Tuesday
It took Marvik much longer than he had anticipated to reach his cottage at Newtown Harbour on the Isle of Wight because the high winds and heavy rain that had swept in during the night refused to abate during the early morning. He was a skilled sailor, with a sturdy craft, and prepared to take risks but he wasn’t foolhardy or in so much of a hurry as to risk his life and possibly those of others who might need to rescue him. The storm would ease. The forecast was for it to blow itself out by mid-morning, and it did. The wind was still strong but not gale force and the rain had stopped. More rain was predicted for later in the day but by then Marvik hoped to be talking to Bryony Darrow.
The boat bucked and rolled in the long, high waves as he traversed slowly across the Solent to the island. Eventually, just on two, he eased the craft into the relatively quiet waters of Newtown Harbour and moored up on the pontoon close to his rented cottage. He hurried towards his Land Rover Defender, hoping it would start. He hadn’t used it since Crowder had summoned him to Hamble on Friday morning. It seemed longer than that. He didn’t stop to enter the cottage. Everything looked OK from the outside. He had no neighbours, which was the way he preferred it. He’d chosen to rent it for its isolation and peace, affording him the chance to re-evaluate his life after that first failed maritime mission in Civvy Street. He’d wanted time to reflect on his future. And now? What did he want? He wasn’t sure and the present was not the time to consider such matters.
He climbed into his car and headed towards Fishbourne and the car ferry to Portsmouth. He caught the three o’clock sailing and estimated that by the time he got to Portsmouth, through the city traffic and to Eel Pie Island it would be about five thirty p.m. if the A3 to London wasn’t too busy. Again he considered, as he’d done several times throughout the day, if he was wasting his time, not only because Bryony Darrow might have nothing to tell him about Oscar Redburn’s connection with her grandfather but she might not even return home. For all he knew, that audition might lead her to being immediately summoned to Hollywood. Strathen said it hadn’t when Marvik called him on the ferry.
‘It would be all over social media if she had,’ Strathen announced. ‘I’m still at Kew but I’ve managed to get more on Bradley Pulford’s death in 1959.’
Marvik listened eagerly in the quiet corner he’d found on the ferry away from other travellers. There weren’t many.
‘Pulford was working on board the merchant cargo ship the Leonora on 14 August 1959 while it was docked at Singapore. He started his cargo watch at six a.m. along with three other men. All the crew were British, as was normal in those days, rather than a mixture of foreign nationals. Pulford was keeping watch that the cargo was being loaded correctly into hold number one. Another man, Sandlings, was on hold number two and there was a man on watch at the gangway – Hampson. They were all out of sight of one another, the boat being huge, although not as gigantic as they are these days.’
Marvik could see one heading towards the ferry – it was packed so high with dark red and blue containers that the bridge was hardly visible.
‘The third officer was in the ship’s office when, at six fifteen, Sandlings radioed up to say that the cargo was loaded into hold number two. He was told to radio Pulford and tell him to get some breakfast. When he got no response he assumed Pulford had switched off his radio or turned the volume down. Sandlings went off to breakfast and Hampson joined him fifteen minutes later. At seven twenty, when Pulford still hadn’t shown for breakfast, Hampson began to ask if anyone had seen him. No one had. He alerted the third officer and they began a search for him. They found him lying eighty-five feet below in the bottom of cargo hold one, bay sixteen. The third officer immediately alerted the Master, a Jim Albany, who radioed the quayside to call an ambulance. It was too late, though. When the crew reached Pulford it was obvious he was dead. The post-mortem found Pulford died of multiple fractures. Tests showed there was no alcohol or drugs in his system. Neither had he suffered a heart attack, aneurism or stroke. He was found lying face down. It was customary for the crew to walk across hatch covers above partly open holds and it was concluded that this was what Pulford had done and had slipped.’
‘Or was pushed,’ Marvik said. ‘By a crew member, perhaps? This guy, Hampson. He showed up late for breakfast.’
‘Someone could have got on board from the dock. There was no one on the gangway after Hampson went down for breakfast. And although we don’t know the exact details of Jack Darrow’s death twenty years later, it sounds remarkably similar.’
‘If Darrow was killed by the same person who killed Pulford then it certainly wasn’t Oscar Redburn – he was only two years old in 1959. But, if Pulford was killed, what did he know or do to make him dangerous enough to be taken out?’
‘It might have been an internal squabble with another crew member, or perhaps it was just an accident.’
‘You don’t believe that any more than I do. Why would someone take his name thirty years later?’
‘Could still be a coincidence and the Pulford of 1989 just happened to be walking past that graveyard.’
‘Then he’d have been taking a detour around it because that grave was at the rear.’
‘Maybe he just liked visiting old churches.’
‘Yeah, and maybe I can walk on water,’ Marvik said, eyeing the container ship as it drew closer. Car alarms were sounding on the ferry as it rolled in the swollen waves. ‘What happened to Pulford’s personal effects?’ he asked.
‘They must have been shipped home along with his body.’
‘And someone must have paid for the burial and that headstone.’ He hadn’t forgotten that he had intended to check out the stone masons, only tragic events had overtaken that. Anyway, he thought, the stone masons of 1959 might no longer be in existence.
Strathen said, ‘The shipping company might have coughed up for it or the Seamen’s Charitable Association. I’ll see if I can find out.’
Strathen rang off. Marvik spent the remainder of the ferry crossing thinking over Pulford’s death in 1959. It didn’t get him much further so he postponed it as he negotiated the motorway out of Portsmouth and headed towards London. The traffic was heavy and he got caught in the tailback on the Hog’s Back at Guildford caused by an earlier accident. Eventually, though, he arrived at the Embankment at Twickenham and parked the Land Rover in a residential area just beyond the pay-and-display car park. No cars were permitted on the tiny island, a fact he’d checked out that morning while kicking his heels in Poole waiting for the storm to subside.
He made his way across the footbridge over the River Thames – it was the only access to the Island – and turned right along the lane until he found the small, detached red-bricked cottage at the end of it. Ahead was a copse. The house was squeezed between a large detached one on its left and a chalet style one on its right, the last in the lane. There was no sign of life in either property and neither had there been in the handful of houses he’d passed on the way. Most were obviously used as weekend retreats or holiday homes. There was also, disappointingly, no answer to his knock on Bryony Darrow’s door. So perhaps she was working in that cocktail bar that Strathen had mentioned, or still kicking her heels at that audition.
He surveyed the tiny brick built cottage with only one window on the ground floor to the left of the door and another window above it, but even such small properties like this cost a fortune to buy here and he didn’t think Bryony Darrow was the type of actress who could afford it. But then, for all he knew she could be shacked up with a rich boyfriend, or perhaps a sugar daddy paid for it. Whatever the case it didn’t matter – what did was talking to her and Marvik felt restless and irritable at the delay and increasingly frustrated that he’d come here probably for nothing when he might have got more out of Freynsham. Sometimes, though, following your instinct got results. And he, like Strathen, knew they had to follow this line. He just hoped they were right. There was nothing for it but to wait for as long as it took, until midnight if necessary – maybe all night if she was at a party celebrating the fact she’d got the part. Or she could have decided to stay with a lover for the night. If there was no sign of her by midnight he’d drive back to the West Country and shake something out of Freynsham, which was probably what he should have done in the first place, given that he could be Sarah’s killer.
The house backed on to the River Thames. Opposite it was a long line of hedges and trees. There were no street lights. It had started raining again, but this time a thin, irritable drizzle. The light was fading fast. He could hear the drone of the traffic from the urban sprawl of Twickenham behind him. Across the river lay another urban sprawl punctuated by fields and Richmond Park.
He headed for the copse and found a vantage point where he could see anyone approaching the cottage and where he could shelter from the worst of the rain even though the trees weren’t in leaf. As the minutes ticked by he became increasingly convinced that she wouldn’t show. Maybe she’d gone straight from that audition to a job in a cocktail bar, or a coffee shop or retail outlet. If that was the case he hoped she didn’t work long hours.
It was just before seven when he saw a woman approaching and from Strathen’s description Marvik knew it was Bryony Darrow. She was wearing a red coat, knee-high black boots with a low heel and a frown on her attractive face. Her phone was in her hand and her eyes glued to it while her fingers slid over the screen. She barely looked where she was going but pushed open the iron gate as though on autopilot and marched up the path, only lifting her eyes from her phone to unlock the weatherworn door. Marvik saw the hall light flick on and was about to follow her when he froze. Two coppers were heading towards him, or rather the houses at the end of the lane.
He shrank back and watched as they knocked on the cottage door. Bryony Darrow opened it; she had removed her coat to reveal a short, woollen, sleeveless black dress that clung in all the right places on her slender yet shapely figure. It had zipped pockets on either side of her hips and they were nice hips. Marvik couldn’t hear what was being said. He watched the surprised reaction on her fair face and then a troubled expression cross it as she stepped back to let them in. Perhaps there’d been a burglary in the area. Or perhaps she’d committed a crime and they were questioning her about it. But it disturbed him that the police had arrived now. Their timing was interesting, to say the least.
They weren’t inside for long. Within ten minutes she was letting them out. As the door closed on them and they headed back down the garden path the younger male cop talked into his radio. They turned and made for the Embankment. As soon as they were out of sight Marvik walked up the path, lifted the brass knocker and rapped loudly. The door was flung open and Marvik found himself facing a clearly upset Bryony Darrow. He wondered if the police had come to break bad news to her about a family member – if so, now would not be a good time to ask her about her grandfather’s death. She started visibly at the sight of him – his scars probably alarmed her. Fear flashed into her blue eyes. The door closed a fraction.
Hastily, he apologized for disturbing her, adding, ‘I’d like to talk to you for a moment. My name’s Art Marvik. It’s about—’
‘Marvik?’ she said with surprise. ‘You’ve come about Sarah?’
It was his turn to be surprised. ‘You know her?’
‘She moved in last week, or rather her things are here but she had to go straight out on a marine expedition.’
Marvik rapidly thought. Of course. The police had traced Sarah’s address to here and had just told Bryony about Sarah’s death. But had they asked about him? No, it was too soon for them to have discovered his identity from phone records. But Bryony Darrow had recognized his name, which meant Sarah must have spoken of him after their meeting.
‘Can I come in?’ He didn’t give her a chance to refuse but entered, forcing her to step back. Her eyes flicked over his face, resting briefly on the scars and away again as though embarrassed.
He wondered how the police had managed to trace Sarah here given that Crowder had said her previous landlord didn’t have a forwarding address. Perhaps she’d hired a car or van to move her belongings and the police had obtained the address from them. Or maybe she’d mentioned where she was going to live to a neighbour. However they had obtained it he was surprised she had decided to move here, miles from the sea. OK, so she was surrounded by a powerful river that led to the sea but it was hardly what he would have expected of a marine archaeologist. He’d have thought a coastal location more to Sarah’s taste, such as the one she’d vacated at Eastbourne. But then what the hell did he know about her tastes? All he knew was that she’d had a lovely smile, shy, kind eyes, an apologetic manner and had been passionate about her subject and about her missing father, and that was why she had come here – she had teamed up with the granddaughter of a man who had known her father.
‘My parents were marine archaeologists. That’s how I know Sarah,’ he explained.
‘She told me.’
‘When? On Sunday?’
‘Yes. She was very excited about meeting you.’
‘Did you tell the police this?’
‘No. Why should I?’ she said, puzzled and eyeing him uncertainly.
‘You know about Sarah’s death and that she was murdered.’
She nodded. ‘The police have just told me. I can’t believe it. Why would anyone kill her?’ But she was studying him as though she was coming to the conclusion that he might have done so.
‘Sarah said she’d been researching my parent’s expeditions,’ he bluffed. ‘I wondered if there was something in her belongings about them. I don’t want the police to get hold of anything. It’s private. Where are her things? Upstairs?’ He saw by her expression that they were and before she could protest he was heading down the narrow hall towards the stairs.
Searching for papers about his parents was the last thing on his mind: he was keen to check if there was anything in Sarah’s belongings about her research into her father’s disappearance. He’d ask Bryony about that in a moment, but first he wanted to see what there was. And his timing had been good because the police hadn’t searched through her belongings yet. Those two coppers hadn’t been inside the house long enough for that, and nothing had been taken away by them. But then they wouldn’t know that her father’s disappearance could have anything to do with her death – it still might not have – but he didn’t believe that for one second.
Bryony Darrow hurried after him but halted on the stairs as her phone pinged. On the landing Marvik paused for a second. There were two bedrooms, one at the front of the house and one at the rear next to the bathroom which he could see through the open door. It must have been converted from a bedroom because in the days when this house had been built, around the turn of the twentieth century, there had been no bathrooms – just a tin bath in front of a coal fire and a toilet in the backyard.
He entered the front bedroom and crossed to the window without putting on the light. Scanning the road he couldn’t see anyone loitering and there was no police presence. Bryony entered and switched on the light. Marvik hurriedly pulled across the curtain and turned to survey the neat, small room. There were three large cardboard boxes on the floor. The bed was made up but there were no personal items such as make-up and jewellery on the dressing table or the chest of drawers. He turned his attention to the boxes, which were sealed. Withdrawing his penknife, he slit open the one marked ‘books and files’, silently grateful that Sarah had been methodical.
‘Did the police ask you about her things?’ he said, taking out the items and placing them on the bed after briefly studying them.
‘Yes. I told them they were here but they didn’t come upstairs. Look, I’m not sure you should be doing that?’ she added anxiously, her nail-varnished fingers playing with her phone.
Ignoring her, he briskly checked the contents of the box with growing disappointment. There was nothing that looked as though it was remotely connected to Sarah’s father. That information could be on her computer. And that was missing, same as his parents’ computer had been, he suddenly thought, if they’d had one. He didn’t know, but the reason it had flashed into his mind was because he was staring at his father’s name. His heart constricted. His lie to Bryony had become a reality. On the notebook he was holding was written ‘Professor Dan Coulter’ in Sarah’s handwriting. But before he could register the full impact of what he was seeing he caught the sound of movement outside; it could have been the wind in the trees or an animal but he didn’t think so. He stuffed the notebook into the inside pocket of his jacket.
‘You can’t take that, it’s Sarah’s,’ she cried, alarmed.
‘She doesn’t need it now.’ His prints would be all over the room but that hardly mattered as Bryony Darrow would tell the police he had been here anyway.
‘I think you’d better leave,’ she said fearfully.
He did, too, because his finely tuned senses had caught the sound of movement from outside. Speedily he crossed the room, switched out the light and returned to the window, where he drew the curtain back a couple of inches. Yes, there it was: a darkly clad figure at the front of the house. And it was no police officer. He turned and grabbed her hand.
‘What are you doing?’ she cried, pulling back from him.
‘Be quiet,’ he commanded.
‘Let me go,’ she cried, struggling to release herself but his grip was too strong. She winced and applied her other hand to prise his fingers from her wrist but she could only let herself be pulled along with him on to the landing.
‘There’s someone trying to break into the house,’ he said.
‘Then I’ll call the police.’
He caught the sound of the letterbox being pushed open and the unmistakable smell of petrol. ‘Too late for that. By the time they get here we’ll be nothing but charred remains.’ They couldn’t go downstairs. The only option was the rear which backed on to the river. He pulled her into the bathroom.
‘Please let me go,’ she pleaded.
In order for them to escape he had to release her but he couldn’t let her do anything foolish such as rush downstairs. That way they’d both be killed.
‘You have to trust me, Bryony,’ he said earnestly, turning to study her terror-stricken features. ‘Sarah was killed because of something she had discovered about her father and that makes you vulnerable because the killer might believe you know what that is.’
‘But I—’
‘It’s to do with your grandfather’s death.’
She looked at him as though he was mad.
‘There isn’t time to explain now. We’ve got to get out of here. I have to let go of you to open this window and we have to climb out on to the kitchen roof and down into the garden. It’s our only chance.’ He could see she wasn’t convinced. ‘If you want to live and carry on with your acting career then I suggest you do as I say,’ he added sharply.
She nodded. He released her hand but the moment he did she turned and fled on to the landing. He cursed and raced after her, but as she reached the landing there was a great crash and a roaring sound. The searing heat leapt up the stairs. She cried out and turned, terrified, towards him.
Marvik grabbed her and pushed her into the bathroom. ‘Shove some wet towels under the door. Do it,’ he bawled and she sprang to action. He examined the window. It was double-glazed and locked.
‘Where’s the key?’ he shouted.
‘I don’t know,’ she stammered, running towels under the cold tap in the bath and transporting them dripping to the door.
The smell of the fire reached in under the cracks in the door and floorboards. Bryony coughed. ‘The top window is always open.’
That was no bloody good – only a child could get through it. He’d have to force the lock on the large window beneath it. Exerting all his strength, he pressed the handle down, noting that it was loose. Good. He did it again. He didn’t have time to arse around with it; he pushed the might of his shoulders against the window jamb as he wrenched the handle. He could hear the fire crackling below. A neighbour or someone on the opposite bank would see the flames and call the fire brigade, but by the time they reached here it would be too late. He gave the handle another wrench and pushed at the window – this time it budged. He threw it wide open, thankful it was one very large window and hadn’t been split into two. He reached behind him and grabbed Bryony. He could feel the heat of the fire on the soles of his shoes and smoke was drifting in through the cracks of the door.
‘Climb out and sit on the window ledge,’ he commanded.
She stared at him incredulously and made no move to obey. There wasn’t time for a debate. In one fluid movement he reached out, lifted her off her feet and placed her on the window ledge. She cried out and gripped the underside of the ledge with both hands. He climbed out beside her. The fire hadn’t reached the kitchen extension below. It was flat roofed but there was still a drop to it and from that to the ground of about eight feet. The roof was strong enough to walk on. There was no time to lose. He jumped on to it, landing expertly, and reached his hands up to her. ‘Jump towards me. I’ll catch you.’
She looked dubious.
‘You have to, Bryony. It’s your only chance. Do it. Now!’ he barked.
She launched herself off and crashed into him. He staggered back but immediately steadied himself. He pulled her along to the edge of the extension.
‘Stay there.’
She nodded, frozen, as he jumped down on to the ground, landing nimbly on both feet before rolling over and springing up. He knew she wouldn’t be able to do the same but he’d already seen a garden table which he ran to and placed under the side of the extension.
‘Climb down on to that. It’s only a short drop from there.’
‘It might be small to you but it looks like a bloody giant leap for mankind to me.’
He smiled despite the horror of the situation. She was still afraid but making a valiant attempt to overcome it. ‘Imagine you’re in a film,’ he encouraged her.
She managed a terrified smile. ‘Wish I’d given this part to the stand-in.’
She hesitated. As she did there was a great crash of exploding glass and she was on her belly lying on the flat roof, easing her way down with her hands clasping the roof, glancing behind her as she slid down towards the table. Marvik, already standing on the table, reached out, grabbed her, steadied her and then, jumping down on to the ground, urged her to do the same. Taking her hand, he shouted, ‘Run!’
‘Where to?’ she gasped as she tried to keep up with him. ‘There’s only the river.’
They reached the bank. Marvik looked back at the blazing house.
Breathing heavily, Bryony said, ‘Surely we’re safe now.’
But they weren’t. Or rather, he wasn’t going to take a chance on that.
‘We can’t get across the river.’
‘We can by boat.’
‘I don’t have a boat.’
‘Your neighbour does,’ Marvik said, glancing at the powerful modern motor cruiser moored up at the end of the neighbour’s garden to his left.
‘You can’t just take it.’
Watch me. ‘Climb over,’ he commanded, nodding at the low fence.
When she hesitated he lifted her off her feet and plonked her down the other side. Then, vaulting over it, he turned to the boat, praying it had enough fuel to get them away. If it didn’t there was a row boat further along the bank. He didn’t fancy rowing on the Thames in the dark and the rain but he would if he had to. There wouldn’t be a key in the boat but that wouldn’t stop him. Bryony looked as though she was about to head back towards the house but, grabbing her, he pushed her towards the boat. ‘Do you want to end up like Sarah?’ he threatened.
Her eyes widened in horror. He couldn’t take a chance on letting her go for fear she’d run round to the road in front of the houses. Marvik knew the arsonist would be waiting for her.
Keeping a firm grip on her, he unzipped part of the canvas awning and pushed her on board. Still holding her he promptly inspected the helm, then with his free hand extracted the multipurpose penknife from the pocket of his trousers. She had stopped resisting him and was staring around in stupefaction, shivering and hugging her arms across her chest; the shock was just hitting her. He’d have to risk letting go. He sat her on the seat at the helm next to the pilot and inserted a slim metal device into the key at the helm; turning it, he prayed it would start. The engine spluttered into life and with relief he saw that the tank was half full.
He could see the fire devouring the house and heard the distant sound of fire engines. Within seconds he cast off and, as he jumped back on board, in the light of the burning house, he saw a tall, lean figure in the garden of the neighbouring house. Would he come after them? No. The figure turned away and Marvik breathed a silent sigh of relief. He opened the throttle, headed out into the river and made for the centre of London.