by Mark Raven
‘Daddy being Daddy thought that there was more to it than that. But then he always did. First, that sections of his blessed Sailing Club wanted him ousted as President. Then it was all about sea conditions. How could the Cassandra possibly run aground in such mild seas? On and on, he went about it. The Cassandra must have been deliberately rammed by another vessel. That was Daddy through and through, always talking about conspiracies; he was quite well-known for it.’
Her father had also said he suspected that someone was briefing the local press against him, making it seem like an accident. He complained to the local police but they had done nothing. They were carrying out their own investigation on the assumption it was death by misadventure. They kindly assured Sir Simeon that they would not prosecute him.
I was thoughtful. Sometimes beer has that effect on me.
‘But why would someone want to kill Mr Prajapati?’
‘I don’t know,’ she had said. ‘Something to do with his company, Daddy said. He saw conspiracies everywhere. A hostile take-over, he said, something like that. I told him if that was the case all the more reason to get that cheque cashed ASAP.’
The sobbing had started again. What do people say, I thought, about crying into your gin? In the case of Jenny Forbes-Marchant, if anything it made her more attractive. So I asked another question, largely to distract myself.
‘But he didn’t cash the cheque?’
‘No. I have it in the office. The police returned it to me. For all the good it will do.’
Chapter Seven
On the train back to Canterbury I tried to sober up. I bought a copy of the Telegraph and attempted its cryptic crossword, my favourite puzzle. But I could not get into it. The so-called Quick Crossword similarly foxed me, so I gave up and, as a last resort, read the newspaper. Anything to take my mind off the case of Sir Simeon Marchant, the missing sailor ‘Sunny’ Prajapati and the disconcerting presence of Jenny Forbes-Marchant.
I read about the Prime Minister’s wife’s new shoes, which were apparently the same brand worn by Mick Jagger. There was photographic evidence to this effect. Sir Mick was propped up against his much taller wife and looking very pleased with himself. Further on, a child killer, himself a child at the time of his offence, had been given his fourth new identity. It was the problem of giving new identities while people were still in custody. Word got out. Each new identity, the article said, cost the taxpayer £250,000.
I whistled.
Meanwhile in other news: academics had made the link between crime and the obesity crisis. An increase in the fear of violent crime had apparently put people off walking anywhere. This decline was at a rate equivalent to an eleven-degree drop in temperature. I was pleased, not least because the article had a lot of statistics in it. I like statistics. And some of these even made sense.
There was also some worrying news for attractive women. It seemed they were less likely to get treatment from their doctors as they looked too well. Whereas females who had ‘let themselves go’, according to the article, seemed to get all sorts of tests. There was a wonderful quote from a doctor from the European Society of Cardiology. She said her findings suggested that women should gain weight in order to reduce the risk of death. The unhealthier you looked, the research suggested, the longer you lived.
Finally, I fell asleep reading a letter to the Editor that explained why Russia would not back US intervention in Syria. I dreamt of Chechens in red-lined suits, beautiful women with concealed diseases, child killers with new names, and old men being mugged down the Euston Road.
The weather broke as the train drew into the East station. Fat raindrops pitted the dust on the concourse; the commuters scattered towards their cars and scrambled for taxis like old ladies at a jumble sale. Shielding my iPad in my newspaper and the paper in my jacket, I ran across the road and up the stone steps to the city wall. The morning seemed an eternity away. I had forgotten how time felt different when you were on a case.
But I was not on a case.
I jogged home, feeling the rain on my hot face. It would be strange now, I thought, to have that heart attack. I slowed, and jogged on considering all the ways there were to die, and which one would finally find its way to me. Back at the flat, I stripped off and got into a hot shower. I stood there for ten minutes just enjoying the warmth. I knew as soon as I got out, I would need to write everything down to get it straight in my head. But I dreaded that moment. There was a certain nebulousness about things at present, full of beauty and mystery, that I knew from experience would dissipate as soon as I wrote up my case notes.
Who was I kidding? It was not even my case. I was not employed to do anything. I was that terrible thing: an interfering amateur. What I was doing could not be said to be in the public interest, because I didn’t define what that was. But still I felt compelled to write it down.
I padded through to the living room in my bathrobe. The cathedral loomed hard and fast in the window. Its presence never ceased to amaze me. It was why I had paid over the odds for the flat. As soon as I had seen the view, it had become the only possible place to live. Just as now, writing it all down was the only possible reaction to the day’s events. While the computer was loading, I took a bottle of Spitfire from the crate and poured it slowly into a glass.
Talking to Jenny Forbes-Marchant had put the whole affair into a different perspective. Firstly, there was the meeting of Messrs. Prajapati and Marchant and the sale of the Cassandra. Secondly, there was the imputation that Sir Simeon had sold the yacht to a novice—almost as if he had neglected to uphold a duty of care in the sailing world. And thirdly, there was the not unrelated suspicion that the Indian had been the victim of some kind of contract killing rather than an accident at sea. All of these Jenny Forbes-Marchant knew something about and, after three G&Ts at the Lamb and Flag, had an opinion on. These I tried to match against the few facts in the public domain. The rest was conjecture until Mr Prajapati’s inquest next week.
I googled Sir Simeon Marchant again. I passed over the Evening Standard report of the mugging, such as it was, and went on to the next page.
Here were some more press results for Sir Simeon’s death. The Chichester Observer reported it as did the Hayling Islander and the Island’s own website, which also lamented the growth of vehicle crime on Elmore Crescent. The local media concentrated on Sir Simeon’s exploits in the general vicinity of Chichester: President (Emeritus) of Hayling Island Sailing Club, arch-deacon at the local church, member of the Rotary Club, Parish Councillor (retired). It seemed a laudable contribution to his local area.
Farther down, there was one listing for a ‘Simon Marchant’ speaking at a conference in the United States eccentrically entitled ‘ConGress 13’, and then I found it.
At the bottom of the page, above the web address of a national newspaper, the headline: Body of ‘vanishing yachtsman’ who disappeared as he sailed to...
Underneath, the teaser said:
21 August 2013 – Vanished: Sunil ‘Sunny’ Prajapati, 48, was trying to sail from Hayling Island, Portsmouth to Shoreham-on-Sea, Sussex when he disappeared...from Sir Simeon Marchant
I clicked and read on:
Body of ‘vanishing yachtsman’ who disappeared as he sailed to meet his wife on boat he had just bought has been found
· ‘Sunny’ Prajapati body found on sandbank off the Sussex coast
· He went missing on Friday after setting sail from Hayling Island
· The 48 year old had only bought the boat the same day
· Massive sea, land and air search had found no trace of skipper
The body of an Indian businessman who disappeared at sea just hours after buying a new yacht has been recovered.
Sunny Prajapati, 48, was reported missing on August 16 after setting sail from Hayling Island, Portsmouth with plans to meet his wife in to Shoreham-on-Sea, Sussex.
The 35-foot vessel, Cassandra, was found hours later unmanned off the Selsey Bill and an investigation was launched
to locate Mr Prajapati.
His body was found on Pilsey Island and was identified by Police yesterday. Mr Prajapati of Lancing, Sussex, was last seen sailing out of Chichester Harbour with his new purchase on Friday –the day after he celebrated his 48th birthday.
He was planning to travel to Shoreham-on Sea where he was a member of the sailing club. His family and friends had organised a champagne reception.
But his yacht, Cassandra, was found aground on a sandbank with the engine running and one sail up, near Middleton-on-Sea, Sussex, on 9.15 pm on Friday night. By then, the alarm had been raised by concerned family and friends.
Despite an extensive search by coastguard helicopters and RNLI lifeboats, no sign of him was found and the search was called off on Saturday. Coastguards had received no distress signal from the Cassandra and it is believed that Mr Prajapati was wearing a buoyancy aid rather than a lifejacket when he left the harbour.
Described as ‘extremely fit’ by his wife, Annie, he was an inexperienced sailor who was studying for British yachtmaster qualifications.
His family says Mr Prajapati was excited about the trip and was even planning a ‘round the world adventure’ in the Cassandra. The boat was advertised on eBay and was thought to have cost in the region of £75,000.
The seller, Sir Simeon Marchant, 87, of Hayling Island, declined to comment. Sir Simeon has faced criticism in some quarters about selling the yacht to an inexperienced sailor.
An inquest is scheduled for later this month.
I read a few more reports and then texted my contact at Scotland Yard. Fortunately she was still at her desk. The reply came back almost immediately. It took a few more minutes for me to decipher her shorthand.
Yes, the message said, the system did flag a link between the two cases: the disappearance of Mr ‘Sunny’ Prajapati and the death of Sir Simeon Marchant. It also informed me that I should ‘get a life’ and not bother her again that day.
Then, I rang Reuben Symonds at the Alconbury Estate Community Office. To my surprise he was still there.
‘Quick question,’ I said when he remembered who I was. ‘Did the boys hear anything the men said? Anything they heard?’
There was a long pause at the other end.
‘Just that they were foreign.’
‘Foreign?’
‘Sounded foreign.’
I had a vision of the men in suits showing their holsters, shouting at the boys as they rummaged through the bin looking for the mobile phone.
‘You mean they had foreign accents?’
‘Darren said they sounded Russian. God knows where he got that from.’
‘They were Russian?’
‘Sure he said Russians. Something like that, anyway. Something Eastern European.’
‘Did he mention anyone else?’
‘Like who?’
‘An Indian bloke called Prajapati.’
‘Nope,’ Reuben Symonds said. ‘No Indians.’
And the phone went dead.
I took a long swig of Spitfire and started writing up my case notes.
When a story starts with a disappearance or a death, I wrote, we often find it convenient to trace everything back to the inevitability of that event. Philosophers call this teleology, I believe, where causes are traced back from the effect. That is often how we make sense of the world. But it was by no means inevitable that either Sunil Prajapati or Sir Simeon Marchant would die when and where and how and why they did.
I paused and recalled my last question to Jenny Forbes-Marchant.
‘What did DCI Richie say about the disappearance of Mr Prajapati?’
She looked confused. I added, ‘In relation to your father’s death?’
‘What possible connection could it have? He said it was a coincidence. There was no more to it than that.’
In my experience there is always more to it than that. And you can always read more into these things than is strictly necessary. Over the years I had investigated hundreds of quite serious and complex police complaints that turned out to be what I termed ‘honest fabrications’—people reading too much into the actions of officers. True, sometimes the accusations were malicious or revengeful in intent but most of them were based on sincerely held beliefs. Television drama encourages us to look for intent that, in most cases, just isn’t there. Thankfully, life is not like TV. But even though you know this, I thought, even though you know there is probably nothing to it, you still have to investigate the facts as they are presented to you.
In this case, they were as follows:
1. A disappears at sea after buying a boat from B.
2. B is accused of not showing a duty of care to A, who is an inexperienced sailor.
3. B investigates A’s disappearance which B thinks is not due to inexperience at all, but foul play—as A’s company is going through some kind of corporate merger or hostile take-over.
4. B is killed under suspicious circumstances. The police computer flags the two events or crimes as linked in some way and yet the police does not seem investigate either case, despite having sound leads.
I looked at my notes, got myself another beer and read them again.
A’s company is going through some kind of corporate merger…
I closed the document and took the iPad over to the sofa. I lay back and rested the screen on my chest, as Clara used to. With numb fingers, I punched in the words ‘Prajapati’ and ‘Merger’ to see what I got.
Sunil Prajapati’s company was called PiTech and it was registered in Mumbai. Its main manufacturing base was in Crawley, West Sussex. From the available information it seemed it made surveillance devices for the military and security forces. It had been in the news most recently owing to the developing of biodegradable or ‘born to die’ implants that gradually disappeared after prolonged contact with water. I watched a promotional video of a scientist feeding pipette droplets onto a circuit board the size of a fingernail. Although it was just water being dripped onto the circuit, the effect was like acid. The chip fizzed and unpeeled before my eyes. In thirty seconds it looked like someone had stepped on a very small snail. The microchip sat in its own pool of green gunk.
I read on for an hour, fascinated by both the science—how out of date I was!—and the increasing number of business reports appearing about PiTech. How the company had attracted the attention of some bigger defence contractors in the USA and China. How concern was expressed in some quarters—of the UK media that is—that PiTech had ‘significant contracts’ with the Ministry of Defence. Most recently an FT report talking about the possibility of a hostile takeover from a Russian company, Vassiliov Holdings.
All fascinating stuff. All very hi-tech at PiTech. At some point I fell asleep.
It was after midnight when my daughter rang. I couldn’t see the clock but it was still dark and she said she was having breakfast. Hong Kong time. I was not sure if I had nodded off or not. Clara’s voice came through the veils of sleep like a memory. I imagined her sitting on her tiny balcony having a coffee before she went to work.
‘Hi, Papa! Mum’s not picking up. Is everything okay?’
For a moment I was struck by panic—like I needed to go and check—before I remembered Meg did not live with me anymore.
‘I think she’s away. At a conference with Professor Plum.’
Clara laughed and adopted a mock-serious tone. ‘Doctor Philip Hammonde.’
‘Hammonde,’ I hammed. ‘With an ‘e’ at the end.’
Clara was snorting. I had forgotten the peculiar texture of her laughter. ‘C’mon, Papa! He’s not all that bad!’
‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘He is a terrible man. A terrible, terrible man.’
‘Mum said you were actually quite civil to him when you last met.’
‘I’m always civil, darling. You know that. Extremely civil.’
Now she was indignant. ‘No, you are not! You can be a real grouch!’
I could tell my daughter’s mind was now at rest. She knew w
here her mother was, and why she was not answering her phone. She had always worried about her parents in that way. Was it an only child thing? After a few more jokes and mild insults, she said she really must get to work and apologised for waking me.
‘You did not wake me, darling.’ I said. ‘I’m still asleep.’
Chapter Eight
The next day I awoke early—I was still on the sofa—showered, dressed and left for the office. Everything felt fresh again after last night’s rain. I stopped for a coffee and croissant—the almond variety, Clara’s favourite—and reviewed my case notes.
Pretty soon I realised I was searching for something that wasn’t there. What was missing was a complainant. In most cases, there is someone, however misguided or deluded, who was prepared to pursue a case. It was not the money. I often undertake cases where there is very little chance of getting paid. But at least there is someone around who is not going to pay me sooner or later, someone who might or might not be grateful. In this case I had nobody, not even a bad debtor or potential ingrate, and I wasn’t even sure what Sir Simeon Marchant was going to ask me.
Perhaps it was to do with the PiTech Merger, I read in my case notes. Mr Prajapati might or might not have been in favour of the take-over of the Russian conglomerate, Vassiliov Holdings. There is nothing in the public domain either way. We do know, however, he was going to take the opportunity to sail around the world with his wife. But that in itself is no indication of his position in relation to the proposed take-over.
True, concern was expressed in some quarters that PiTech had ‘significant contracts’ with the Ministry of Defence, but there was nothing the British Government could do, as the company was Indian owned and registered in Mumbai. It was possible that—given his connections—Sir Simeon had some inside track on this, but only he would know that. He had not told his daughter, who seemed more exercised by the potential loss of the £75,000. The rest is supposition.
