Undercurrent (8 page)

‘I think it must be someone I sacked. You know, out for revenge. I just want you to check them out.’

‘Them?’

‘You know how it is in my business, Andy, they come and they go,’ he answered, tucking into his food. ‘You’ve got to have the right personality to teach people to sail or take them out on corporate events and stag and hen parties, and be cooped up with them on a yacht for days.’

‘When did it start?’

‘So you’ll look into it for me?’

‘No, I asked when it started.’

Ashton looked cross but obviously remembered that he needed Horton’s help. ‘Three weeks ago. I found a letter on the doormat.’

‘Which is where?’ Horton stabbed a chip and conveyed it to his mouth knowing he shouldn’t ask questions because that showed interest and therefore a commitment to do something but the police officer in him couldn’t help it. Besides, he told himself, he could get the details and then tell Ashton he could only get involved if it was officially logged.

‘Cowes. I’m renting an apartment at the marina there, until the divorce is finalized. It’s handy for the office too. Fiona and the kids will get the house at Alverstoke. It’s got to be either an ex-employee or a competitor.’

‘Or Fiona.’

But Ashton was shaking his head. ‘She might hate me but she wouldn’t do this.’

‘Jealous husband or boyfriend then?’

‘I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.’

Horton wasn’t sure that was the truth, and even if it was it might be a boyfriend or husband connected with one of Ashton’s previous girlfriends. ‘Did you keep the letter?’

‘Of course not. I thought it was just some tosser who’d read about me in the local newspaper and got his kicks from slagging off successful businessmen.’ When Horton looked blank Ashton added, ‘There was a profile on me and the company in the local rag. You know how people in this country hate success.’

‘What did the letter say?’

Ashton waved his fork about. ‘“Think you’re successful? Well you might be now but enjoy it while it lasts because it won’t be for long, by the time I’m finished with you you’ll be lucky to have a canoe let alone a fleet of expensive yachts.” That sort of drivel.’

‘Written or computer generated?’

‘The latter, on ordinary plain paper.’

‘Posted or hand-delivered?’

‘Posted. And I didn’t save the envelope either but it was a Portsmouth and Isle of Wight postmark.’

That narrows it down, thought Horton cynically, given there were over two hundred thousand people living in Portsmouth and a hundred and forty thousand on the Island, not to mention all the visitors and tourists. The culprit could live anywhere though and posted the letter locally. He could have read the article while staying in one of the marinas, or hotels on the Island. But the article wouldn’t have mentioned Ashton’s address and Horton doubted the newspaper would have given it out. His business address would have been easily accessible to anyone, but this letter had been sent to where Ashton was temporarily staying and that smacked of someone closer to home who knew Ashton.

The man and woman from the saloon car had finished their photographs of the Camber and were walking along the quayside in the direction of their car.

Ashton polished off his food and pushed away the plate. ‘Next was the tyre, three days after the letter. I was in Oyster Quays talking to one of my skippers on one of the yachts moored up there. I parked the car in Old Portsmouth around the back of the Cathedral and walked through the Wightlink ferry terminal to the marina, when I got back the tyre was flat. When I changed it there was a ruddy great rip in it as though someone had slashed it with a knife. Then I found a scratch on the Mercedes two days later outside the office in Cowes. This bastard’s following me, Andy.’ Ashton glared around the quayside. Horton followed his gaze. Nobody looked remotely interested in them.

‘Then I got another letter a week ago, which I didn’t keep either. It said “How does it feel to have your precious possessions scarred? That’s just a start.”’

‘You should have brought it to us,’ Horton said, finishing his meal.

‘Well I didn’t. I ripped the bloody thing up I was so furious. And you wouldn’t have done anything about it anyway, not unless I’d been physically threatened or probably dying, which is why there’s no point in me reporting it officially. I know how the police work. I’ve had enough of them sailing on my yachts. It’s got to be someone I sacked. I’ve brought a list. I thought you could run them through your computer and see if any of them look likely.’ He reached into his trouser pocket.

‘Not unless I log the incident and give it a crime number,’ Horton said stubbornly, not because he wasn’t interested or reluctant to follow it up but because he wanted to test Ashton’s reaction to see just how desperate he was.

‘For heaven’s sake, Andy, I’m asking you to do a favour for an old friend.’

But Horton knew that favours could be dangerous for coppers.

‘Look, if one of the buggers on that list looks likely then you can log the bloody crime,’ Ashton capitulated. ‘If they all come out whiter than Persil I’ll hire a private detective,
if
you can recommend any that are any good.’

Horton knew a couple. Former DCI Mike Danby was the best but he specialized in security for the rich and famous and for peers of the realm like Agent Eames’s father, Lord Eames. He’d worked with Agent Eames recently on a case when she’d been sent over from Europol to assist. He wouldn’t mind working with her again, he thought, stretching out a hand to take the list with the feeling he was making a mistake. He compensated though by telling himself that he’d definitely make it official if one of these names flashed up on the database as a criminal and therefore a possible suspect. He glanced down at it; there were three men and one woman. ‘Who’s Sabina Jennings?’ he asked. Knowing Ashton’s track record it could very well be a case of hell hath no fury if Ashton had ditched her.

‘She was one of my skippers. Didn’t work out. Couldn’t handle the clientele, company directors, salesmen, bankers, not like the one I’ve got now, Melanie Jacobs. She’s good.’

‘And the three men?’

‘Two skippers, James Saunders and Paul Brading, and Kevin Wallace who worked in the office in Cowes, marketing.’

‘This list only covers the last two months.’

‘It can’t be anyone from before then,’ Ashton replied confidently, glancing impatiently at his watch.

Can’t it? thought Horton. He knew that people could bear grudges a very long time and take revenge years after an event, but he didn’t say. ‘What about casual labour?’

‘I can’t see any of them doing this.’

‘Why not?’

‘Not worth their trouble.’

‘But there have been a few who have been dismissed.’

‘Let go rather than formerly dismissed,’ Ashton corrected. ‘I took some students on, some were a waste of space and I got rid of them within a few days.’

They could also be suspects but Horton didn’t say so. He didn’t want to volunteer for more unofficial work. But if none of the four names on the list seemed likely then either Ashton would have to make his complaint official or Horton would give him the name of a private investigator. He folded the sheet away, tossed back the remainder of his Coke and rose.

‘How soon can you do it?’ Ashton asked eagerly, following suit.

‘As soon as I have a moment. I’m investigating a man’s death in the dockyard last night and working on a million other things.’

Ashton looked about to protest then forced a smile from his lips and said, ‘Yeah, of course. I appreciate your help. We’ll go out for a sail after Cowes Week on one of the new fleet.’

Business must be good
. ‘Let me know if there are any further incidents. And if you receive any more letters don’t rip them up.’

Ashton promised he wouldn’t. Horton watched him drive away. There wasn’t anyone following him. Turning back and surveying the dock, the man and woman with the camera were climbing into their car and there was no sign of the men in white shirts. Horton made for the station checking his mirrors. It didn’t appear that anyone was following him either.

He was concerned about what Ashton had told him. Threats weren’t to be taken lightly and whoever was doing it had to be stopped before it escalated. Horton certainly didn’t want that, so the sooner he ran those names through the Police National Computer and the sooner he could make this official, the better.

Cantelli greeted him in CID with the news that Uckfield wanted to see him the moment he came in. Horton assumed the summons meant that Uckfield had heard from the pathologist. He’d specifically asked to be informed of the preliminary results but perhaps the pathologist had sent his report to Dennings because of his involvement in the case last night. If Dr Clayton had been conducting the autopsy she would certainly have rung him and copied him in. But maybe there was an email or message waiting for him. He didn’t stop to check but tossed the piece of paper Ashton had given him onto Walters’ desk and asked him to run the names through the database, briefly telling him and Cantelli that Ashton was being threatened.

He found Sergeant Trueman alone in the incident suite which meant that whatever Uckfield had been told, Spalding’s death was not suspicious. A fact that was confirmed after he had knocked and been granted entry into Uckfield’s office where Dennings was sprawled in the chair opposite the Super, looking so smug that Horton would have given a lot to wipe the grin off his fat face.

Uckfield gestured Horton into the seat beside Dennings and announced, ‘Spalding’s death was caused by injuries sustained from the fall.’ He glanced down at the paper on his desk and read, ‘The tissue covering the bony orbital rims, and the skin covering the cheekbones and the lower jaw are torn and cut. There are injuries to the liver, the thorax, abdominal and pelvic viscera, which are all consistent with a fall occurring from a considerable height.’

‘Any evidence that he was suffering from an illness?’ Horton asked, recalling what Julie Preston had told him.

‘No. Heart and arteries sound, no sign of cardiac arrest, no evidence of a stroke, brain clot, brain haemorrhage or aneurysm. Spalding jumped into the dock. Suicide.’

‘From the few people we’ve spoken to, including Spalding’s wife, there’s no testimonial evidence to suggest he killed himself and no note has been found.’

‘Not everyone leaves one.’

I know that
. But Horton wondered if Spalding had, perhaps in his study at home. ‘How did he fall?’

‘Eh?’

Horton elaborated. ‘Lots of suicides jump feet first. What does the pathologist say about that?’

Uckfield gave a sniff of irritation and again consulted the report. ‘No injuries to the bones of the feet and ankle, or signs of trauma passing up the spine to the base of the skull. He jumped pitching forward.’

‘So he could have been pushed,’ Horton persisted.

‘He wasn’t,’ Dennings declared.

‘How do you know that?’ Horton rounded on him.

‘Because there was no one around to push him,’ Dennings said, exasperated.

Except Neil Gideon and Matt Newton, thought Horton, and possibly Julie Preston and Lewis Morden, who could have done so before leaving the dockyard, but why would they?

‘Would he have ended up in the position he did?’

‘Yes,’ Uckfield snapped. ‘Now if—’

But Horton hadn’t finished yet. ‘Any sign of alcohol in his system?’

‘No.’

‘Or drugs?’

‘Waiting on the toxicology tests.’

And if drugs were found in Spalding’s system that would clearly add weight to the suicide verdict.

‘And the missing briefcase?’ he asked.

‘What briefcase?’ Uckfield threw a glance at Dennings who shifted and glared at Horton. Swiftly Horton told them about it.

‘In the sea,’ Uckfield pronounced, coming, not unexpectedly, to the same conclusion as Horton had earlier. ‘DI Dennings was correct in his assessment last night at the scene. Suicide is the most probable cause. It’s not our case, and unless you have nothing else to do I don’t think it’s yours. Everything will go before the Coroner.’

Clearly Uckfield was not in the mood to discuss it further. Someone had upset him, which wasn’t difficult. Perhaps his lunch date hadn’t gone well. But despite Uckfield’s customary foul temper it wasn’t like him to shrug off an investigation without further probing. And if Uckfield’s love life wasn’t the cause of his short temper then it was probably the result of ACC Dean leaning on him for a quick result to make the performance figures look good. And from all the evidence it did look as though Dennings was right, even though Horton hated to admit it. Spalding had committed suicide. And yet he still wasn’t convinced. No one had searched Spalding’s house for a suicide note or evidence that could point to murder. There was the chance that Jacqueline Spalding had by now found a note from her husband. And if she had would she have called them? There was only thing for it. He needed to speak to Mrs Spalding.

J
acqueline Spalding glanced down at the slender, well-manicured hands clasped in her lap. Horton’s heart went out to her. He could see why Cantelli had warmed to the elegant, quietly spoken woman sitting opposite them in the tastefully decorated lounge of the immaculate semi-detached Victorian villa. Dressed smartly in tailored grey trousers and a white blouse she looked tired and bewildered. Understandably so. She’d told them her father-in-law, Ronald, had been given a sedative by Dr Deacon and was sleeping and that the children were still at a friend’s house. Soon, Horton thought, she would be facing the ordeal of handling their incomprehension and sorrow. His eyes alighted on the framed photograph on the desk in the bay window of Douglas and Jacqueline Spalding with their children at a ski resort. The children had dark looks like their parents, but the little girl resembled her father more than her mother. Beside the picture was a computer screen. Perhaps Douglas Spalding had used that computer and had left an explanation on it as to why he’d decided to throw himself in the dock? He would ask her about that, first though he asked if her husband had a study.