By the time he reached Newtown Harbour the wind had risen but the rain had come to little more than a few threatening and erratic flurries. He secured the boat and made for the cottage feeling troubled. A blackbird flew squawking into the air. On the surface everything looked the same. The cottage door was shut, the windows too; it was exactly as he had left it that morning. But there was something.
He scrutinized the garden and surrounding area. There was a branch of a shrub broken but nothing else. The rear door was locked and the alarm still set. He disengaged it and stood motionless for a moment, listening. Only the sound of the wind and the birdsong came to him. He studied the kitchen. Nothing had been disturbed or defiled. The kettle was exactly where he had left it on the dark blue range, the kitchen cupboards closed and his laptop computer was on the table in the centre of the room. He stiffened. No, that was wrong. It wasn’t exactly how he had left it. It had been moved just perceptibly. Or was that just him getting compulsive, obsessive and paranoid?
He crossed to it and studied the computer and the table around it. The lid was down. It was the same distance from the edge of the table, the chair was in the exact position and yet as he studied both he knew it was fractionally different. Was it just his imagination? His eyes swung to the door which led into the hall and his pulse quickened. It was ajar as he had left it but he remembered looking back as he had set the alarm before leaving and like a snapshot the image reframed itself in his mind. Having a photographic memory was a gift and he’d developed that to become a skill over the years in combat. The door was open slightly wider than when he had left and Charlotte couldn’t have done that because she had been beside him when he had set the alarm.
Swiftly he went through the rest of the house looking for more signs of the intruder. He found them in his bedroom and in the living room. They were minuscule and would not have been noticed by anyone else but he knew exactly where and how everything had been left. There was a drawer not quite closed, a book slightly at an angle, a tube of toothpaste moved ever so slightly in the bathroom. Whoever had been here had been no common burglar because nothing had been stolen or wrecked. He had no television, no valuables, no money lying around, only his laptop and that was practically an antique. Whoever had entered the house had been expert, but not expert enough. His blood was pumping fast, the adrenalin was coursing through his body – not caused by fear or anger, he swiftly acknowledged, but by exhilaration.
He recalled the flash of light he’d seen earlier through his binoculars and knew that Charlotte had been correct. Someone had followed her here and had been watching the cottage. Seeing them both leave he had seized his chance. But how the hell had he known the alarm code?
Marvik returned to the kitchen. His brain was racing. There could be several ways. By training powerful binoculars on the rear door the intruder could have seen him punch in the number. And if he’d used surveillance equipment which could also record then all he needed to do was replay the recorded images slowly, have some knowledge of where the numbers were located on the keypad – not difficult when most were in the same place – and then imitate it. The other scenario was more worrying.
Marvik crossed to the table and from there he studied the alarm. Charlotte could have planted a skimming device above it. He’d seen nothing on the alarm system that morning when they’d left but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there, just that he hadn’t been looking for it. Then all the intruder had to do was remove it when he entered, after keying in the code. But why the hell should she have done so?
And how had the intruder entered?
The last question was easier to answer than the first. The lock wasn’t that difficult to pick, not for an expert, and he never secured the bolts. The front door was much more difficult to unlock. He gazed down at his laptop, his mind teeming with questions. Had the intruder come by car? If so then someone in the hamlet might have seen it, but that would have been too risky. So his intruder must have parked some distance away and walked to the cottage. Had he stayed outside all night? He’d have got bloody cold and wet, but maybe he didn’t mind that. Was he watching him now? Had the intruder believed his search would go undetected? What had he hoped to find? And had he discovered it? What did the intruder expect him to do next? Maybe nothing. But that wasn’t an option.
Marvik hurried out, not even bothering to set the alarm. He climbed into the Land Rover Defender and headed for Parkhurst prison.
THREE
‘Only visitors named on a visiting order are allowed to visit prisoners,’ the prison officer relayed to Marvik forty-five minutes later in the bleak reception area of Parkhurst. He’d hoped he might be able to persuade the prison authorities to allow him to see Terence Blackerman, but that seemed out of the question. He didn’t know the system, which was obviously more complex than he’d expected. But action was better than sitting around contemplating why someone was interested in what he’d viewed on the Internet or why Charlotte had thought she was being followed, which clearly she had been.
‘And how do I get one of those?’
‘You don’t. The prisoner must issue one to the visitor for him or her to be allowed a visit.’
So Blackerman had issued one in order for Charlotte to be able to visit him after he’d agreed to disclose his whereabouts to her. He had no reason to do the same for Marvik.
‘And visits have to be arranged twenty-four hours in advance,’ the prison officer continued. ‘The usual procedure is to book by phone or email. And there are only certain days you can visit. This is not one of them.’
‘If I leave you my details could they be passed on to Terence Blackerman so he could put in a visiting order?’ Marvik asked, wondering what Blackerman would make of that. He quickly added, ‘It’s about his son’s death. I’m a former Royal Marine. Commandos.’
That seemed to open the door. The prison officer’s until then implacable features broke into a grin. ‘Ex RAF Regiment,’ he said.
They exchanged some reminiscences about their service life and Marvik left ten minutes later with the officer’s promise that he’d pass his details on but there was no guarantee that Blackerman would want to see him. It wasn’t quite a wasted journey though because Marvik had also pumped the prison officer for more information on Blackerman, and he’d got it.
‘He’s never seen anyone in the eight years I’ve worked here,’ the officer, who had introduced himself as Ron Hubbard, said in answer to Marvik’s question. ‘Except for a woman who came yesterday. Nice looking but nervous. Her first visit inside a prison I guess.’
Marvik didn’t enlighten Hubbard about Charlotte’s service background. There was no need for him to know it.
‘But perhaps he’s keen to see more of this woman – and on the outside – because he applied to see the prison governor yesterday, maybe to own up to what he did.’
‘What’s he like?’ Marvik had asked. ‘Paul never spoke of him,’ he added for authenticity.
‘Quiet, does as he’s told when he’s told.’
‘But?’
Hubbard raised his eyebrows. ‘Is there a but?’
‘Sounded like it to me.’
Hubbard gave a wry smile. Then his expression clouded over. ‘There’s something about him but I can’t put my finger on it. It’s as if …’
‘Go on,’ Marvik encouraged, hoping he hadn’t overplayed his hand.
‘As if he has some inner strength or knowledge that helps him to deal with prison, but then he is a former chaplain and he’s maintained his religion inside so maybe he thinks God is helping him. Not that he spouts about religion or tries to convert the other prisoners – on the contrary he says nothing. But he’s probably confessed his sins and knows he’ll be forgiven in heaven and all that crap.’
Obviously Hubbard was a non-believer or was just trying to sound tough. But their conversation had given Marvik an idea. Was it worth his while talking to the prison chaplain? Maybe he would if Blackerman refused to see him but he doubted the prison
chaplain would confide confidential advice about one of the inmates to an outsider any more than the navy chaplain Marvik had confided in would to others.
Charlotte had claimed that Blackerman maintained he was innocent and his refusal to budge on that and be granted parole bore that out, so perhaps, Marvik thought as he headed back to his Land Rover, God was giving him inner strength. Did he believe that? He’d certainly prayed when facing what he thought was death, and sometimes in the quiet and beauty of the harbour he’d felt close to something, but whether that was God or just Mother Nature doing what she did best he didn’t know and he didn’t stop to consider.
He called Charlotte but got her voicemail. Glancing at his watch he saw it was almost three o’clock. She would have been in Birmingham long before now but perhaps she had gone straight on duty. She hadn’t said she was going to, but then he hadn’t asked. He didn’t leave a message. He certainly wasn’t going to tell her that his cottage had been entered and searched. Neither did he want to worry her about Blackerman, so he’d keep his visit to the prison from her, but he was curious to probe her for more on her impressions of Blackerman and what they’d discussed. He was annoyed he hadn’t asked her more last night or this morning but he’d had no need to then. He’d had misgivings about her health. Now he knew there was nothing wrong with her nerves. He’d try again later.
He grabbed a bite to eat in the quayside café in Newport. His thoughts returned to those two text messages ostensibly sent from him. Why would someone be keen to draw him into this? He’d never heard of Terence Blackerman before yesterday. And neither had he heard of Esther Shannon, the woman Blackerman had murdered in 1997, the year before he’d joined the Marines and the year of his parents’ death in a diving accident on a marine archaeological expedition. Was there some connection between Terence Blackerman, Esther Shannon and himself, of which he was unaware? He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t be certain because he didn’t have all the facts. Perhaps Blackerman’s son, Paul Williamson, was the link. Paul had been in the Marines at the same time as Marvik, albeit in different units. Had their paths crossed? It was possible. They might even have spoken but Marvik hadn’t recognized the name when Charlotte first mentioned it and he didn’t recall it now. Could the person who had sent Charlotte that text message, who had followed her to his cottage and entered it, be Paul’s former buddy and somehow he blamed Marvik for Paul’s injuries and death, or wanted something from him? What, however, he couldn’t fathom.
He polished off his sandwich and made for the Land Rover and home. There had been no further intrusions in the cottage. Whoever had come had got what he wanted the first time. Marvik again rang Charlotte and again got her voicemail. She must be on duty.
He switched on his laptop and checked his browsing history, not that he really needed to because he knew which websites he’d viewed last night and so too would his intruder if that’s what he had been looking for. But why should anyone be interested?
The sound of a car pulling up outside caught his attention. He rose and made for the front door to see the same two men he’d seen last night at the derelict coastguard cottage climb out of a dark blue Ford. The bigger man, according to Strathen, was DI Feeny. Strathen had warned him of a possible visit; Marvik just hadn’t thought it would be so soon. He invited them in and showed them through to the kitchen where he offered them refreshment. They both declined. And both refused to sit. Marvik therefore also chose to stand.
Feeny began the questioning while the leaner, younger man whose ID claimed he was Detective Sergeant Howe took his notebook from the inside of his jacket pocket. ‘Mr Strathen told us you went to the rendezvous point yesterday late afternoon to meet Ashley Palmer.’
‘I went there, yes, on Shaun Strathen’s request, but it was with the intention of hoping to find Ashley Palmer there and to persuade him to return to the mainland.’
‘Why would he want to return with you?’
‘He probably wouldn’t have done, if he’d been there. He wasn’t.’
Howe looked up. ‘You know Mr Palmer then, sir?’
‘No. I’ve never met him or heard of him until yesterday just before four p.m. when Shaun phoned me.’
Howe looked blankly at him while Feeny’s lips twitched in the ghost of cynical smile. They obviously didn’t believe him. That was their problem. But even to Marvik it sounded feeble. Howe’s eyes dropped to Marvik’s computer. He’d see nothing but a blank screen.
‘Why did Shaun Strathen ask you to help?’ Howe asked, looking back up.
‘Because I live on the island and we’ve worked together in the past.’
Howe continued. ‘But tracing people wasn’t what you did in the Commandos.’ So Shaun had told him that.
Marvik said, ‘Our missions often involved searching for people others didn’t want found and hopefully extracting them before they were killed. We didn’t always succeed,’ he added.
‘And you think Ashley Palmer is dead?’ Howe asked.
‘I don’t know enough about him or why he’s gone missing to think that.’
‘What’s your occupation, sir?’
‘I work for Drayles, the maritime security company.’ They’d probably already run a check on him and knew that. They might even know he was involved in Harry Salcombe’s death.
Feeny said, ‘Is this your cottage?’
‘No. I rent it.’ And they probably knew that too.
‘For how long?’
‘I’m on a six-month renewable lease.’
‘When did you arrive?’
‘October.’
‘Why here?’
‘Why not?’ Marvik suppressed his irritation. They were only doing their job but he wished they would do it with a little less scepticism. They obviously thought he was involved in Palmer’s vanishing act and maybe they also suspected Strathen. Well they were wasting their time.
‘What do you know about Ashley Palmer?’
‘Hardly anything. Only what Shaun told me. That he’s a computer research scientist working on developing artificial intelligence systems for the medical industry and that’s it.’
Feeny nodded at Howe who produced a photograph. ‘Have you ever seen this man before?’
Marvik took it and studied it. He was looking at a man in his late twenties of stocky build, but not fat, wearing faded jeans and a baggy white T-shirt emblazoned with a logo and the words ‘Caring for the Marine Environment’ printed underneath it. He was standing with his back to the sea, at the entrance to Portsmouth Harbour, so the picture must have been taken at Old Portsmouth outside the Spice Island or the Still and West pub. He was holding a bottle of beer and smiling into the camera with apprehension in the studious blue eyes. His hair was short and very fair. ‘Is it Ashley Palmer?’
Feeny nodded.
Marvik had imagined him older and more shambolic. ‘No, I’ve never seen him.’ He handed the photograph back to Howe.
‘Did you enter the cottage?’ Howe asked.
‘Yes, but I wasn’t in there long. I searched the rooms and saw no evidence that he’d been there but I didn’t search the grounds.’
‘Why not?’
‘I saw no need to.’
‘How did you get there?’
‘By boat. It’s moored on the pontoon here.’
Would they ask to search it? Did they think he had met Palmer and done something with him?
‘And you returned when?’
‘I got back just after six thirty.’
‘Can anyone vouch for that?’
‘Do they have to?’
‘Just routine.’ Feeny smiled like a poisoner inviting him to eat something he’d contaminated.
Should he tell them about Charlotte? But that meant involving her and he didn’t want that. And how did he explain why she had been here? They would question her to confirm his story. No, it was too complicated.
‘I was alone,’ he said, holding Feeny’s gaze.
‘And you live alone?’
; Why did Feeny make the question sound like a sneer? If it was to goad him then the detective was going to be disappointed. ‘Yes. I’m sorry but I can’t help you find Ashley Palmer.’ He held Feeny’s cool gaze.
After a moment Feeny said, ‘Well, thanks anyway.’ He nodded at Howe to follow him. Marvik showed them to the door. He watched them climb into the Ford and drive off with an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was certain they didn’t believe him but they would have to. There was nothing linking him to Palmer, except his visit to that cottage and Shaun Strathen. He reached for his phone and rang him.
‘The police have been here,’ he said as soon as Strathen answered, and quickly he relayed the gist of the interview. ‘They seem to suspect me of something, probably abducting Palmer.’
‘They’re fishing.’
‘And they probably think we’ve conspired to do it together. Any further news?’
‘Palmer’s former girlfriend, Louise Tournbury, has been contacted but she says she hasn’t seen or heard from Ashley since just before Christmas when she was with him at the Portsmouth Diving Club social function. They used to go diving together in the Solent and on holidays but she said that Ashley’s been so heavily involved with his work at Chiron this last year that he’s not been diving and he didn’t renew his membership last April. She’s a teacher at Woodlands Primary School, Bordon, Hampshire.’
Marvik knew the area. So too did Strathen. Bordon was an army town and home to the School of Electrical and Mechanical Engineers at Prince Philip Barracks. It had once also been the married quarters for Royal Air Force Oakhanger, home of No. 1001 Signal Unit, responsible for supporting satellite communication services for the British Armed Forces worldwide. The station had been decommissioned in 2003 when support to British military satellite communications had been outsourced.
Strathen said, ‘Palmer’s parents are both dead. The police are probably tracking down any relatives and friends.’
Silent Running Page 4
