“A chap called Roy, no, Ryan. He’s some sort of waiter…”
“Steward. I think they call themselves stewards.”
“He said they’ll be coming back after the Regatta to pick Mr Eden up.”
“You must let me know when she returns.”
“She?”
“The yacht, Beausale.”
Through the week of the Regatta Diane kept an eye on the comings and goings on the river, checking the details of any unusual visitors, but she also spent some time on the internet.
For a week Diane, when she was not involved in the activities of the Regatta, learned what she could about Warwick Eden, his brother Barford, and the man she knew he had become, Brian Cliffe. She could find nothing to indicate that anyone had realised the true identity of Brian Cliffe though she was concerned that his son, Guy, appeared to have stopped using social media.
Her suspicion that the Guy who was now captaining Beausale was Brian’s son was confirmed when she checked with the harbour master.
She tried to imagine what Guy Cliffe could be doing on his uncle’s yacht. She felt the development was worrying enough to call Gordon’s number and was disappointed when Anne Hill answered the call.
“Oh! Anne, I was hoping to have a word with Gordon.”
“He’s indulging his love of cricket. Will I do?”
“No, sorry, I need to speak to Gordon.”
“Is it important? It must be for you to call out of sequence.”
“It’ll wait. I’ll call on Friday as usual.”
When she saw Beausale return to its mooring in the middle of the river the following Wednesday evening she walked down into the town to see if she could find her drinking companion of the week before and was disappointed that there was no sign of him.
The next morning she spent time sitting on the Embankment watching the yacht from closer quarters.
When a tender tied up close to where she was sitting she engaged the red-headed crewman in conversation.
“Hi again.”
“Oh hi.”
“You remember me from the Dolphin, last week? You’re Ryan, aren’t you?”
“Of course I do, ma’am, and yes, I’m Ryan.”
“Have you come back for Mr Eden?”
Ryan nodded.
“Is he back on board?”
“No. We’ve been told he’s not back till tonight. Do you want me to take a message to him?”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“It would be no trouble.”
“No, there’s no need. Thanks for offering.”
“No problem. But I’d better be on my way.”
“Thanks again, Ryan.”
She watched as he strode purposefully away, wondering what had happened in the days away to make him appear so much happier and more confident.
Apart from the time it took for her to walk home Diane kept Beausale in view for the rest of the day, noting the comings and goings in notes on her phone. Scanning the yacht with her strong binoculars she recorded details of all the crew she could see.
She recognised Ryan immediately by his red hair. Another, who she took to be an engineer in his blue overalls, seemed to be busy with the inner workings of the yacht’s engine. She thought a third, who appeared to be the ranking officer, looked familiar, his dark hair and narrow face clearly visible as he climbed down the ladder into the tender. “Hello Guy,” she said out loud. “How very like your father you are.”
She hurried out of the house. She had to meet the tender and talk to him. Perhaps she could find out why he was on his uncle’s yacht.
“Hello,” she said as Guy reached the top of the steps and stood only a few feet from her.
“Hello?” he responded warily.
“Guy Cliffe?”
“And you are?” She noticed he neither confirmed nor denied his name.
Diane did not give her name as she continued. “I was hoping to see Mr Eden, Warwick Eden that is. Has he returned yet?”
“No.” She thought his response was too sharp.
“Is he returning tonight?” She was not going to give up easily.
“Look, I don’t know who you are, whether you’re press or what, but Mr Eden is a very busy man. He will be back when he gets back.”
“You are Guy Cliffe, aren’t you?” Diane asked very deliberately. “Your father is Brian. I knew your father. What I want to know is what you are doing working on this particular yacht. I can’t see much love being lost between you and your uncle.”
She knew she had overstepped the mark.
She had thought it was entirely possible that Warwick had learned what had happened to his brother and had accepted some responsibility for the son of the man who should have inherited their father’s wealth but then again, she had worried that there might be some more sinister reason for Guy being on board.
But she should not have let this young man know that she was well aware who he was; she should have realised how sensitive the subject would be to him.
“You’d like to see the yacht, wouldn’t you?”
Diane barely had time to recognise the threatening tone in Guy’s voice when she felt his hand on her arm, propelling her precariously down the stone steps to the tender below.
She had no chance to call out; even if she had managed a sound that would rise above the calls of the gulls and the shrieks of happy children she rather thought no one would take any notice.
With Guy’s hand firmly around her wrist he pulled her onto the yacht and led her down to one of the empty guest cabins.
“Your phone,” he instructed holding out his hand.
She had no option but to obey.
After he left she tried the door. It was locked. “Oh you stupid, stupid old woman,” she shouted in frustration. She sat down on a chair, her head in her hands and allowed herself to indulge in self-pity for a few moments before looking more closely at her surroundings.
The cabin was large, the size of her living room at home. There were fresh flowers and a bowl of fruit on a table, almost as if a guest were expected. There was a window but she could see nothing through it as there appeared to be some kind of semi-opaque shutter on the outside.
She pushed open the door that led into the shower room and noticed two towelling robes hanging on hooks and a tray of shampoo and bath gels. The cabin seemed like one of the more expensive rooms in an upmarket hotel.
She could see there was nothing to be gained in shouting and screaming for help so she resigned herself to waiting. If she was a prisoner, which she undoubtedly was, it did not seem to be too uncomfortable a cell.
After pouring herself a glass of orange juice from the jug on the bedside table she leant back in the chair, closed her eyes and tried to think.
She must have dozed off because it was dark when she opened her eyes. Her immediate thought was that the juice had been laced with some kind of drug. She felt her way to the lamp she had seen on the bedside table and switched it on.
Nothing in the room had changed and the yacht was still not moving.
She never wore a wristwatch and with no phone and no clock in the room she had no way of knowing how much time had passed when and Ryan came into the cabin and placed a tray on the table.
“Ryan?” she asked, hoping that the young man could help her. “Ryan? I don’t want to be on this yacht. I’m not a guest. Guy Cliffe is holding me here against my will. Will you help me?”
But Ryan said nothing as he closed the door behind him and left her to her thoughts.
“Oh shit shit shit shit shit.” She spoke aloud because she didn’t care who heard her.
She sat down and looked at the food. Perhaps it, too, was drugged. But she was hungry and picked up the knife and fork and began to eat the chicken dish which, she had to admit, smelt delicious.
Since she was an inveterate sufferer of seasickness she was relieved that the yacht did not seem to be moving. They were still moored, presumably still in the Dart, awaiting the return of Mr Warwick Eden.
Ryan appeared the following morning with a breakfast tray, but again he said nothing other than to wish her a ‘good morning’ and she asked nothing of him.
It was Guy who she had to talk to; he was the one who had kidnapped her. She felt sure he would tell her soon enough what it was all about.
She spent the day, Friday, leafing through the magazines that Ryan had brought with breakfast. They were not the sort of magazine that interested her, containing only advertisements and photographs of celebrities she had never heard of and minor royalty, so her mind was not distracted for long from her predicament.
What had she done, or seen, that Guy found so threatening? Or was it simply that she had admitted to recognising him for who he was?
She thought back to 1990 when Barford had stayed three months with her, recovering from the beating he had taken and while his new identity was established.
He had been a nice young man, well mannered and not in any way arrogant. She remembered he had told her how he had deserved everything that had happened to him as he had betrayed people who had been his friends and who had done nothing to hurt him. He had talked about how, given the chance of a new life, he would make a better fist of it. He had dreamed of marrying, having a family, living a blameless life.
Barford’s death had been widely reported and she had heard and seen nothing, even on the internet, to suggest that anyone doubted he had died, as reported, in a surfing accident in 1990. Even as his brother had become notoriously politically active, she had seen nothing that suggested that Barford was anything other than dead.
Before she fell asleep that night, her second night of incarceration, she wondered rather vaguely whether Warwick Eden had returned to his yacht and whether he was aware he had an unwilling guest on board.
The hour for her regular check-in call to Gordon had passed so she knew it would not be long before he put two and two together and the search for her would begin.
She just had to be patient and bide her time.
The noise of engines woke her. Instinctively she reached for her phone before remembering where she was. It was dark. She had no idea what time it was and no way of knowing. “What does it matter what bloody time it is?” she said out loud.
She knew they had left the river when the yacht hit rougher water and she began to feel sick. She had never travelled well, on water or in the air, and was soon unable to think of anything other than curling up on the bed in a foetal position and trying not to think about how awful she felt.
She just wanted to sleep and the day passed her by.
When she awoke on what she hoped was Sunday morning there was no engine noise but the yacht was not still.
She still felt dreadful but she made herself shower and dress as the tiled floor moved uncomfortably beneath her feet.
When the door opened she expected it to be Ryan with her tray but it was Guy Cliffe.
He shut the door behind him and sat down assuming complete control.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
“My name is Diane Hammill.”
“And what does Diane Hammill think she knows about me?”
Diane did not answer, simply asking her own question. “And what is it that Guy Cliffe does not want her to know?”
“You’ve been snooping around spying on me. Why?”
“Not necessarily.”
“You were seen talking to members of my crew.”
“Member. Singular. I only spoke to one, a chap in a bar. But, yes, I have spoken to Ryan who seems to be the one delegated to bring me my meal trays. He’s a very nice, polite young man. I missed him this morning. And I haven’t had my breakfast.”
In her life Diane had seen many interrogations and understood enough of the methods of frustrating the interrogators to play Guy along. She would not show him how ill she felt, nor would she show him any fear. She would not give him the satisfaction.
“Who are you? What did you see? I looked at your phone. All those notes about comings and goings onto Beausale. What was that all for? Why have you been snooping? What do you hope to gain?”
“So many questions!” Diane said disdainfully. “I have only one for you. Why have you kidnapped me?”
She knew she had won the encounter when Guy stood up, strode to the door and slammed it behind him.
Another day and night passed and she began to feel better. Her thinking was clearer but she was hungry.
Ryan hadn’t appeared with a tray of food for nearly thirty-six hours and she began to think they might want to starve her to death.
But, she reasoned with herself, they had held her for three days and they hadn’t killed her.
Perhaps they didn’t intend to.
Perhaps they had no idea what to do with her.
She thought it must be Monday lunchtime when the door to her cabin was opened and Guy grabbed her by the arm and dragged her out onto the deck.
Wondering whether they would be the last things she would ever see she noticed the seagulls circling overhead and the line of coast, recognising it as Berry Head with the lighthouse. They were not far offshore and had travelled no more than ten miles since leaving the Dart.
She was not thrown into the sea, as she had almost expected, she was hustled onto another, smaller yacht. She could not see its name but the cabin she was locked into was far smaller and far less luxurious than her cell on Beausale.
All she could see out of the small window was sea but as she lay on the narrow bed she listened.
There were sounds of a scuffle and she imagined Guy was fighting with someone. She could not hear what was said, or recognise the voices, but the fight, if it was a fight, did not last long. The voices stopped and all was quiet.
For a time – she estimated it to be an hour – she heard nothing but the waves smacking against the hull of the yacht then she heard the sound of an outboard motor being started and then slowly fading. She imagined it heading for Brixham or, for some reason, back to Dartmouth. She drifted off to sleep but was awakened by the sound of the outboard approaching the yacht and being switched off. Whoever it was who had left had returned, then all was quiet again.
She had become used to the movement on Beausale but this new yacht was a different matter. Far smaller it was buffeted about on the rough seas and once again she curled up on the bed and willed sleep to come.
As days and nights merged she lost track of how long it was since she had placed the binoculars on the table in her house and headed down the steps to talk to Guy.
She didn’t see Ryan again. She assumed he had stayed with the other yacht as it was an Indian who spoke with a broad Yorkshire accent and called himself Arjun who brought her a tray of barely edible food three times a day.
All she could see from the small porthole – she could not call it a window – was sea. She tried to see where the sun was to discover in which direction they were headed, but the weather was poor and if it wasn’t grey sea she could see it was grey cloud.
She thought it was probably a week after she had been bundled onto this smaller yacht that she saw mountains circled with clouds. Soon after the mountains disappeared the sea became calmer and blue and the sky clearer. Then she glimpsed steep limestone cliffs and knew they must have sailed through the Straits of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean and were now heading north-eastwards up the coast of Spain.
Eventually the engines stopped and the yacht was still.
From her porthole she could see crowded bars strung out around a harbour.
She didn’t waste her energy banging on the glass and shouting and screaming. She knew no one could hear her, and if she hadn’t learned anything in the pas
t week she had learned patience.
Guy hadn’t thrown her overboard by now so, she reasoned, he wouldn’t. He must have a use for her, though she could not think what that might be.
She would be patient and sooner or later he or the Yorkshireman would tell her what it was they thought she had seen and she would persuade them she had seen nothing and they would let her go.
Chapter 13: Skye and Fergal Investigate Further
Fergal said nothing to Skye of his immediate fear, that the second body to be found in Dartmouth within a few days would be that of Diane, because he knew she was thinking the same thing.
As they read more on social media they were both relieved to discover the body was that of a man. From the more obscure police channels that Skye could not access Fergal learned that the cause of death was being put down to suicide.
“They say they found a note by the body which they say is basically a confession to the murder of Warwick Eden.”
“I don’t believe a word of it,” Skye said firmly. “What is this so-called suicide note supposed to have said?”
“That he had murdered Eden because his father had lost a great deal of money through Eden’s business and he didn’t see why the man should spread his evil politics using money stolen from families such as his.”
“That would explain Eden’s clenched fist, FP Transactions and all that though, wouldn’t it?”
“It would, but…”
“But?” Skye prompted as Fergal concentrated on his laptop, obviously reading some more detail. “But?” she repeated impatiently.
He looked up and shook his head. “It’s all too neat and tidy.”
“How do you mean?”
“They must have been under a lot of pressure to find Eden’s murderer, mustn’t they? He was high profile. Members of the press, both reputable and not, were doing their own investigations. Social media is full of conspiracy theories linking government departments, the forces, even foreign governments to Eden’s assassination. They had to come up with something quickly.”
Hostage to Fortune Page 13
