances are not exactly happy. This is Rupert Crawford,’ she introduced the man beside her. ‘Inspector Horton.’
Crawford looked as though he was reluctant to shake hands with someone so low in the food chain but after a moment’s hesitation he did so with an irritated frown.
‘You’re on holiday, Harry,’ Crawford addressed Eames peevishly.
Harry? Short for Harriet or Henrietta? Horton hadn’t discovered her first name when working with her previously and he’d not asked because there had seemed no point. So she wasn’t on duty.
‘You don’t need to get involved.’
‘I know I don’t need to, Rupert,’ she answered pleasantly but firmly, ‘but I am a police officer and if I can help then I will. Why don’t you go back to the yacht?’
Yes, why don’t you? thought Horton.
‘I’ll join you in a moment,’ she added. ‘That’s Rupert’s yacht,’ she indicated the expensive sleek craft behind Ashton’s.
Horton’s heart sank; clearly Rupert was her lover and Horton wasn’t and never could be any part of Eames’s life. He watched the disgruntled Rupert walk off, pausing before climbing on board to exchange words with Ashton. He couldn’t hear what they were saying but after a few seconds Ashton with Rupert disappeared below decks.
‘Does he know Carl Ashton?’
‘I think his bank uses Sail Away for corporate hospitality and team racing events.’
‘His bank?’
‘Hamilton and Welland. Rupert’s an investment banker.’
No wonder I don’t like him.
Horton didn’t think she sounded that enamoured of Rupert Crawford herself – or was that just wishful thinking on his part? He asked her what time they’d arrived in the marina.
‘Just after seven, sir,’ she replied crisply, making him fully aware this was business. OK, if that was the way she wanted it. But then what other way could there be? She said, ‘This yacht was moored up but there wasn’t anyone on board.’
That tied in with what Ashton had told him.
She added, ‘There wasn’t anyone on the pontoons then or when we left for the boardwalk just after seven thirty. And I didn’t see anyone on any of the craft moored here.’
So where had the dead man come from and what had he been doing here? Horton’s attention was caught by the approach of a slim, auburn-haired man carrying a medical bag. Cantelli had been right when he’d said that Dr Freemantle looked barely out of medical school. But Horton wasn’t concerned about his age, only his level of competence. Taylor issued the doctor with a scene suit. Clarke stepped away from the body to allow the doctor on board and smiled a greeting at Eames.
After a few moments Dr Freemantle straightened up. ‘There’s no sign of rigor, or of a violent struggle. I’d say he’s been dead about two hours, four at the most.’
It was now eleven thirty-two so that put the death anywhere between seven thirty and nine thirty.
‘Cause of death?’ Horton asked hopefully, while preparing himself for a sarcastic reply or at least a negative one. He wasn’t disappointed.
‘Can’t say, Inspector. It’s a bit too wet and dark to conduct an autopsy here. Want me to turn him over?’
Horton nodded. First Freemantle eased off the rucksack and handed it to Beth Tremaine. Standing under the awning she unzipped the main compartment. ‘Empty, sir. And only tissues in the front compartment.’
So was theft the motive, if this was murder? Horton watched Freemantle ease the body over. Horton thought the pale face and the staring dark eyes looked shocked rather than afraid. He gave instructions for Johnson to fetch Ashton. Clarke took some photographs as Freemantle stood back. When he’d finished Freemantle again examined the body.
‘No signs of strangulation. No head wounds and no sign of bruising around the neck or face.’ He made to reach into the man’s jacket pockets when Horton forestalled him. He stood back and beckoned over Ashton. He smelt of alcohol, probably understandable in the circumstances.
‘Have you ever seen him before?’
Ashton’s face paled as he snatched a glance at the dead man. He shook his head and swallowed. Horton gestured for the doctor to empty the dead man’s pockets. Reaching into the trousers he extracted a wallet, which he handed to Taylor. In the other pocket was a set of keys, which again Dr Freemantle gave to Taylor who dropped them into an evidence bag.
Glancing at them Eames said, ‘They’re not boat keys. There’s no float on them. House key and two smaller padlock keys.’
Which could be to the compartments on the rucksack. He asked Taylor to open the wallet.
‘Credit card and bank debit card in the name of Daniel Redsall.’
That name sounded familiar to Horton. Why?
Taylor continued. ‘No photographs, a card for a guest house in Southsea, and there’s a pass for the University of Ulster.’
University . . . like Spalding. Turning to Ashton, Horton said, ‘Do you know anyone called Redsall?’
‘No.’
Was that a lie, wondered Horton? It didn’t sound like one. Perhaps Ashton or one of his crew or clients had slipped away from the restaurant and met this man. But why? And as Freemantle had said there seemed no evidence of foul play.
‘I need the keys to the yacht, Carl. We have to examine it,’ he added.
Ashton handed them over grudgingly. ‘I need that yacht back in Cowes tomorrow morning.’
‘We should finish with it tonight if you want to wait.’
‘You know where to find me,’ Ashton growled before returning to Crawford’s yacht. Horton watched him go before his attention was caught by voices at the bridgehead.
‘That’s the rest of the team,’ Eames explained.
Team? Then she wasn’t alone on that yacht with Crawford. Optimism rose for a moment to be quashed almost instantly as Horton followed her gaze to a man in his early fifties with a stunningly attractive long-legged blonde woman in her mid-twenties. They were a foursome.
‘We’ve been practising for Cowes Week, the racing.’
He should have guessed Eames would return to England for one of the highlights of the social calendar.
‘Can they come down, sir?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘And tell Bailey he can let the undertakers on.’ He watched her make her way up the pontoon, admiring her figure and wishing he didn’t feel so attracted to her, then pulling himself up he dismissed her from his mind. He had a job to do. He turned his attention to the body. Daniel Redsall. The name struck a familiar note. Why? Could he be a criminal? But no, the university pass indicated otherwise. He thought of Douglas Spalding. He’d also had a university pass but for Portsmouth, not Ulster. And Spalding had also been found in an unusual place. Was it just coincidence or did the two men know one another?
My God! With a sudden rush of adrenalin Horton scrambled inside his pocket and pulled out the list of names and addresses Neil Gideon had given him earlier, which he’d forgotten to put in the file. And there it was. He let out a breath. Daniel Redsall. This man had attended Dr Douglas Spalding’s lecture. And now both were dead. Now let Uckfield tell him there was nothing suspicious about it. He reached for his phone.