Authors: Pauline Rowson
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Police Procedural, #General
Death Surge
Table of Contents
Recent Titles by Pauline Rowson
TIDE OF DEATH
IN COLD DAYLIGHT
FOR THE KILL
DEADLY WATERS *
THE SUFFOCATING SEA *
DEAD MAN’S WHARF *
BLOOD ON THE SAND *
FOOTSTEPS ON THE SHORE *
A KILLING COAST *
DEATH LIES BENEATH *
UNDERCURRENT *
DEATH SURGE *
*
available from Severn House
A DI Andy Horton Mystery
Pauline Rowson
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain 2013 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
9–15 High Street, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM1 1DF.
First published in the USA 2014 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS of
110 East 59
th
Street, New York, N.Y. 10022
eBook edition first published in 2013 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2013 by Pauline Rowson.
The right of Pauline Rowson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Rowson, Pauline author.
Death surge. – (A DI Andy Horton mystery; 10)
1. Horton, Andy (Fictitious character)–Fiction.
2. Missing persons–Investigation–Fiction. 3. Police–
England–Portsmouth–Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery
stories.
I. Title II. Series
823.9'2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8321-6 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-469-0 (ePub)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This eBook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
For Chrissy with much love
With grateful thanks to Haslar Marina staff and Sir Robin Knox-Johnston
August, Saturday
T
he gentle wind propelled Horton’s yacht along the coastline, past the Victorian colour-washed houses which lay staggered up the steep hills from the small bay of Ventnor to St Boniface Down on the Isle of Wight. He barely glanced at them. His eyes were focused ahead on the vast expanse of silver sea that stretched across to France but his mind was back in the Castle Hill Yacht Club in Cowes which, three hours ago, he’d left with the stink of deception in his nostrils and fury churning his gut.
He mentally replayed his conversation with Lord Eames. He’d been over it a hundred times and he could go over it a hundred times more but it still wouldn’t change the fact that Lord Eames knew something about the disappearance of Jennifer Horton, his mother, in 1978, and that he was going to keep silent about it. Why? Because he worked for the intelligence services. Not that Eames had admitted it, but Horton could smell it. He could feel it and taste it and it made him sick to his stomach. How the intelligence services were involved in his mother’s disappearance, or why, he didn’t know, but he was determined to find out. Equally, he knew they would be determined to stop him.
He scoured the horizon. Not a boat in view, but the throb of a distant helicopter caught his attention. He peered up at the pale blue sky but couldn’t see it. It was probably the coastguard or a naval helicopter from one of the ships docked in the Portsmouth Naval Base that now lay several miles behind him. He thought of his CID office in Portsmouth and the paperwork piling up on his desk but it was Saturday, he wasn’t on duty, and his boss DCI Lorraine Bliss wouldn’t be working either; the station was usually as barren as the Sahara at weekends when it came to a head count of senior officers.
He ran a hand over his chin. God, he was tired. This last week of researching into the disappearance of his mother and being caught up in a major murder investigation was taking its toll both emotionally and physically. Maybe it was time to call it quits as far as his mother was concerned and let go of the past before it became an unhealthy obsession. Or had he already passed that point?
He put the helm on autopilot and retrieved the black and white photograph from the pocket of his trousers which had led him to Lord Eames. He had no need to study it again because he knew each of the six men’s features by heart; he’d looked at the wretched thing enough times since discovering it on his yacht six weeks ago. It had been left there by a man named Edward Ballard, who, he’d since learnt, didn’t exist, at least not on any databases he’d checked – and being a copper they were pretty extensive. Ballard’s prints and DNA, which Horton had lifted from a can of Coke when he’d come on-board in June to thank him for his help after an alleged assault at Southsea Marina, hadn’t matched anyone of his age: early to mid sixties. The only Edward Ballards Horton could find in the UK were either dead, over eighty, or under five. And Horton didn’t think Ballard was any nationality other than English, but he could be wrong.
His mind flashed back to that night in June. Ballard had barely stayed five minutes on-board and had hardly touched his drink, but after he had left the marina Horton had discovered the photograph pushed down behind the seat cushion where Ballard had been sitting. That, and the recall of a distant memory of a man handing his foster father a tin, which Horton had later been given, containing a photograph of Jennifer Horton along with his birth certificate had sealed the connection. Horton knew the assault had been fabricated as a means to make contact with him. Ballard was telling him something by leaving this picture taken in 1967, but what, for God’s sake?
The wind suddenly sprang up out of nowhere catching the sails. He could see clouds beginning to form to the west; ripples appeared on the sea, and almost instantly it changed colour. One moment all was calm and looked set to stay that way and the next everything changed. Just like his life, he thought, correcting course. At the age of ten, with his mother’s disappearance it had altered irrevocably.
Ahead, far on the horizon, a container ship came into view. The throb of the helicopter faded into nothing. The silence was soothing, and yet at the same time it was a torment. No, the torment was inside him. After years of trying to forget his mother he now so desperately wanted to know why she’d abandoned him. He could no more call it quits than give up breathing. He had to know. It was like a sore that constantly itched and yet the more he scratched the more it irritated him. Why had the investigation into her disappearance been cursory, to say the least? Why had all her belongings and photographs been destroyed? Why had …? His phone rang.
He swore softly. He should have switched it off. He hoped it wasn’t Bliss, who for once had decided to work at the weekend to earn extra brownie points in the promotion stakes, wanting to bawl him out for not writing up his reports of the last murder investigation. But with relief he saw it was Cantelli. And the sergeant was the one person he would never ignore. Cantelli had stood by him through all the mess of those false rape allegations twenty months ago when he’d been working undercover, which had cost him his marriage and stalled his career.
‘Andy, thank God.’
‘What is it?’ Horton asked with concern hearing the anguish in Cantelli’s voice.
‘It’s Johnnie. He’s missing.’
Horton’s heart lurched; he knew the fear and panic that word evoked. Johnnie Oslow was Cantelli’s nephew, who Horton had helped steer away from a path of criminality seven years ago, when he’d been sixteen and in trouble with the law, following an arson attack on a sailing club in Portsmouth. Horton had introduced him to sailing via a charity that rehabilitated wayward boys and girls. The lad had never looked back. From there he had got a job as a crew member on a Greek millionaire’s personal yacht and also as a team member on one of the same millionaire’s many racing yachts.
‘He’s been missing since Wednesday,’ Cantelli said, ‘but it’s only just been reported. He’s meant to be at Cowes Week, racing with a guy named Scott Masefield.’
‘Not Andreadis, his boss?’ Horton asked, puzzled.
‘It doesn’t sound like it. I’ve only got sketchy information. A Nat Boulton, who said he worked for Andreadis, called Johnnie’s mum, Isabella, an hour ago to ask if she’d heard from him. She said she hasn’t, not since last Tuesday. As far as Isabella is aware, Johnnie was due at Cowes on Friday, but this Boulton said he was meant to be there from Wednesday. They tried Johnnie’s mobile phone but got no answer. Isabella tried it and the number is dead. She phoned me. I got the same result. So I called Cowes police station and got an idiot who sounded as though he should either be committed or in nursery school. He said this Masefield guy reported it and it’s been logged. Logged!’ Cantelli cried in disgust. ‘I’m on the ferry on my way over to the Island to see Masefield and find out what the devil’s going on.’
And that showed just how concerned Cantelli was, because nothing short of a direct order from Bliss would get him on water. The sergeant got sick just standing on a pontoon. Horton was perplexed by the local station’s response because Andreadis, Johnnie’s boss, was very wealthy and influential, so surely reporting one of his crew missing would have been enough to have summoned the National Guard, if they’d had one. But ‘logged’ meant no further action had been taken. Horton didn’t blame Cantelli for being furious.
‘Doesn’t Andreadis have any idea where he might be?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t got his telephone number or this Nat Boulton’s. And I can’t speak to this Scott Masefield because he’s racing,’ Cantelli added scathingly.
Horton switched the autopilot back to manual. ‘I’ll meet you on the promenade at Cowes by the Castle Hill Yacht Club. Do nothing until I get there.’
‘Thanks.’ The relief in Cantelli’s voice was palpable.
Horton started the engine and swiftly turned the boat round, cursing the fact that he was so far away, but with the engine running, and wind and tide permitting, he’d be there in about thirty-five minutes. The ferry crossing would take Cantelli forty minutes and then the drive to Cowes another fifteen. With luck and the elements with him Horton thought he might get there first, especially as Cantelli would find the narrow streets of Cowes slow to navigate because of the holiday traffic and the annual sailing event, and he’d have to find somewhere to park. Horton would need somewhere to moor the yacht, though, and that would be a problem as all the moorings would be taken. He rang Sergeant Elkins of the police marine unit.
‘Dai, where are you?’
‘In the midst of mayhem,’ Elkins answered somewhat wearily.
Horton could hear the wind whistling down the mobile line, which meant Elkins and PC Ripley were at sea and probably close to the racing. Horton swiftly relayed what Cantelli had told him, ending with a request for a mooring on the pontoon near the yacht club and promenade.
Elkins said, ‘Take ours, we’ll moor up alongside you. I’ll clear it with the harbour master and the Commodore of the yacht club. We’ll head back to help you.’
‘Find out if Andreadis is at Cowes. And who this Scott Masefield is and where we can locate him.’
The sooner they spoke to Masefield and Andreadis the better, he thought as the Portsmouth landscape of tower blocks eventually came into view across the Solent to the north. The brisk wind was now behind him from the east helping to propel him, but it still wasn’t fast enough. He didn’t often wish for a motorboat or a more powerful engine but this was one occasion when he would willingly have exchanged what he had for either or both.