‘Their deaths have to be linked,’ Horton insisted twenty minutes later. The Super had arrived in his usual foul mood. Horton had first called his home and awoken Alison Uckfield, who had told him her husband was on a late-night operation. Horton had then rung Uckfield’s mobile. He’d eventually grumpily answered and Horton knew that the kind of operation Uckfield was on had nothing to do with police work. Uckfield had arrived without giving any explanation of where he’d been. But then he didn’t have to, and Horton certainly wasn’t going to ask. It was none of his business.
Horton had insisted that the body remain until Uckfield had seen it. He’d told Eames to return to her friends who were now on Crawford’s yacht. There was no point in her getting any wetter than she already was, and there was nothing she could do. She had at first insisted on staying but Horton had been firm. It wasn’t her investigation. She couldn’t help. She’d gone reluctantly after she’d introduced the two other crew members as Ben Otis and Keely Lambeth, the latter of whom had PC Johnson drooling like a baby. Keely Lambeth was stunning, Horton had to admit that, and Johnson, Clarke and even Phil Taylor, who was usually unaffected by anything and everything, looked as though they’d dash to her aid if she fainted at the sight of the body. If Uckfield had seen her he’d probably have shoved his elbows in front of them to catch her first. But Keely Lambeth merely blinked her mesmerizing green eyes at the corpse, shook her long blonde hair and professed not to know or recognize him. Otis said the same. Crawford was fetched from his boat by Eames and he too declared that he’d never seen the dead man in his life.
Uckfield sniffed, pulling up his collar. ‘Just because this poor sod went to Spalding’s lecture and he worked at a university like Spalding doesn’t make his death suspicious. On the contrary, there’s no evidence to suggest that. He probably fell ill, climbed on board hoping to find someone on the yacht, collapsed and died.’
They moved away from the yacht, finally allowing the undertakers on board. Taylor and Tremaine were working their way methodically through the cabins. They’d examine the cockpit again once the body had been removed but Horton wasn’t sure they’d find much. The rain would have destroyed any evidence, if it existed, just as with Spalding’s death.
Horton knew that Uckfield could be right but as he’d waited for the Super to arrive he’d formed another theory which he now voiced. ‘We haven’t had the results of the toxicology tests on Spalding yet. He could have been drugged after giving his lecture at the naval museum and Redsall could have witnessed it.’
‘And I could be in a nice warm bed,’ quipped Uckfield, making it perfectly clear what he thought of that idea.
Yeah, whose bed? thought Horton with irritation. He knew that Redsall couldn’t have witnessed Spalding being pushed into the dock because according to the log he had signed out at nine twenty-five, if the log was correct, and they would need to check that.
‘Spalding committed suicide,’ Uckfield said, stepping aside as the undertakers manoeuvred the body bag off the yacht, conveyed it onto the trolley and began to wheel it up the pontoon. ‘There was nothing to witness.’
Horton was tempted to tell Uckfield about his visit to Spalding’s house and the fact that there was a discrepancy between what Spalding had told his doctor and his wife about a possible trip abroad, but where did that get them? Nowhere. He needed the results of those toxicology tests and he needed more evidence. He might get the latter from viewing Redsall’s room at the guest house.
He said, ‘Redsall gave the Historic Dockyard security officers an address in Coleraine, Northern Ireland, so it’s a fair guess he was staying at this guest house in Southsea.’ Horton showed Uckfield the card retrieved from Redsall’s wallet. ‘He might not be alone.’
Uckfield consulted his watch. Horton knew what was running through his mind. It was a waste of time. Horton knew it was very late to be disturbing the owners of the guest house who must have thought their visitor had decided to stay out with friends all night. They could wait until the morning, but there might be someone waiting anxiously for Daniel Redsall.
He said, ‘It’s all right, Steve, you don’t have to come. Go home or back to that operation Alison told me you were on tonight. I can handle this and brief you in the morning.’
Uckfield eyed him malevolently. After a moment he said tersely, ‘I’ll meet you outside in ten minutes.’
The implied threat worked. Not that Horton would have squealed to Alison Uckfield or anyone else, and he could have visited the guest house alone. But he wanted Uckfield along. He gave instructions for Taylor to drop the boat keys back to Ashton, who was still on Crawford’s yacht, and then went to inform him. He didn’t have to knock on the hatch; it opened as he stepped on board. Peering down into the cabin he caught Eames’ enquiring look but there was nothing he could tell her in front of the others. Horton told Ashton that he would contact him tomorrow, which wasn’t greeted very enthusiastically.
Ten minutes later Horton was pulling up behind Uckfield’s BMW in a road of large semi-detached four-storey Edwardian houses just off the seafront, and which he noted with interest was literally just around the corner from Douglas Spalding’s residence, a fact he didn’t mention to Uckfield because there wasn’t time and it might mean nothing anyway.
It took a few stout knocks and a finger pressed on a bell before a stocky, bleary-eyed man with grizzled grey-black hair answered the door wearing a dark blue dressing gown over plain navy blue pyjamas and an anxious frown which deepened into something akin to fright as he viewed them. Horton didn’t blame him: two wet men standing on his doorstep, one wearing biker’s clothing, was enough to worry anyone. He probably thought they were polite burglars who rang before breaking down the door. Swiftly Horton showed his warrant card. ‘I apologize for the lateness of our visit, Mr Crossley, but we need to check if a Daniel Redsall is staying with you.’
‘He is. Has he had an accident?’ Crossley asked with a mixture of surprise and concern.
‘I’m sorry to say he’s dead.’
‘Good God! Come in.’
They stepped into the hall. Horton swiftly took in the pale cream walls decorated with framed pictures of Portsmouth through the ages. There was an antique table to the right of the door and on it he noted the registration book, which was closed. Above it was a notice board with event posters pinned to it, one of which immediately caught Horton’s attention. Beside the table was a rack of pamphlets detailing the local attractions.
‘This is dreadful,’ Crossley continued in hushed tones. ‘Was he mugged?’
Sadly Horton thought that was a predictable assumption. ‘It doesn’t appear so,’ he said somewhat non-committally, wiping his feet on the doormat and eyeing Uckfield pointedly, who reluctantly did the same. It was either that or removing footwear, and stocking feet always made Horton feel vulnerable and was to be avoided at all costs. He asked if Redsall had been staying there alone and was relieved when the answer came that he was. The Northern Ireland police would probably have the unpleasant task of breaking the news to the next of kin.
‘We’d like to see his room, if that’s possible,’ Horton asked Crossley politely. He put him somewhere in his mid-sixties.
‘Of course. I’ll get the key for you.’
He hurried off to the rear of the building giving Horton the opportunity to open the registration book. Redsall had checked in on Sunday at three fifty-five p.m. His eyes flicked up to the poster on the notice board above the desk. ‘Dr Spalding’s lecture.’
‘That probably confirms he went to it on the off-chance and his death has nothing to do with Spalding,’ Uckfield said grouchily, glancing at it.
Maybe, thought Horton. But he wondered what had prompted him to attend a lecture on women in the Royal Navy. Redsall didn’t look as though he was in the Navy although he could be ex-Navy. And even if he hadn’t known Spalding it didn’t rule out the fact he could have witnessed something that had led to his death. There was no point repeating his theory and anyway coming towards them was Mr Crossley and behind him a woman at least a few inches taller than her husband, with long brown-grey hair pulled back from a cavernous face and large round brown eyes that looked excited rather than worried. She smiled, showing a wide mouth with large protruding teeth and pulled the cream towelling knee-length dressing gown tighter around her.
‘Ted’s told me about poor Mr Redsall,’ she said in a hushed voice, clearly not wanting to disturb the other guests but Horton thought they couldn’t have failed to have heard them banging on the door and ringing the bell, unless it only rang in the proprietor’s quarters. ‘I’m Brenda Crossley. How did he die?’
‘We’re not sure yet but he was found at the marina in Oyster Quays. Did he mention meeting anyone there?’
They both shook their heads.
Ted Crossley offered to take their wet coats. Probably didn’t want them dripping all over the stair carpet. He hung them up by the door and said, ‘I’ll take you up to his room. It’s on the second floor, at the rear.’
‘And I’ll make some tea.’ Brenda Crossley bustled off back down the corridor.
As they climbed the stairs, Horton said quietly, ‘I see from your registration book that Mr Redsall signed in on Sunday at fifteen fifty-five, did he go out again?’
‘Yes, about six thirty, for something to eat I assume; we don’t do dinners, just bed and breakfast. He came back about nine.’
‘Has he stayed here before?’
‘No. He booked over the Internet. I can let you have a copy of his booking form if it will help.’
‘Thanks. How many guests do you have?’
‘We’re full. Eleven guests in three double rooms, one family room and one single, Mr Redsall’s room, all en suite and with free access to Wi-Fi,’ Crossley said proudly but quietly, hoping not to disturb the other guests. ‘This is Mr Redsall’s room.’
He unlocked the door and stepped back to allow them in. Uckfield entered and Horton followed. Swiftly he registered the freshly painted cream walls displaying more local landscapes, the single bed, made up with a pale blue quilt, a large old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe and a matching chest of drawers on top of which was a tray containing a cup and saucer, tea and coffee-making facilities. A modern television set was mounted above it on the wall and to its left a door led into the en suite shower and toilet.
Turning back he said, ‘Did Mr Redsall have an accent?’
Crossley looked slightly taken aback by the question, and even Uckfield raised his eyebrows. ‘No.’
Horton had wondered if Redsall was a native of Northern Ireland. He still could be but had got rid of his accent.
Crossley added, ‘He was very well spoken though, educated kind of voice, quiet.’
Horton could see that Uckfield was impatient to get shot of Crossley and so was he. He said, ‘Where can we find you when we’ve finished?’ He hoped Crossley wasn’t going to insist on staying. But he took the hint.
‘Ground floor at the rear.’
Horton nodded and quietly closed the door.
Uckfield wrenched open the wardrobe door and peered inside. ‘Nothing here. Looks as though he travelled light. Anything in the chest of drawers?’
‘One cotton checked shirt, crumpled, three round-necked T-shirts, also worn, one with the University of Ulster logo on it, two pairs of socks and one pair of underpants. And this.’ Horton held up a large brown leather wallet. As Uckfield crossed to him he extracted the contents, relaying their details. ‘Flight and railway ticket. Redsall flew from Belfast on Sunday arriving at Southampton at five past one and he was booked to return Thursday on the four o’clock flight from Southampton. The train ticket is for Coleraine to Belfast return, which matches with the address he gave the Historic Dockyard. There’s another train ticket here for Portsmouth Harbour to Southampton Parkway. And here’s a copy of his Internet booking form. There’s a landline number but no mobile number.’
And Horton would like to know if Redsall had owned one, or an iPad or computer, because none of those items were here and they hadn’t been in that rucksack.
In a bored manner Uckfield said, ‘There’s nothing here. Might as well go home. You can send a couple of plods around in the morning to take statements.’
But Horton had no intention of doing that. ‘Let’s see what the Crossleys have got to say first, especially as they’ve offered us a cup of tea.’ He didn’t leave time for Uckfield to protest but swept out of the room and down the stairs carrying Redsall’s wallet.
Coffee was Horton’s tipple but he didn’t tell Brenda Crossley that as she waved them onto the high bar stools across the breakfast bar from her and her husband in the spotlessly clean modern kitchen and poured them both mugs of tea.
Uckfield eyed the stool with distaste and grunted as he eased his short stout figure onto the stool while Horton climbed on the one next to him with alacrity. Brenda Crossley pushed forward a plate of biscuits which Uckfield tackled with relish. Judging by the Crossleys’ eager expressions and heightened colour, Horton could tell they had been speculating on the cause of Redsall’s death and, if they weren’t stupid, and Horton didn’t think they were, also on why it had prompted the visit from such high-ranking officers instead of uniformed PCs or a detective constable at the most.
Horton opened the questioning. ‘Did Mr Redsall say why he was here?’
Ted Crossley answered. ‘I asked him but he just said it was for a few days’ break. He didn’t elaborate and I didn’t probe because I got the impression he didn’t want to talk about it. You pick up on these things when you run a guest house. We get all sorts. Some will tell you their life story at the drop of a hat and you have a job shutting them up, others are tight-lipped and a bit stand-offish. I wouldn’t have described Mr Redsall as that though, more shy, quiet, a bit nervy and nerdy like.’
‘Ted! The poor man’s dead.’
‘Doesn’t make my impression of him any different,’ Ted quickly replied. Horton could see he was of the ‘I speak as I find’ type and bugger anyone’s feelings, a bit like Ivor Meadows. Sometimes that was helpful but often it was unreliable because those types could be blinkered by their own bigoted and narrow views.
‘You said nervy?’ Horton probed.
‘Twitchy, on edge.’
‘Worried?’
Ted thought for a moment. ‘Possibly, but excited underneath it.’
Horton wasn’t sure how much store he could set by that. Crossley could be fabricating it to add to the excitement and intrigue surrounding the death. ‘Did you see him with a computer or did he ask about your free wi-fi access?’
‘No.’
‘Did either of you see him with a mobile phone?’
Both Crossleys shook their heads.
‘Was he carrying anything when he arrived?’
‘Only his rucksack.’
‘And you can confirm he was booked in until Thursday?’
Brenda Crossley pushed a piece of paper across the breakfast bar to Horton. ‘Yes, I printed you off a copy.’
It was the same one Horton had found in the wallet, which was now in his pocket but he didn’t say. He smiled his thanks and took it asking if they knew what Daniel Redsall had done for a living.
Ted Crossley answered. ‘He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Like I said, he was quiet. Difficult to make conversation with. At breakfast I asked if he had a good night, he said yes. We talked about the weather and that was about it. He didn’t say what he was doing Monday or today, he just went out.’
‘What time?’ Uckfield asked with his mouth full of biscuit.
Ted Crossley answered, ‘Almost straight after breakfast and he didn’t come back until late afternoon on Monday, about five, and then he went out again in the evening.’
And that was to Spalding’s lecture. Horton said, ‘And that was at?’
Brenda Crossley answered. ‘Six fifteen. I was watering my tubs and window boxes in the front garden.’
Horton had seen the magnificent display when he’d drawn up.
‘I said hello, he smiled and hurried off.’
‘In which direction?’
‘Towards the seafront and the Canoe Lake.’
The opposite direction to Spalding’s house. But according to their evidence Spalding wasn’t there anyway but at the dockyard preparing for his talk.
Ted Crossley said, ‘He returned about ten o’clock.’
And that fitted with the time he’d checked out of the dockyard at nine twenty-five. Redsall had left ten minutes before Dr Spalding. And judging by the signature in the guest house registration book it looked as though it was the same as the one that appeared on the dockyard list and on the credit and debit cards.
‘And yesterday, Tuesday?’
Before Ted Crossley could answer his wife jumped in. ‘He went out early, before breakfast. I saw him leave. It must have been about seven o’clock. That was the last I saw of him. Did you see him yesterday?’ She addressed her husband.
‘No.’
Horton sipped his tea out of politeness and tried not to show he disliked the brew. ‘How did he seem on his return on Monday?’
Ted Crossley answered. ‘Fine. I asked if he’d had a good evening and he said “yes, thank you” and that was it.’
Uckfield slid off his seat, clearly believing there was nothing more to be gleaned here. Maybe he was right. And he’d finished the biscuits. Horton rose. He asked the Crossleys to leave Redsall’s room as it was adding, ‘We’d like to send someone round tomorrow to take fingerprints.’
‘Of our guests?’ Crossley said, alarmed.
Horton hesitated. There was nothing to say that any of the guests weren’t connected with Redsall’s death and he didn’t think they’d mind their prints being taken, probably add a bit of spice to their holiday, but bearing in mind that Uckfield didn’t believe there was a suspicious death to investigate and his glowering look, Horton said, ‘Just the prints in Mr Redsall’s room and yours and any other member of staff who went in there, so that we can eliminate them.’
‘There’s only us,’ Brenda Crossley said.
‘I’d also like a list of the guests who have been here during Redsall’s stay. We can collect it tomorrow.’
Crossley nodded agreement and showed them out.
Outside Uckfield said, ‘There’s not one shred of evidence to say this is a suspicious death. We do nothing more until we get the results of the autopsy.’
Uckfield might not do anything but that wasn’t going to stop Horton. He said, ‘We need to trace the next of kin. It would help if Sergeant Trueman could do that.’
After a moment Uckfield nodded agreement. ‘OK.’
At least Dr Clayton would be back to conduct the autopsy, thought Horton, as he watched Uckfield pull away, presumably heading home, although knowing Uckfield he could be returning to his lover, whoever she was.
Horton returned to his boat. He was tired but as he lay watching the minutes tick by into hours his whirling brain refused to be still. Uckfield was right – there was nothing to indicate that Spalding had been killed, and neither was there any evidence to indicate Daniel Redsall had been, but a whole swathe of questions kept spinning around his head like an endless merry-go-round. Why had Daniel Redsall attended Spalding’s lecture? Why had he ended up dead the next day? Why had he been on Ashton’s yacht? How did he get on to the pontoons at Oyster Quays? Would the security cameras reveal a sighting of him? Had Redsall signed in earlier at the marina office? And if he had signed in as a visitor then who had he been visiting? Someone on Ashton’s yacht or someone on Agent Eames’ yacht? Or someone else who had been in the marina?
It was pointless trying to answer these questions and useless considering them any further until they had more information, which he’d get despite Uckfield’s lack of cooperation. He willed himself to relax and steeled himself not to look at his watch again. Instead he focused on the sound of the sea lapping against the boat and the rhythm of its gentle movement, hoping that it would calm him. The rain had stopped and gradually he began to feel himself slipping into sleep. Infuriatingly though, just when he was on the edge one question sprang to mind and refused to budge. He knew it was critical. What had brought Redsall to Portsmouth from Northern Ireland?