The shrieking of his phone startled Horton out of a troubled sleep. He woke in a sweat, his bones aching and his muscles burning. He felt as though he had been running all night. It had taken him hours to drift into sleep with his mind whirling through the events of the night. The same questions remained now as he surfaced into wakefulness. Had whoever tried to kill him been sent by Zeus to prevent him from finding out the truth about Jennifer’s disappearance? Or was the incident connected with Spalding and Redsall? If the latter was it someone from the intelligence service or a terrorist faction? He didn’t know. Only that they’d try again.
He picked up his mobile. It was Cantelli.
‘We’ve got a suspicious death, Andy. At the Round Tower at Old Portsmouth.’
Horton leapt out of bed and groaned.
‘You all right?’
‘Yes. Man or woman?’
‘Man, about late sixties, Caucasian. It’s a vicious attack.’
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
As he showered, shaved and dressed Horton thought of the Round Tower, a grey stone edifice built in 1420 to protect the harbour entrance from a French invasion during the Hundred Years War. It was now a popular viewing point for people watching the hundreds of ships and naval vessels coming in and out of Portsmouth every year. Its opposite number, the Square Tower, some few hundred yards to the east along a raised walkway above the small shingle beach, had been built later in 1494 before the dockyard had existed. In those days the King’s ships had been moored in the Camber where he’d sat last night drinking with Dr Clayton. He wondered if she’d managed to re-examine Redsall’s body. Had whoever tried to run him down seen him talking with Dr Clayton? His heart did a somersault. He should have called her to make sure she was OK. He rectified that now.
‘I’m fine,’ she said in answer to his concerned enquiry. ‘Just having my breakfast, why?’
He didn’t want to tell her about his dice with death. The saloon car that had pulled out behind her hadn’t been the same one that had tried to flatten him into the tarmac last night, which he knew to be the same black Ranger with tinted windows that he’d seen following him from Beatrice Redsall’s apartment. ‘Just wondered if you’d had a chance to look over Redsall’s body?’ he dodged her question.
‘I did and with the largest magnifying lens I could find, not a sign of a pin prick. I’ll take some more tissue samples for tests, which I’ll conduct myself this morning.’
‘You might be delayed, we’ve got another body.’
‘Any connection with Redsall’s death?’
‘No, it sounds like a mugging gone wrong. I’m on my way there now.’
‘Call me if you need me.’
He said he would and headed for Old Portsmouth, thinking of the body he was about to view. Had the victim tried to resist his attacker and got killed as a result? It must have happened some time after eleven when the pubs in the area had closed and when it was dark with fewer people around to come to the victim’s rescue because it was a popular area for locals and tourists.
Heading along the seafront he knew that he’d have to postpone his trip to the Isle of Wight and his meeting with Professor Madeley. He might also need to put on hold his investigation into the deaths of Spalding and Redsall. He was loath to do both.
He indicated left at the junction between Pembroke Road and the High Street and headed towards the sea with the Cathedral on his right before swinging right and turning into Broad Street where he saw that Cantelli had already marshalled SOCO and there were two cars behind the white van; one he recognized as belonging to Dr Freemantle, the other was Jim Clarke’s. The area had been cordoned off from the base of the Square Tower on Horton’s left, to the far end of the fortifications to the west taking in the Round Tower and the wide pavement area which encompassed the Pioneer Statue erected in 2001 as a permanent legacy to those who had set sail to create a new home in America. The raised walkway on the fortifications had also been sealed off and he could see a uniformed police officer standing at the entrance to the Round Tower from the walkway.
They had already drawn a large audience and in the houses and apartments opposite many residents were standing at their doors watching them. Horton hoped that someone would remember seeing something that could lead them to a quick arrest. Soon the media would arrive with their cameras, microphones and Dictaphones.
‘It’s nasty,’ Cantelli greeted him solemnly as Horton ducked under the tape. He noted the sergeant’s dark sorrowful eyes and pale skin.
Horton steeled himself for the ordeal as they crossed to the stone steps where Beth Tremaine issued them with crime-scene suits.
‘Who found him?’ Horton asked.
‘The woman over there talking to PC Kate Somerfield.’ Cantelli jerked his head at a smartly dressed lady in her late fifties wearing a denim skirt and a floral blouse. ‘Mrs Smithson. She came to set up an art exhibition inside the Round Tower but went up to the top first to look across the Solent as it was such a lovely morning. She’s a level-headed woman and called us immediately, although she’s obviously distressed at what she’s seen.’
They logged in at the inner cordon and with Tremaine behind them began to climb the steps. Pushing a fresh strip of chewing gum into his mouth, Cantelli continued. ‘I couldn’t see a murder weapon within the immediate vicinity of the body but his killer could have thrown it into the sea.’
They reached the top where Taylor and Clarke nodded a greeting. Dr Freemantle, wearing a scene suit, straightened up. Horton saw the crumpled figure at the doctor’s feet lying awkwardly in front of the seats that overlooked the narrow harbour entrance. His stomach clenched with tension and he controlled his breathing as he noted the silver hair, the crisp navy-blue trousers, the checked casual shirt and the bloody and battered head.
‘Been dead about seven or eight hours,’ Freemantle announced. ‘Severe trauma to the skull. He was struck more than once, probably three or four times, but the pathologist can confirm that.’
Horton stepped nearer the body. There was something familiar about it. The man’s face was turned to its right and Horton, looking more closely, started with surprise.
‘My God! It’s Ivor Meadows.’
Cantelli flashed him a look. ‘The man at Dr Spalding’s lecture?’
‘Yes, and the last of the guests to leave.’ He turned his troubled gaze on Cantelli. ‘You know what this means?’
‘He must have witnessed something.’
‘Yes, and that means Spalding’s death wasn’t suicide and Redsall’s death wasn’t Sudden Death Syndrome.’ Now let Uckfield tell him the deaths weren’t connected and weren’t suspicious.
He stepped away and reached for his phone, leaving Cantelli to thank the police doctor and instruct Taylor, Clarke and Tremaine. The seagulls dived overhead, squawking and squealing as Horton rapidly considered the implications of this latest murder while waiting impatiently for Uckfield to answer. Meadows dead. He was sickened by it and furious. He couldn’t help thinking that if Uckfield had sacrificed his promotion chances for just two days and had continued to investigate Spalding’s death, Ivor Meadows might still be alive.
When Uckfield at last came on the line Horton said brusquely, ‘Ivor Meadows, the last of the guests to talk to Douglas Spalding before he walked out into the night and ended up dead in Number One Dock, has been brutally murdered and there’s no sudden death syndrome or suicide about this one. He’s been bludgeoned to death.’
There was a brief silence while Uckfield assimilated this. ‘Any of his belongings missing?’
Horton in his eagerness hadn’t checked. His gut tightened. ‘Hold on.’ He instructed Taylor to empty the dead man’s pockets. ‘Only a handkerchief, sir.’
With a silent groan Horton said into his mobile. ‘There’s no wallet or house keys. I’ve no idea if he had a mobile phone.’
‘Sounds like a mugging to me.’
Yes, it damn well would, thought Horton angrily. Oh, this was clever. With difficulty he bit back his anger. ‘But it has to be linked with Spalding and Redsall’s death,’ he insisted. ‘It can’t be another coincidence. Come on, Steve, we’ve got to at least look into the possibility.’
Abruptly Uckfield said, ‘We treat it as a violent assault until we know differently. I’ll get a unit over to Meadows’ apartment and send Dennings to the crime scene.’ He rang off.
Horton took a deep breath, trying to control his fury. His blood was pumping fast. Turning to Cantelli he said, tight-lipped, ‘You got the gist of that?’
Cantelli nodded. ‘He could be right.’
‘Yeah and I could be Tinkerbell. Whoever is doing this is clever, evil and powerful. And I intend to get the bastard.’ Unless they get you first. Horton looked down on the crumpled bloody face of the man who had so proudly told him that he’d fought for his country in so many conflicts. He didn’t care how dangerous pursuing this might be. He’d get whoever was responsible. He would just have to be more careful, or, he thought grimly, take more risks and flush them out. If the intelligence services had decided they needed to hush up the deaths of Spalding and Redsall, and they were responsible for Meadows’ death, then whatever they were attempting to hide had to be massive. His heart jolted. My God, was it just possible that Ivor Meadows had been right and that Spalding had discovered something connected with the mysterious death of Buster Crabb? It would explain why the intelligence services were so het up and it might also explain the attempt on his own life last night. It had been a warning to him to lay off, or more than likely the driver had intended to cause him an injury which would necessitate him to go off sick for some considerable time. He was tempted to tell Cantelli about the incident but didn’t because he knew it would worry him. He also knew that it might put the sergeant’s life at risk and Horton would never do that. He cared for him too much.
His voice tight with rage he said, ‘The killer has made it look like a mugging and I bet when the unit reports in to Meadows’ flat they’ll find it ransacked and no trace of fingerprints or DNA. This death will be covered up just like the others. It stinks, Barney, and I for one can’t accept it.’
‘So what did Meadows witness and why kill him?’
Horton willed himself to calm down and think. He watched Clarke photograph and video the ex-Navy man who had made such a pest of himself at the naval museum and in the library. Well, no more. He thought back to his last encounter with Meadows in the dockyard yesterday.
‘When I told Meadows about Redsall’s death perhaps I jogged a memory. Perhaps Meadows remembered seeing him talking to someone after the lecture or before it on HMS Victory at the drinks reception, or when Gideon escorted the guests from the Victory to the museum and like an idiot he confronted this man.’
‘There is another option,’ Cantelli ventured. ‘And it could fit with the missing briefcase or rather its contents and Redsall’s empty rucksack. Meadows might have remembered seeing Redsall meeting someone outside the dockyard when he was on his way home.’
Cantelli had a point and a good one. Horton swiftly recalled the times they’d signed out. ‘If we can believe the signing-out log then Redsall left at nine twenty-five, five minutes before Meadows, so if Meadows saw him talking to someone outside it was a longish conversation.’
‘Perhaps Redsall had to hang around waiting for this person to show up.’
That was possible. Horton said, ‘If Redsall did take Spalding’s briefcase, or its contents, and handed it over to this person outside the dockyard that night then why was his rucksack empty when his body was discovered?’
‘Perhaps whoever Redsall met wasn’t the main man, just a runner and Redsall insisted he would only hand it over to the boss the next day.’
That would certainly fit. He put himself in Meadows’ shoes – what would he have done? Having recognized or thought he knew who the killer was would Meadows have gone in for a spot of blackmail? No, that wasn’t his style. Horton knew exactly what action he would have taken.
He said, ‘Meadows was an ex Royal Navy police officer, and if he knew, or thought he knew, who the killer was he would have questioned him in the hope he could get evidence and solve the case before us. He’d have made notes. He didn’t know he was playing in a different league. So either his killer took the notebook along with the wallet and keys to make us think it was a mugging, or the notebook is in Meadows’ apartment. Or it was. It might not be there now. But we’ll take a look anyway. I’ll meet you there; we’ll leave this to Dennings.’
Meadows’ apartment was less than a quarter of a mile away, tucked behind the Cathedral so Horton didn’t have time to consider any further what Cantelli had said about Redsall possibly meeting someone outside the dockyard on Monday night. Together they climbed the stairs to the fifth floor where the door to Meadows’ apartment was firmly locked.
‘Considerate mugger, locking up after him,’ Cantelli said.
‘Meadows probably had more sense than to have his address on him along with his house keys.’ But if his death was down to the intelligence services they’d have known where he lived.
Horton gave instructions to the uniformed officer to fetch the ramrod so that they could affect an entry. Before he went to do so the officer told them that his colleague was knocking on doors making enquiries. So far they’d learnt that the woman next door had seen Meadows walking across the front car park at just after ten thirty last night.
‘To meet his killer no doubt,’ Horton answered.
Within minutes the door had been forced open. With latex-covered fingers, Horton entered. All was silent. He stepped into the lounge, where everything was in place and exactly as Horton had remembered, cluttered with photographs and navy memorabilia.
He said, ‘If the key was taken by the killer, who was not your average scumbag thief but a professional, then he could have searched this flat for anything incriminating and removed it.’
‘Someone might have seen him entering or leaving the building.’
‘We live in hope.’
Cantelli took the bedroom and bathroom while Horton rapidly studied the photographs of naval officers and crew, ships and the places Meadows had visited while in the Navy. Horton felt sorry for a man who had lived so much in the past. He crossed to the computer on a small desk beside the window overlooking the Wightlink terminal and beyond that Oyster Quays, and glanced down at the desk. On it were a few handwritten scribbles on loose-leaf sheets of paper. Horton flicked them over. Meadows had jotted down notes about discipline in the Navy during the Seven Years War between 1756 and 1763 and during the French Revolution and Napoleonic Wars 1793 to 1815. There was reference to the source material and notes on more modern-day criminal activity in the Navy with details of a list of courts-martial during both of the World Wars and some sketchy details about studies that had been undertaken by various experts of reviews into the Royal Navy’s criminal justice system. There was no diary, and no notebook. Horton hadn’t expected to find the latter. There was also nothing to indicate who Meadows had gone out to meet last night unless it was on his computer and Horton doubted that. Meadows would have kept such information close to his chest. And perhaps the killer was banking on that or had extracted that information from Meadows before killing him. Horton found an address book in the top drawer of the desk as Cantelli entered.
‘There’s a cordless phone in the bedroom. The last call was to his dentist on Friday.’
‘See what you can find in the kitchen.’
Horton flicked through the address book and found the details of a solicitor under ‘S’. He guessed Meadows would have made a Will and the solicitor would have the name of his next of kin. He would leave that for Trueman’s team to investigate because although Uckfield was insisting this wasn’t linked to Spalding and Redsall it was nevertheless a very brutal murder and therefore a Major Crime Team remit. There was also a telephone number under ‘M’ which looked as though it was a mobile number. Horton removed his mobile from his pocket and rang it. There was no corresponding ring in the flat and no signal. It was dead, like Meadows.
He joined Cantelli in the small, clean and tidy kitchen. ‘Only a calendar.’ Cantelli indicated one hanging on the wall. ‘His dental appointment was next week and he’s crossed it through, so obviously rang to cancel it.’
There was nothing here to tell them who Meadows had met. Taking down one of the most recent photographs from the wall of Ivor Meadows standing beside a naval ship taken at one of the Navy Days, Horton extracted the photograph and slipped it in his pocket. In the corridor he rang Trueman and updated him, requesting fingerprints and SOCO. He said they also needed to remove the computer for forensic examination. Uckfield would raise his eyebrows at that, dismissing it as unnecessary because it didn’t fit with the mugger theory, but Horton knew Trueman would request it and then tell Uckfield later, after he discovered it had been done most probably. Horton also gave instructions for the residents to be questioned about any strangers seen entering or leaving the building last night.
‘What now?’ asked Cantelli when they were outside. ‘Go back and report to Bliss?’
It’s what they should do. And she would instruct them to return to the station, to wait to be assigned their duties in connection with the murder investigation. But Horton was not in the mood to be told what to do or to hang around.
‘Interview Matt Newton, Barney, ask him if he remembers what Redsall was carrying when he left the dockyard on Monday night. Also if he saw him hanging about outside by the waterfront at any time . . .’ Horton’s words trailed off as another thought occurred to him. He felt his nerve-ends tingling as he quickly continued, ‘Meadows told me he walked along the waterfront. I thought he meant the Hard but he could have entered Oyster Quays and walked along that waterfront.’
‘It was raining, would he have gone out of his way to do that?’
‘But it’s not out of his way, Barney; he could have taken a short cut through the Wightlink ferry terminal, then it’s across the road and he’s here, home. That could be where Meadows saw Redsall talking to someone, at Oyster Quays, and where Redsall insisted that he would only hand over the contents of Spalding’s briefcase to the boss, the following day.’ Horton’s mind raced as he followed this through. ‘So he left the guest house early the next morning to go to meet him. And as he didn’t show up until later that day and dead that means this boss was based some distance away.’ Horton rubbed his head and frowned as he tried to put it together. Could Redsall have travelled to the Isle of Wight to meet this person? ‘There’s no sign of Redsall entering the marina on foot, and that means he could have been on board a boat, and the only two that came in that evening were Carl Ashton’s and Rupert Crawford’s.’
Cantelli looked startled. ‘You’re not saying that someone on one of those boats killed him?’
Was he? Cantelli hadn’t met Agent Eames because he’d been on holiday while she’d worked with Horton on an investigation but Horton couldn’t see her being involved. So that left Ashton, his crew and his clients, one of whom worked for a biomedical company. Could Redsall have met someone from Ashton’s yacht on the Isle of Wight and gone on board? Was Ashton lying?
He said, ‘I don’t know what I’m saying but get Walters to check if the CCTV footage from the Oyster Quays marina for Monday night is still available and if it is to look for any sign of Meadows and Redsall. If Bliss starts nosing around, keep this from her.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m going to the Isle of Wight.’ But first he’d check whether Ashton’s yacht or Rupert Crawford’s had been moored up at Oyster Quays on Monday night.