Lost Voyage

by Pauline Rowson

  ‘Was that knife across Ian’s throat meant for me?’ she said quietly.

  Marvik threw her a glance. She looked thoughtful and bewildered rather than scared.

  ‘If I hadn’t been spooked enough to leave the flat that might have been me lying on that floor, dead.’ She pushed her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders. ‘Maybe I’m the target those guys were talking about.’

  Marvik couldn’t see why she should be, but then neither could he see why Bradshaw would have been. Unless … He said, ‘Is there anything you’ve heard or seen while working on the boats that might have been suspicious?’

  ‘No. It was all pretty boring and damn hard work. Gavin and I just got on with cleaning. The owners weren’t on board. We’d pick up the keys from the office and drop them back there. Occasionally an owner would arrive and say he was pleased. There’s usually only minimum supplies and personal belongings on the boats we clean. It’s not like cleaning someone’s house.’ She threw him a nervous look. ‘The man who killed Esther—’

  ‘Is dead.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘And the man falsely convicted of her murder?’

  ‘Is a Christian and would no more seek revenge on you or anyone else than fly to Mars. And you didn’t falsely convict him, Helen. He’s living abroad, and yes, I’m sure.’ He wasn’t, but he was positive that Terrence Blackerman had nothing to do with this. He heard her sigh heavily. It turned into a yawn, which she didn’t bother to hide.

  ‘Were there any boats or visitors you wondered about – that you felt there was something not right about?’

  She quickly caught on. ‘Drug smuggling, you mean, or bringing in illegal immigrants? I’ve never seen or heard anything but I wouldn’t put it past Bradshaw to have been mixed up in something illegal. I must have been mad to agree to go on his boat. Maybe the killer saw me and thought I was in league with him. How did the killer get into my bedsit? I didn’t leave the door unlocked.’

  ‘Maybe Bradshaw got there first,’ Marvik said.

  ‘You think I let him in.’ She halted and rounded on him.

  ‘Someone did; the door wasn’t forced.’

  ‘You think I killed him!’ she cried incredulously. ‘You believe I’m capable of that! And I thought I could trust you. Well, that just proves what shit taste I’ve got in people.’ She made to turn round but Marvik gripped her arm.

  ‘No, I don’t think you’re a killer but the police might. You had a motive – he tried it on with you. You rejected him. You also had the opportunity – he was in your flat. And you had the means, a knife, which could have come from the kitchen drawer. I didn’t see a knife lying around but it might have been under the body or you could have taken it away and ditched it in the marina before I met you. But,’ he quickly added as she was about to explode in protest, ‘neither I nor the police, if they’ve got any sense, could see you having the strength to overcome Bradshaw while he meekly stood or sat as you slit his throat before pushing him on to the floor and turning over his body.’

  ‘Well, thanks for that,’ she said with heavy sarcasm. After a moment, he felt her body relax. He let go of her arm and they walked on. A drizzling rain had begun to drift off the sea.

  Marvik said, ‘But Bradshaw could have been drugged and you could have had help?’

  ‘And who was my accomplice?’ she tossed at him, her anger making her walk faster. Marvik didn’t mind that.

  ‘Gavin Yardly.’

  She threw him an amazed glance. ‘You’re nuts. Gavin! Why would Gavin want to kill him?’

  ‘Because he lives in the same house as you. He got you the job and he works with you.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Maybe Gavin found you struggling with Bradshaw in your bedsit and decided to defend your honour. Or he killed Bradshaw in a fit of jealous rage when he found you together.’

  ‘That’s bollocks and you know it!’ she cried, but there was despair in her voice and in her eyes. ‘Gavin will tell you there’s nothing between us. He’s not even my type – he’s a bit nerdy, nice guy, quiet, thank God. I hate people who witter on about nothing or only talk about themselves. And he’s years younger than me. Just ask him.’

  That’s what the police would be doing soon.

  ‘Jesus, this is a mess.’ She glared at him. Marvik watched the fury slowly fade from her face, replaced with bewilderment. ‘I can’t think straight.’

  ‘Then don’t.’

  ‘But what are we going to do?’ she pleaded.

  ‘First, we’re going to pay a visit to Bradshaw’s boat.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I want to check that it is as you left it.’

  She eyed him suspiciously again.

  ‘And yes, I believe you, Helen, when you say you stormed off it. But there might be evidence of someone else having been on board after you left.’

  She grunted acceptance of this and fell silent, which lasted until they reached the marina, although a few times Marvik thought she was about to speak then changed her mind.

  He checked several times to make sure they weren’t being followed. They weren’t, and no one was waiting for them at the marina. The boardwalk was deserted and there was still no one moored up next to him. The wind was whistling through the masts and the drizzle was becoming heavier. As they turned on to the pontoon, Marvik said, ‘Did anyone see you waiting for me to arrive?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t see or speak to anyone. I called you from the seafront and when you said it would take you about two-and-a-half hours to arrive I sat in one of the shelters for a while then slowly walked towards the marina. There was nowhere open, otherwise I’d have had a drink and a warm up. I walked past the Martello Tower and around to the lifeboat station where I knew I’d be able to see you approach. I didn’t think anyone else would be coming into the lock at three in the morning so when I saw the lights of a boat I hurried to the marina and let myself on to the pontoons. I have the security code.’

  Their conversation had taken them to Bradshaw’s boat. Marvik unzipped the awning. He climbed on. Helen followed suit. The teak deck was clean. There was a white plastic table with white vinyl seats around it, and a small fridge. He opened it, making sure to cover his fingers. Inside were two bottles of beer and a can of lager. Ahead was the helm. He crossed to it and, using Bradshaw’s boat key, turned on the ignition. According to the chart plotter, Bradshaw had last used his boat nine days ago on a trip west along the coast to Brighton. Marvik unlocked the hatch and climbed down into the cabin. To Marvik’s right was a wood veneer table and around it pale blue vinyl seating. On the table was an almost empty bottle of red wine and two glasses.

  ‘Is this where you were?’

  She nodded. ‘And that’s my glass but I didn’t drink all that wine.’

  Marvik picked up the glass Helen had indicated. There was a trace of lipstick around it. He wiped it clean and replaced it in the cabinet in the galley opposite. Then he wiped the bottle and the table and seat where she had sat. ‘Don’t want to make it too easy for the police to say you were here with the boss.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Did anyone know you were coming here? Gavin, for example?’

  ‘No. He wasn’t in work yesterday. And when Ian asked me to meet him here we were outside the office, so Glenda – she’s the manager – didn’t hear. Ian could have told her, I suppose, but he probably didn’t.’

  ‘And the office is where?’ Marvik ran his fingers around the seat and in the creases.

  ‘The other side of the marina, by the car park.’

  Marvik played his torch over the floor, looking for any jewellery or possibly a button. He found a small stud earring. ‘This yours?’

  ‘No.’

  He pocketed it anyway. He could wipe the boat clean but that would only make the police more suspicious. But now, if they picked up Helen’s prints there was nothing to say that she had been on board last night. She could ha
ve come on board at any time.

  He entered the forward cabin.

  ‘I certainly didn’t come in here,’ Helen hotly declared, looking at the bed.

  There was a casual zip-up man’s jacket lying on it, nothing in the pockets, some men’s clothes in the lockers and men’s toiletries in the toilet and shower cubicle. No women’s items. He checked again for any jewellery but there was nothing.

  ‘OK, let’s go.’

  He locked up after ensuring he hadn’t left his prints anywhere. The police would discover from the paperwork in Bradshaw’s apartment and from his office manager that he owned a boat. At some stage they would come here. They might think it irrelevant to his murder. They might talk to the marina staff, but by the time their enquiries reached here, the night-duty manager and night-duty lock-keeper would have left. But they would talk to Bradshaw’s office manager, Glenda, and discover that Helen had worked for him. What would she tell them about Helen? wondered Marvik. It didn’t look good for Helen. There might not be enough evidence to actually charge her but the police would seek it. He could contact Crowder and ask for his assistance but this wasn’t a mission and Marvik didn’t want Crowder to think he couldn’t handle it alone. It would make him look weak, and Marvik wouldn’t countenance that.

  His precise recall and slightly obsessive nature confirmed that everything on his boat was exactly as he had left it. He hadn’t really suspected anyone breaking into it but it paid to be cautious. He asked Helen to cast off and immediately got the boat underway, instructing her to stay below as they went through the lock. He didn’t have to explain why. Once they were safely out of sight of the marina she came up on deck. Her face was harrowed, her eyes sunk in dark hollows made even deeper by the heavy make-up.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  He needed to buy Helen some time. He needed to put some distance between her and the dead man until he could find out who had murdered him and why. There was only one place to go and one man who could assist them. Strathen. Marvik made for the Hamble.

  FOUR

  Tuesday, 10.30 a.m.

  ‘I’ve checked the usual satellite tracking data of vessel movements for the area around Eastbourne last night and there are no leisure craft fitting the time of those two boats leaving the marina,’ Strathen said. The expression on his rugged face was neutral as always but Marvik knew he was as worried as himself about what had happened and how it implicated Helen.

  He was alone with Strathen in the operations room of his apartment with its computers, hard drives, plasma screens, whiteboards, telephones and fax machine. Marvik had called him on the way to the Hamble and had quickly brought him up to speed with events, giving him only the bare facts. Strathen’s voice had registered concern when he’d said he’d set to work right away. Marvik didn’t know what security consultancy projects Strathen was working on but knew he would postpone them or work around them for Helen.

  It had been just after nine when Marvik had moored up at Hamble marina and he and Helen had walked the short distance to the Grade II-listed whitewashed manor house set behind secure gates in spacious landscaped gardens. It bordered on to the Solent and a small dinghy park where Strathen kept a canoe. His large, sturdy motor cruiser was kept in the marina. Strathen had made them breakfast. They hadn’t discussed what had happened. Helen looked too tired and Marvik wanted to speak to Strathen in private. She had requested a shower and Marvik had urged her to sleep. She looked as though she’d like to refuse but it was clear she was dropping on her feet. He also needed sleep, but first he was keen to discuss his findings with Strathen and to hear what Strathen had discovered.

  Strathen said, ‘I might be able to pick up their movements recorded by one of the intelligence satellites,’ which Marvik knew not even private maritime security consultancies could access. It was used by the intelligence agencies and, unless Strathen could encrypt his access, his location would be identified. But then Strathen was an expert computer hacker and cyber analyst and could circumnavigate even the most supposedly secure systems without being traced. It had been part of his job in the Marines.

  ‘Why meet in the marina if they didn’t want to be noticed?’ Marvik asked. ‘They had to call up the night-duty lock-keeper and give the name of their boats.’

  ‘Which could be false, as are probably the names given to the marina night-duty manager, unless Colbourne travelled from Newcastle at the age of eighty-six and Marwell returned from Thailand where, according to his social media profile, he is currently on holiday. They clearly don’t want to be found but, as you say, Art, why choose such a public location for a meet unless the target was there? But if he or she was it can’t have been Bradshaw or Helen because they were both alive when Colbourne and Marwell left.’

  ‘And there’s something else that doesn’t add up.’ Marvik handed Strathen the SIM card which he’d extracted from Bradshaw’s mobile phone while heading for the Hamble and while Helen was making coffee. He had viewed its contents before throwing the phone in the sea. ‘Take a look at the photographs.’

  Strathen reached for a mobile phone and slotted in the SIM card. ‘Why didn’t the killer take the phone?’ he asked.

  ‘It can’t contain anything incriminating, unless he deleted it and replaced it in Bradshaw’s jacket.’ The police would apply for Bradshaw’s phone records and, if there was a number that Bradshaw had called which was connected to the killer, Marvik knew it would be dead like Bradshaw – just as the last text message sent to Sarah Redburn asking her to meet on the beach below Ballard’s Point had proved to come from a mobile phone number that was no longer in existence. The killer had used a basic pay-as-you-go phone, which had been purchased for the express purpose of luring her to that location in order to kill her.

  Marvik continued, ‘The last call Bradshaw made was on Monday at five twenty p.m. There’s no name against the number but it was to a local landline.’

  ‘I’ll check it out.’

  Bradshaw had made three other calls on Monday, including to his business, Aquamarine Cleaning, and he’d received two local calls, both from mobile numbers, the names and numbers of which meant nothing to Marvik. He’d also sent and received some texts but nothing on Monday. There was no call or text to or from Helen. And although Bradshaw could have deleted them, Marvik thought it unlikely there had been any.

  ‘It’s the photographs rather than the calls that I find interesting.’ Marvik recalled what he had seen. Pictures of a jowly man with a flushed face and flabby body, about early fifties with sunglasses perched on his short, slightly balding dark hair, smallish eyes and a wide mouth with full lips smiling into the camera. It was difficult to put that man with the corpse he’d seen on Helen’s bedsit-room floor but not impossible. All the photographs, about twenty in total, were of Bradshaw either beside his Jaguar or on board his boat. Some of those on the boat had been taken on the Continent judging by the blue sky and azure seas, but others were closer to home, along the Sussex coast with the Seven Sisters white chalk cliffs in the background. Some had been taken in the marina, and in what to Marvik looked like Brighton and Chichester marinas. What was interesting, though, was Bradshaw’s choice of companion in the boat pictures. All were women – five different ones – and all were leggy blondes, about early to mid-thirties with shapely figures and small bikinis, while Bradshaw sported a beer gut over lurid shorts and a hairy chest in some snaps and in others a loose-fitting, brightly patterned shirt over shorts but always with a glass of wine, champagne or a beer bottle in his hand and his arm around the woman, who was laughing and nestling in close to him. Bradshaw obviously thought he was a fine figure of a man judging by the smile on his face and the women clinging to him, but in Marvik’s opinion he was far from that. Perhaps he had a magnetic personality. Maybe he was charismatic, generous and humorous, although Marvik was more inclined to believe Helen’s version of Bradshaw – bluff, groping, exploitative and possibly violent. But should he? Whatever Bradshaw’s character, he had been brutall
y murdered and no one deserved that, although Marvik had reservations on that score. He’d met some evil bastards in his life and a quick death, even a violent one, was more than they deserved.

  Marvik saw surprise on Strathen’s face. Interpreting it, he said, ‘Yes, I wouldn’t have said that Helen was Bradshaw’s type either. The women he’s groping in those pictures are the opposite of her.’

  ‘Maybe he thought he’d go for something completely different.’

  Marvik looked dubious.

  ‘Or he thought she’d be a pushover,’ Strathen added more seriously. Keeping his voice low, he added, ‘There is a vulnerability about her despite her manner.’

  Marvik knew that. Just as there had been a vulnerability about Sarah, although she had been a completely different personality to Helen – quiet and shy, but then perhaps Helen’s brusque manner and bluntness hid a shyness, and the heavy make-up and dark clothes were designed to keep people at bay.

  Strathen said, ‘Helen is not Bradshaw’s usual type so either he was trying it on or he was told to get and keep her on board his boat, only she declined to play ball.’

  ‘And there’s something odd about the conversation she overheard on the pontoon.’ Marvik relayed his thoughts about the movement of the pontoon and how those men must have felt it and yet they had continued talking. ‘If, as she says, they were talking about murder they would have been fully alert to a fish swimming under the boat let alone someone walking on the pontoon. They’d have shut up, so either they’re incompetent or—’

  ‘They wanted Helen to hear,’ Strathen said thoughtfully. ‘Maybe Bradshaw was the target. He was ordered to do as you said, Art – get Helen on board his boat after being spun some yarn about her, but the real reason was because she was to be framed for his murder. Someone knew her background. They could make it look as though she was unbalanced.’