Stapledon’s hair had thinned out considerably since the memorial photograph of 2003 and since the picture of him on the charity’s website. What was left of it on a high-domed head was grey. He was still lean, though, and tall, but his face more lined and lantern-jawed than in the pictures. He sported dark-rimmed spectacles and a black suit with a maroon tie displaying the charity’s logo. Marvik put him in his mid-sixties. He listened as Stapledon talked about the challenges and dangers of working at sea, the isolation and the exhilaration. His voice was strong and confident, his manner assured without being arrogant. It was a short and witty speech, one Marvik thought he must have delivered many times with slight variations, but he managed to make it sound fresh and the audience appreciated it. Applause was given, hands were shaken and photographs taken before cups of tea and coffee and cake were dispensed. The photographer, a woman in her mid-thirties whom Marvik guessed must be from the local newspaper, exchanged a few words with Stapledon. As she left, Marvik took the opportunity to quickly interject.
‘I wonder if I could have a word, sir.’
Stapledon eyed Marvik as though trying to recall where he knew him from. Marvik could see two women heading towards them. Quickly, he said, ‘I’d like to talk to you about the loss of the Mary Jo.’
Stapledon looked taken aback for a moment, then, quickly recovering, said, ‘We’ll talk outside.’ He tossed a smile at the two ladies and said, ‘I won’t be long.’
Marvik wasn’t sure if that was simply a polite way of indicating to him that he wasn’t going to give him much time.
There was a wooden seat leaning against the church wall but Stapledon ignored it. Instead, he crossed the road to the shingle beach and Marvik fell into step beside him. Perhaps he needed time to compose himself because recalling the tragedy upset him. Perhaps he didn’t want anyone to interrupt them. Or maybe, thought Marvik, Stapledon was rapidly thinking what to tell him and how much.
He stopped a short distance from the rolling waves of the water’s edge. The clouds were building to the west, rapidly swallowing up the blue patches of sky that had intermittently appeared earlier in the day and were now casting shadows on the sea that in places made it appear almost black. The wind flipped at Stapledon’s lank grey strands of hair. As he buttoned up his suit jacket to stop his tie flapping in the breeze, he addressed Marvik with a curious expression, as if he thought he should know him but his memory was failing him.
‘I haven’t been asked about the Mary Jo for years and now twice in the last fortnight,’ he said, perplexed.
Marvik’s heart beat a little faster. This news meant he was on Gavin’s trail.
‘I only wish I could have helped Stephen Landguard find some answers as to why his father’s vessel vanished, but I couldn’t tell him and I can’t tell you either because I don’t know. No one does.’
Marvik felt a stab of disappointment but it was only momentary. He knew it couldn’t have been Stephen Landguard who had come here because he would have said. So either Stapledon was lying or Gavin had lied about his identity, perhaps in order to get more information from Stapledon. But surely Stapledon would have recognized Stephen Landguard from the memorial service. Maybe Stapledon thought Stephen had changed in the intervening years. Marvik would come to that later. First, he wanted to extract as much as he could from the slender man beside him.
Stapledon said, ‘Can I ask why you’re interested?’ The question was asked casually but Marvik detected a hint of anxiety behind the words and in the pale grey eyes.
Marvik wasn’t about to tell him the truth but he gave a very watered-down version of it. ‘I’m researching lost ships and the circumstances surrounding the Mary Jo intrigues me. I didn’t want to bother the family but saw from the press coverage in the local newspaper that you had been at the memorial service and, I believe, helped to arrange it.’
‘I did. It was the least I could do, not only in my role as a fundraising director of the charity but because Tim was a former colleague.’
Marvik’s interest quickened. He’d come to the right man. ‘You worked for Helmsley’s?’
‘No. Tim and I worked on car carriers before he left to work in the marine salvage industry and before I joined the charity, Seagoing, in 2002.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Extremely competent and experienced,’ came the quick reply that contained an edge of defensiveness, as though Marvik was about to accuse Timothy Landguard of negligence. Briskly, Stapledon continued, ‘He’d had years at sea, rising from deck officer to senior navigation officer and then to captain on containers and car carriers before becoming a salvage master. He was a very good seaman, highly professional and respected. Whatever happened to the Mary Jo, you can take my word for it that it wouldn’t have been an oversight or incompetence on the part of Tim Landguard.’
‘Of course. I never suggested it was,’ Marvik mollified him. ‘I was just curious to gain some background about the proposed salvage operation and learn more about the crew.’
Stapledon took a breath and stared out to sea as though trying to calm himself. The wind was picking up, buffeting against them, determined to push them back. The waves were getting deeper, crashing on to the stones. They had the beach to themselves – even the dog walkers had deserted it. And there was no sign of a boat out at sea.
After a moment, he turned back to face Marvik and seemed to have got his emotions under control. ‘Tim had worked with Duncan Helmslow at sea, as had I. Duncan was an engineering officer like me. Martin Elmsley, Duncan’s business partner, was a senior deck officer but he preferred the more convivial atmosphere of the cruise liners to the solitary life on car carriers and containers so he didn’t work with us for very long. But he and Duncan joined forces again in 1999 when they started up the company, initially supplying workboats for marine-based construction projects along the coast. They soon expanded into vessel salvage and wreck recovery when Tim joined them in 2000. Then, tragically, Martin was killed in March 2001 while trying to fix a line to a stricken fishing boat to the west of Newhaven. His body was swept out to sea. The death hit Duncan very hard. Martin was the business brains behind the company and the ambitious one. Duncan was always happiest when he was fiddling about with engines or at sea. The loss of the Mary Jo and its crew finished that for Duncan who had, by then, been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. When Almbridge came along with an offer, Duncan jumped at it.’
‘And Almbridge was one of their competitors.’
‘In one sense, yes; in another, no. Almbridge were far more successful. A much more substantial operation. They took over the contract to salvage the SS Celeste and towed her to India, where she was broken up.’
‘Why to India?’
‘It’s a major ship recycling centre and it was thought best not to bring her back to Britain because there was some controversy at the time over ship recycling.’
Which Crowder had mentioned. The toxic American warships due to be dismantled at Hartlepool.
‘Is there anyone who worked for Helmsley at that time that I could speak to? I don’t want to disturb the family.’
Stapledon paused to reflect. ‘You could talk to Ian Bradshaw. He was in charge of tenders and contracts.’
So he hadn’t heard the news of Bradshaw’s death. It had been covered in the Eastbourne media, which was thirty-two miles to the east, not that far away, but it was in a different county, this being West Sussex and Eastbourne being situated in East Sussex. And Stapledon might live further away in the neighbouring counties of Kent to the east or Hampshire to the west. The news had been on the Internet, but perhaps Stapledon didn’t bother with that.
Stapledon looked pointedly at his watch. ‘I’m sorry but I have to go. They’ll think I’m being rude.’ He turned and Marvik fell into step beside him as they made their way back towards the church.
‘What do you think happened to the Mary Jo?’ Marvik asked.
‘You’ve read the marine accident investigation report?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you know as much as I do. Whatever it was it happened very quickly without any chance of a distress signal being put out. It must have been a freak wave rather than an explosion because the boat had been surveyed not long before it sailed and it was passed as seaworthy. The crew might have got clear or been knocked overboard but they wouldn’t have survived in that sea. Do you have a seafaring background, Mr …? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’
That’s because I didn’t give it.
Stapledon’s eyes flicked apprehensively now to Marvik’s scarred face.
Perhaps he thinks I was a pirate. ‘I know that Timothy Landguard left a widow, Meryl, and a son, Stephen. Do you know of any relatives of the other crew members?’
‘As far as I’m aware there weren’t any, but you could ask Stuart Moorcott. He was Helmsley Marine’s accountant. A fund was set up to help the relatives of the bereaved, which was administered independently by Moorcott. His offices are based in Newhaven.’ Stapledon looked about to say more, perhaps to again ask Marvik’s name, but his phone rang. With irritation, he glanced at it. His frown deepened. He didn’t answer. ‘It’s my ex-wife fussing over my son’s wedding tomorrow. Anyone would think it was being held in Buckingham Palace rather than The Royal Victoria at Hastings.’ He smiled. Marvik returned it but thought Stapledon looked more unsettled than when they had first started the conversation. Perhaps that was due to the phone call and the forthcoming nuptials. The sound of chatter coming from the hall reached them as they crossed to the church.
Marvik said, ‘Did you tell Stephen Landguard about Mr Moorcott and the fund?’
‘No need. He’d already know about it, his family being one of the beneficiaries.’
‘But Stephen did mention it?’ pressed Marvik, seeing the small flicker of concern in Stapledon’s expression and the beads of perspiration on his forehead.
‘Well, yes, we did talk about it but only because, like you, he wondered if the accountant had details of the relatives of the crew who had benefited from the fund. I told him the same as I’ve told you – that he’d have to check with Moorcott.’
‘When did Stephen visit you?’
‘As I said – a fortnight ago, Thursday.’
Before he had sent the letter to GCHQ, which he had posted on the Sunday after his visit to Stapledon.
Stapledon made to enter the church but Marvik had one more question to ask.
‘I haven’t seen any photographs of Timothy Landguard. What was he like?’
‘Stocky, dark hair and brown eyes,’ Stapledon answered quickly, now seemingly very impatient to get away.
‘Is his son like him?’
‘No. He’s fair like Meryl, or rather light auburn. Now, I must—’
‘Of course.’ Marvik thanked him for his help, taking his hand and finding the grip dry and strong, but the eyes behind the glasses were very troubled.
Marvik headed back towards the centre of the small town. Had Stapledon really failed to recognize Stephen Landguard? Could he genuinely have believed Stephen to have changed that much in the last eleven years? Stephen was dark-haired, and by no stretch of the imagination, even including hair dye, could he have looked light auburn and fair-skinned when he was nineteen. Maybe Stapledon just wasn’t very observant or had forgotten what Stephen had looked like. True, Meryl Landguard was fair. So perhaps it was natural for Stapledon to have assumed when Gavin introduced himself that he really was Stephen. But Marvik wasn’t sure that Stapledon was on the level. On the surface he seemed helpful and cooperative but he was disturbed by having to talk about the Mary Jo – not, Marvik thought, because the tragedy haunted him or that he’d lost a former colleague in the disaster, but because there was something he knew about it that he’d kept silent about for years. He’d managed to push it to the back of his mind but now two people enquiring about the Mary Jo was making him edgy.
Perhaps, Marvik thought, he was just being overly suspicious, but something about Stapledon didn’t feel right. And he was no nearer to discovering why Gavin Yardly had been killed or what had happened to the Mary Jo. But there was one thing he knew for certain: he was on the right trail because it hadn’t been Stephen Landguard who had approached Hugh Stapledon but Gavin Yardly and, considering what Yardly would have done next, Marvik did the same. He caught the train to Newhaven.
ELEVEN
Another trip to the library gave him Moorcott’s office address, which was close to the marina. Marvik hadn’t wanted to use his mobile phone to check the address on the Internet in case he could be tracked. He didn’t think the killer would have got that far yet but it paid to be cautious. He didn’t have any worries about confronting the killer but he would be failing in his mission if that happened now without him discovering the truth behind the loss of the Mary Jo and subsequently Bradshaw’s and Yardly’s deaths. His interest in Stuart Moorcott sharpened when he recognized that the address of his office was the same Strathen had given him for Bradshaw’s registered company.
Marvik studied the building in front of him, pictures of which he’d already seen on Moorcott’s website, along with photographs of the self-assured, prosperous-looking, sleek accountant. The office’s position and design suggested it had started life as a small waterfront warehouse. Once it had probably been surrounded by others; now it was dwarfed by waterside apartments. It had been tastefully and expensively renovated. Behind double glass doors emblazoned with the firm’s name, Marvik could see a pretty blonde receptionist, but it was the Aston Martin parked in front of the building that drew his attention, along with the personalized number plate which told him that the owner, Stuart Moorcott, was doing very well indeed. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be but Marvik smelt the stench of something and it wasn’t the harbour.
He was about to make for the entrance when the doors opened and a square-set man of average height, dark hair flecked with grey, wearing a black suit of immaculate cut, a crisp white shirt and pale yellow tie strode out. He was carrying a computer case. It was Moorcott. An expression of distaste and aloofness crossed the accountant’s features as he took in Marvik’s casual clothes, muscular frame and scarred face. But there was no surprise in the dark eyes. Was that because Hugh Stapledon had called to warn him that a scarred man might come asking questions? Or had he dismissed Marvik as being of no value to him and therefore of no consequence? Marvik didn’t budge from the driver’s side of the Aston Martin.
‘I’d like to talk to you about the Mary Jo, Mr Moorcott.’
‘Who? Never heard of her,’ Moorcott crisply replied. ‘Now, if you’d get out of the way, I have a business appointment.’ Moorcott made to zap open the car but Marvik held his ground. If Moorcott had given him an honest and civil response he might have got away with it but his reply caused Marvik’s already underlining suspicions to deepen. Now he smelled not just one rat but a whole sewer full of them. He held Moorcott’s disdainful and cocky stare until the sleek bastard shifted. Sniffing and with a twitch of a sycophantic smile, Moorcott said, ‘Oh, you mean the salvage vessel. That was so long ago I’d forgotten about it. You’ll find the details in the marine accident investigation report.’
Marvik sidestepped towards the bonnet of the car as Moorcott zapped it open and put the computer case on the back seat. Marvik said, ‘It says nothing in it about the fund you administered on behalf of Meryl Landguard and the other relatives of the crew.’
Moorcott almost banged his head on the top of the door as he straightened up. ‘I don’t know anything about a fund,’ he said, emerging and scowling at Marvik. So maybe Stapledon hadn’t forewarned him, because his alarm had been genuine.
‘Wrong answer, Mr Moorcott. I know you administered it.’
Moorcott eyed him warily. ‘I don’t see what business it is of yours.’ Then he faltered and looked vexed. ‘Are you related to one of the crew?’
Marvik didn’t reply.
‘If you are, I will need proper identification and proof
of it.’
‘Why? Is there money to pay out?’
Moorcott’s nose twitched. ‘I’m late. Make an appointment with my secretary.’
‘Of course.’ Marvik made as if to head for the entrance but, as Moorcott climbed into the driver’s seat, Marvik darted around to the passenger side and got in.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Moorcott exclaimed, flushing with anger.
‘Start the car.’
‘I’ll do no such thing. Get out now or I’ll call the police.’
‘Suits me. Or, better still, drive to the police station and then you can make a complaint against me, and in my defence I can tell them all about the Mary Jo, its fund and where I think the money is.’
Moorcott’s mouth tightened but his eyes at last registered fear.
Marvik continued, ‘Or shall we just take a drive and you can tell me how you’ve spent it. Nice car. Expensive, too.’
‘I don’t know what you’re—’
‘Drive,’ Marvik sharply commanded. ‘Unless you want your staff to wonder what you’re doing in the car talking to me.’ Marvik jerked his head to where two men were leaving the office. Moorcott quickly started up and pulled away. ‘Head for the fort,’ Marvik ordered. ‘We’ll talk there.’
It was only a short distance. A mid-nineteenth-century ruin perched on the hill overlooking the sea. It had been restored and was open to the public, but touring it was the last thing Marvik had in mind. He said nothing as Moorcott drove there, tight-lipped and frowning, probably as he tried to think of a way to extricate himself from this. He pulled into the deserted gravel car park, surrounded by bushes and trees not all in bud. He silenced the engine. Marvik ordered him out of the car.
Lost Voyage Page 11
