‘How can I help you, Inspector?’
Horton asked if he knew or had heard of a man called Leonard Borland. He watched Dowdswell’s reaction carefully.
‘No. I can’t say I have,’ he answered, looking puzzled and worried.
But Horton told himself this could be an experienced liar, a cold calculating murderer. He showed him Borland’s photograph while again studying his reaction, noting interest and curiosity but nothing more.
‘I’m sorry I’ve never seen him before. Why the questions, Inspector?’
‘He’s dead. He was beaten until he became unconscious and then his body was placed over an electric fire. He burnt to death.’ Horton spoke the brutal words harshly, his intention to prompt a response but Dowdswell didn’t flinch. Neither did he appear shocked but Horton thought a touch of weariness crossed his rugged features.
Evenly Dowdswell said, ‘And you believe this Mr Borland is connected with the man I found dead on his boat here.’
‘That’s what we’re trying to establish.’
Dowdswell studied Horton closely. In those dark eyes Horton read strength and confidence but did he also see compassion and innocence?
‘You’re wondering if Mr Borland’s killer might have come from here.’
‘Do you hear confession?’ Horton asked, avoiding answering the question.
‘Not in the usual sense of the word. There is no confessional here, but people come to me in private and confide in me. No one has confessed to murder though if that’s what you’re thinking.’
It wasn’t but he let Dowdswell believe that. ‘If they had would you tell me?’
‘I might.’
Horton examined Dowdswell’s intelligent face and studied the big strong hands and arms. Would he beat a man? Would he kill? Would he drag a man over a fire and leave him to die? He’d been trained to kill. But he was also a man of God. That didn’t mean he couldn’t kill and hadn’t killed.
Dowdswell eyed him shrewdly. ‘You think I have some information or knowledge of this murder.’
Horton wasn’t ready to answer that question. ‘Have you preached or attended a church in Fareham or Portsmouth?’ Borland could have attended a church in the city where he had worked for years.
‘Portsmouth Cathedral, yes. I’ve also led services there, and funerals, sadly.’
And could he have met Borland there?
‘How long have you been in the army, sir?’
‘Seven years.’
‘Always a padre?’
‘I took a master’s degree in Theology and became ordained. My ministry was in Norfolk but although I enjoyed it I found it wasn’t enough. I come from a military family, Inspector, and I wanted to serve my country but not as a soldier like my father and grandfather. I joined up and have never regretted it. I provide spiritual support, pastoral care and moral guidance for those in my unit. I, and my fellow padres, go into operational zones but we don’t carry weapons. It’s a challenging vocation.’
Horton wondered how he could square killing with his religious beliefs. Perhaps there was a way and it was that which had assisted him in killing Langham, Westerbrook and Borland.
‘Where were you Wednesday night?’
‘Here, helping the vicar. We had a nativity service for the children and parents.’
‘What time did that finish?’
‘If I’m to be questioned and suspected of a crime, you do suspect me, don’t you, Inspector? Then I’d rather we discussed it outside the church.’
He turned and set off down the aisle leaving Horton to follow him. Outside Dowdswell made for the small clean neat gravestones that Horton knew were part of the Commonwealth War Graves Commission, they marked the graves of both Allied servicemen and German airmen of the Second World War. Horton couldn’t see Dowdswell’s expression and wondered whether his action was a delaying tactic to give him time to disguise his emotions and to get his thoughts in order.
They walked the short distance to the old low flint wall encompassing the church grounds where, beyond, Horton could see Ripley on the police launch talking to two men on the landing stage, army by the look of their build. Across the narrow channel was the shore and low-lying land of Chidham and in the distance Horton caught sight of the steeples of the ancient churches both of Bosham, where Larry Egmont told him he lived, and the spire of Chichester Cathedral. It was two hours to high water and the gulls were circling overhead. Horton could also see the buoy where Westerbrook had moored up.
Dowdswell turned to Horton. ‘The nativity service finished at seven thirty and was followed by mince pies and coffee. I helped the Reverend Davies, who is the vicar here at St Nicholas’s, clear up. I chatted to a few people then left about nine. I returned to my quarters where I spent the night alone, so no alibi, Inspector, if I need one.’
‘Just routine.’
Dowdswell studied him candidly. ‘I’d rather you be honest.’
Horton returned the gaze. ‘OK then, why would you beat a man and then leave him to die of a heart attack, kill another man and sever his hand and then leave a third man to die in a fire?’
Dowdswell showed no emotional reaction, perhaps because he’d seen too much carnage in his career and had heard too many harrowing tales of death and destruction. Solemnly he said, ‘I understand your anxiety now. I’m not your killer. Someone who could do that is either desperate or troubled, or both.’
‘Or psychotic or greedy or thinks he’s superior or has what he believes a justifiable reason for doing so. Where were you last Monday and Tuesday evenings?’
Dowdswell didn’t protest either at the question or at the harshness of Horton’s tone. ‘In London. I attended a two-day seminar which started at four thirty Monday afternoon. I stayed over in the armed forces club at Waterloo, attended the seminar on Tuesday, met up with some friends Tuesday evening and returned here on Wednesday morning, arriving at midday. I’d happily give you contact details.’
They could check his alibis and they’d be cast iron. With relief Horton knew that Dowdswell was not their killer. He hadn’t wanted to believe he was. He turned and stared out to sea. ‘I have to check.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘But you still might be able to help me. You mentioned earlier that Clive Westerbrook’s boat was moored up on a soldier’s buoy.’
‘Yes, Hugh Maltby. He’s in Cyprus.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Positive and the Station Commander will confirm it.’
So Maltby couldn’t be the man who Westerbrook might have come here to meet, and who could have been his assailant. Unless Maltby had a son or brother that Westerbrook had known. He asked Dowdswell.
‘Hugh’s divorced and has no children, neither does he have any brothers or sisters. His father is a barrister with chambers in London and wanted Hugh to be the same and although Hugh went along with it and qualified for the Bar he threw it all in as soon as he could to join up as a Military Police Officer. Something his family and his former wife couldn’t understand. He was very talented and would have been making a fortune had he stuck to it but he found the law tedious. He wanted a more challenging environment, and life is not all about money, is it? Not for some. I can put a call in to ask him if he knows of Clive Westerbrook or you can make a request to call him direct by going through the Station Commander but either way you might not be able to get the information quickly, because of his job. He might be engaged in activity that prevents him from making contact outside his usual channels.’
Horton frowned with irritation knowing it could take days to get hold of Maltby and then the answers might not lead them anywhere in the investigation. And it wasn’t his investigation anyway.
Dowdswell added, ‘Hugh’s father might be able to assist. His chambers are in High Holborn, Maltby and Stone.’
‘Thanks. We’ll contact them. Have you ever seen Westerbrook’s boat on that mooring before?’
‘No.’
‘Or any other boat mo
ored there?’
‘Only Hugh’s motorboat.’
‘You mentioned that it was laid up, where?’
‘Here in the compound.’
‘Can we check?’
‘Of course.’
Horton wasn’t sure why he wanted to know if it was there but there was that niggle at the back of his mind that said the killer could still be connected with someone from here.
Dowdswell quickly located Hugh Maltby’s boat in the nearby compound.
‘Do you know when Mr Maltby took it out of the water?’ Horton asked.
‘Just before he went overseas, three weeks ago.’
And Horton could see that it hadn’t been used since then. Westerbrook must have come here for peace and quiet, to reflect on what to do next and had chosen one of the spare buoys at random. Horton thanked the padre for his help. He didn’t apologize for suspecting him and Dowdswell didn’t expect him to. He’d know it was all part of the job.
Horton returned to the police launch where Elkins told him that he’d managed to speak to a few people in and around the sailing club but none of them recognized Westerbrook or Borland. And no one had seen Westerbrook’s boat moored there before.
Horton gave instructions to be taken back to Portsmouth and as Ripley got underway Horton went below and rang Trueman. He asked if DCI Bliss was loitering about, she’d go ballistic if she knew what he and Cantelli were expending their energy and time on. But Walters hadn’t called to say she’d been demanding to know where they were, which was unlike her. Trueman informed him that she was at a one day conference on domestic violence. Good, that gave them a breathing space. He relayed the gist of his interview with Dowdswell. Trueman made no comment about him not being on the investigating team as Horton knew he wouldn’t. Uckfield though might feel differently, unless they came up with something that could lead to a result and Horton thought the Super wouldn’t be averse to getting one over on DCS Adams. ‘Can you look into Borland’s background and see if there is a link to Hugh Maltby? He’s in Cyprus and has nothing to do with Borland’s death but I’m wondering if Borland knew the family, contact Maltby’s father at his chambers and ask him. Also see if he’s heard Clive Westerbrook mentioned.’
Trueman said he would.
Horton asked if Borland had ever worked with Nugent.
‘Not according to Nugent’s employment history. He’s had several jobs, no convictions, but his short length of time as an accounts clerk for a variety of companies makes me wonder if he had his hand in the till but left or was chucked out before anything could be proved, or the company decided it didn’t want to go through the hassle of reporting the crime and taking him to court. We’ve picked him up by the way.’
‘Where?’
‘Returning to his flat. He said he’d stayed overnight with a friend and had overslept. Dennings and DCI Neame are interviewing him now.’
Horton rang off wondering how Nugent would react to Dennings. He recalled the thin stooping, shuffling man. In Horton’s opinion Nugent was not very strong either physically or mentally. If he was involved in this then Dennings would crack him wide open.
He checked his emails on his phone to find that Guilbert had sent over the photographs of the Ducale twins. With his heart hammering he called them up. First his eyes fell on a teenage Eileen, it was unmistakably her and his heart felt heavy with grief. He missed her intelligence, her gentleness and her kindness.
In the second photograph she had her arm tucked into that of a man. Horton stared at him, his heart knocking against his ribs. He had the same features as his sister, keen eyes, an angular face and wide mouth. Horton studied him as the boat rocked and plunged in the swelling sea. Was it the same fit and tanned man in his mid-sixties he’d talked to on his boat in Southsea Marina in June? He recalled Ballard’s intelligent grey eyes, his craggy face, his rich well-educated voice, and the air of command about him. And if there was any doubt the third photograph of Andrew Ducale alone on a yacht confirmed it. Horton was certain he was staring at Edward Ballard. Ballard was Ducale.
He let out a long slow breath, trying to ease his racing pulse. Was Ducale also his father? Had he been named after him? Was he the man Jennifer had seen in the casino and had thought dead? It was looking that way. Horton knew – although he had no proof – that Ballard had been in the intelligence services. Perhaps he’d been at Fort Monckton in Gosport and had taken the ferry across to Portsmouth and the casino, not expecting to find Jennifer there. Had MI5 been operating at Fort Monckton in 1978? Or perhaps, Horton thought, with a pounding heart, Ballard had been visiting the Royal Hospital Haslar questioning someone who had returned from a trouble zone, Bernard Litchfield, recovering from a bullet wound incurred in Northern Ireland. And Ballard, or rather Ducale, had discovered – or perhaps had already known – that his twin sister, Eileen, was in love with Bernard. Yes, it certainly fitted. Perhaps Ballard had discovered that Jennifer was working at the casino, or he’d been told she was and had been ordered to make contact with her. But if Ballard had killed her why then rescue him from those God awful children’s homes and place him with Bernard and Eileen? Conscience? No, he didn’t think so. Perhaps he was ordered to meet her on the 30 November 1978 but someone else kept that rendezvous because Ballard had been sent away, overseas on another mission, only discovering on his return four years later that she’d vanished and been killed. Ballard had tried to put things right by making sure that he was fostered by his sister. And then, this year, in June Ballard had returned and, deciding it was time for Horton to discover the truth, had left that photograph from 1967 on Horton’s boat. God, he wished he’d told him more instead of letting him stumble around in the dark trying to piece together the past. He needed some air.
He climbed up on deck. The weather was worsening. The sky had deepened to an ominous dark grey and it was blowing a gale. The police launch was bucking in the heavy waves. It didn’t bother him, he was used to it, so too were Elkins and Ripley, but Cantelli would have been hanging over the side, a peculiar shade of green. Horton was glad to let his thoughts return to the case. He wondered how Cantelli was getting on with Mrs Samson.
Dowdswell was out of the frame, along with his friend, Hugh Maltby. Aubrey Davidson was also off the list. That left Nugent. But Horton didn’t believe that Borland would have trusted Nugent enough to admit him to his home and show him his evidence, even if Trueman unearthed a link between Nugent and Borland. There was still the possibility it was DCS Adams but there was someone else that linked Westerbrook, Nugent and Borland, and whom Borland could have confided in and trusted.
Turning to Elkins, Horton shouted above the roar of the engine and the wind, ‘What do you know about Julian Tierney?’
‘He’s been the marina manager at Fareham for three years. Friendly, well liked, good at his job.’
‘No hint of scandal or any criminal activity.’
‘None. He’s a bit vague and forgetful at times but that’s not a crime. I can’t see him as a butcher and a killer,’ Elkins added following Horton’s thought pattern.
Horton recalled the round friendly face and tried to imagine Tierney as a killer but like Elkins he couldn’t. But Borland had been watching that marina and there was that discrepancy where Tierney had claimed in a previous interview that he’d seen Borland in the car park talking to Aubrey Davidson, but Davidson had denied it. Horton thought Davidson was telling the truth. Maybe Tierney was mistaken if he was as vague as Elkins claimed. Or perhaps he’d said that to throw him off the scent and point the finger at Davidson. Horton told Elkins to head for Fareham Marina but it was twelve fifteen and there was someone else he’d promised to see. He asked Elkins to stop off at Oyster Quays and sent a text to Carolyn.
TWENTY
She was leaning over the railings looking out across the water. He thought with sadness how things might have been different between them.
‘I can’t stay long,’ he said.
Her smile faded and she pushed back her hair as
she registered his serious expression and abruptness.
‘This is the brush off then.’
‘I didn’t think we had a relationship.’
‘No?’ She looked hurt and he felt a stab of guilt, perhaps he was wrong. But no, he knew what he’d seen.
‘Not when you’re already in one with Rufus Anstey.’
‘Ah.’
He kept his steady gaze on her. Her eyes fell and she turned away to look out to sea. ‘How did you know? No, don’t tell me you saw him arrive at my apartment after you’d left. I don’t think I like being spied upon.’ She swung back at him, her eyes angry.
‘And neither do I, Carolyn,’ he calmly replied.
She looked surprised then puzzled. ‘Why should I spy on you?’
He didn’t answer but searched her face to see if she was telling the truth. She held his gaze without flinching and with what looked like genuine bewilderment.
Rather harshly he said, ‘Was sleeping with me the only way you thought I’d agree to you probing me about Jennifer?’
‘No!’
‘Did you think that I’d be so smitten and infatuated with you that I’d pour out my heart? Is going to bed with your subjects a usual trick of yours to get people to confide in you?’
‘How dare you.’
‘I dare because that was what it was.’
‘My God, you honestly think that’s the way I operate?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, it bloody well isn’t. I was … am very attracted to you.’
‘Poor bloody Rufus,’ he sneered.
Her face flushed. Tight-lipped she said, ‘Rufus and I have been dating for a month. I met him when I first came here for the project. He’s divorced. I like him but I … look it just happened with you. I didn’t mean it to and I certainly don’t make a habit of jumping into bed with every man or any man come to that the second time I meet him.’
Maybe that was the truth, maybe not. ‘And does Rufus know about us?’
‘Of course he doesn’t and I’m not going to tell him, unless you are.’ Her eyes narrowed.
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