Undercurrent, p.10
Undercurrent, page 10
‘We’re not sure yet but he was found at the marina in Oyster Quays. Did he mention meeting anyone there?’
They both shook their heads.
Ted Crossley offered to take their wet coats. Probably didn’t want them dripping all over the stair carpet. He hung them up by the door and said, ‘I’ll take you up to his room. It’s on the second floor, at the rear.’
‘And I’ll make some tea.’ Brenda Crossley bustled off back down the corridor.
As they climbed the stairs, Horton said quietly, ‘I see from your registration book that Mr Redsall signed in on Sunday at fifteen fifty-five, did he go out again?’
‘Yes, about six thirty, for something to eat I assume; we don’t do dinners, just bed and breakfast. He came back about nine.’
‘Has he stayed here before?’
‘No. He booked over the Internet. I can let you have a copy of his booking form if it will help.’
‘Thanks. How many guests do you have?’
‘We’re full. Eleven guests in three double rooms, one family room and one single, Mr Redsall’s room, all en suite and with free access to Wi-Fi,’ Crossley said proudly but quietly, hoping not to disturb the other guests. ‘This is Mr Redsall’s room.’
He unlocked the door and stepped back to allow them in. Uckfield entered and Horton followed. Swiftly he registered the freshly painted cream walls displaying more local landscapes, the single bed, made up with a pale blue quilt, a large old-fashioned mahogany wardrobe and a matching chest of drawers on top of which was a tray containing a cup and saucer, tea and coffee-making facilities. A modern television set was mounted above it on the wall and to its left a door led into the en suite shower and toilet.
Turning back he said, ‘Did Mr Redsall have an accent?’
Crossley looked slightly taken aback by the question, and even Uckfield raised his eyebrows. ‘No.’
Horton had wondered if Redsall was a native of Northern Ireland. He still could be but had got rid of his accent.
Crossley added, ‘He was very well spoken though, educated kind of voice, quiet.’
Horton could see that Uckfield was impatient to get shot of Crossley and so was he. He said, ‘Where can we find you when we’ve finished?’ He hoped Crossley wasn’t going to insist on staying. But he took the hint.
‘Ground floor at the rear.’
Horton nodded and quietly closed the door.
Uckfield wrenched open the wardrobe door and peered inside. ‘Nothing here. Looks as though he travelled light. Anything in the chest of drawers?’
‘One cotton checked shirt, crumpled, three round-necked T-shirts, also worn, one with the University of Ulster logo on it, two pairs of socks and one pair of underpants. And this.’ Horton held up a large brown leather wallet. As Uckfield crossed to him he extracted the contents, relaying their details. ‘Flight and railway ticket. Redsall flew from Belfast on Sunday arriving at Southampton at five past one and he was booked to return Thursday on the four o’clock flight from Southampton. The train ticket is for Coleraine to Belfast return, which matches with the address he gave the Historic Dockyard. There’s another train ticket here for Portsmouth Harbour to Southampton Parkway. And here’s a copy of his Internet booking form. There’s a landline number but no mobile number.’
And Horton would like to know if Redsall had owned one, or an iPad or computer, because none of those items were here and they hadn’t been in that rucksack.
In a bored manner Uckfield said, ‘There’s nothing here. Might as well go home. You can send a couple of plods around in the morning to take statements.’
But Horton had no intention of doing that. ‘Let’s see what the Crossleys have got to say first, especially as they’ve offered us a cup of tea.’ He didn’t leave time for Uckfield to protest but swept out of the room and down the stairs carrying Redsall’s wallet.
Coffee was Horton’s tipple but he didn’t tell Brenda Crossley that as she waved them onto the high bar stools across the breakfast bar from her and her husband in the spotlessly clean modern kitchen and poured them both mugs of tea.
Uckfield eyed the stool with distaste and grunted as he eased his short stout figure onto the stool while Horton climbed on the one next to him with alacrity. Brenda Crossley pushed forward a plate of biscuits which Uckfield tackled with relish. Judging by the Crossleys’ eager expressions and heightened colour, Horton could tell they had been speculating on the cause of Redsall’s death and, if they weren’t stupid, and Horton didn’t think they were, also on why it had prompted the visit from such high-ranking officers instead of uniformed PCs or a detective constable at the most.
Horton opened the questioning. ‘Did Mr Redsall say why he was here?’
Ted Crossley answered. ‘I asked him but he just said it was for a few days’ break. He didn’t elaborate and I didn’t probe because I got the impression he didn’t want to talk about it. You pick up on these things when you run a guest house. We get all sorts. Some will tell you their life story at the drop of a hat and you have a job shutting them up, others are tight-lipped and a bit stand-offish. I wouldn’t have described Mr Redsall as that though, more shy, quiet, a bit nervy and nerdy like.’
‘Ted! The poor man’s dead.’
‘Doesn’t make my impression of him any different,’ Ted quickly replied. Horton could see he was of the ‘I speak as I find’ type and bugger anyone’s feelings, a bit like Ivor Meadows. Sometimes that was helpful but often it was unreliable because those types could be blinkered by their own bigoted and narrow views.
‘You said nervy?’ Horton probed.
‘Twitchy, on edge.’
‘Worried?’
Ted thought for a moment. ‘Possibly, but excited underneath it.’
Horton wasn’t sure how much store he could set by that. Crossley could be fabricating it to add to the excitement and intrigue surrounding the death. ‘Did you see him with a computer or did he ask about your free wi-fi access?’
‘No.’
‘Did either of you see him with a mobile phone?’
Both Crossleys shook their heads.
‘Was he carrying anything when he arrived?’
‘Only his rucksack.’
‘And you can confirm he was booked in until Thursday?’
Brenda Crossley pushed a piece of paper across the breakfast bar to Horton. ‘Yes, I printed you off a copy.’
It was the same one Horton had found in the wallet, which was now in his pocket but he didn’t say. He smiled his thanks and took it asking if they knew what Daniel Redsall had done for a living.
Ted Crossley answered. ‘He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. Like I said, he was quiet. Difficult to make conversation with. At breakfast I asked if he had a good night, he said yes. We talked about the weather and that was about it. He didn’t say what he was doing Monday or today, he just went out.’
‘What time?’ Uckfield asked with his mouth full of biscuit.
Ted Crossley answered, ‘Almost straight after breakfast and he didn’t come back until late afternoon on Monday, about five, and then he went out again in the evening.’
And that was to Spalding’s lecture. Horton said, ‘And that was at?’
Brenda Crossley answered. ‘Six fifteen. I was watering my tubs and window boxes in the front garden.’
Horton had seen the magnificent display when he’d drawn up.
‘I said hello, he smiled and hurried off.’
‘In which direction?’
‘Towards the seafront and the Canoe Lake.’
The opposite direction to Spalding’s house. But according to their evidence Spalding wasn’t there anyway but at the dockyard preparing for his talk.
Ted Crossley said, ‘He returned about ten o’clock.’
And that fitted with the time he’d checked out of the dockyard at nine twenty-five. Redsall had left ten minutes before Dr Spalding. And judging by the signature in the guest house registration book it looked as though it was the same as the one that appeared on the dockyard list and on the credit and debit cards.
‘And yesterday, Tuesday?’
Before Ted Crossley could answer his wife jumped in. ‘He went out early, before breakfast. I saw him leave. It must have been about seven o’clock. That was the last I saw of him. Did you see him yesterday?’ She addressed her husband.
‘No.’
Horton sipped his tea out of politeness and tried not to show he disliked the brew. ‘How did he seem on his return on Monday?’
Ted Crossley answered. ‘Fine. I asked if he’d had a good evening and he said “yes, thank you” and that was it.’
Uckfield slid off his seat, clearly believing there was nothing more to be gleaned here. Maybe he was right. And he’d finished the biscuits. Horton rose. He asked the Crossleys to leave Redsall’s room as it was adding, ‘We’d like to send someone round tomorrow to take fingerprints.’
‘Of our guests?’ Crossley said, alarmed.
Horton hesitated. There was nothing to say that any of the guests weren’t connected with Redsall’s death and he didn’t think they’d mind their prints being taken, probably add a bit of spice to their holiday, but bearing in mind that Uckfield didn’t believe there was a suspicious death to investigate and his glowering look, Horton said, ‘Just the prints in Mr Redsall’s room and yours and any other member of staff who went in there, so that we can eliminate them.’
‘There’s only us,’ Brenda Crossley said.
‘I’d also like a list of the guests who have been here during Redsall’s stay. We can collect it tomorrow.’
Crossley nodded agreement and showed them out.
Outside Uckfield said, ‘There’s not one shred of evidence to say this is a suspicious death. We do nothing more until we get the results of the autopsy.’
Uckfield might not do anything but that wasn’t going to stop Horton. He said, ‘We need to trace the next of kin. It would help if Sergeant Trueman could do that.’
After a moment Uckfield nodded agreement. ‘OK.’
At least Dr Clayton would be back to conduct the autopsy, thought Horton, as he watched Uckfield pull away, presumably heading home, although knowing Uckfield he could be returning to his lover, whoever she was.
Horton returned to his boat. He was tired but as he lay watching the minutes tick by into hours his whirling brain refused to be still. Uckfield was right – there was nothing to indicate that Spalding had been killed, and neither was there any evidence to indicate Daniel Redsall had been, but a whole swathe of questions kept spinning around his head like an endless merry-go-round. Why had Daniel Redsall attended Spalding’s lecture? Why had he ended up dead the next day? Why had he been on Ashton’s yacht? How did he get on to the pontoons at Oyster Quays? Would the security cameras reveal a sighting of him? Had Redsall signed in earlier at the marina office? And if he had signed in as a visitor then who had he been visiting? Someone on Ashton’s yacht or someone on Agent Eames’ yacht? Or someone else who had been in the marina?
It was pointless trying to answer these questions and useless considering them any further until they had more information, which he’d get despite Uckfield’s lack of cooperation. He willed himself to relax and steeled himself not to look at his watch again. Instead he focused on the sound of the sea lapping against the boat and the rhythm of its gentle movement, hoping that it would calm him. The rain had stopped and gradually he began to feel himself slipping into sleep. Infuriatingly though, just when he was on the edge one question sprang to mind and refused to budge. He knew it was critical. What had brought Redsall to Portsmouth from Northern Ireland?
NINE
Wednesday 8.15 a.m.
An answer of sorts came to him the next morning. He looked up from his computer as Walters waddled into the CID office reading the Daily Mirror. Horton called out to him through his open door, adding, ‘You too, Cantelli.’
Cantelli, entering behind Walters, eyed Horton, concerned. ‘Andy, you look knackered.’
He felt it. He’d had about three hours’ sleep, and even that had been nothing more than a half waking kind of dose. Just before six he’d finally given up all attempts, taken a cold shower to shock himself into full wakefulness, was in the canteen by seven having breakfast and in his office by seven thirty in time to see from his window Bliss’s sports car pull into the car park. He’d forgotten she was back from her course today. He wished they’d found her a role at Bramshill. And that made him recall he hadn’t yet contacted Professor Thurstan Madeley. His telephone number wasn’t on his website, but Horton knew someone at Bramshill who would give it to him. They’d have it on file there. He’d rung and asked for John Harrison, a police officer he’d served with over the years who on his promotion to Inspector a year ago had taken up a post as training officer at the college. After a brief exchange of news Horton had told him he wanted to get in touch with Madeley.
‘Thinking of asking his advice on policing?’ Harrison had joked.
‘Why not? He might have the magic answer to solving crime without having to fill in all this mountain of paperwork.’
‘If he does he’s probably given it to DCI Bliss.’
‘He knows her?’ Horton had asked, amazed.
‘He does now. He gave a lecture on her course.’
‘About?’
‘Understanding the social influences affecting today’s criminals.’
Horton snorted. ‘She needs to understand her staff first.’
‘Well by all accounts Professor Madeley was most impressed with DCI Bliss, in fact we all were and her governor will be too. She came top of the class.’
‘I might have known.’ Horton had got Madeley’s mobile telephone number without having to explain why he needed it. He had sensed Harrison’s curiosity but Harrison knew that even if he’d asked Horton wouldn’t have told him. He hadn’t rung Madeley yet. It was too early and he wanted to do it away from the station. He didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing or crashing in on him as no doubt Bliss would soon, now that she must have seen Cantelli and Walters arrive.
‘I had rather a late night,’ Horton replied to Cantelli’s enquiry, waving them into seats across his desk. He briefed them about Redsall’s death. Cantelli looked shocked and then thoughtful. Walters simply looked bemused. Maybe this time he was right to be. ‘I’ve found some information on Redsall that might suggest why he was in Portsmouth.’ Horton indicated his computer. ‘According to the University of Ulster’s website he was a Marine Archaeologist, interested in seafaring watercraft.’
‘The M33?’ suggested Cantelli.
‘Possibly, and perhaps he consulted Spalding about it, him being a naval historian. And Redsall could have been on the pontoons at Oyster Quays because he was interested in the MGB 81, it’s a 1942 motor gun boat,’ he added for both their benefit. ‘He’s visiting lecturer at the Centre for Maritime Archaeology at Ulster, joined them last September and before that he worked just up the road here at Southampton at their Centre for Maritime Archaeology.’
That didn’t answer the question why he was dead though. Horton had also read on the university’s website that Redsall had been involved in a study of historic shipwrecks in Ireland. The Solent had enough shipwrecks to keep any marine archaeologist happy for decades but it was a long way from Ireland. Horton wondered if Redsall had been researching a ship wrecked off Ireland which had set sail from Portsmouth. Perhaps that was where Spalding came into it. But neither theory meant either man’s death was suspicious, as Uckfield would be quick to point out. But what did bother Horton was the fact that if Redsall had been engaged on research then where were his notes? Certainly not in his room or in his rucksack.
Addressing Cantelli he said, ‘Ask Dr Menchip if she knows or recognizes Redsall and see what Alvita Baarda can tell us about him and Spalding. Did the two of them talk? Did they seem to know one another? You know the drill.’ Horton handed Cantelli a photograph of Redsall which he’d printed off from the University of Ulster’s website. It wasn’t as grim as the ones Clarke had taken of the body.
‘I’ll re-interview Julie Preston. Walters, check if the control room at Oyster Quays has sent over the CCTV footage of the marina for last night, and if not chase them up. And call the marina office, ask them if Redsall signed in yesterday and get someone from the fingerprint bureau round to the Crossleys.’
The sound of footsteps in CID caught Horton’s attention and he looked up to see Bliss striding across the deserted room with a scowl of welcome on her narrow face, her ponytail swinging high behind her head like a horse swishing its tail at irritating flies. Cantelli and Walters hastily rose as she entered his office but Horton remained seated.
‘Good course, Ma’am?’ he asked, wondering how different she would look with a dash of lipstick and her hair down. Not that he really wanted to find out. She cast her cool green eyes over Cantelli and Walters. Walters shifted and looked as though he was going to belch but managed not to. With a nod of her head she gave them a curt dismissal. They didn’t need telling twice.
Plonking her narrow backside in the chair that Walters’ fat one had vacated she asked him for an update on outstanding cases. Swiftly he gave her one, hoping she didn’t ask too many questions because he’d hardly looked at the files. He ended with the news about Redsall’s death but without saying that his officers were investigating it, which was just as well because she said, ‘I understand that isn’t being treated as suspicious, so we don’t spend time on it.’ She was clearly singing from the same hymn sheet as Uckfield. Rising, she said, ‘I expect your performance targets for July, which are seriously overdue, and your team’s customer satisfaction survey results within the next couple of hours, Inspector.’
‘Anything in particular you’d like us to ask the victims of crime?’ Horton asked airily as she reached the door.
She spun round. Her eyes narrowed. ‘You have the questions on the survey.’
‘I wondered if you might have some new suggestions following your course. For example perhaps we should ask the victims how they feel towards the criminal. Perhaps if they understood the social influences that made the scumbags beat up and rob innocent people they might more readily forgive them, excuse them even.’
