An answer of sorts came to him the next morning. He looked up from his computer as Walters waddled into the CID office reading the Daily Mirror. Horton called out to him through his open door, adding, ‘You too, Cantelli.’
Cantelli, entering behind Walters, eyed Horton, concerned. ‘Andy, you look knackered.’
He felt it. He’d had about three hours’ sleep, and even that had been nothing more than a half waking kind of dose. Just before six he’d finally given up all attempts, taken a cold shower to shock himself into full wakefulness, was in the canteen by seven having breakfast and in his office by seven thirty in time to see from his window Bliss’s sports car pull into the car park. He’d forgotten she was back from her course today. He wished they’d found her a role at Bramshill. And that made him recall he hadn’t yet contacted Professor Thurstan Madeley. His telephone number wasn’t on his website, but Horton knew someone at Bramshill who would give it to him. They’d have it on file there. He’d rung and asked for John Harrison, a police officer he’d served with over the years who on his promotion to Inspector a year ago had taken up a post as training officer at the college. After a brief exchange of news Horton had told him he wanted to get in touch with Madeley.
‘Thinking of asking his advice on policing?’ Harrison had joked.
‘Why not? He might have the magic answer to solving crime without having to fill in all this mountain of paperwork.’
‘If he does he’s probably given it to DCI Bliss.’
‘He knows her?’ Horton had asked, amazed.
‘He does now. He gave a lecture on her course.’
‘About?’
‘Understanding the social influences affecting today’s criminals.’
Horton snorted. ‘She needs to understand her staff first.’
‘Well by all accounts Professor Madeley was most impressed with DCI Bliss, in fact we all were and her governor will be too. She came top of the class.’
‘I might have known.’ Horton had got Madeley’s mobile telephone number without having to explain why he needed it. He had sensed Harrison’s curiosity but Harrison knew that even if he’d asked Horton wouldn’t have told him. He hadn’t rung Madeley yet. It was too early and he wanted to do it away from the station. He didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing or crashing in on him as no doubt Bliss would soon, now that she must have seen Cantelli and Walters arrive.
‘I had rather a late night,’ Horton replied to Cantelli’s enquiry, waving them into seats across his desk. He briefed them about Redsall’s death. Cantelli looked shocked and then thoughtful. Walters simply looked bemused. Maybe this time he was right to be. ‘I’ve found some information on Redsall that might suggest why he was in Portsmouth.’ Horton indicated his computer. ‘According to the University of Ulster’s website he was a Marine Archaeologist, interested in seafaring watercraft.’
‘The M33?’ suggested Cantelli.
‘Possibly, and perhaps he consulted Spalding about it, him being a naval historian. And Redsall could have been on the pontoons at Oyster Quays because he was interested in the MGB 81, it’s a 1942 motor gun boat,’ he added for both their benefit. ‘He’s visiting lecturer at the Centre for Maritime Archaeology at Ulster, joined them last September and before that he worked just up the road here at Southampton at their Centre for Maritime Archaeology.’
That didn’t answer the question why he was dead though. Horton had also read on the university’s website that Redsall had been involved in a study of historic shipwrecks in Ireland. The Solent had enough shipwrecks to keep any marine archaeologist happy for decades but it was a long way from Ireland. Horton wondered if Redsall had been researching a ship wrecked off Ireland which had set sail from Portsmouth. Perhaps that was where Spalding came into it. But neither theory meant either man’s death was suspicious, as Uckfield would be quick to point out. But what did bother Horton was the fact that if Redsall had been engaged on research then where were his notes? Certainly not in his room or in his rucksack.
Addressing Cantelli he said, ‘Ask Dr Menchip if she knows or recognizes Redsall and see what Alvita Baarda can tell us about him and Spalding. Did the two of them talk? Did they seem to know one another? You know the drill.’ Horton handed Cantelli a photograph of Redsall which he’d printed off from the University of Ulster’s website. It wasn’t as grim as the ones Clarke had taken of the body.
‘I’ll re-interview Julie Preston. Walters, check if the control room at Oyster Quays has sent over the CCTV footage of the marina for last night, and if not chase them up. And call the marina office, ask them if Redsall signed in yesterday and get someone from the fingerprint bureau round to the Crossleys.’
The sound of footsteps in CID caught Horton’s attention and he looked up to see Bliss striding across the deserted room with a scowl of welcome on her narrow face, her ponytail swinging high behind her head like a horse swishing its tail at irritating flies. Cantelli and Walters hastily rose as she entered his office but Horton remained seated.
‘Good course, Ma’am?’ he asked, wondering how different she would look with a dash of lipstick and her hair down. Not that he really wanted to find out. She cast her cool green eyes over Cantelli and Walters. Walters shifted and looked as though he was going to belch but managed not to. With a nod of her head she gave them a curt dismissal. They didn’t need telling twice.
Plonking her narrow backside in the chair that Walters’ fat one had vacated she asked him for an update on outstanding cases. Swiftly he gave her one, hoping she didn’t ask too many questions because he’d hardly looked at the files. He ended with the news about Redsall’s death but without saying that his officers were investigating it, which was just as well because she said, ‘I understand that isn’t being treated as suspicious, so we don’t spend time on it.’ She was clearly singing from the same hymn sheet as Uckfield. Rising, she said, ‘I expect your performance targets for July, which are seriously overdue, and your team’s customer satisfaction survey results within the next couple of hours, Inspector.’
‘Anything in particular you’d like us to ask the victims of crime?’ Horton asked airily as she reached the door.
She spun round. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You have the questions on the survey.’
‘I wondered if you might have some new suggestions following your course. For example perhaps we should ask the victims how they feel towards the criminal. Perhaps if they understood the social influences that made the scumbags beat up and rob innocent people they might more readily forgive them, excuse them even.’
‘Just get on with it.’
‘Ma’am.’
With a brief smile, Horton rang Trueman and asked if the Northern Ireland police had any new information to report.
‘They’ve been to Redsall’s flat. It’s rented and there’s no personal correspondence in it or photographs. The other occupants in the building don’t know anything about him. But the university have given them the details of the next of kin. It’s a Beatrice Redsall and she lives at Three Laden Mansions, Craneswater, Southsea.’
‘But that’s local,’ Horton said, surprised, not only because he hadn’t expected that but the address was just a stone’s throw from Redsall’s guest house. So why hadn’t Redsall stayed with her? ‘What relation is she to him?’
‘Aunt. Daniel Redsall wasn’t married and there are no kids.’
Horton supposed the aunt could be elderly and that was the reason Redsall hadn’t stayed with her. Perhaps he didn’t want to inconvenience her. Did she know her nephew was in Portsmouth? Had he visited her?
‘Anyone told her yet?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘I’ll do it.’ And he’d better get going before the wicked witch in the wardrobe came out of it. ‘Arrange for a uniformed woman police officer to meet me there in twenty minutes.’
Horton rang off. On his way out he told Walters where he was heading and that he was to keep quiet about what he was doing regarding the case if Bliss asked. Walters nodded. Heading for Southsea, Horton wondered who had briefed Bliss about Redsall’s death. She didn’t normally have early-morning meetings with Uckfield, but he guessed she might have had one this morning with ACC Dean following the glowing reports of her performance on the course and Uckfield must have reported the death to Dean.
Instead of heading straight for Laden Mansions Horton decided to call in at Spalding’s house. He was reluctant to bother Mrs Spalding again but he needed to check if she recognized Redsall’s name or the man himself. There was a chance that Redsall had called on Spalding, he thought, pressing his finger on the bell. Or Spalding could have visited Redsall at the guest house although he felt sure if that were the case then the Crossleys would have mentioned it last night.
Mrs Spalding answered the door promptly, looking as elegant as she had the day before only this time she was wearing a patterned knee-length summer dress and sandals rather than the dark trousers and flat pumps. She’d again applied her make-up with precision but it couldn’t disguise the fatigue and pain etched on her oval face or the deep sorrow and shock in her dark brown eyes. If Spalding had been having an affair then Horton, like Cantelli, hoped it wasn’t the cause of his death, because he didn’t want Jacqueline Spalding to discover it. She would though. Murder brought out all the dirty linen and hung it right in front of your nose. If this was murder. And Horton knew in his gut it was.
The house was silent. As though reading his thoughts she explained that her son, Julian, and Louise, her daughter, were in their rooms, either on their computers or watching television. Horton didn’t ask how they were taking the news. How could they take it except with bewilderment, anger and sorrow once they realized the full impact of it? Ronald Spalding was in the kitchen. She invited him through and offered him a coffee but he declined both. Standing in the small tiled outer hall he said, ‘I won’t keep you long. I just need to check a couple of things with you, Mrs Spalding. Have you ever seen this man before?’ He showed her the photograph of Redsall and watched her reaction as she studied it carefully. After a moment she shook her head.
‘His name is Daniel Redsall,’ prompted Horton, ‘does that mean anything to you?’
‘No. Should it?’ she asked, eyeing him, confused.
‘He might have known your husband.’
‘I never heard Douglas mention the name.’
Horton believed her. He said, ‘Daniel Redsall was found dead last night. We don’t know yet how he died but he was at your husband’s lecture on Monday night.’
‘I see.’ But clearly she didn’t see and neither did Horton, yet.
‘We’re just examining all possible links,’ he added.
‘And you think this man’s death,’ she indicated the photograph, ‘has something to do with Douglas’s?’
‘We don’t know.’ It was the truth.
She eyed him keenly. ‘Do you think Douglas killed himself?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘But you’re still looking into it?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Yes.’
She took a breath then said, ‘You’ll tell me if you find anything?’
He promised he would. He again apologized for disturbing her and left feeling sorry for her and angry with Spalding if he had in some way brought this upon his family. But he didn’t know that for certain. Spalding could be an innocent victim in this – only why had he lied to both his wife and doctor?
He wondered what she had done before she’d become Mrs Douglas Spalding. She was intelligent and had probably held down a good job. He also wondered how she’d met her husband. Could she have been in the Navy? But somehow he couldn’t see that. He indicated right and turned into Nettlecombe Avenue where he found Ted and Brenda Crossley. Again he was offered coffee and again he refused.
‘We thought you might be the fingerprint officer,’ Ted Crossley said when they were in the kitchen. In the daylight Horton saw the room overlooked a well-tended garden with a neat square of lawn, a couple of trees provided shade for the tables and chairs positioned under them and a wide expanse of flowering shrubs bordered three sides.
‘I wanted to ask you if Daniel Redsall mentioned his aunt while he was here? Beatrice Redsall, she lives in Laden Mansions.’
‘But that’s just around the corner,’ Brenda Crossley answered, surprised. ‘He never said anything to me about her.’
‘Me neither.’
‘Did he mention a Douglas Spalding?’
‘No. Like I said last night he was a very private man. Didn’t say much at all. Hang on, Spalding you say?’ Ted Crossley paused, frowning. ‘Isn’t that the professor who gave that lecture on women in the Royal Navy?’ He flashed a glance at his wife.
‘Yes. Daniel Redsall attended it,’ Horton replied, trying to interpret the meaning of the glance between them.
‘Ah.’ Again Ted Crossley paused. Then said, ‘Wasn’t he . . . didn’t he have an accident in the dockyard? I heard something about it on the news.’
‘His body was found in Number One Dock.’
‘Good God, where the old Monitor is?’
‘You know it?
‘Of course. We’ve got leaflets on all the attractions in the Historic Dockyard for our guests and recommend a visit there. And Mr Redsall was at the lecture the same night Spalding had his accident?’
Horton didn’t care for the way Crossley said ‘accident’ but he couldn’t blame him for thinking it was more than that, which was certainly more than Uckfield thought.
He said, ‘We have to explore connections even if they don’t mean anything.’ He could see that he wasn’t fooling the Crossleys. They’d probably already fabricated a theory about why Redsall was dead and who had killed him (if he’d been killed, he silently added) along with how he had been killed. Maybe he should hand the case over to them. He withdrew a photograph of Douglas Spalding and asked if he had ever called upon Redsall here. They both agreed (with disappointment, thought Horton) that he hadn’t.
As he was leaving he remembered that look that had passed between them and the poster that had been exhibited above the registration desk, which he noted was no longer there. ‘You advertised Dr Spalding’s lecture, why?’
Again that glance between them. It was Brenda who answered. ‘We were both in the Navy. It’s how we met. I intended to go to the lecture but we had too much on with the guest house being full. It was a shame because I’d like to have heard what he had to say.’
‘How did you find out about the lecture?’
‘We’re on the mailing list for all the dockyard events. We do our best to help promote them.’
Of course. That made sense. Horton was tempted to leave the Harley parked outside the Crossleys’ guest house and walk the few hundred yards to Laden Mansions, but decided against it. Soon he was pulling into the rear of the 1930s elegant three-storey building and drew to a halt to the right of a block of garages. His phone rang. It was Walters.
‘Thought I’d better warn you, Guv, DCI Bliss wanted to know where you were. I said I wasn’t sure but I thought you’d gone to see an informant. Don’t think it did much for her blood pressure.’
Or my chances of staying in CID. ‘Did you tell her what you were working on?’
‘She didn’t ask but stormed off with a face like a fractured piston engine.’
Horton could well imagine. ‘Have you got anything to report?’
‘Oyster Quays are emailing over the CCTV footage. The marina manager says no one called Redsall signed in yesterday and I can’t get hold of anyone at Kings College. I’ll try again in half an hour, and so far no joy with the airports. They’re checking their passenger lists and said they’d get back to me.’
Horton rang off. As Redsall hadn’t signed in that meant he’d either arrived after the marina office had closed at dusk or he’d come by boat with someone who had signed in or who kept his boat moored there. Horton hoped the CCTV cameras had picked him up.
Bliss would no doubt be calling him soon and demanding his return. But now that he was safely out of flapping ears at the station, and while he waited for the uniformed officer to show, he’d try getting hold of Bliss’s new found admirer, Professor Thurstan Madeley. He stabbed the number on his mobile that Harrison had relayed to him earlier and got Madeley’s voicemail. Hesitating for only a moment he said crisply, ‘Professor Madeley, this is Detective Inspector Horton. I’d like to speak to you about the thirteenth of March 1967. Can you call me please?’
OK, he thought with a slight quickening of heart, let’s see what happens now. He was certain that Madeley would return his call but would he tell anyone about it? DCS Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate for example? But Horton had no evidence that Madeley was in league with Sawyer over the latter’s ambition to track down Zeus. There was also no evidence that Madeley knew anything about the disappearance of Jennifer Horton – why should he? He was just a professor who had been in charge of that archive project on the student sit-in protest.
He pushed the thoughts aside. Switched off his phone and went to break the news to Beatrice Redsall that her nephew was dead.