Table of Contents
Cover
Recent Titles by Pauline Rowson
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Recent Titles by Pauline Rowson
The DI Andy Horton Mysteries
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 *
SHROUD OF EVIL *
The Art Marvik Mysteries
SILENT RUNNING *
* available from Severn House
SILENT RUNNING
An Art Marvik 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.
This first world edition published 2015
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published 2015 in Great
Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 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.
Silent running. – (An Art Marvik thriller)
1. Missing persons–Investigation–Fiction. 2. Murder–
Investigation–Fiction. 3. Veterans–Fiction. 4. Suspense
fiction.
I. Title II. Series
823.9’2-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8500-5 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-599-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-650-2 (e-book)
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.
Dedicated to all those who serve and have served their country to protect and keep us safe.
ONE
Wednesday
Marvik knew they were cops.
In the gathering gloom of the late February day, from behind the sparse cover of winter foliage, he watched the two men peer through the grimy windows of the semi-derelict coastguard’s cottage on the cliff top of the Isle of Wight. The larger and older of them stood back and eyed up the crumbling, ivy-clad house, then with a wave of his hand he indicated for his colleague – a thinner, younger, balding man – to check out the rear. They were going to affect an entry. It was Marvik’s cue to leave.
Keeping low, swiftly and stealthily he ran southwards through the shrubs and into the dense cover of nearby woods. After a few yards he swung east and darted through the jagged undergrowth of countless landslides over the years until he was just above a sharp cliff edge before the rock and grass-strewn land sloped more gently to the narrow isolated sandy bay. Beyond, in the English Channel, he caught the pinpricks of lights on a ship sailing to France before turning and climbing expertly down the cliff. It was probably where Ashley Palmer was heading, or Spain, his escape route already planned, long before he and the cops had shown up here.
The daylight was fading fast but Marvik didn’t need it as he sprinted across the shale and sand to the powerful motor cruiser anchored in the shallow water. The wind had sprung up, bringing with it the taste of salt and a chill dampness. Leaping on board, he glanced up at the cliff edge. There was no one there.
Quickly, letting up the anchor, he pressed the starter. The engine gave a satisfying deep throb and sprang to life, sounding exceptionally loud. He thought it would be heard twenty-three miles across the other side of the island, which was where he was heading, never mind just beyond that cliff top. But still no one appeared. He throttled back and chugged slowly away, hoping that if either of the two cops heard the sound of a boat they’d think it was a night fisherman. He looked back. All was quiet.
Slowly he headed north, keeping the rugged coast on his left. It was a sea he knew well so he wasn’t concerned about running aground, and the ships and ferries didn’t come this close. When he reached the Solent there would be more vessels crossing to and from the mainland and heading out to the English Channel, but even then there wouldn’t be many on a late winter’s day. His thoughts returned to what he’d discovered in the derelict cottage – nothing. It was as he had expected and probably what Shaun Strathen had anticipated. Marvik recalled their telephone conversation earlier that afternoon. The call had taken him by surprise because it had been so soon after they had renewed their acquaintance after a gap of a year. Twelve days ago they’d met accidentally in East Cowes Marina and had exchanged phone numbers but not reminiscences; their days in the marines together were over and probably seemed as distant a memory to Strathen as they did to Marvik, even though it had been just over a year for both of them.
‘I need you to do something for me,’ Strathen had said urgently and without preamble. Marvik thought he’d caught an edge of desperation in the words but perhaps that had been his imagination: Strathen had never sounded desperate in his life, even when he’d lost his left leg in combat in Afghanistan. If Strathen considered something to be urgent then it was.
‘A computer research scientist at Chiron, one of my clients – all right my only bloody client – has gone missing. He didn’t show up for work on Monday and Professor Shelley, the managing director, has tried his mobile number without success. So have I. Sod all. And Palmer’s not at home. I went there this morning. No sign of any disturbance or of him.’
‘You had a key?’ Marvik had foolishly asked, anticipating the answer which Strathen gave.
‘Of course I didn’t. The house couldn’t have been easier to enter if he’d left the ruddy door on the latch.’
Strathen was an expert at getting into difficult places, much like Marvik had been, once.
‘But I found the indentation of an Isle of Wight address on a Post-it notepad in his office with today’s date on it and a time: five p.m. I think he’s meeting someone and that he’
s heading for trouble.’
‘Why should he be?’
‘It’s complicated. I haven’t got time to go into detail but the projects Palmer works on are potentially very valuable to Chiron’s competitors. He could be selling highly sensitive information and to the wrong sort of people. This is not the kind of stuff you give to a man in a mac up a dark alley or hand over in a brown envelope under a table in a café or pub. What Ashley Palmer knows is in his head and that means he could be in danger. He’s very clever but also very naive and has no idea of the nasty things that nasty people get up to in this world, like you and I do, Art. Call it a hunch, intuition, whatever you like, but I need someone at that address in case he shows up, and don’t say call the police because I want to be sure first. If he’s not there then I’ll get Professor Shelley to call in the cops. If he’s there, ask him what the hell he’s playing at and persuade him to return with you.’
‘And if I can’t?’
‘You can’t. But at least I’ll have tried. Or rather you will have tried. I can’t get over there in time; you’re on the spot so to speak.’
Marvik had agreed to go. Now as he peered into the darkness he wondered why Strathen couldn’t have come himself. His boat was just as powerful. Admittedly it was moored on the mainland but it wouldn’t have taken him long to reach here. Perhaps he had trouble with the boat’s engine and didn’t want to chance breaking down in the Solent. Perhaps it would have taken him too long to fuel up and cross, or perhaps it was that hint of desperation that Marvik had caught in Strathen’s voice that had made him accept without further questioning. He recognized that his reasons for accepting were coloured by pity and guilt. Both were wasted emotions: Strathen had made that clear when they’d met up again. Strathen didn’t want his or anyone else’s sympathy. ‘A prosthetic leg doesn’t stop you from having a life,’ he’d said twelve days ago. And it didn’t seem to have done. While Strathen had adjusted to civilian life, without his left leg from just above the knee, Marvik was still struggling to come to terms with it. Maybe that was why he had promised to go. He needed to prove he was still up to the job. But was he? Maybe Strathen had reconsidered and thought he wasn’t, judging by the presence of the police. And Marvik’s more recent record bore that out.
As the lights of Portsmouth on the mainland came into view Marvik thought that by now Ashley Palmer might be experiencing some of those nasty ways of those nasty people, if Strathen was right. But perhaps Palmer had just taken off for a few days and had forgotten to tell anyone.
He reached for his phone, preparing to break the bad news to Strathen, but got his voicemail. He rang off with a frown of annoyance and without leaving a message. Why wasn’t Strathen answering after insisting this was so urgent? Maybe the police had already reported back to him and Strathen didn’t think it necessary now to wait for his call. Well if he couldn’t be bothered to answer his phone then Marvik saw no urgency to try him again. He’d done as Strathen had asked. Now let the police look for Palmer. That was what they were paid to do. Palmer wasn’t his problem. Nothing was his problem. He was content to let life pass him by from now on. The peace and solitary existence that awaited him in a quiet spot of the island was all he wanted. And yet as he eased the boat into the blackness of Newtown River on the north-west of the island, he knew it wasn’t. He was fooling no one, least of all himself. He’d enjoyed the surge of adrenalin that Strathen’s call had summoned up. Perhaps he was ready to return to work. But for Nick Drayle as a private maritime security operative? How could he when a man had died on his watch?
‘It wasn’t your mistake,’ Drayle had said in July and a few times since then.
But Marvik disagreed.
‘Lee lost it, not you,’ Drayle had added.
‘But I should have seen it coming,’ Marvik had insisted. He had far more experience than Lee Addington, his colleague on board Harry Salcombe’s yacht. Addington was ex-army but with only six years’ experience behind him as opposed to Marvik’s fifteen, and six of those spent in the elite of the marines, the Special Boat Services. Addington didn’t know that treacherous stretch of water in the Indian Ocean like he did. Addington, at the helm, had seen the pirate boat approaching. Marvik had ordered him to change course and speed. He’d done so but the pirates had pursued them. Marvik had fired off a flare. Everything was done according to standard practice and training until Addington had left the helm to the boat’s owner, Salcombe, and before Marvik knew it he’d engaged the pirates. They’d returned fire. Harry Salcombe had got a bullet in the chest, Marvik in the shoulder and had struck his head as he fell. The next thing he could remember was waking up in hospital several days later. His shoulder wound was nothing that a bit of physio wouldn’t cure, but the blow to his head had worried the medics because of his record of traumatic brain injury incurred in combat while in the marines. But he was fine.
Subconsciously he rubbed at the scars on the right side of his face, the legacy of being too close to an improvised explosive device while on a mission in Afghanistan. He tasted the bitter bile of failure that Salcombe’s death had left him with as he eased the boat alongside the pontoon, not noticing the thin drizzle that had started to fall, and hated it. His commando training had declared there was only one outcome: winning. But he hadn’t won. He’d failed – first time out. The humiliation gnawed at him. He’d tried to shut it out. He’d come here to recuperate, reflect, regain his strength, his resolve and his confidence. And decide what he was going to do with the rest of his life. Five months on and he still didn’t know.
Shutting off the engine, he stood in the dark, listening to the silence, hoping that it would erase his irritation but tonight it couldn’t. Tonight there was something wrong and suddenly he realized that it wasn’t solely within him. He caught a sound. He stiffened, his senses on full alert, straining his ears for it. Yes, there it was, footsteps, but here in the middle of nowhere and nothing surrounding him but sea and countryside? Perhaps he’d imagined it. But no, it came again, and as he drew closer to the cottage a shadow came into view. He froze. Nobody came to visit him because nobody knew he was here.
The figure disappeared around the rear of the building. Marvik picked his way noiselessly and carefully forwards. He knew every stick and stone, every pothole, rut and bush on and alongside this path. He knew how many paces he could take to reach the front door and how many paces to the rear. He knew exactly what lay ahead and around him. He could do it blindfolded if necessary.
So who the hell was it? An intruder? After what? He had nothing of value to steal except a laptop computer and that wasn’t worth much. But when did thieves and druggies need an excuse to break in? They’d steal pennies if that was all there was to take to help them buy their next fix. But this wasn’t a town or city, it wasn’t even suburbia; no one came to this part of the reserve except the Brent geese in winter and the sailors in summer. And there was no car in the gravel lane except his old Land Rover Defender. No tyre tracks either, he thought, swiftly studying the ground. Nor had there been any boats in the river, except his. And burglars didn’t walk miles to rob a house. The figure emerged from the rear of the house. It was a woman and Marvik recognized her with a shock.
‘Charlotte!’ he cried, stepping forward.
She spun round.
‘Art, is that you?’
She ran towards him and before he knew it she was in his arms, trembling. He held her close and tight. It had been four years since their relationship had ended and two since they’d last communicated, and then only briefly by text and email. What had brought her here now and in such an emotionally charged state? And how the devil had she found him? Only his bank, the Ministry of Defence and the National Trust, who he was renting the property from, knew his address. He had cut off all ties with his small number of distant relatives and his former Marine colleagues. Not even Strathen knew his address. He’d bought his battered Land Rover Defender by cash and although his address was on the licensing authority database, Charlotte wo
uldn’t have been able to access that.
Gently he eased her away and studied her. She looked terrified. He needed to get her inside the cottage and to calm her down. ‘Drink?’ He could do with one himself. The day had been full of surprises.
She let him lead her to the rear of the cottage. The state she was in he thought she’d have gone with him if he’d told her they were to take a moonlight swim – not that there was any moonlight, and the sea was far too cold at this time of year to enter it voluntarily.
Unlocking the rear door he swiftly disabled the alarm, noting the fearful glance she tossed over her shoulder before entering. He tried not to show his concern. But in the light her changed physical appearance struck him more forcibly. Her ashen face was gaunt, her blue eyes wide like a frightened child’s. They were still the colour of cornflowers but they were bloodshot from crying. Her fair skin had lost its sheen and her face was harrowed and etched with worry lines across her forehead and around her eyes. She’d aged in the last four years, but then who hadn’t. He could smell her fear which was so unlike her that he felt livid at whatever or whoever had caused it. The Charlotte he recalled, who had nursed him after a successful but dangerous amphibious attack in Sierra Leone, when he’d been injured the first time, had been almost as fearless as his team. She’d seen and absorbed so much horror and death. Too much perhaps. Had it finally tipped her over the edge? But that didn’t answer what had triggered it, or why and how she had tracked him down.
‘Wine? Whisky?’
‘Tea.’
He placed the kettle on the large range. ‘Sit down. Take off your jacket.’
She placed the rucksack on the floor and shrugged out of her waterproof jacket. He noted that the bottom of her jeans were filthy and her boots were caked with mud. She shivered as though cold and wrapped her arms around her chest, hunching her shoulders.
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