‘Matthew’s not here,’ a plump, friendly woman in her late sixties announced. She introduced herself as Abigail and explained that she lived next door and once a week looked after Mary to give Matthew a bit of a break. ‘He usually goes out walking along the coast, often all the way to Lulworth Cove, but sometimes he only goes as far as the lost village of Tyneham. Do you know it?’ She didn’t give Marvik the chance to answer before chatting on. ‘But today he’s had to go out on the boat with Adam. Jensen’s sick, says he’s got flu, but if you ask me it’s a hangover and bone idleness.’
Marvik thought they were late getting back. It would be dark soon. He hadn’t seen the fishing boat in the bay because he’d changed his mind about mooring up in Swanage. Instead he’d headed further along the coast to Poole marina and taken a taxi from there for the twenty-mile journey back to Swanage. No point in making it easier for the police to find him, he’d told Strathen on the phone earlier.
‘Matthew?’ a querulous voice came from behind Abigail.
She glanced over her shoulder then back at Marvik. ‘Poor soul. She doesn’t know where she is or who she is half the time.’ Turning back, she called out, ‘No, Mary, it’s a friend of Matthew’s.’
‘Has the devil got him?’
‘You’d better come in for a moment. She won’t be convinced until she sees you.’
Marvik once again stepped over the threshold into the narrow hall of the small house. He wondered if it was worth showing Mary Killbeck the photograph Freynsham had given him. Confused she might be but perhaps her long-term memory wasn’t too bad.
The room was as suffocatingly hot as it had been the last time and Mary was in the same seat to the right of the electric fire. Although thin and frail there was still a trace of prettiness about her troubled features. This time, though, instead of eyeing him in a puzzled but friendly way she shrank back, afraid, as though he was going to hit her. He tried a reassuring smile but it had no effect.
‘Where’s Matthew? What have you done with him?’ she wailed at Marvik.
‘Matthew’s safe – he’s gone fishing with Adam,’ Abigail tried to reassure her.
‘No. He’s taken Matthew,’ and she pointed at Marvik.
Abigail threw him an apologetic glance before addressing Mary gently. ‘No one’s done anything with Matthew, my love. He’ll be back soon. Mr Marvik is a friend of Matthew’s.’
But Mary was shaking her head and looked on the verge of tears.
Abigail sighed and rose from her crouching position. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘No need to apologize. I’ll go down to the boat.’ There was no point in showing Mary the photograph.
Abigail followed him out with Mary’s cries ringing after them. ‘She means no harm. It’s just the dementia.’
Marvik said he hoped he hadn’t unsettled her too much. He asked Abigail if either Adam or Jensen owned a motorbike. She said neither of them did. Perhaps he’d been mistaken in thinking Adam had been trying to run him down. Or perhaps he kept his bike out of sight of Matthew’s neighbours.
He made for the bay, hoping that he wouldn’t miss them as they drove back in the pick-up, and was relieved when he saw them unloading the boat. He’d heard nothing more from Crowder and there had been no further news about Sarah’s murder on the radio. Both men eyed him suspiciously and with a degree of hostility. There had also been a flicker of surprise in Adam’s eyes. He’d have noticed his boat had left the bay and would have assumed they’d seen the last of him.
Marvik thrust the photograph of Oscar Redburn and Gordon Freynsham in front of Adam and without preamble asked if he recognized either man.
‘No,’ he grunted, barely glancing at it. But that wasn’t surprising. Marvik hadn’t expected him to recognize a man he’d known in 1989 when he had been twenty-three from a photograph that had been taken when Adam was only twelve. Matthew was different, though.
‘And you, Matthew?’ Marvik said.
‘Neither of them are Bradley, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘Not even this man,’ Marvik pointed at Oscar Redburn, ‘without the moustache and long hair?’
‘Even if you put him in a blonde wig and painted him pink he’d still not be Bradley.’
Marvik held their aggressive stares and thought they were telling the truth.
‘We’ve never seen either of them before,’ Matthew added.
‘Do you know or have you heard of an Oscar Redburn or Gordon Freynsham?’
‘No.’
‘What about you, Adam?’
‘No. Now sod off and leave us be.’
‘Afraid I can’t do that,’ Marvik grimly replied, tucking the picture in the inside pocket of his waterproof jacket. ‘Sarah Redburn.’ He watched their reaction carefully. There was no surprise, only puzzlement mingled with antagonism. ‘Do either of you know her?’
Matthew answered, ‘No.’
Marvik swivelled his gaze to Adam.
‘No.’
Were they lying? Had Sarah tracked them down yesterday or early this morning? He didn’t know the time of her death. Perhaps they were late back from fishing because they’d started out late this morning, anxiously waiting to hear the news of when her body would be found and making sure they had covered their tracks. But why should they murder Sarah?
He watched the truck pull away before turning back to the town. He wondered if the police had traced Sarah’s next of kin and who that might be. Had they found anything among her personal belongings in the guest house that could tell them who her killer was?
As a taxi took him back to Poole he thought over what he’d learned during the day. It didn’t amount to much, just a photograph and a brief biography of a man who had spurned the declaration of love from another. Could he believe Freynsham? Had Oscar Redburn really been the way Freynsham had described or was that just his jaded view? Could Freynsham have killed Oscar? Could he also have killed Sarah to prevent her from stirring up the past? A TV star being questioned by the police didn’t go down well with the public, who would probably come to their own conclusions as to whether or not he was guilty of a crime and more often than not would reach the former verdict based on editorial coverage and social media comments.
Marvik’s contemplations took him to the marina where, after paying off the taxi, he looked up, surprised and pleased to see Strathen waiting for him. He was in need of company and Strathen would have known that. They’d been on too many missions together not to sense how the other was feeling and thinking. Poole was only an hour’s drive from where Strathen lived, just outside the village of Hamble to the east.
Strathen climbed out of his Volvo. ‘Fancy a drink?’
‘A crateload. On board. I’ve got beer.’
‘And food?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good, I’m famished. You’ve no idea how hungry research makes you.’
Marvik smiled and climbed on his boat, leaving Strathen to follow. Even with the limitations of his prosthetic leg, he did so with agility and speed.
‘Any joy with the Killbecks?’ Strathen asked, following Marvik into the main cabin.
‘They claim Oscar Redburn is not Bradley Pulford.’ Marvik reached into the fridge and handed Strathen a beer. He took one for himself, opened it and handed the bottle opener to Strathen before sitting down at the galley table. ‘What did you get on Redburn?’
‘Remarkably little given that he was supposed to have been such a well-known agitator and president of the students’ union, but that could be explained by the fact that the files for 1975 to 1980 were destroyed in a fire when the new wing to the now university was being built in 2000. There weren’t any pictures of him in the local newspapers either, and only a couple of casual references.’
‘Which was why Sarah asked Freynsham if he had a photograph and the lying git said he hadn’t.’ Marvik took a swig of beer.
‘But there was considerable coverage on the dockers’ strike.’ Strathen eased himself on to the seat opposite Marvik. Outside the wind was whistling through the masts. The boat rocked gently.
Strathen continued, ‘The lorry drivers had refused to deliver to the docks and those that defied the strike were blocked by the pickets, who, as Sarah told you, were joined by students and others who came out in support of them, including public sector workers. The editorial coverage of the day was scathing of the dockers, labelling them as skivers and greedy communists who wanted to bring the country to its knees. It wasn’t much more favourable to the Labour Callaghan government. The local press singled out one man in particular for more derision than others: Jack Darrow, the shop steward, who had a record of violence. There was a photograph of him at the dock gates but as I said no photograph of Redburn or the other pickets, and there was no mention of Redburn’s disappearance. But what is interesting is that Jack Darrow was found dead in the hold of a cargo ship on the twenty-third of January.’
Marvik raised his eyebrows. ‘Two days after Oscar Redburn went AWOL. Did the police make any connection between the two?’
‘If they did the newspapers didn’t cover it.’
‘And Sarah didn’t mention it; neither did Freynsham.’
‘Maybe he didn’t think anything of it. The newspaper report was very sketchy – just said Darrow had been found dead in a cargo hold and union funds had gone missing, leaving readers to draw their own conclusions: i.e. Darrow had his hand in the till and had been discovered. Faced with his union reputation in tatters, he’d thrown himself into the hold. There were two paragraphs on the inquest. Immediate cause of death was severe trauma to the brain and multiple fractures. The coroner brought in an open verdict.’
Marvik said, ‘Could Redburn have killed Darrow and then taken off scared?’
‘Maybe. It doesn’t say how long Darrow had been lying in that cargo hold.’
‘Perhaps that was what Freynsham was so worried about when I started asking him questions. He knew Redburn had killed Darrow – perhaps he’d even witnessed it or helped him do it – but why should they kill him?’
Strathen shrugged. His penetrating grey eyes in his rugged face looked thoughtful for a moment.
Marvik continued, ‘Time to report to Crowder. I want to know what the police have got on Sarah’s murder. I’ll ask him for a meeting. And no fobbing off,’ he added grittily.
He made the call while Strathen inspected what they had on board to eat. A couple of minutes later, Marvik came off the phone. ‘He’s on his way, by boat – should be with us within ninety minutes.’ Marvik hadn’t asked where Crowder was coming from but given the timing it sounded as though it might be Portsmouth, to the east of Poole.
They ate mainly in silence, making no reference to their mission but concentrating on the meal that Strathen had cooked while Marvik had showered and changed. His thoughts had constantly turned to the shy, apologetic woman he’d had breakfast with yesterday and her death, and yet he could make no sense of it or of what they had learned so far. He hoped Crowder would change that.
‘Sounds like Crowder arriving now,’ Marvik said as he caught the deep throb of a powerful engine above the howl of the wind. He heard the boat come alongside on the pontoon. Neither of them went out to assist. They knew that Crowder could handle a boat alone and Marvik guessed he would be by himself, just as he always was for a meeting with them.
The boat dipped and swayed as Crowder climbed on board. He nodded a greeting at them, his round, weatherworn face serious and his deep brown eyes solemn. Marvik offered him a beer but he declined. Marvik knew nothing about the fit, dark-haired man in his early fifties who slid on to the bench seat beside Strathen. He had no idea if he was married or had kids – grandkids, even. That wasn’t Marvik’s concern. He had no need to know. All he knew was that Crowder was intelligent, determined, could handle a boat and had an inner strength that showed in his calm, unperturbed manner.
He pulled off the expensive sailing jacket to reveal a navy jumper over a pale blue polo shirt. In his quiet, steady voice, he said, ‘So far there is no trace of Sarah having been booked into a hotel or guest house in the area. If she was staying with a friend, he or she hasn’t come forward. Enquiries are progressing. The initial time of death has been put between nine p.m and midnight on Sunday.’
‘I rang her at six and again at eight. She didn’t answer.’
‘It’s possible she could have been held against her will and her phone monitored.’
Marvik felt a chill run through him at the thought of Sarah afraid and hurt. He tensed and said, ‘The killer would know I had called her.’
‘So will the police once they have access to her phone records.’
‘And they could leap to the conclusion that I’m the killer. I don’t have an alibi.’
Crowder said, ‘We can deal with that later if we have to. She was strangled with some kind of a cord and that’s all I have on the method of her death.’
Marvik tried to blot out the picture of a ligature thrown around her neck and the cruel, painful death.
‘Have they found her next of kin?’ he asked.
‘Not that I’m aware of yet.’
‘What about her address? And don’t tell me you don’t know it because I won’t believe you.’
‘Her last registered address is a rented furnished flat in Eastbourne. She moved out a week ago. No one knows to where yet. She doesn’t have a car but she does have a driving licence. The police are checking if she hired a car or van to move her belongings, and they’re talking to her neighbours. The landlord has no mail for her so it’s probable she used a forwarding address or a PO Box number. She’s registered as self-employed so they’ve got no company personnel records to check but they’ll contact a previous employer who might be able to give them a next of kin.’
‘Freynsham told me that Sarah contacted him in early February to ask him what he knew about her father’s disappearance. He told her he knew nothing and apart from him telling me he had been with Redburn at Lyme Regis just before he disappeared he told me precious little too, but he was very scared that his contact with Redburn might be made known to the media. Perhaps he called her or sent her a text to say he had new information and arranged to meet her, then killed her. He might have told her to bring her research with her so he could destroy it after killing her. I’d like to know what he was doing Sunday night and if he has an alibi.’ Marvik placed the photograph that Freynsham had given him on the table. ‘That’s Oscar Redburn.’
‘Is it?’ Crowder asked quietly.
Marvik eyed him sharply. ‘You know what he looks like?’
‘I didn’t say that but you only have Freynsham’s word it’s Oscar.’
‘He didn’t look as though he was lying.’
Strathen, peering at the photograph, said, ‘Maybe all those appearances on TV have turned him into a bloody good actor.’
They had a point. Marvik addressed Crowder. ‘What do you know of Jack Darrow?’
‘Nothing. Who is he?’
Strathen enlightened him, adding that perhaps Oscar Redburn killed Darrow and Freynsham helped him to leave the country. ‘Freynsham could have spun you a line, Art. He could have driven Redburn to Weymouth where he caught the ferry to Cherbourg. Redburn stays abroad for years but returns in 1989, reinventing himself as Bradley Pulford.’
‘But why the devil as Pulford? Does any of this make any sense to you?’ Marvik demanded of Crowder.
‘Not yet. But it seems that someone doesn’t want you asking questions about Redburn or Pulford.’
‘So we keep asking,’ Marvik said grimly.
Crowder returned to his boat and they heard it leaving a few minutes later.
Strathen rose. ‘I’ll return to Hamble and see if I can get you anything by the morning.’
Marvik hoped he would. And he was determined to get more out of Freynsham tomorrow, even if he had to threaten to throw him off the Cobb again.
He tried to blot out thoughts of Sarah and the manner of her death but both intruded on his sleep and disturbed him more than the rising wind and the rain ricocheting off the boat. He wasn’t sorry when the trilling of his phone woke him. It was six a.m. and Strathen.
‘I’ve found a relative of Jack Darrow’s.’
‘How?’ Marvik asked, swinging out of his bunk.
‘By spending a long, hard night trawling the Net.’
And only now would Strathen grab a few hours’ sleep before setting off for the National Archives Office at Kew.
‘I found a reference to Darrow’s death on the Stevedores’ Union website archives. He left a widow, Audrey Darrow, now deceased, and a son, Nigel Darrow, living in Hartlepool. It’s amazing what information social networks can give you about people. I found Bryony Darrow, whose home town is Southampton. The electoral roll for Southampton in 2004 shows her as being an occupant in a house belonging to a Nigel Darrow. She’s no longer there but her social networking profile gave me her address, or rather the area where she lives, and as it is such a small place it wasn’t difficult to track her down. Eel Pie Island.’
‘Where the devil is that?’
‘It’s a very small private island on the Thames at Twickenham with a fluctuating population of about a hundred, generally famous for its artistic community. The island was also famous for its jazz and blues concerts in the sixties. Bryony Darrow is an actress, aged twenty-eight. She’s had various minor roles in TV soaps. She’s also done some regional theatre work and has some good reviews but then she’d hardly post crummy ones on her website. She was born in Southampton and studied at the University of Surrey, Guildford School of Acting. Looks as though she’s still waiting for the big break. She’s very active on the social networks and there are a number of pictures of her on the Internet. She’s a looker: oval face, short blonde hair, blue eyes, nice figure. The electoral roll confirms her address as Tidal Cottage, Eel Pie Island. It doesn’t say what her current acting role is so it’s my guess she’s resting, as they say in the business, or working as a waitress in a cocktail bar to coin a lyric from The Human League number one UK Christmas hit in 1981 and US hit in the summer of 1982.’
‘Before my time – well, almost.’
‘I don’t remember gurgling it as a baby either. But Bryony Darrow might be working in that cocktail bar today or she might be at home.’
‘And she might know nothing about her grandfather’s death; it was before she was born.’
‘You mean all my hard work has been for nothing!’ Strathen said with mock hurt. ‘I could call in on my way back from Kew. I know she’ll be around at some stage because she’s posted on social media that she’s got an audition today. She doesn’t say what for or the time – just that it’s a key part.’
Marvik hesitated. ‘No. I’ll see her. And not because you say she’s a looker.’ He half joked but his mind flicked to Sarah. She’d been a looker too.
Strathen followed his train of thought because in a more serious tone, he said, ‘Let me know what you get and I’ll call you if I pick up anything useful on Bradley Pulford’s death from the Registry of Shipping and Seamen at the National Archives.’
‘I’ll head back to the Isle of Wight and fetch my car.’ Freynsham could wait.