Marvik did. He took a pull at his beer as Strathen continued.
‘Most of the Chinese were employed in the tin mines and on the rubber estates at the time of the Japanese occupation and they were very soon deprived of their normal employment. The Chinese couldn’t return to their homeland so they were left to scratch for a living in the jungle clearings. They made up almost forty-five per cent of the population. But the British government favoured the Malay community over and above those of the Chinese and, in a nutshell, the colonial powers, that is us, the British, tried to suppress the resulting unrest by banning some trade unions who were protesting against the unfairness and inequality and by imprisoning some of their members and harassing those of the left wing.’
Marvik thought of Jack Darrow and Joseph Cotleigh in that 1979 strike.
‘Of course, as we know, that didn’t work,’ Strathen continued. ‘The unrest escalated.’
‘And British business interests thought that would mean the end to trade with the West. And for people like Ambrose Shale that would mean a huge loss of wealth.’
‘Yes. The disaffected Chinese received considerable support from the Chinese and the Malayan Communist Party, the backbone of the insurgency. The British declared an emergency in 1948, as you know. The Malayan Emergency. Not just to defeat the armed insurgency but also to crack down on workers’ rights. The Malayan Emergency ended in 1957 but there were still skirmishes after Malaya got independence in 1957. The state of emergency wasn’t actually declared as being over until July 1960.’
‘And the interests of British businesses were protected no matter what the cost.’
‘I would have thought so, wouldn’t you?’
‘And did Ambrose Shale come out of this clean?’ Marvik mused as more people piled into the pub, laughing and shaking off their wet clothes. It was group of six women in their forties who looked intent on a good Saturday night out.
‘He got a Knighthood.’
‘For services rendered,’ said Marvik, full of cynicism. ‘Making sure that any sensitive documentation – correspondence, reports, details about meetings that took place between those with powerful British business interests and the High Commissioner in Malaya – were taken out of the country. According to Ralph Warnford, Ambrose Shale was in Singapore when that cargo was shipped out in 1959. When that lorry crashed and spilled some of its contents George Gurney saw Ambrose Shale’s name mentioned in a not-too-honest light. Ambrose might have obtained his business interests in Malaya in a corrupt way. Gurney recognized the value of what he had. And the same goes for Bradley Pulford. They had both worked on the Shale estate. And Darrow, working in the docks, would have recognized the name of Shale, the ship owner, except he didn’t remember the package or know what was in it until he came across it again during the strike in 1979. Then he realized he could use the information to smear Cedric Shale and promote his workers’ cause. He told Cotleigh or Redburn or both and maybe asked for their advice. One or both of them killed him because they realized the documentation could bring them personal wealth and sod the workers. They arranged to meet Cedric Shale to blackmail him but Shale had other ideas.’
Strathen agreed. ‘And from what I’ve researched of Cedric Shale, his character and what you found at Kingston House, plus what Matthew Killbeck told you, Shale wasn’t working alone and hasn’t been ever since. The “boss”, as you heard the Audleys call this other man, has been systematically blackmailing him and is stripping that house of everything valuable and selling it off.’
‘And when it’s all gone Shale will die.’
Strathen nodded.
‘Why would Cotleigh return in 1989 as Bradley Pulford? What was in it for him aside from an easy billet by blackmailing Matthew Killbeck? And why assume the name of Pulford, unless it was adopted to blackmail Cedric Shale? Bit dangerous, though, given that he’d witnessed the previous blackmailer, Oscar Redburn being murdered.’
‘Timing,’ said Strathen.
Marvik sat forward. He caught the eye of a woman at the bar waiting to be served who smiled fleetingly. Marvik didn’t return it. A couple in their twenties came and sat at the table near them.
Strathen threw them a glance and continued in a low voice, ‘There was another dockers’ strike in 1989 and a pivotal one based on the proposed scrapping of the National Dock Labour Scheme. I did tell you I hadn’t been idle.’
Marvik smiled.
‘The government announced it was to abolish the National Dock Labour Scheme which guaranteed work for more than nine thousand dockers. It was introduced by a Labour government in 1947, giving dockers the legal right to minimum work, holidays, sick pay and pensions. Not much to ask, you’d have thought, but the government of 1989 didn’t like it and neither did the owners of the ports. The National Dock Labour Board was made up of union and employer representatives. Registered dockers laid off by any of the companies bound by the scheme had to be taken on by another or be paid off. The Employment Secretary of the day, Norman Fowler, said that the scheme stood in the way of a modern and efficient ports’ industry. Those involved in the scheme said they were losing business to other ports in the UK and Europe because of the restrictions it imposed. Fowler said there would be generous compensation for men laid off as a result of the scrapping of the scheme and that there would be no return to using mass casual labour. Pressure was put on the politicians and port users to use their influence on ministers to end the scheme. They did on the sixth of April 1989. The dockers went on strike in July 1989 but by then it was too late. There was a big media campaign against them of a similar ilk to the one in 1979, portraying them as bloody-minded, selfish, greedy, holding the country to ransom – all the usual stuff. And there were a couple of economic studies commissioned which proved that by scrapping the dock labour scheme more jobs would actually be created than the number lost.’
‘Don’t tell me – Brampton was behind them.’
‘He might well have been. His business was set up a year afterwards, perhaps on the financial proceeds of a favourable report for the government. Cedric Shale’s ships were port-bound. He was solidly on the side of the government and made no bones about it.’
‘So Cotleigh reckoned Cedric would pay up to keep his father’s shady past quiet and to stop him from revealing what happened in that bay in 1979. And someone did pay up from 1989 until 1990 when he took off again.’
Strathen frowned, puzzled. ‘Yeah, but why did Shale let it go on that long? Why not summon help from his previous accomplice? The person who had been with him in the bay when Redburn was murdered.’
‘Maybe he thought he could handle it alone and when he finally realized he couldn’t he summoned help.’ Marvik frowned, troubled. ‘Whoever this “boss” is he’s a ruthless bastard and clever. Is Bryony still alive?’
Strathen looked grim. ‘If she’s served her purpose, then no.’
‘And that purpose was to report back to the “boss” how far we’d got with our enquiries and where we are. But she can’t know that you’ve moved the boat.’
‘No, but having relayed where we were it won’t be that difficult to ask around the harbour masters in the area and locate us. Don’t worry, I’ve rigged the boat so that I’ll know if so much as bird shits on it. I called the hospital. Ben was discharged this morning. Someone came to collect him. The nurse I spoke to didn’t know who it was, or where Ben’s gone, but the tiny tracking device I sewed into the hem of Bryony’s coat last night while she was sleeping gives her location as Godalming, near Guildford. There’s a private rehab centre there. I think she’s safe for the time being until we can be dealt with.’ He swivelled the computer around to face Marvik. ‘I thought you might like to see this.’
Marvik was staring at a black-and-white photograph of a Fred Parker classic motorboat. Underneath the picture was a caption: ‘Sir Ambrose Shale on board his boat Amber May June 1955 with his son, Cedric.’
Cedric would have been just seventeen. He looked more like fifteen and cle
arly hadn’t been a very confident youth. He was fair and not as tall as his father but lean like him. They were both dressed in classic casual clothes of slacks and open-necked polo shirts, but where Sir Ambrose carried his off, Cedric looked as though he’d be more at home in a school uniform. They were standing in the cockpit beside one another. Marvik recognized the small Isle of Wight town of Cowes behind them and, judging by the number of yachts around them, it was August and Cowes Week, a major regatta in the sailing calendar. Sir Ambrose was smiling into the camera and appeared very satisfied with life, while Cedric was staring down and frowning. Maybe the sun had been in his eyes. Or perhaps his father had ordered him to be in the photograph, obviously against his will.
‘Here’re some more recent pictures I got from the newspaper archives.’ Strathen handed across his mobile phone. There was one taken at Sir Ambrose’s funeral in 1965. Cedric, dressed in a sombre black suit, was climbing out of the funeral car in front of Salisbury Cathedral. It was ten years after the picture on the boat had been taken and he looked more like early thirties than late twenties. He was still lean and fair and there was still that slightly bewildered, surly expression on his face but he had more lines in a furrowed brow. The other picture was a corporate head and shoulders shot of Cedric with an accompanying article in the Financial Times about him succeeding his father’s business. The date was a year after the funeral. He was still frowning but this time Marvik thought he looked confused, as though he couldn’t quite understand how he’d got into such a position.
Marvik handed Strathen back his phone.
Strathen said, ‘I found a few more articles about the Shale Corporation over the years but no more photographs of the reclusive businessman. I did find one in the sailing press from 1998.’ He pulled up a picture on his computer.
‘Nice boat,’ Marvik said, eyeing the sleek and expensive modern motor yacht.
Again Shale had that same edgy, troubled expression. He was still the lean man of his youth. His hair had got thinner though and his face more gaunt. Behind him at the helm with his back to the camera was a man. Marvik couldn’t see who it was and yet something about the figure struck him as being vaguely familiar. He couldn’t place why. Either side of Shale were two people – a smiling woman in her mid-thirties and the other a man in his fifties, both with champagne glasses. ‘The brokerage staff he purchased the boat from,’ Strathen explained. ‘They went out of business two years afterwards.’
He drained his lager and continued, ‘Cedric Shale left his public school when he was seventeen in 1955, the year that photograph with his father on the boat was taken. Then there’s no record of him that I can find until 1965 when he took over the business. He could have been working abroad for his father. Or he could have been travelling or in hospital.’
‘You think he might have been mentally ill?’
‘Maybe but not enough to stop him from taking over the business and running it successfully for thirty-five years.’
There was a burst of laughter from the group of women. The bar was filling up as more people spilled in and the music seemed to be getting louder.
Thoughts were running through Marvik’s mind. Many troubled and puzzled him but one was bugging him, which he voiced to Strathen. ‘Would Cotleigh’s threat that Matthew could be construed as an accessory to murder have been enough to blackmail him? The Matthew I’ve met would have told Cotleigh to sod off and not allowed him to worm his way into their lives. There has to be more. There has to be a reason why Matthew put up with Cotleigh for two years.’
‘Then perhaps we’d better ask him.’ Strathen packed away his computer.
Marvik rose. ‘He’ll be at the hospital if Adam has been admitted. They’d have taken him to Poole. It’s got the nearest accident and emergency department.’
They called a taxi from the pub, after Marvik had checked with the hospital that Adam Killbeck had been admitted. Within forty-five minutes they were heading towards the ward. Marvik knew that Strathen, like him, was recalling his own stays in hospitals and reliving the memory of the frustration, anger, pain and occasionally the despair they’d felt, impatient to be out and back on duty. Only both had found that eventually duty was no longer theirs to return to. Crowder’s missions filled a gap but was it enough for him? Strathen could and would resume his intelligence security business in between missions, but as for him? Marvik didn’t know. He knew that neither of them wanted to report in to Crowder yet, not just because they had nothing concrete but they had a point to prove to both Crowder and themselves. But as they weaved their way through the corridors Marvik wondered if they had handled this well enough. Doubts crept in and he hated that.
The nurse at the station outside the ward pointed out Adam’s bed but even before they reached it they could see Matthew wasn’t there. Adam had been sedated. There was no point in trying to talk to him and the nurse had no idea when the elderly gentleman who had been with the patient had left.
‘He must have returned home, anxious about leaving Mary for too long,’ Marvik said as they headed for the exit.
They picked up a taxi outside the hospital and remained silent on the journey back to Swanage. Within an hour Marvik was once again knocking on the door of the small house. It was almost ten o’clock but a light was showing in the downstairs window. He was again surprised when Abigail answered it, but his surprise almost immediately turned to concern when she said that Matthew hadn’t returned.
‘Has he contacted you?’ Marvik asked as Abigail ushered them into the small lounge. There was no sign of Mary. Marvik assumed she must be in bed.
‘No.’
Marvik asked for Matthew’s mobile phone number and rang it. He exchanged a worried glance with Strathen. ‘It’s on voicemail.’ He rang off, then addressed Abigail. ‘Has Matthew ever gone away before without contacting you?’
‘No. Never. Do you think he’s had an accident?’
‘Have you tried Jensen?’
‘I’ll try him now.’
She went out into the kitchen, where Marvik could hear her talking. She returned with the phone in her hand, looking deeply worried.
‘Jensen hasn’t seen or heard from him. I’m not sure what to do. Adam’s not answering his phone either.’
He wouldn’t. So Matthew hadn’t even contacted her to tell her Adam was in hospital.
‘Shall I call the police, only if I do and they find he’s left Mary they might notify social services? I can stay with her tonight. I’ll let my husband know. But I can’t look after her all the time. I wouldn’t want her moved, though. It would upset her too much. I can’t see Matthew leaving Mary for too long. He must have had an accident. The fishing boat …’
‘We’ll go and look for him and make inquiries.’
She looked relieved. She gave Marvik the landline number and her mobile phone number. As soon as the door closed behind them, Marvik said, ‘I think Matthew knows who the killer is and he’s gone to have it out with him.’ They had no idea where that was. ‘Let’s check the boat.’ Marvik wished they’d kept the taxi waiting.
‘It’s only just over a mile,’ Strathen said, reading his thoughts and setting off. ‘We can walk it. Good opportunity to test out this new leg of mine. It’s meant to be all singing and dancing – well, walking, at least, and now we’ll find out. Maybe I should have fitted the running prosthetic.’
They set off at a brisk enough pace. Even if Strathen was in pain or experiencing discomfort, Marvik knew he wouldn’t show it and he’d never admit it.
At least the rain had stopped and the wind had eased. Marvik heard a clock strike ten thirty and a squeal of car tyres. The streets were deserted, as was the bay by the lifeboat station when they reached it. There was no sign of the fishing boat.
Marvik exchanged a glance with Strathen, who said, ‘I don’t think Matthew Killbeck’s gone out for a spot of night fishing.’
‘Perhaps being at sea is the only place he can think,’ Marvik answered. Strathen would identify
with that.
As though to confirm it, Strathen said, ‘Or the only place he feels truly at rest.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Either that or someone has forced him to go. Either way he could end up being fish bait.’
‘Then we’d better find him before the killer does.’
TWENTY-ONE
There were two places where Matthew could have gone. One was out to sea and the other was where this had begun for him – the bay where he had witnessed what had happened in 1979. Returning to the latter might be a symbolic gesture or perhaps Matthew had told the killer that was where he would meet him. Matthew was an experienced sailor but sailing alone on the small trawler in the dark would prove testing enough for the best of them. Even with a depth sounder, spotlights and GPS it would be very treacherous negotiating the water into that bay.
Strathen, after checking over the boat despite his rigged alarms, verified that no one had broken into it or had planted a device of any kind on or in it. He plotted a course for the bay and headed towards it. Marvik knew they should alert the coastguard but that meant explaining why they were concerned about Matthew and giving their details. Being visible to the authorities was the last thing they wanted.
There was now a smattering of stars and a glimpse of a moon behind fast, scudding clouds. Visibility had improved but Marvik couldn’t help wishing he was on his boat or Strathen’s, both of which were equipped with powerful search lights. This boat, though, had a light and Marvik also had a handheld one, which he now swept over the dark sea as his eyes searched for the lights of the fishing boat. There was no sign of the trawler – not even on the radar – and there was no call from Abigail to tell them that Matthew had returned home. Marvik didn’t think there would be. He tried Matthew’s number again using his mission mobile phone. It was still on voicemail. Marvik didn’t think anyone would hear from Matthew again.
When they reached the mouth of the bay there was no sign of the trawler. ‘Better call it off,’ Strathen said. ‘We’ll moor up out here and grab a few hours’ sleep.’ They wouldn’t be disturbed.
Dangerous Cargo Page 22
