They found traces of blood on the Dolly and Horton had no doubts that it would match Meadows’ blood. Bliss was cock-a-hoop that her team had solved a major murder case. Rumour had it that she had even smiled, a rare enough sight to cause many in the station to stumble around like blinded extras in the filming of The Day of the Triffids.
There was no evidence to show that Felspur had poisoned Spalding and Redsall; the team was still going through Felspur’s flat and that would take days given the rubbish that was in it. He denied it strenuously during the interview and Horton believed him, but give it time, he thought cynically, and if the Coroner did rule unlawful killing on Spalding and Redsall then the intelligence services had a ready-made scapegoat to pin both murders on along with a nice neat little motive; Spalding and Redsall had both witnessed Felspur’s jaunts to the attics and, scared he’d be exposed, Felspur had drugged them. They might even say that Felspur had approached Redsall with the aim of trying to sell some of the stolen artefacts, which would explain why Redsall had come to Portsmouth. And if they needed to explain Spalding’s trip to Northern Ireland then the story could be altered. Spalding had traced stolen items to the Centre for Maritime Archaeology at Ulster University and together with Redsall they’d decided to expose Felspur. So Felspur had to dispose of Redsall. Felspur knew the security code for the pontoons at Oyster Quays because of his interest in naval history and his connection with the 1942 MGB 81 motor gun boat moored there. He’d suggested to Redsall that they meet there that night. And the empty rucksack? Redsall had merely carried his food and drink in it, which he’d consumed. Spalding’s briefcase and its contents were in the sea, after Spalding, disorientated from being drugged, had staggered there before falling into the dock. Whichever way Horton looked at it, the intelligence services would have it neatly wrapped up. They’d fit the facts to suit the circumstances.
Horton had asked Felspur about Erica Leyton. He said he didn’t recognize the name but it was possible she had used the naval museum. Did it matter now, Horton thought, heading for home? She hadn’t killed Meadows. And Felspur hadn’t killed Spalding and Redsall – but someone had. And it had nothing to do with stolen naval artefacts. Tomorrow he’d ask the museum library to check their records to see if Erica Leyton had accessed material there. For now he needed sleep. But despite his fatigue, instead of turning into the marina car park he continued along the road, where he pulled over opposite the Institute of Marine Sciences building. Climbing off his Harley and removing his helmet he stepped down onto the pebbled beach and began to throw stones into the sea, letting his mind wander where it wished. It roamed first to Spalding’s body in Number One Dock in the Historic Dockyard, then to Redsall’s body at Oyster Quays near the MGB 81. Neither had been killed where their bodies had been found. Dr Clayton’s words drifted back to him . . . this is a clever poison and therefore a clever poisoner. What else had she said? Yes, something about the killer administering the drug knowing that he or she would be a long way from where the victim would be found dead.
Both men had died at the furthermost western edge of Portsmouth, and here, where he was standing, was the furthermost eastern edge of the city. This was about as far away from the bodies as you could get if you measured the city limits from east to west. Horton let the stone fall from his hand as thoughts assailed him. Was it possible?
He spun round and stared at the building across the road. Then his gaze swivelled to his right, to the refreshment stall beside the Lifeboat Station. It was perfect and so very clever. Now he saw what must have happened. Spalding had met Erica Leyton here on Monday after he’d left the university. They’d had lunch at the refreshment stall where during the day tables and chairs were set up overlooking the sea. And she had poisoned him. She was a marine biologist, an expert on sea plants, so equally she could be an expert on land-based plants. And she had access to laboratories where she could manufacture the poison. She’d know exactly what she was doing and how much hyoscine to administer. Spalding must then have walked along the seafront to the dockyard, reaching it in time to prepare for his lecture. And Redsall?
Horton crossed the road. No lights were showing inside Marine Sciences building, the steel gate was locked and the car park was empty. But in his mind he saw beyond it to the shore where two days ago a small, high-speed boat had headed towards him and Cantelli with Erica Leyton on board. A boat that could have taken Redsall out on Tuesday, and on which, towards the end of the day, she had poisoned him. She must have dropped him off close to Oyster Quays marina, possibly at the Town Camber. She could also have given him the code to get on the pontoons; she’d know it, as having use of the university boat she must have moored up there before and recently. Perhaps she told Redsall that someone would meet him there. That was a weak point in his theory and so too was why Redsall had agreed to take Spalding’s computer, but she was attractive and perhaps Redsall had fallen for her. Perhaps they had known one another when Redsall had worked at the Southampton Institute for Marine Archaeology; their professional paths could have crossed. That didn’t explain why Spalding had gone to Northern Ireland though. But if Erica Leyton had killed Douglas Spalding and Daniel Redsall, then she had a motive for doing so and that brought him right back to that question of research.
If Douglas Spalding had lied about his research to Felspur and Meadows then either he had also lied to Erica Leyton, or Erica had lied to them. Perhaps they’d used the Challenger research as an excuse to see one another as Cantelli had suggested, so had there been something incriminating on Spalding’s computer that Erica needed? Possibly. But there was still also the possibility that her job had been to lure Spalding to his death, obtain his research and then silence Redsall and if that was the case then the connection between the two men was the Navy and in particular Rear Admiral Jonathan Redsall. Whatever the reasons he needed to talk to Erica Leyton.
He whipped out his phone and called the number she had given him. There was no answer. Damn. It was only just ten but she might have gone out for the evening and would return soon. He called the station and asked for her address. Impatiently he held on while someone called up the various databases they had access to. It was late. He could follow this up tomorrow. And he’d have to do it alone, or at least with Cantelli, because neither Uckfield nor Bliss would sanction it. But he couldn’t wait until tomorrow. He needed to know now. At last he had the address. She lived about ten minutes away. He could wait for her outside her house. He returned to the Harley and was about to alight when the sound of a motorbike approaching halted him. He recognized its engine. He could swear it was the same bike that had appeared out of nowhere when the black Ranger had been intent on running him over. He tensed. Could this be someone from the intelligence services trying again? But how would they know he was here? No one had followed him.
The bike drew closer. Horton waited. He saw it pull up outside the Marine Sciences building. The figure alighted. For a moment he wondered if it was Erica Leyton who’d returned to work late, but the build was too stocky. The rider turned at the sound of Horton’s footsteps as he hurried across the road. Removing his helmet Horton recognized Dr Bradley Marshall.
‘Inspector, what are you doing here?’ Marshall asked, surprised.
‘Hoping to speak to Erica Leyton, but she’s not answering her phone. I wondered if she might be working late.’
‘I’ve been trying her for about the last hour without getting an answer, but the signal’s not always great inside the building so I thought I’d better check. She’s an epileptic and . . . well I was concerned.’ While he’d been speaking Marshall had taken out his pass and swiped it across the electronic release; the steel gate slowly swung open to admit them. ‘I’ll meet you at the main entrance.’
Horton walked to it while Marshall parked his Honda, his words causing Horton to wonder. Could Erica Leyton have taken off for fear of being discovered? Then a chilling thought struck him. Had the intelligence services got to her and silenced her permanently for whatever Spalding’s research had revealed? Or was Erica inside the building destroying the evidence that she’d killed two men?
Within minutes Marshall had the main door open and had disabled the alarm system.
Horton said, ‘She can’t be here, otherwise she’d have switched off the alarm.’
‘She might have reset it and left by the rear. We often do that when we’re working late. She could be on the raft.’
‘At this time of night?’ Horton said surprised.
‘You don’t know Erica, she’s fanatical. Dark, cold, wind, whatever the weather and time of day, if the job demanded it she’ll be out there.’ He was clearly worried as they crossed the reception area to another door where Marshall entered a number on a security pad. ‘But if she is on the raft then I’d have thought she’d have answered her phone.’
Horton followed Marshall into a dimly lit corridor either side of which were closed doors. There was no sign of a light shining from any of the rooms.
Marshall said, ‘This is the lab she uses.’ He pushed open the door and flicked on the bright lights. Wherever Erica was it wasn’t in here, thought Horton quickly, surveying the pristine, clinical well-equipped room.
‘I’ll try her number again.’ Horton turned away, and let it ring, but there was still no answer.
Concerned, Marshall said, ‘I’m going to check the raft.’
‘I’ll come with you.’ Horton wondered if he should call in. Stepping from the building onto the shore he said, ‘She can’t be on the raft, the boat is still here.’
‘She might have taken the RIB. It’s got better lights on it.’ He climbed on board the small motor boat. Horton followed suit stifling his growing unease. Marshall said, ‘There are a couple of torches in the locker.’
Horton found them, but didn’t switch them on. It was only a short distance and now a calm night and within two minutes Marshall had pulled alongside the raft silhouetted in the moonlight. Horton couldn’t see any evidence of anyone on board and neither could he see the RIB moored up, although it could be on the other side, hidden by the square shed like structure in the right-hand corner. It was possible Erica Leyton was there too but if so then why hadn’t she stepped out from behind it at the sound of them approaching?
Marshall tied off, took the larger torch leaving Horton with a smaller one, which he stuffed in his pocket as he nimbly climbed over the railing and followed Marshall onboard. On the deck he played the beam of light over the raft. The centre of the deck had been hollowed out and filled with water and across it in sections were ladder-like structures. There was a narrow walkway around the edge of the raft roped off from the hollowed-out section and in the far right-hand corner a platform, again roped off, in front of the square shed-like structure.
There was no sign of Erica Leyton. Across the water on Hayling, Horton could see lights from the Ferry Boat Inn but the harbour appeared as deserted as the raft. Snatches of a conversation flashed into Horton’s mind like the lights on the distant buoys: we have five aquarium rooms for studying fish biology and non-native organisms; the latter’s my area of specialism . . . seaweeds and phytoplankton. Marshall’s pet topic. Horton had asked Marshall if he’d known Dr Spalding, and now those pinpricks of light exploded in blinding illumination; I recommended Erica to him and I used to see him when he visited Erica here.
Evenly, Horton said, ‘How long have you known Spalding’s research involved Daniel Redsall’s father, Rear Admiral Jonathan Redsall?’
He saw Marshall quickly weigh this up, the truth or more lies. Even before he spoke though, Horton knew what his decision would be. The truth, because as far as Marshall was concerned there was no risk in him knowing now. Marshall was confident he could eliminate him just as he’d eliminated Spalding and Redsall. And Erica Leyton? Horton looked down at the water. A cold chill ran through him.
‘Since May,’ Marshall said with simplicity.
‘How did you find out?’ Horton wondered exactly what piece of research Spalding had requested that had triggered the alert to the intelligence services.
‘He came to ask me about it.’
Horton was confused. Why would Spalding approach someone from the intelligence services if his research was highly sensitive? He must have known they’d want it hushed up. And how would he know that Bradley Marshall worked for them? Surely it was the other way around? Marshall would have made himself known to Spalding in order to silence him. But if Marshall was telling the truth and had no connection with the intelligence services then Spalding must have uncovered something that involved or implicated someone from Bradley Marshall’s past and which was connected with Redsall. Something neither man wanted exposed. And something that had led the intelligence services to give orders at the highest level that the deaths of Douglas Spalding and Daniel Redsall were not to be investigated.
Horton’s brain raced through what he had learnt and heard over the last few days, desperately trying to connect the threads. Whatever it was that had happened must have been either when Jonathan Redsall was a Rear Admiral or when he was climbing the ranks to the top. What had he done to provoke Marshall into murdering three people and stir up the intelligence services to protect the reputation of someone long since dead? Quentin Amos’s voice suddenly broke through Horton’s swirling thoughts. ‘Someone’s kept silent for a long time. They might want it to stay that way. You might think the days of spies and the Cold War are over . . . but they’re not . . .’ And with that came the memory of Cantelli’s report on Rear Admiral Redsall: He served on HMS Hardy when it was deployed to counter and carry out surveillance of Russian activities in 1967 during the Cold War . . . and Jonathan Redsall had served in the Far East, Singapore, after which he had risen rapidly in the promotion stakes. This had nothing to do with terrorism in Northern Ireland, that connection had distracted him for a moment. No, the heart of this lay much further away.
Into Horton’s mind came the deaths of three other men: Zachary Benham, Timothy Wilson and James Royston and with it more of his conversation with Amos. He was beginning to see why Jonathan Redsall’s past could not be allowed to be exposed.
Marshall’s hand came out of his pocket and in it Horton saw a syringe. He must have palmed it when he entered the laboratory ahead of him.
‘Hyoscine?’
‘No. Nicotine. You won’t suffer long.’
‘Unlike Spalding and Redsall.’
‘Redsall’s death was pretty quick.’
Horton tensed but forced his voice to remain even as he said, ‘Seeing as you’re intent on killing me, no harm in telling me why Spalding and Redsall had to die.’ Horton waited, eager to hear the truth while rapidly trying to fathom a way out of this.
After a moment Marshall nodded, as though to himself. ‘In the late 1960s the Royal Navy suffered from a severe bout of homosexuality. Admirals believed that at least half the fleet had committed homosexual acts.’
Horton swiftly recalled what Amos had said about homosexuality being decriminalized for those over the age of twenty-one in England and Wales in 1967 but Amos had added, not in Scotland and Northern Ireland or in the armed forces, that came much later.
Marshall was saying, ‘It was not only illegal but it was also considered disgusting and worse a security risk.’
‘Because of the Cold War.’ Horton’s mind flicked to Quentin Amos and quickly back to the man in front of him intent on sticking a syringe into him.
‘Yes. It was in the good old days when anyone who didn’t conform was considered either a Commie bastard or a secret agent. Hard to believe now, isn’t it?’ Marshall sneered.
And Horton was beginning to see exactly why Jonathan Redsall was still being protected by the intelligence services. ‘Redsall had a homosexual affair.’
‘Yes. With my father.’
So that was the connection. ‘What happened to him?’ Horton asked quietly.
‘He was expendable. Redsall was an officer with a public school education and a privileged upbringing. His father was a Vice Admiral. My father was a rating, just a medical orderly. He was dismissed from the Navy and six months later he killed himself and left my mother to bring up a two-year-old child without a pension, without a home and with no money.’
‘But it was more than sex,’ Horton said. And Spalding had unearthed it.
Marshall narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes. Spalding had discovered that a commander on-board the ship on which my father was serving while stationed in Singapore in 1969 was selling vital information to the Russians. This commander had been blackmailed into it because of his escapades in a male brothel. Pictures had been taken and my father, Adrian Goring, had been given copies of these along with the information about the commander by the woman running the brothel because he gave her some drugs which helped to save her life. Adrian probably didn’t care about the commander’s sexual preferences, but he might have baulked at the betrayal of his country, or perhaps he thought the information might give him a leg up in the promotion stakes. I don’t know. He went to the Captain and handed over the photographs believing the matter would be dealt with and it was.’
‘But not in the way your father anticipated.’
‘No. Nothing was done or said about it for some time. Adrian started a homosexual relationship with Jonathan Redsall and MI6 had the perfect scapegoat. My father. They must have been watching him for some time, waiting to get something on him so that they could clear him out of the Navy and make him forget his allegations against the commander who was still serving on-board.’
‘Because the intelligence services were now feeding this commander the wrong information. So he was quite useful to them.’
‘Yes.’
Horton eyed the syringe in Marshall’s hand. If he got closer he might be able to dislodge it, or better still knock the heavy torch from Marshall’s hand and make him react. In that instance he could grab his wrist, force the syringe from his hand and twist his bloody arm up his back. He edged a little closer.
He said, ‘So Adrian was confronted about his relationship with Redsall. When he threatened to tell about the commander selling naval secrets, MI6 said they’d expose his affair with Redsall.’ Horton knew how these things worked. ‘But that was a lie. MI6 could now use Redsall to help feed information to the Communists and dispose of this commander who was a security risk. Redsall was sound in terms of his loyalty to his country, it was just he made a mistake with his choice of sexual partner. He probably claimed it was just the once, it would never happen again, and that he was led astray by your father.’ Horton took another small step closer. ‘How did Spalding uncover all this?’
‘Documents had been released by the Public Records Office that revealed that many commanders had buried a series of sex scandals in Singapore including homosexual affairs, transsexual prostitutes and male brothels. Spalding researched and cross-checked the records of the officers and enlisted men who had been dismissed, and those who had died shortly after 1969, the height of the scandal. He was very thorough and meticulous. He found an unusually high number of fatalities on board one ship and a young officer who had been rapidly promoted. Spalding sensed he was onto something. He interviewed those he could find who had served on board HMS Neirne. Some had kept private diaries; some had been close to Adrian. Others who felt they no longer had anything to lose by speaking out told him what they’d seen and heard. Gradually Spalding’s facts began to back up what had been rumours and supposition. It took him a long time to pull it all together and he had to keep his research very close to his chest.’
And that was why he had lied about what he was really researching. But the intelligence services had been alerted by someone or by something Spalding had requested.
Marshall said, ‘Eventually he tracked me down even though my mother had remarried. He asked me if my father had left any diaries or letters. He hadn’t. If he did at the time then they were almost certainly taken by the security services and destroyed.’
And Horton knew that must have been what had happened to his mother’s diaries. On the day she’d vanished, while he’d been at school, someone had slipped in and cleaned out anything incriminating from their flat, including photographs. Had that man been Ballard? Had he kept two photographs, the one of Jennifer which had been in the tin he’d given his foster father, and the one of those six men? Horton knew he was correct. But time to think about that later – at least he hoped he’d be alive to do so – which meant bringing his full attention back to Marshall. He eased another step closer.
‘Presumably Spalding asked Daniel Redsall the same question when he visited him in Northern Ireland in July.’
Marshall nodded. Horton wondered if Beatrice Redsall knew about her brother’s shady past. And the answer came back immediately that of course she did. It was why she had travelled to the Isle of Wight and the Castle Hill Yacht Club on 28 June. Spalding had also visited her, or perhaps her nephew had telephoned her.
Marshall said, ‘Jonathan Redsall probably said he’d do anything to cooperate with the intelligence services and keep it silent.’
‘So your father was dismissed on a trumped-up charge and not for homosexuality.’
‘Supplying drugs from the medical unit to the locals who all swore they’d got them from him, well they would, wouldn’t they, if they didn’t want to be imprisoned. The woman who ran the brothel was too scared to stand up for my father. Redsall was recruited to feed false information to the Russians and the commander died of a heart attack, three months later.’
Very convenient, and that incident must have triggered many questions in Spalding’s sharp analytical mind. But which side had induced it? The Russians or the British?
‘Who was this commander?’
‘Spalding didn’t say and it wasn’t in his research. He just used the initial “C” when referring to him.’
Horton’s mind was spinning. Had MI6 always known that Adrian Goring’s son was Bradley Marshall and had kept tabs on him? Spalding had found him so it was likely that the intelligence services had. And perhaps they’d sat back and watched to see whether Marshall or Daniel Redsall would do their dirty work for them, eliminate Spalding and destroy his research.
He thought back to what Beatrice Spalding had told him about her nephew. ‘Spalding told Daniel Redsall this. He wanted it all to come out. His father and his family had made his life a misery. He was angry at the lies they’d told him. Spalding thought he had the two of you on his side; you would want it exposed for the sake of justice and revenge, but that wasn’t how it worked out.’
‘No. Redsall contacted me. He said it was the last thing he wanted. He hated his father but he’d made a new life for himself and one he enjoyed. He was well respected. It was the past and he wanted it buried. I did too. My father means nothing to me. My mother changed her surname by deed poll and then remarried. I went to university, thanks to my stepfather, and I have an excellent job and one I’m passionate about. Redsall and I joined forces to silence Spalding.’
‘But you killed Daniel Redsall.’
‘I had to. I needed his help to get the material from Spalding but I couldn’t risk him telling anyone that I’d killed him. He might have stayed silent but I couldn’t chance it.’
‘So Daniel Redsall came over from Northern Ireland and attended Spalding’s lecture. You had poisoned Spalding earlier in the day; you’d arranged to meet him over at the refreshment stall opposite where you added the hyoscine you made in the lab to his tea.’
‘His coffee.’
‘Daniel took the contents of Spalding’s briefcase, including his laptop computer and memory stick, from the Princess Royal Gallery while everyone was having their refreshments and he stuffed them in his empty rucksack, replacing the computer with a couple of heavy books he’d carried in.’
‘Wood.’
‘Then Redsall walked out carrying his rucksack. What happened to the briefcase?’
‘Spalding must have dropped it in the sea.’
But Horton wasn’t so sure about that. ‘Did you know there were security cameras in the Princess Royal Gallery?’
‘No.’
And Marshall wouldn’t have cared if Morden had been looking at the monitors because he had made sure that Redsall’s trail wouldn’t lead back to him. Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Marshall, Horton said, ‘And the next day Redsall met you at the shore somewhere near here and you went out on the boat. I presume you moored up somewhere and reviewed what Spalding had put on his computer.’
‘Yes, a quiet spot in Thorney Channel off Thorney Island. Spalding’s research was all there. It made interesting reading and it gave me access to his backup files.’
Horton had been correct about that then. ‘But you didn’t poison Redsall then.’ He recalled what Dr Clayton had said. ‘You left that until later in the day before dropping him back to Oyster Quays. How did you moor up without being seen?’
Marshall smiled. ‘I didn’t. I dropped him at the Camber.’
Horton had been right about that too.
‘The poison would take about two hours to work. I had no idea where he’d end up, just as long as it was nowhere near me.’
‘Did he say he was meeting someone?’
‘No.’
Soon Horton would take his chance but there were a couple more things he wanted to know first. He steeled himself for action. ‘Where’s Erica?’
Marshall’s eyes flicked downwards towards the water in the raft. Horton’s blood ran cold. The bastard. He’d killed her while she’d been working here. She’d had to die because she might have worked out or could inadvertently reveal that every time Spalding consulted her he also saw Bradley Marshall. The Challenger research project had merely been a cover so that Spalding could see Marshall.
‘Did she see you with Spalding at the cafe? Were you afraid she’d put that together with the fact that Spalding always saw you when he came to visit her at the institute? Had she become suspicious?’ Horton steeled himself for action.
‘It had to be done.’
And Marshall had returned tonight to move her body and dump it out at sea. ‘Which section is she in, Marshall?’ Horton snarled, preparing himself; he had a split-second to act. ‘Which one?’ he shouted. ‘Where have you put her?’
‘That one.’ Marshall jerked his head to his left. Horton sprang forward, dealt a violent blow to Marshall’s right hand and knocked the torch from it. As Marshall cried out, taken by surprise, he twisted to stab the syringe into Horton’s side but Horton was quicker and fitter. With a karate chop he dislodged the syringe, grabbed Marshall’s arm and twisted it behind his back. Marshall screamed in pain. Horton rammed Marshall’s body against the railings, looking around for something to tie him there, but there was nothing to hand. He needed to call in but his phone was in his right-hand pocket. Still with a fierce grip on Marshall, Horton caught sight of a length of rope to their right.
‘Move,’ he shouted, wrenching Marshall up and pushing him along the narrow deck to the right past the half railing where they’d climbed on-board.
The surface was wet and slippery. The moon suddenly disappeared behind a bank of cloud. Marshall lost his footing and slipped. Horton went down with him, in the process loosening his grip. It was enough for Marshall to twist and squirm his way out, and within seconds he’d slid through the lower gap in the railings and into the sea.
‘Shit!’ Horton scrambled up and played his torch on the black swirling mass in front of him. He thought he saw the dark shape of Marshall trying to swim to the shore – the man was an idiot, he wouldn’t make it. The current was lethal in the harbour.
Clambering around the edge of the raft, holding the railing to guide him, Horton reached where they’d come on board and slipped down into the boat. He might be able to get to Marshall and throw him a line. Where the hell was he though? The bloody boat wouldn’t start. He tried again. The third time it spluttered into life. Horton released the line and pointed the rudder towards the shore, but there was no sign of Marshall.
He needed light, the pathetic little torch had petered out and it was no bloody use anyway. He threw it down in disgust. He needed to alert the Lifeboat. With his hand on the tiller he could feel the tide sweeping him out of the harbour much faster than he cared for. He turned, flicked open the seat behind him and grappled blindly into it for a flare. His hand curved around something as the coast of Hayling on his left and Eastney on his right raced past him with alarming speed. Releasing his hand from the tiller and letting the tide take him further out he let off the flare. It shot into the sky, bright orange, and lit up the dark pool of water ahead. Yes, he thought he could see something, but was it Marshall? He needed another distress flare. He reached for one. Again orange lit the night sky but already he wondered if he was too late. The current was taking him out into the Solent and there was no sign of Marshall. He reached for yet another flare, praying that someone would see it and call the Lifeboat. His prayers were answered some minutes later when, heading towards him from Eastney, was a high-speed RIB.
Horton bellowed across the engine noise as it drew alongside him, mouthing and pointing at the sea. ‘Man in the water.’ He indicated ahead.
A member of the crew nodded, put his thumb up, relayed it to the others. They were used to this notorious stretch of water and he watched as they made a circuit ahead as Horton tried to steer the small craft to the shore. He couldn’t, the current was too strong. Then ahead he saw another rescue boat making towards him. This time Horton took the line that was thrown to him and allowed his craft to be escorted out to the comparative safety of Southsea Bay. He looked back. The first rescue boat was still searching but he knew they wouldn’t find Marshall.