Death Surge (14 page)

Maitland said, ‘Duke’s picked up the scent of an accelerant.’ He patted the dog’s head, and it wagged his tail enthusiastically. ‘Can’t say what it is yet, but you might want to get the area searched in case the arsonist discarded it. My guess, though, is this guy either took it away with him or ditched it in the moat or the creek.’

The creek dried out at low tide so the likelihood was it would be in the moat, and dredging that would cost money and take time. Horton couldn’t see ACC Dean authorizing that.

Maitland continued: ‘As you can see there is no door or grill across this tunnel, like there is on some of the bastions, and no evidence of there having been one. There would have been plenty of oxygen inside to fuel the fire.’

Horton only hoped that whoever the victim was he’d been dead or unconscious before the fire was lit. He certainly hadn’t made any attempt to escape it, but perhaps the poor soul had been restrained. He suppressed a shiver and tried not to think of Johnnie. He followed Maitland’s gesture as they stepped up the incline and then down on to the bank to see the second seat of fire. Below Horton was the nature trail that ran alongside the moat and along the other side of the creek. He could see the cars speeding along the raised dual carriageway behind that.

Maitland said, ‘Arsonists have been known to return to the scene to watch the fire and the ensuing investigation. This guy called in before he started the second fire which suggests he might have returned last night to see the results of his handiwork or he might return today.’

Horton should have thought of that. He tried to remember who he had seen on the outer cordon. Leanne Payne and Cliff Wesley, certainly. Maybe PC Benton would remember who had been in the crowd. And perhaps Wesley had some photographs of the people who had gathered here. But he wouldn’t have been the only one snapping away; everyone took pictures these days with their mobile phones, and those pictures would now be on the Internet.

He thanked Maitland and Duke warmly, but instead of turning back the way he’d come he continued walking along the footpath, heading east. He was clearly travelling along the top of the ramparts and was curious to see where the footpath came out. At a small clearing, though, he called Walters.

‘No one reported missing last night, guv.’

Perhaps whoever it was hadn’t been missed yet. He said, ‘Get on to Traffic, ask if they stopped anyone on the main London Road travelling either off the island northwards or south last night between nine and midnight, and get hold of the CCTV footage.’ He didn’t think they’d be lucky enough to pick up the arsonist’s vehicle on camera or that it might have been stopped speeding away from the scene, but you never knew. ‘Also contact the newspaper office. Speak to the picture editor and ask him to email over all the photographs Wesley took. Go through them, in particular those that show the crowd. If you need to get the photographic unit to enhance them then do so. See if you can identify anyone known to us or anyone who is at the scene for the duration, particularly anyone who shows up after the fire is reported. Also do a search on the Internet for any photographs posted from last night; check out the photo sharing websites and You Tube in case anyone videoed it. Get the hi-tech crime unit on to it if you need to.’

‘No need, guv, this is right up my street.’

Horton knew as much. As long as Walters didn’t have to get off his fat arse then he was happy, and he was good at the techie stuff. Horton also thought it worth asking Leanne Payne who she’d spoken to in the crowd or if she’d noticed anyone in particular hanging around.

He called Sergeant Trueman in the major crime team, relayed what Maitland had said, and told him what Walters was doing. Trueman said he had all the reports on the investigation into Johnnie’s disappearance and that Bliss was in with Uckfield. ‘Sergeant Winton’s on his way with a search team.’

He’d just rung off when Cantelli called.

‘Walters has just told me about the fire. Is it possible it could be Johnnie?’ he asked anxiously.

‘It’s male, and that’s all Dr Clayton can tell us at the moment,’ Horton said sympathetically. ‘There was nothing left from the fire to indicate it might be him, no clothes or belongings. And it’s some distance from where Johnnie went missing, and that was Wednesday, so the chances are it isn’t him.’

‘The fire was at the Hilsea Lines though.’

The tone of Cantelli’s voice caused Horton consternation.

‘My dad’s ice cream business was based at Hilsea in the 1960s. It backed on to the Lines. My brother and I used to play there as kids a long time before it became a public footpath and nature trail.’

‘Did Johnnie ever go there?’

‘No. Dad closed the business before he was born to concentrate on the cafés and restaurants.’

‘Then it’s not relevant, Barney. Uckfield’s team has all the reports on the investigation into his disappearance, and it’ll be stepped up now.’

‘It might be too damn late.’

‘There’s no indication it is Johnnie.’

He heard Cantelli take a breath. ‘No, I guess not.’

Horton knew he wasn’t convinced. ‘How did it go with Stuart Jayston?’

‘It didn’t. He wasn’t at home. I called into the office but they don’t know where he is either. I didn’t try his mobile.’

‘Leave him for now. We’ll catch up with him later. Give Walters a hand.’

Horton continued along the path. The ground was soft from the rain they’d had recently but not boggy, and there was no chance of getting footprint evidence because too many people had passed this way to lift a definite print. After about half a mile the path came to an end. Ahead there was a wire fence and a sign saying it was unsafe to continue. To his right there were steps leading down, and to his left a track which led down to the moat. A train flashed past on the low railway bridge that spanned both the moat and the creek. Across the creek Horton could see police tape and a uniformed officer on his mobile phone.

Horton turned on to the steps. He came out on to a small car park which he was relieved to see was cordoned off with a uniformed officer stationed at the entrance to it. He spun round surprised to see Horton, who crossed to him and showed his ID. Another of the red-bricked bastions was behind him, boarded up. The road to the small car park ended abruptly with a barrier across the entrance to a factory that Horton could see by the sign was Alanco Aviation. This was the end of the Airport Service Road, so named because once Portsmouth had had an airport. No longer. That had gone in 1973. There was still a small railway station serving the area, which was principally populated by factories, warehouses and small business units and reached via the Eastern Road that led off the island of Portsmouth.

He asked the officer if he’d had any visitors.

‘A few dog walkers and some workers from the factory wanting to know what had happened.’

‘Is that barrier to this car park closed and locked at night?’

‘Yes. I took over from PC Williams this morning and he said someone from the council came and opened it last night when the area was sealed off.’

That didn’t mean the killer couldn’t have parked in the road outside the car park. The factories and businesses would have been shut, and there were no houses here. It was still a long way to carry a body though, but as he’d considered earlier, the victim might then have been alive.

He headed towards the factory and showed his ID to the security officer, who informed him there were cameras at the barrier to the factory entrance, which Horton had already noted. A few minutes later he was in an office behind reception viewing the footage from the previous night. Not a vehicle in sight from seven o’clock until six the following morning except for the police cars.

On the way back to his Harley he ran into Sergeant Winton, who had arrived with four officers to search the immediate area surrounding the fire. Horton gave instructions for them to bag up everything.

‘Even used condoms,’ Winton said cynically.

‘Especially used condoms.’

Horton didn’t think the arsonist had stopped to have sex but who knew for certain and fire did turn some people on. Maybe this killer got his jollies that way, and if that was the case then this had nothing to do with Johnnie.

He phoned Uckfield and relayed what Maitland had told him, the results of his own inquiries and what Walters and Cantelli were working on. ‘There’s a search of the area under way now, and Dr Clayton should have something for us by lunch time.’

‘Briefing at twelve,’ Uckfield said before ringing off, and that, Horton thought with relief, gave him time to get to Woking and back.

H
orton stared at the reverse of the long Manila envelope that Teckstone had handed him. It was sealed with red wax, under which were two signatures: one of them Dr Quentin Amos’s and the other Clive Teckstone’s. There were also two sets of handwritten figures:
01.07.05
and
5.11.09
.

‘Do these dates refer to when the document was originally deposited and reopened and resealed?’ asked Horton, rapidly trying to think if the dates meant anything to him. They didn’t, not on first consideration.

Teckstone, an elongated man in his mid-fifties with a bald domed head and small square gold-rimmed spectacles, furrowed his brow. ‘No. Dr Amos gave me that envelope last Friday.’

The day after Horton had called on him. His excitement increased, but he made sure not to show it.

Teckstone continued: ‘He telephoned me and asked me to visit him urgently. I thought he wanted to change his will but he gave me that envelope and asked me to put it in our safe and to give it to you immediately after his death. The figures were written on there when I signed on the reverse of it.’

Curious. Horton wondered what they could mean. ‘And you’ve no idea of the contents?’ he asked.

‘Certainly not!’ Teckstone looked offended.

‘Did Dr Amos give any indication of why he was depositing this and why I should be contacted?’

‘No.’

The solicitor had nothing more to add, except to tell him that Amos had no relatives, so he was arranging his funeral and handling the affairs of his estate, which wasn’t considerable, and that everything had been left to Amnesty International. Horton asked to be notified of the funeral date. He was keen to know who would show up for it. Professor Thurstan Madeley perhaps? Or Lord Eames? He doubted it. And would there be anyone from 1967 who might have known Jennifer? Would Dormand and Mortimer, the two men in the photograph he had yet to trace, be there? Horton didn’t think he’d be so lucky, but he wouldn’t mind betting that someone from the intelligence services would show in some guise or another.

Outside, he hesitated. He so badly wanted to rip open the envelope and read the contents. It might tell him what had happened to Jennifer, but this was hardly the place for him to learn that. No, he needed privacy and space. He needed time. And that was something he didn’t have.

He thrust it into his jacket pocket while eagerly scanning the car park and the road. No one had followed him and there didn’t appear to be anyone watching him from a car parked nearby, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t someone. He could have been seen visiting Amos last week, especially if Amos’s place had been watched after Professor Madeley had duly delivered Amos’s name to Horton. Equally, they could have seen the solicitor arrive and leave and waited to see who showed up here. Amos’s phone could have been tapped and the call to his solicitor overheard. Or perhaps Amos had muttered something about the envelope while ill and under the influence of medication. The intelligence services must know that Amos was dead.

Horton headed back to Portsmouth. Who would they report to? Lord Eames? What did those dates on the outside of the envelope mean? Were the contents of the envelope damaging to Lord Eames? If the intelligence services were aware of the envelope, when would they come for it? What lengths would they go to to obtain it? The coldness in his stomach told him they might be extreme.

Teckstone had told him that Amos had died in hospital of a heart attack. There was nothing suspicious about it … or was there? Horton checked his mirrors. There didn’t appear to be anyone following him. Perhaps his death had been accelerated by a massive dose of morphine, and no post-mortem was going to find that. That Amos’s apartment would have been searched, and expertly, was a foregone conclusion. He wondered if anything had been found.

His thoughts took him to the station, where he arrived with more questions than answers and a longing to open the envelope, but he had about a minute to make the briefing on time, and he noted with some consternation that Dr Clayton’s red Mini was in the car park. She’d come to deliver the results of the autopsy personally, and he didn’t think that was a very good sign.

He made straight for the major incident suite where his trepidation was quickly augmented by surprise. Not only were Bliss, Cantelli and Walters present along with Dr Clayton, but standing beside a glowering, florid-faced Uckfield was the slender, immaculately suited, silver-haired Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate. And beside Sergeant Trueman, sitting at a desk, was Agent Harriet Eames. She threw him a look that he thought contained the hint of an apology, but perhaps he just wanted to think that. His suspicions about the real reason for her presence at Cowes Week and her visit to his yacht at Cowes to volunteer her assistance in the search for Johnnie seemed to have been confirmed. She’d known that Johnnie Oslow was missing, and he didn’t think she’d heard it first from Scott Masefield.

With a glance at Uckfield, Horton also saw that he’d known about Johnnie’s disappearance long before Horton had told him about it this morning. He was guessing most probably yesterday when he’d been summoned to Cowes to be briefed about it, no doubt by Sawyer and Eames. He felt disturbed by this and angry that neither he nor Cantelli had been taken into their confidence. And how would Cantelli feel about it, he thought, throwing him a glance. The sergeant was pale and restless, too anxious to sit. The strain of the last few days was etched deep on his lean face, and with Sawyer’s and Eames’ arrival that strain looked about to get a lot worse.