‘It’s one theory,’ Crowder answered. ‘The military practice group was set up in 1999 and the Chambers now has barristers who have served in the military. They deal with Court Martial work and represent military personnel here, in Germany and elsewhere. Wycombe has an apartment in London and a house not far from here, at Itchenor.’
‘Expensive and exclusive,’ Marvik said, recalling the small sailing village on the eastern shores of Chichester Harbour. A small ferry crossed to the peninsula of the ancient village of Bosham on the opposite side of the harbour in summer. It was, Marvik mentally calculated, about four miles from the marina on foot. He asked if Wycombe was a sailor.
‘He keeps a motor boat on a pontoon bordering his property. He’s married with two daughters, aged thirty-one and twenty-eight. The eldest daughter, Kimberly Wycombe, is following in her father’s footsteps but at different Chambers in London. She’s already made a name for herself representing some tough criminals. The latest was Steven Preston whom she managed to extricate from a charge of armed robbery, despite the fact the National Crime Agency know he did it. Vince Wycombe’s youngest daughter lives in America with her television producer husband and three children. Wycombe is fifty-seven, married to Sophie Allingby, daughter of Roger Allingby, deceased, who was the MEP for South Hampshire and chairman of a technology company. Wycombe’s currently sitting at a criminal trial in Portsmouth, the murder of an air hostess by her boyfriend who claims he had left her alive and well two hours before she went missing and who was found strangled in West Wood, two and half miles to the west of Winchester.’
‘How long is the trial set to run?’
‘It’s only just started.’
‘So the likelihood is he’d come home to Itchenor in the evenings.’
‘I’ll give you the address.’
Crowder relayed it. He didn’t say that Wycombe was unlikely to see him, let alone talk to him about the trial of Terence Blackerman, because as Crowder had previously said, Marvik would find a way. He asked if there was any news of Charlotte.
‘Hampshire police have questioned all the shopkeepers and office workers at Town Quay and circulated her picture. The delivery driver has been traced and interviewed but claims not to have noticed her. And his van has been examined for fingerprints and DNA and both are being matched against items taken from Charlotte’s room in Birmingham.’ Crowder paused. Marvik knew there was more and whatever Crowder had to say he didn’t think he was going to like it.
‘Charlotte’s laptop computer has also been taken away and is being examined. The Computer Crime Squad are trawling through her social networks for any indication that she was being groomed by someone for sexual exploitation or has been lured away through an online romance. There is no evidence that she used an online dating service but they have found her emails to the prison authority requesting details on Blackerman’s whereabouts and her request being granted to visit him in Parkhurst. They also found an email to you.’
Marvik eyed him with scepticism. ‘What does it say?’
‘It was sent the night before she travelled from Birmingham to the Isle of Wight, telling you that she wanted to come and see you.’
‘And my reply?’
‘That you’d love to see her. Here is a transcript of it.’
Marvik took the piece of paper Crowder was holding out and read while his mind rapidly tried to make sense of this new twist. Apparently he’d replied: ‘It will be lovely to see you again. Come any time. You know where to find me.’
‘Where was it sent from?’
‘Your IP address.’
‘Which means you think it was sent from my computer.’ He remembered how his cottage had been illegally entered and that someone had looked at his laptop. But that had been after this had been sent.
‘Not necessarily, but it implies that you sent it. The police will want to question you.’
‘And that means a delay. Can’t you keep them off my back?’
‘Not without letting on what you’re doing and if I do that, it will alert the killer that the police are involved.’
‘Do you know DI Feeny and DS Howe?’ Marvik studied Crowder’s reaction carefully. He showed no sign of recognition at the names but then he hadn’t expected a man as experienced as Crowder to betray himself in that way.
‘No.’
So who was investigating Charlotte’s disappearance if not them? He said, ‘They’re investigating the disappearance of Ashley Palmer. Does he feature in this anywhere?’
‘I don’t know the name.’
But Marvik couldn’t believe him. He nodded towards his boat. ‘Have you found somewhere safe for Helen to stay?’
‘No, and I’m not going to. You know why.’
‘For God’s sake, can’t you make up some plausible story?’
‘The fact that she is Esther Shannon’s sister will send alarm bells ringing, and alert our killer. He’s already running scared, which is good. He’ll make mistakes and that means we can catch him.’
‘Not if the mistake is my death and Helen’s,’ Marvik said tautly. ‘Or perhaps you don’t care. We’re expendable. Perhaps our deaths will give you more information about him and you can get someone else to take this up.’
‘You know we’re tracking you. We’ll do our best to keep you safe.’
‘Short of finding somewhere for Helen, yes, I know,’ Marvik said wearily. ‘Who have you got sitting at the monitor?’
‘You don’t need to know that.’
‘How certain are you of them? They could be in league with the killer.’
‘They’re not. Call me anytime and especially if you or Helen are in danger.’
With that Marvik had to be satisfied but he felt deeply concerned, not for himself but for Helen. If they were in danger what guarantee did he have that Crowder and his resources would reach them in time? None. He understood Crowder’s logic but that didn’t make it any easier to accept. He scanned the marina and the area around the car park and business units: everything was quiet.
He considered what Crowder had told him about the email. Was he bullshitting him? As he’d suggested, his account could have been hacked into and used to send this email but Marvik had no proof that an email had actually been sent. He stared at the piece of paper Crowder had given him. It had his email address and what he supposed was Charlotte’s at the top of the printed page but that didn’t mean it was genuine. This could have been fabricated by Crowder and the only reason he could think of for that was to increase the pressure on him to act more quickly. But if it had been planted on Charlotte’s computer, just as that text had been sent to her, but not from him, then why did someone wish to implicate him in Charlotte’s disappearance? The only reason he could think of was the same as he’d previously considered – because Charlotte had to be eliminated in case she’d discovered something from Blackerman about the real killer, and whoever was responsible knew of their past affair, making him the perfect fall guy.
He stuffed the paper in his pocket and checked on Helen. She was sleeping. She had the coat he’d bought her spread out over the duvet in an attempt to keep warm and was wearing one of his sweatshirts over her clothes. He could rough it on the boat in winter but he didn’t think it fair that she should and as Crowder wasn’t going to find somewhere for her to stay he would need to and soon. And without telling Crowder where that was.
He showered quickly in the cold and then turned in. The rain stopped just after three twenty and he slept fitfully until the sound of a boat motoring slowly past roused him into full wakefulness. On deck he saw it was Crowder’s boat. It was an hour before dawn. He washed and changed and ran the engine to get the heaters going, wondering if it would wake Helen, but it didn’t. He made them both some toast and tea. He had to shake her to wake her.
‘Breakfast in bed, you certainly know how to spoil a girl,’ she joked, shivering. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just after six o’ clock.’
‘Christ, is there such
a time!’
He walked her to the ladies’ shower block, where he waited outside. He still couldn’t trust Crowder. Even though his boat had left the marina he wasn’t sure that he and Helen weren’t being watched and that someone wasn’t waiting for the chance to snatch Helen. There was no one around. But he couldn’t watch her forever.
They walked to the marina office by the lock where Marvik asked a member of staff to call a taxi for them. Outside Helen turned towards the harbour. ‘It’s nice here,’ she said, leaning on the railings and gazing out across the lake-like water and the surrounding flat countryside in the distance. The wide channel to their right led up to the small hamlet of Dell Quay, barely a handful of houses and a pub. Further northwards the water narrowed to a creek and then a stream and beyond that the South Downs.
‘Quiet too except for those noisy seagulls.’ She squinted up at them. Then she looked despondent. ‘I should have phoned in sick yesterday. I’ll need a job to go back to, even though I hate it.’
‘We’ll find a pay phone in Bognor.’
‘Never been to Bognor,’ she said, making an effort to brighten up.
‘There’s a first time for everything.’
She smiled. ‘Isn’t there a saying, “Bugger Bognor”, by some king or other?’
‘King George V who died in 1936. The legend has it that they were his last words and there are a couple of versions on why he said that. One is that he was in Bognor in 1928 recovering from a chest infection at a wealthy friend’s house and when he was leaving and was petitioned to rename it Bognor Regis, as a mark of his visit, he said “Bugger Bognor!” Another is that on his deathbed it was suggested that he’d soon be well enough to return for another spell of convalescence at Bognor, to which he replied—’
‘Bugger Bognor.’
‘And promptly died.’
‘So what did he actually say on his deathbed?’
‘No idea.’
She laughed. Marvik wished he could prolong the moment but soon they’d be sucked back into the more immediate past, and her past, and the wounds would start hurting again.
Staring back out to the harbour, she said, ‘I hope Amelia Snow is an early riser.’
Marvik just hoped she was at home.
TWELVE
Tuesday
‘Can I help you?’ A bright, musical female voice answered Marvik’s summons on the intercom of an Edwardian house which had been converted into apartments on the Bognor seafront. He flashed Helen a relieved look and quickly introduced himself, apologizing for disturbing her so early. It was just on nine o’clock and he and Helen had spent an hour kicking their heels along a wind-blown, tired and dejected Bognor promenade on a cold, damp early-March morning. The only coffee shop that would normally have been open, one of the large national chains, was closed for refurbishment. So it seemed was Bognor – although not for refurbishment, judging by its appearance – and there was hardly a sign of any of the sixty thousand inhabitants.
Helen had remarked, ‘Now I know why King George said “Bugger Bognor”.’
Marvik had replied, ‘We’re not seeing it at its best.’ Into the intercom he said, ‘I’d like to talk to you about your brother, Mrs Snow. I understand it might be painful for you but it is very important. I’m happy to explain outside if you prefer.’
‘Are you from the police?’
‘No.’ There was no reason for her to admit him or to agree to speak to him but she said, ‘Third floor,’ and the door release buzzed. He pushed it open. The hall was spacious, clean and well decorated, albeit blandly in magnolia with a beige carpet.
‘Needs a splash of colour,’ Helen muttered as they climbed the stairs. Her tone was light but he could hear and sense her tension.
The door of flat twelve was open before they reached it and standing on the threshold was a short, plump woman with curly white hair wearing red voluminous trousers and a loose-fitting hip-length green and blue top with sequins. She more than made up for the lack of colour in the hall. Beside her was a small West Highland terrier.
‘I apologize for disturbing you,’ Marvik began. She was studying them curiously but not warily. Marvik suddenly saw what she must, a muscular, broad-shouldered man with a scarred face and a scruffy woman with heavy, dark eye make-up, black tights, big black boots with a purple coat and purple hair. He thought they were enough to make Amelia Snow slam the door on them and call the police but her fleshy face broke into a broad grin.
‘It’s not often I get such interesting callers. Come in. You look frozen to the bone. That wind off the sea at this time of the year can cut right through you.’
He stepped in, exchanging a quick glance with Helen, who seemed as surprised as he was by their welcome and by the warmth and trusting nature of Amelia Snow. It boded well for their mission.
They followed her into a well-proportioned, high-ceilinged room partly decorated in Helen’s favourite colour, purple, contrasting with green. It should have been hideous but somehow it wasn’t. In front of Marvik were two sets of long French windows that gave on to small verandas each with black iron balustrades and a view of the grey sea. The room was comfortably furnished with an assortment of easy chairs covered in bright fabrics and throws and an untidiness that was homely rather than slovenly. It was also extremely cluttered and very warm.
‘You look as though you could do with a coffee.’
Helen nodded eagerly. She unfolded her arms and stopped shivering. Marvik unzipped his jacket.
‘Take your coats off. The heating’s on full pelt. Life’s too short to be cold,’ she called out as she entered a room on the right giving off the lounge. The little dog followed her.
‘Thank you,’ Marvik replied, as the rattle of cups reached them. He shrugged out of his jacket and looked for a suitable place to put it.
She popped her head out of the kitchen. ‘Just sling it where you like.’
He draped it over one of the easy chairs. Helen raised her eyebrows at him, wrenched off her coat and threw it on top of his before sauntering to an open door on their left.
Marvik turned to study the photographs on the cabinets. There were several of her dog and a few of her with her dog, taken, by the look of the settings, on various holidays, but there was one of her taken several years ago standing beside a sturdily built man who Marvik thought might be Bryan Grainger. There was a similarity between them in build and around the eyes. But whereas Amelia Snow’s face had lost its shape because of the excess flesh around it, this man’s still retained its square-jawed ruggedness. He was about late-forties and confident looking and when Marvik’s eyes travelled up to the numerous paintings on the walls he saw one of the same man, this time looking thoughtful and preoccupied, perhaps even troubled. The other paintings were a mixture of people undertaking various activities: a man behind a market stall selling oranges; a fisherman huddled in the cold and rain on the beach; a woman pushing a child on a swing in the park. They were good.
Helen’s voice came from the distant room, ‘You’re a painter,’ she called out. Marvik joined her in what was clearly Amelia’s studio. It was as chaotic as her lounge and there were two further French windows looking out to sea.
‘I dabble,’ came the distant reply.
It looked more than dabbling to Marvik.
She appeared in the doorway.
‘They’re really good,’ Helen said with genuine admiration. ‘I used to love art at school but never got to take it seriously.’
‘Maybe you should. You obviously have a taste for the dramatic.’ She nodded at her hair.
Marvik wondered if Helen would be insulted but she smiled with real warmth.
Amelia Snow added, ‘Although that purple sailing jacket rather lets the side down.’
‘I had to buy it very quickly and at the last moment. My other coat got thrown away,’ she added pointedly with a glance at Marvik.
‘Come and have coffee.’
Marvik was glad to find Amelia Snow so open and friendly; i
t made his task of questioning her much easier. But it didn’t mean he would get the answers he was seeking. A coffee pot, three mugs, a plate of chocolate biscuits, milk and sugar was waiting for them on a tray on a circular table in front of the big marble fireplace. The dog settled itself at Amelia Snow’s feet.
‘Is that your brother, Bryan?’ Marvik asked, indicating the painting he’d been studying earlier.
‘Yes. I finished that two months before he died.’
Marvik took the coffee mug from her. He said, ‘This is Helen Shannon.’ He watched for her reaction. He could feel Helen holding her breath. But Amelia Snow showed no recognition of the name.
‘Help yourself to biscuits.’
Helen picked up one. ‘My sister was Esther Shannon, she was murdered in 1997 and your brother investigated the case.’
Amelia Snow looked sympathetic. ‘And that’s why you’re here to ask me if he discussed it with me. I’m sorry, dear, but Bryan never talked about work. He was a very self-contained man, dedicated to his job, too dedicated I often thought, and he considered me too flighty, but we rubbed along well enough for brother and sister although we were never what you would call close.’
Marvik felt the disappointment keenly. Another wasted morning. But they couldn’t just leave and besides, even if Bryan Grainger had never talked about his work, there was still his death and she could give them more information about that. But first he asked her about the painting.
‘What did you talk about while you painted him?’
‘We didn’t, that’s probably why he looks reflective.’
‘Or puzzled.’
She studied it. ‘Maybe he does.’
‘And rather sad,’ added Marvik, ignoring Helen shifting impatiently beside him. ‘Perhaps he was thinking through his old cases or wondering what to do with the rest of his life.’ Was that Bryan Grainger he was describing, or himself? But he had a job to go to in a week’s time and one he knew he felt no enthusiasm for. Perhaps he would once this was over, if it was over. And if it wasn’t then he’d have to tell Drayle that he needed to postpone his start date.
Silent Running Page 14
