She was there before him. He’d been delayed at the station. Cantelli had returned to say that Beatrice Redsall had confirmed the body was that of her nephew. She hadn’t batted an eyelid or shed a tear. Horton had known she wouldn’t. It was the way she was made. She’d also confirmed that no Redsall had sailed on HMS Challenger and that she’d never heard of Erica Leyton or any research project connected with the Challenger.
As he swung into the car park Horton could see the red-haired diminutive figure of Gaye Clayton standing on the quay talking to a fisherman on his boat. Her boyish figure was dressed casually in jeans and a white T-shirt and she swung round on his approach with such a bright and welcoming smile on her freckled face that he felt a warm glow spread through him, as though he’d known her for years. He realized in that moment that she never made him feel inferior or defensive in the same way that many people did, even though he would never admit that, or perhaps he should say as Eames made him feel. He found himself attracted to Gaye but in a different way to Eames, how precisely though he didn’t know and didn’t care to analyse. On many occasions he’d been tempted to ask Gaye out, but his working relationship with her had prevented him, just as it prevented him getting closer to Eames. He wished he hadn’t thought of Eames. His feelings for her were complicated – for Christ’s sake he couldn’t even think of her in terms of her first name – and those complications were now exacerbated by his feelings for Gaye Clayton. Best to avoid them both he guessed, in any emotional and sexual sense that was, professionally he didn’t have much choice. Besides, perhaps neither would touch him with a barge pole.
She dismissed his apology for being late, said a cheery goodbye to the fisherman and accompanied him inside the pub where he ordered their drinks. She refused an offer of food and they talked of her holiday, sailing in France. Horton felt a stab of jealousy when she spoke of the friends who had accompanied her, two male doctors and a female radiologist, an emotion that left him even more confused and frustrated and with a sense of loneliness that he hastily and angrily pushed aside while at the same time resenting his mother, and feeling disappointed that Madeley hadn’t returned his call. He turned his mind to Spalding and Redsall. Seated outside in the declining August sun he told her he wanted to discuss their deaths.
‘And there’s me thinking you wanted the pleasure of my company,’ she joked.
‘I do but I also want your expertise.’ He returned her smile and as their eyes connected he knew it wouldn’t take much for him to take their relationship further. He said, ‘Is there any indication on Redsall’s medical records that he might have suffered Sudden Death Syndrome?’
She picked up her glass and eyed him steadily and perhaps with a hint of disappointment, Horton thought. After taking a sip of her mineral water she said, ‘No, but that’s not unusual because he might not have had any symptoms. Let me explain. The conditions responsible for Sudden Arrhythmia Death Syndrome, to give it its proper name, causes a cardiac arrest by bringing on a “ventricular arrhythmia”, a disturbance in the heart’s rhythm, even though the person has no structural heart disease, and Redsall’s heart was in perfect condition. There is a group of relatively rare diseases called ion channelopathies that affect the electrical functioning of the heart without affecting the heart’s structure. This means that they can only be detected in life and not at post-mortem. It often affects mainly young people but one form can affect middle-aged men, like Daniel Redsall; it’s called Brugada Syndrome and the patient may have no symptoms at all. Sudden death usually happens while the person is sleeping. It is a possible cause of death in Redsall’s case but I can see by your expression that you don’t believe it.’
‘Do you?’
‘So your theory is?’
‘Drugged or poisoned, whichever term you prefer, and deliberately so.’
‘Homicide.’ She considered this but made no comment.
‘Yes and I think the same method was used to kill Douglas Spalding.’
‘Nothing showed up in the toxicology tests.’
‘It wouldn’t.’
She eyed him quizzically and he swiftly told her his theory that Redsall and Spalding could be mixed up in something that national intelligence wanted suppressed, such as suspected terrorism, possibly connected with a cell operating in Northern Ireland. Even as he said it he recognized that he had gone through several theories concerning their deaths and that perhaps he was just grasping at another to justify his intuition. Maybe he should give it up.
She said nothing for a few moments. ‘I must admit they handled the tests on Spalding very quickly.’
‘Too quickly?’ he suggested, hopefully.
She shrugged. ‘Of course, if you rush things mistakes can be made, although not often, and certainly not when I’m around.’
‘Ah, but you weren’t.’
‘No.’
He smiled briefly before continuing. ‘And you weren’t there to examine Spalding’s body for tiny pin pricks.’ The theory of poison by injection fitted. It had been done before. Any sharp instrument could be used and easily concealed in a pocket until needed. And perhaps Daniel Redsall had done that while talking to Spalding after the lecture.
‘But I did examine Redsall’s body,’ she said, ‘and I didn’t find anything like that. Perhaps I had better make a closer examination.’ She took a sip of her drink. Horton could see the thoughts racing through her mind.
Sitting forward and lowering his voice he said, ‘OK, so discounting the results of the toxicology tests, Spalding was last seen alive when Julie Preston let him out of the naval museum at nine thirty-five. His body was discovered by Neil Gideon at just after ten thirty-five, so he could have met someone outside the museum, who administered the drug and it took effect immediately. That person could have been Daniel Redsall who in turn was killed with the same drug on the pontoon at Oyster Quays last night.’
‘And he died sometime between six and ten o’clock.’
‘No, Redsall died after seven o’clock because there are witnesses who said he wasn’t on Ashton’s yacht then.’
‘Right.’ She frowned as she considered this. ‘So we’re looking for something that acted quickly?’
That gave Horton three options as far as Redsall’s death was concerned: someone in one of those boats moored up in Oyster Quays had administered the drug, and there was only Ashton and Rupert Crawford’s party on the pontoons; someone dropped Daniel Redsall off in the marina after drugging him except no boat was seen mooring up during that time; or the drug was administered by a person with access to the pontoons, someone who knew the security code and how to dodge the security cameras who met him there. Why did he want to think of Rupert Crawford? Jealousy, he guessed. He said, ‘Any idea what drug could work speedily?’
She blew out her cheeks and ran a hand through her spiky hair as she considered this. ‘It could be something specially manufactured and unknown.’
Ashton’s clients flashed into Horton’s mind. Ashton had said that one of them had worked for a biomedical company. Simon Watson. Was it possible he was involved? He brought his mind back to Dr Clayton as she continued.
‘Or it could be a good old-fashioned poison. Nicotine for example can be rapidly absorbed through the skin or gastrointestinal tract. It can be injected and death can occur within minutes. It would have caused respiratory failure, which Spalding would certainly have had anyway after hitting a concrete slab. So that’s a possibility. Cyanide is another possibility. However with cyanide the face and lips of the victims would have been blue, and there would have been a cherry-red appearance in the blood. This wasn’t picked up in Spalding’s autopsy and it certainly wasn’t present in Redsall’s body. Then there’s Aconite. If a large dose is taken it can kill almost immediately. It affects the central nervous system, paralysing the muscles. There would have been nausea and possibly vomiting—’
‘Which could have been washed away by the rain in both instances.’
‘Yes, but there would have been traces on the victims’ clothes. I didn’t find any traces of vomit on Redsall’s clothes. Did the pathologist make any comment about vomit being found on Spalding’s clothes?’
‘I haven’t read the autopsy report, only been told the results.’ And if there was vomit then Uckfield might have been told to ignore it.
‘I’ll read it and send you over a copy. If Redsall and Spalding had been given massive doses they would have suffered burning and tingling in the mouth, numbness in the tongue, throat and face, and blurred vision.’
With heightened interest Horton picked up on this. ‘Blurred vision could have caused Spalding to stagger about outside. He panics, struggles to breathe and doubles up over the railings surrounding Number One Dock then topples over as the pain grips him and his breathing slows.’
‘Possible.’
‘And Redsall doesn’t know where he is or what he’s doing, he staggers onto Ashton’s boat, the poison takes effect and he dies.’
She sat back looking concerned. ‘I don’t like the thought that I’ve missed something.’
‘You haven’t. You don’t do the toxicology tests.’
‘No, but maybe I should.’
‘Look, this isn’t official.’
‘Didn’t think it was for one moment.’ She tossed back her drink. ‘I’ve got work to do. I won’t be able to take fresh samples for tests for either Spalding or Redsall until tomorrow morning but I’d like to re-examine Redsall’s body tonight. I’ll let you know if I find anything. Thanks for the drink.’ She rose.
‘My pleasure,’ he said, also rising. ‘And thanks.’ Do something, say something, for Christ’s sake, say that next time I’ll buy you a drink and it won’t have anything to do with work. But he said nothing. He watched her stride across the car park and climb into her red Mini. Cursing himself as she drove away he hoped that perhaps she’d wave or turn back, but she didn’t even glance in his direction. He picked up his helmet then froze. A dark saloon car had pulled out and turned left. Nothing unusual in that – or was there? Only one way to find out. He hurried towards his Harley; he could easily catch them up, but before he reached it his phone rang. Damn. He could ignore it but glancing quickly at the number he knew he couldn’t. It was the one call he’d been waiting for. Professor Thurstan Madeley. Cursing its timing but with a quickening heartbeat he answered it.
Madeley introduced himself and without preamble said, ‘Why do you want to know about the thirteenth of March 1967, Inspector?’
‘I’d like to meet up and talk to you about it. When would be convenient?’
‘Is this police business?’
Horton took a silent deep breath. He’d anticipated the question and his answer. ‘It concerns a current investigation.’ He wasn’t sure whether Madeley was fooled by his evasive answer, probably not. Quickly Horton continued. ‘I’m based in Portsmouth but I can visit you.’
There was a moment’s pause before Madeley replied. ‘I’m going over to the Island tomorrow for Cowes Week. I could meet you at the Castle Hill Yacht Club in Cowes.’
Madeley moved in exalted circles: that was a very exclusive place.
‘Would you be able to get away from your work?’ Madeley asked.
Horton would. In fact it fitted in with his work perfectly, if he could dodge Bliss’s eagle eye, because there were a couple of people on the Island he wanted to interview such as Melanie Jacobs and Steve Drummond. And he wanted to ask Carl Ashton about Simon Watson. He was under orders not to pursue the case but that wasn’t going to stop him.
He made arrangements to meet with Madeley at three o’clock with the proviso that the time and date might have to change depending on his workload. Madeley seemed happy with that. Horton rang off letting out the breath he’d been holding. He’d become so accustomed to disappointment and dead ends that he didn’t dare hope for an answer to even one of his questions, but if Madeley could recall the name of just one of those men in the photograph, or give him something that could lead to one of them, then it would be something.
Climbing on his Harley he wondered about Dr Clayton. Had that dark saloon car been following her? Would she be allowed to conduct her tests? But how could anyone stop her? They might have covered up the results of the tests on Spalding but he didn’t think they’d be able to do the same with Redsall – whoever they were. There was nothing more he could do for the moment.
He headed for the yacht. The lack of sleep was finally catching up on him and he hoped for once he’d be able to slip into oblivion for seven hours; six would do. He’d even settle for five if it was dreamless. But although exhausted he decided that he needed a run along the seafront to release his tension and clear his mind. Besides, physical exhaustion might also help him sleep more readily and peacefully.
By the time he’d reached South Parade Pier it was dark, and he was both exhausted and hungry. Time to head back. He turned right at the end of the esplanade by the swimming baths into Melville Road, past the caravan site, which seemed to be doing a brisk trade with disco music booming from the club house accompanied by the laughter of children and adults. Soon though he was leaving it behind and running along a deserted and darkened road longing for a shower, food and sleep. His trainers pounded the tarmac in a rhythm that kept him going. Not far now.
The sound of a car engine behind him caught his attention. There was plenty of room for it to pass and the flashes on his running vest would be picked up by the vehicle’s headlights. But the car didn’t seem to want to pass, obviously a cautious driver. He could stop and let him go but if he did he didn’t think he’d be able to start running again. He could walk the remaining few hundred yards but that was against his rules. The sweat was pouring off him. He wiped it from his face. The shore was on his left now and a narrow strip of grass to his right bordering the fenced-off ground of Fort Cumberland. The engine behind him revved up. Glancing over his shoulder the full beam of the headlights blinded him. Dazed, he almost stumbled but quickly rectified a faltering step. His heart leapt into his throat as a terrible feeling swamped him. He knew in his gut that the only way this driver was going to pass him was by running right over his body. Shit. He increased his pace, finding energy from reserves he didn’t realize he had. The car’s engine revved again. It was a four-wheel drive and it was coming straight for him. Christ! His eyes glanced wildly around. If he dived to the right the car would drive right over him, and to the left there were now large slabs of concrete bordering the shore, but he could leap over them. He might injure himself but he’d still be alive.
He had seconds. The car would get him on the slight bend. He’d wished for oblivion. He was about to get it. His heart was racing. His head was throbbing. His limbs screaming in agony. The car behind him sped up. Then suddenly out of the night came the throb of a motorbike and there it was bearing down on him. If the car behind didn’t get him the bloody motorbike ahead looked set to. It all happened in a split second. The motorbike rider saw the car speeding towards him, the car driver registered the bike; it swerved to the left, the bike swung and swerved to the right. Horton ran on. There was the squeal of brakes and the throb of the motorbike as it revved up and sped away. Horton, his chest heaving, craned his head back in time to see the four-wheel drive career over a bank of grass to its left, almost topple over, straighten up, reverse and then screech off down the road away from the marina and away from Horton, leaving him with only a glimpse of the colour, black, and nothing of the registration number, which must have been hidden, and only a vague impression of a man inside it.