In Cold Daylight

by Pauline Rowson

  'That's really very kind of you,' I said shaking his hand, thinking I'd rather bring Jody. My last image of her flashed through my mind. She stirred more than desire in me but this time that longing was tainted with unease. There was something about our last exchange in the dockyard that troubled me. I couldn't say what though.

  As soon as I reached home I looked Bransbury up on the Internet. He was born in 1958, the same year as Simon, educated at the local grammar school and then took a degree in Science at Oxford. Would Simon know him? It was possible; they must have been at Oxford together though not necessarily on the same course. He was married with two children and lived just outside of Portsmouth. His interests were football, tennis and surprise, surprise, the environment! There was no information on him holding any surgeries but I could e-mail him through the House of Commons website. I decided to telephone first and ask for his office. On the third attempt I got through to his secretary. I asked if he could check Mr Bransbury's movements in 1994, which involved a visit to the Portsmouth ferry port. I got a frosty reception and was told to put my request in writing with an explanation of why I needed such information. I e-mailed him, wondering if I would ever receive a reply.

  There had to be some kind of record of MPs' engagements but though I searched the Internet I couldn't find one. I found snippets of his visits since becoming a minister in 2005 with details of speeches and some photographs but nothing for when he had been an MP in 1994. Then I recalled what Ditton had told me. Bransbury had been a Conservative MP in 1994. I found articles about him crossing the floor in 1997. The local conservative party might be able to help me with that visit to the port in 1994 if I needed it. It could be pure coincidence. There was someone else I could ask first though.

  I telephoned Nigel Steep, hoping he would still be in his office. It was gone six. He was.

  'I need a couple of favours,' I said. 'Can you find out for me which shipping lines used the port in the summer of 1994?'

  'Of course, and the other favour?'

  'William Bransbury, the Government minister, visited the port in July 1994. Can you find out when he was there and what he was doing?'

  'That might be harder to answer. I'll get back to you tomorrow.'

  I spent some time staring at Jack's postcard and the message taken from the Gideons New Testament and Psalms trying to see if I could squeeze anything further from it.

  His mouth is full of …deceit and fraud, he murder the innocent.

  That implied that Jack had discovered the identity of the person who had placed something dangerous on that boat. Could he be referring to Bransbury?

  I re-read the postcard:

  Look after 'Rosie' for me, Adam. You're an accomplished artist and a good friend.

  Happy Sailing!

  Best Jack

  4 July 1994

  I couldn't get Bransbury's name from the letters on the postcard. I pinned it back on the board above my computer and desk and stepped back inside the house from my studio. As soon as I did I knew something was wrong. I strained my ears but could hear only the gentle whirr of the central heating boiler. Despite the silence I knew someone was inside the house. My mind rapidly replayed my conversation with Steve. He'd been sent to warn me off. I had ignored the warning. Had our conversation been bugged? Steve hadn't succeeded so now I had to be told in stronger terms. Men had died because of this secret. Now it was my turn.

  A shiver ran down my spine. My chest tightened. I struggled to get my breath. My hands began to tremble.

  Run away, said the coward's voice inside me. I wouldn't. I crept forwards through the kitchen into the hall. Empty. Something creaked behind me. Someone was there. I made to turn round when something struck me on the side of the head.

  It was pitch dark when I regained consciousness. Boudicca was meowing like mad and pushing up against my shoulder. I tried to move but a sharp pain shot through my head. I must have drifted off again. The next time I awoke my head was still hurting but not quite so fiercely. Slowly, testing the pain threshold with each movement, I propped myself up. As I grew acclimatised to the pain I began to be aware of my surroundings. I was in the hall.

  The phone rang. I let it. Whoever had attacked me had let me live, why? I could so easily have been finished off and my death made to look like an accident, a house fire perhaps, or a fall down the stairs?

  I shuddered and hauled myself up. Wincing and clutching my head I dragged myself into the kitchen, almost blindly, wondering if I would ever get full vision back. When I removed my hand there was blood on it. I rinsed it under the tap and then poured myself a glass of water and drank it thirstily. I felt sick and dizzy and knew that I really ought to go to hospital but I didn't want to, besides I didn't have the energy and I couldn't ride the bike, not in this condition.

  Staggering back to the lounge I sprawled myself on the sofa where again I drifted into unconsciousness. I woke once and managed to reach the downstairs cloakroom before being violently sick. Then hauling myself back to the lounge I threw myself once more on to the sofa. If they came for me now I'd be an easy target. The pain in my head was so intense that I couldn't give a damn if they did.

  When I woke some time later there was a chink of light coming through the bay window. I raised myself up on an elbow; the pain wasn't nearly so severe and I could see. There was no double vision. My mouth felt like someone had stuffed it full of sandpaper and my hand rasped over my unshaven chin. But I was alive and in one piece and clearly it was morning.

  I clawed my way up the stairs and shaved carefully, staring at my haggard face in the mirror hardly recognising the man who stared back at me. Then I stood under the shower until I felt almost human again.

  'Who were they, Boudicca?'

  She meowed at me as if to say how the hell should I know, tucked her tail around her body and laid her head down on the soft duvet of the bed.

  I coped with breakfast, and slowly and miraculously my brain began to function. Yet, no matter how well I exercised it, it could not come up with a reason for why I had been allowed to live. Maybe it had been a sheer fluke. Maybe I had a thicker skull than the attacker had anticipated.

  I crossed to the studio. Before I reached it I could see that the door was open. Cautiously I moved forward and pushed my fingertips against it, my heart knocking against my ribs and steeling myself for another attack or sight of the intruder.

  Slowly the door swung open and I stepped inside. But there was no intruder, only the chaos of my wrecked studio. I picked my way through the debris to my desk and stared up at my notice board. Jack's photograph, the postcard and the message from the Gideons New Testament and Psalms had gone. Someone was wiping the trail clean. Next time it would be me.

  CHAPTER 12

  Despite my pounding head I made my way to Rosie's. I couldn't see anyone following me but that didn't mean to say they weren't. If Steve was right and it was MI5 or Special Branch then I guessed I wouldn't spot them, just as I hadn't heard or seen anyone enter the house. They'd be too well trained for that. I wasn't sure how safe it was to stay in the house. Would they try again when they saw I was alive and still determined to get to the truth? I guessed so.

  Rosie looked so bereft when she answered the door to me that it filled me with an even greater resolve to find the bastards who had killed Jack and who were having a pretty good go at finishing me off. I gave her a hug and felt myself connect with Jack.

  'Sally's here,' Rosie said.

  At first I thought she meant her daughter but my sluggish brain finally recalled that her daughter was called Sarah, not Sally. I entered the lounge to find Jack's colleague from Red Watch perched on one of the chairs. I was pleased to see her. If Rosie couldn't help me perhaps Sally could.

  I said to Rosie, 'I came to ask if you have Ian's telephone number and address.'

  'No, I don't, sorry.'

  'I've got his number,' Sally volunteered, as I hoped she would. I smiled my thanks. As I copied it from her mobile onto mine she said,
'Why do you want it?'

  'I want to talk to him about Jack.'

  She thought for a moment then shrugged. 'Perhaps it will help him.'

  'Do you know where he lives?'

  'St James's Road, Locks Heath but don't ask me the number. I only know the house. It's a colour-washed bungalow in yellow. Poor Ian. He feels so responsible.' Sally flashed Rosie a look.

  'It wasn't his fault,' Rosie said. 'It was just one of those things.'

  I didn't comment on that. I addressed Sally, 'What was Jack like on that day? Was he acting differently in any way?'

  Rosie flashed me a worried look.

  Sally said, 'He seemed a bit quieter than usual.'

  'Were you there when he swapped with Ian?'

  'No. I was making a coffee for DO Brookfield.'

  Brookfield hadn't mentioned he'd been on the station the day Jack had been killed. Then a terrible thought struck me. Brookfield could have seen that tally board. Brookfield could have been lying about those missing fire reports. Brookfield could have killed Jack! No, that was ridiculous. I couldn't believe it. But perhaps he had passed the information on to someone who wasn't so squeamish when it came to committing murder.

  'What did Brookfield want?' I asked lightly.

  'He came to see the station officer about something, I don't know what.'

  Outside I rang Ian's number and got his wife.

  'He went out early this morning for a walk and he's not returned. I don't know when he'll be back,' she said after I had briefly explained that I'd like to talk to him. She sounded tense, and I could hear a child crying in the background.

  'I'll call again later.'

  I returned home, scouring the street for anyone loitering or sitting in parked cars. No one. Cautiously I let myself in listening for sounds, only Boudicca padded down the stairs to greet me.

  My mobile rang making me jump. It was Nigel Steep. 'No joy on what the minister was doing at the port, Adam, but I have got the names of the shipping lines.'

  There was only one that was no longer using Portsmouth; Greys of London; all the others were local firms and mainly imported fruit.

  I powered up my laptop, connected to the Internet and looked up Greys. They were a privately owned company, which had begun trading in the late 1960s with a number of small coasters and barges supplying Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight. Since then they had expanded to mini bulk carriers, and had grown their fleet of container ships to forty-six carrying grains, fertilisers, steel, and minerals. They could also carry hazardous goods such as explosives and ammunition.

  I called them from my mobile phone, knowing from the films I'd watched that landlines could be tapped, and gave them the story that Albert Honeyman was my uncle. I managed to get an appointment with someone from human resources for Friday. Tomorrow was Thursday, and my father's funeral. I decided I would stay in London overnight, but not at father's house. I also decided I would say nothing to Faye.

  I left a whole lot of food out for Boudicca, which she'd probably gobble up by the end of the day, and told her to go next door if she got hungry. Then throwing some clothes and toiletries into my sailing bag and collecting my lap top computer, I climbed on to my bike and headed for Hayling Island, checking that no one was following me. When I climbed on board my boat moored in the marina at the northern end of the island I didn't think anyone had.

  I telephoned Ian again but he still hadn't returned home. His wife sounded frantic. I didn't blame her. I was beginning to get worried myself. Had Ian gone walk-about to try and escape his depression? Had someone followed, or lured him away, because they didn't want me finding out why Jack had swapped duties with him? Or had Ian disappeared because he was partly to blame for leading Jack to his death? Had someone paid Ian to swap with Jack on that fateful Wednesday? Is that why he was so cut up? Was it more than just sorrow? Was it a huge burden of guilt that young Ian carried? If so, I didn't rate his poor wife's chance of being reunited with her husband.

  Steve called me. I was surprised. 'It's Special Branch,' he said abruptly.

  I gripped the phone tightly. 'Do you know why?'

  'I've already put my neck on the line for you, Adam.'

  'I know and I'm grateful.'

  'I'd rather have you alive.'

  'You don't mean they'd silence me permanently.' I rubbed the side of my head.

  'Of course not, but if they're involved it means that whoever they are after is a hell of lot nastier and wouldn't hesitate to kill you if they had to.'

  'Good job I've taken your advice then, Steve.'

  'You'll let things alone?' The relief in his voice was palpable.

  'Yes,' I lied.

  'Thank God for that. Go away for a few days.'

  'I will. Thanks, Steve.'

  I rang off.

  I had done a fair bit of sailing in the dark but in the summer rather than winter. Still that couldn't be helped now. I wasn't going to risk staying in the marina. That call to my mobile could be traced. Special Branch would know where I was. I wanted to believe Steve when he said they wouldn't kill me but I wasn't going to take any chances. And if they knew maybe whoever they were after would also know my whereabouts.

  I hadn't asked Steve how he had found out it was Special Branch because I wasn't sure he would tell me the truth. As I motored slowly out of Northney Marina I couldn't quite believe that he had discovered it for himself. Someone had told him. Just like they had told him to make the call. They wanted to know where I was. Tonight I would elude them but tomorrow was a very different matter. They would be able to find me easily because tomorrow I would be at my father's funeral in London.

  The cremation was short. No lingering speeches, no memorial sermons. I had Simon to thank for that. During it my mind had wandered back to my conversation with Ian's wife that morning. He hadn't returned home. She'd reported his disappearance to the police. Would they connect it with Jack's death? I guessed only in the fact that Ian was depressed about it and felt guilty.

  I glanced around the faded lounge of my father's Belgravia house, trying to stifle a yawn after a fitful night's sleep on the boat. I had picked up a buoy in the Emsworth channel and returned to the marina in the morning to shower and collect my motorbike. Perhaps I had over reacted because there was no one lurking around the marina that looked suspicious and, as far as I could tell, no one had followed me to London.

  I had checked my phone for messages before the service. Jody had called me. She sounded anxious. My heart tugged at the sound of her voice enquiring how I was and what I was doing. It took a great deal of effort to resist calling her back. I desperately wanted to. I told myself it would only put her in danger. If Special Branch could locate where I was calling from then maybe they could locate whom I was calling?

  'It's Adam, isn't it?'

  I spun round to find a tall, elegantly dressed man with a leonine sweep of grey hair sleeked back from a distinguished looking face. He looked familiar but I couldn't place him.

  'Tim Davenham. I was at Oxford with Simon.'

  'Of course.' I took his hand and returned the pressure.

  'Simon tells me you're an artist.'

  'Yes.'

  'And a successful one by all accounts. Your father would have been proud.'

  I doubt it, I thought, scrutinising Davenham for signs of irony. He showed none but I had a feeling he was sneering at me. Maybe it was my inferiority complex.

  Across the shabby, crowded room Faye was talking to Simon. She laughed at something he said, Simon smiled. He was at his most charming. They'd hit it off immediately.

  'She's very attractive,' Davenham went on, following my gaze. 'But Simon always did have an eye for a pretty girl.'

  Before I could reply he'd excused himself. I watched him join them. I couldn't recall Davenham that well from Simon's past. I had only a vague recollection of a clever, handsome man who attracted women like a magnet. Simon hadn't done too badly for himself either I seemed to remember.

  I looked at
Faye as though seeing her for the first time. She had managed to get herself her a little black dress that hugged her shapely but slender figure and showed off her long legs, clad in black stockings. She was at her most seductive in the hope, I suspected, of wheedling some of father's inheritance from Simon. Judging by Simon's reaction to her I didn't think she'd have much difficulty. I saw the point of Davenham's remarks. He had wanted to rub my face in it. A month ago I might have reacted. A year ago I would have been upset, devastated even, but now? I didn't really care. When had I stopped loving Faye?

  'They seem to be getting on well, don't they?'

  I turned to find Harriet beside me. Her shapeless figure was clothed in a drab black dress. Her limp blonde hair hung around a lined face with skin that was dull and eyes that were sad. It was as if she had long ago forgotten how to smile. It made me think of the last time I'd laughed and again I thought of Alison. She'd had that capacity to make the world seem bright. Nothing could dampen her wild spirit or her optimism. To her life had been living on the crest of the wave and never rolling on to the shore. Jody made me feel like that.