Marvik raised his eyebrows. ‘Two days after Oscar Redburn went AWOL. Did the police make any connection between the two?’
‘If they did the newspapers didn’t cover it.’
‘And Sarah didn’t mention it; neither did Freynsham.’
‘Maybe he didn’t think anything of it. The newspaper report was very sketchy – just said Darrow had been found dead in a cargo hold and union funds had gone missing, leaving readers to draw their own conclusions: i.e. Darrow had his hand in the till and had been discovered. Faced with his union reputation in tatters, he’d thrown himself into the hold. There were two paragraphs on the inquest. Immediate cause of death was severe trauma to the brain and multiple fractures. The coroner brought in an open verdict.’
Marvik said, ‘Could Redburn have killed Darrow and then taken off scared?’
‘Maybe. It doesn’t say how long Darrow had been lying in that cargo hold.’
‘Perhaps that was what Freynsham was so worried about when I started asking him questions. He knew Redburn had killed Darrow – perhaps he’d even witnessed it or helped him do it – but why should they kill him?’
Strathen shrugged. His penetrating grey eyes in his rugged face looked thoughtful for a moment.
Marvik continued, ‘Time to report to Crowder. I want to know what the police have got on Sarah’s murder. I’ll ask him for a meeting. And no fobbing off,’ he added grittily.
He made the call while Strathen inspected what they had on board to eat. A couple of minutes later, Marvik came off the phone. ‘He’s on his way, by boat – should be with us within ninety minutes.’ Marvik hadn’t asked where Crowder was coming from but given the timing it sounded as though it might be Portsmouth, to the east of Poole.
They ate mainly in silence, making no reference to their mission but concentrating on the meal that Strathen had cooked while Marvik had showered and changed. His thoughts had constantly turned to the shy, apologetic woman he’d had breakfast with yesterday and her death, and yet he could make no sense of it or of what they had learned so far. He hoped Crowder would change that.
‘Sounds like Crowder arriving now,’ Marvik said as he caught the deep throb of a powerful engine above the howl of the wind. He heard the boat come alongside on the pontoon. Neither of them went out to assist. They knew that Crowder could handle a boat alone and Marvik guessed he would be by himself, just as he always was for a meeting with them.
The boat dipped and swayed as Crowder climbed on board. He nodded a greeting at them, his round, weatherworn face serious and his deep brown eyes solemn. Marvik offered him a beer but he declined. Marvik knew nothing about the fit, dark-haired man in his early fifties who slid on to the bench seat beside Strathen. He had no idea if he was married or had kids – grandkids, even. That wasn’t Marvik’s concern. He had no need to know. All he knew was that Crowder was intelligent, determined, could handle a boat and had an inner strength that showed in his calm, unperturbed manner.
He pulled off the expensive sailing jacket to reveal a navy jumper over a pale blue polo shirt. In his quiet, steady voice, he said, ‘So far there is no trace of Sarah having been booked into a hotel or guest house in the area. If she was staying with a friend, he or she hasn’t come forward. Enquiries are progressing. The initial time of death has been put between nine p.m and midnight on Sunday.’
‘I rang her at six and again at eight. She didn’t answer.’
‘It’s possible she could have been held against her will and her phone monitored.’
Marvik felt a chill run through him at the thought of Sarah afraid and hurt. He tensed and said, ‘The killer would know I had called her.’
‘So will the police once they have access to her phone records.’
‘And they could leap to the conclusion that I’m the killer. I don’t have an alibi.’
Crowder said, ‘We can deal with that later if we have to. She was strangled with some kind of a cord and that’s all I have on the method of her death.’
Marvik tried to blot out the picture of a ligature thrown around her neck and the cruel, painful death.
‘Have they found her next of kin?’ he asked.
‘Not that I’m aware of yet.’
‘What about her address? And don’t tell me you don’t know it because I won’t believe you.’
‘Her last registered address is a rented furnished flat in Eastbourne. She moved out a week ago. No one knows to where yet. She doesn’t have a car but she does have a driving licence. The police are checking if she hired a car or van to move her belongings, and they’re talking to her neighbours. The landlord has no mail for her so it’s probable she used a forwarding address or a PO Box number. She’s registered as self-employed so they’ve got no company personnel records to check but they’ll contact a previous employer who might be able to give them a next of kin.’
‘Freynsham told me that Sarah contacted him in early February to ask him what he knew about her father’s disappearance. He told her he knew nothing and apart from him telling me he had been with Redburn at Lyme Regis just before he disappeared he told me precious little too, but he was very scared that his contact with Redburn might be made known to the media. Perhaps he called her or sent her a text to say he had new information and arranged to meet her, then killed her. He might have told her to bring her research with her so he could destroy it after killing her. I’d like to know what he was doing Sunday night and if he has an alibi.’ Marvik placed the photograph that Freynsham had given him on the table. ‘That’s Oscar Redburn.’
‘Is it?’ Crowder asked quietly.
Marvik eyed him sharply. ‘You know what he looks like?’
‘I didn’t say that but you only have Freynsham’s word it’s Oscar.’
‘He didn’t look as though he was lying.’
Strathen, peering at the photograph, said, ‘Maybe all those appearances on TV have turned him into a bloody good actor.’
They had a point. Marvik addressed Crowder. ‘What do you know of Jack Darrow?’
‘Nothing. Who is he?’
Strathen enlightened him, adding that perhaps Oscar Redburn killed Darrow and Freynsham helped him to leave the country. ‘Freynsham could have spun you a line, Art. He could have driven Redburn to Weymouth where he caught the ferry to Cherbourg. Redburn stays abroad for years but returns in 1989, reinventing himself as Bradley Pulford.’
‘But why the devil as Pulford? Does any of this make any sense to you?’ Marvik demanded of Crowder.
‘Not yet. But it seems that someone doesn’t want you asking questions about Redburn or Pulford.’
‘So we keep asking,’ Marvik said grimly.
Crowder returned to his boat and they heard it leaving a few minutes later.
Strathen rose. ‘I’ll return to Hamble and see if I can get you anything by the morning.’
Marvik hoped he would. And he was determined to get more out of Freynsham tomorrow, even if he had to threaten to throw him off the Cobb again.
He tried to blot out thoughts of Sarah and the manner of her death but both intruded on his sleep and disturbed him more than the rising wind and the rain ricocheting off the boat. He wasn’t sorry when the trilling of his phone woke him. It was six a.m. and Strathen.
‘I’ve found a relative of Jack Darrow’s.’
‘How?’ Marvik asked, swinging out of his bunk.
‘By spending a long, hard night trawling the Net.’
And only now would Strathen grab a few hours’ sleep before setting off for the National Archives Office at Kew.
‘I found a reference to Darrow’s death on the Stevedores’ Union website archives. He left a widow, Audrey Darrow, now deceased, and a son, Nigel Darrow, living in Hartlepool. It’s amazing what information social networks can give you about people. I found Bryony Darrow, whose home town is Southampton. The electoral roll for Southampton in 2004 shows her as being an occupant in a house belonging to a Nigel Darrow. She’s no longer there but her social networkin
g profile gave me her address, or rather the area where she lives, and as it is such a small place it wasn’t difficult to track her down. Eel Pie Island.’
‘Where the devil is that?’
‘It’s a very small private island on the Thames at Twickenham with a fluctuating population of about a hundred, generally famous for its artistic community. The island was also famous for its jazz and blues concerts in the sixties. Bryony Darrow is an actress, aged twenty-eight. She’s had various minor roles in TV soaps. She’s also done some regional theatre work and has some good reviews but then she’d hardly post crummy ones on her website. She was born in Southampton and studied at the University of Surrey, Guildford School of Acting. Looks as though she’s still waiting for the big break. She’s very active on the social networks and there are a number of pictures of her on the Internet. She’s a looker: oval face, short blonde hair, blue eyes, nice figure. The electoral roll confirms her address as Tidal Cottage, Eel Pie Island. It doesn’t say what her current acting role is so it’s my guess she’s resting, as they say in the business, or working as a waitress in a cocktail bar to coin a lyric from The Human League number one UK Christmas hit in 1981 and US hit in the summer of 1982.’
‘Before my time – well, almost.’
‘I don’t remember gurgling it as a baby either. But Bryony Darrow might be working in that cocktail bar today or she might be at home.’
‘And she might know nothing about her grandfather’s death; it was before she was born.’
‘You mean all my hard work has been for nothing!’ Strathen said with mock hurt. ‘I could call in on my way back from Kew. I know she’ll be around at some stage because she’s posted on social media that she’s got an audition today. She doesn’t say what for or the time – just that it’s a key part.’
Marvik hesitated. ‘No. I’ll see her. And not because you say she’s a looker.’ He half joked but his mind flicked to Sarah. She’d been a looker too.
Strathen followed his train of thought because in a more serious tone, he said, ‘Let me know what you get and I’ll call you if I pick up anything useful on Bradley Pulford’s death from the Registry of Shipping and Seamen at the National Archives.’
‘I’ll head back to the Isle of Wight and fetch my car.’ Freynsham could wait.
EIGHT
Tuesday
It took Marvik much longer than he had anticipated to reach his cottage at Newtown Harbour on the Isle of Wight because the high winds and heavy rain that had swept in during the night refused to abate during the early morning. He was a skilled sailor, with a sturdy craft, and prepared to take risks but he wasn’t foolhardy or in so much of a hurry as to risk his life and possibly those of others who might need to rescue him. The storm would ease. The forecast was for it to blow itself out by mid-morning, and it did. The wind was still strong but not gale force and the rain had stopped. More rain was predicted for later in the day but by then Marvik hoped to be talking to Bryony Darrow.
The boat bucked and rolled in the long, high waves as he traversed slowly across the Solent to the island. Eventually, just on two, he eased the craft into the relatively quiet waters of Newtown Harbour and moored up on the pontoon close to his rented cottage. He hurried towards his Land Rover Defender, hoping it would start. He hadn’t used it since Crowder had summoned him to Hamble on Friday morning. It seemed longer than that. He didn’t stop to enter the cottage. Everything looked OK from the outside. He had no neighbours, which was the way he preferred it. He’d chosen to rent it for its isolation and peace, affording him the chance to re-evaluate his life after that first failed maritime mission in Civvy Street. He’d wanted time to reflect on his future. And now? What did he want? He wasn’t sure and the present was not the time to consider such matters.
He climbed into his car and headed towards Fishbourne and the car ferry to Portsmouth. He caught the three o’clock sailing and estimated that by the time he got to Portsmouth, through the city traffic and to Eel Pie Island it would be about five thirty p.m. if the A3 to London wasn’t too busy. Again he considered, as he’d done several times throughout the day, if he was wasting his time, not only because Bryony Darrow might have nothing to tell him about Oscar Redburn’s connection with her grandfather but she might not even return home. For all he knew, that audition might lead her to being immediately summoned to Hollywood. Strathen said it hadn’t when Marvik called him on the ferry.
‘It would be all over social media if she had,’ Strathen announced. ‘I’m still at Kew but I’ve managed to get more on Bradley Pulford’s death in 1959.’
Marvik listened eagerly in the quiet corner he’d found on the ferry away from other travellers. There weren’t many.
‘Pulford was working on board the merchant cargo ship the Leonora on 14 August 1959 while it was docked at Singapore. He started his cargo watch at six a.m. along with three other men. All the crew were British, as was normal in those days, rather than a mixture of foreign nationals. Pulford was keeping watch that the cargo was being loaded correctly into hold number one. Another man, Sandlings, was on hold number two and there was a man on watch at the gangway – Hampson. They were all out of sight of one another, the boat being huge, although not as gigantic as they are these days.’
Marvik could see one heading towards the ferry – it was packed so high with dark red and blue containers that the bridge was hardly visible.
‘The third officer was in the ship’s office when, at six fifteen, Sandlings radioed up to say that the cargo was loaded into hold number two. He was told to radio Pulford and tell him to get some breakfast. When he got no response he assumed Pulford had switched off his radio or turned the volume down. Sandlings went off to breakfast and Hampson joined him fifteen minutes later. At seven twenty, when Pulford still hadn’t shown for breakfast, Hampson began to ask if anyone had seen him. No one had. He alerted the third officer and they began a search for him. They found him lying eighty-five feet below in the bottom of cargo hold one, bay sixteen. The third officer immediately alerted the Master, a Jim Albany, who radioed the quayside to call an ambulance. It was too late, though. When the crew reached Pulford it was obvious he was dead. The post-mortem found Pulford died of multiple fractures. Tests showed there was no alcohol or drugs in his system. Neither had he suffered a heart attack, aneurism or stroke. He was found lying face down. It was customary for the crew to walk across hatch covers above partly open holds and it was concluded that this was what Pulford had done and had slipped.’
‘Or was pushed,’ Marvik said. ‘By a crew member, perhaps? This guy, Hampson. He showed up late for breakfast.’
‘Someone could have got on board from the dock. There was no one on the gangway after Hampson went down for breakfast. And although we don’t know the exact details of Jack Darrow’s death twenty years later, it sounds remarkably similar.’
‘If Darrow was killed by the same person who killed Pulford then it certainly wasn’t Oscar Redburn – he was only two years old in 1959. But, if Pulford was killed, what did he know or do to make him dangerous enough to be taken out?’
‘It might have been an internal squabble with another crew member, or perhaps it was just an accident.’
‘You don’t believe that any more than I do. Why would someone take his name thirty years later?’
‘Could still be a coincidence and the Pulford of 1989 just happened to be walking past that graveyard.’
‘Then he’d have been taking a detour around it because that grave was at the rear.’
‘Maybe he just liked visiting old churches.’
‘Yeah, and maybe I can walk on water,’ Marvik said, eyeing the container ship as it drew closer. Car alarms were sounding on the ferry as it rolled in the swollen waves. ‘What happened to Pulford’s personal effects?’ he asked.
‘They must have been shipped home along with his body.’
‘And someone must have paid for the burial and that headstone.’ He hadn’t forgotten that he had intended to check
out the stone masons, only tragic events had overtaken that. Anyway, he thought, the stone masons of 1959 might no longer be in existence.
Strathen said, ‘The shipping company might have coughed up for it or the Seamen’s Charitable Association. I’ll see if I can find out.’
Strathen rang off. Marvik spent the remainder of the ferry crossing thinking over Pulford’s death in 1959. It didn’t get him much further so he postponed it as he negotiated the motorway out of Portsmouth and headed towards London. The traffic was heavy and he got caught in the tailback on the Hog’s Back at Guildford caused by an earlier accident. Eventually, though, he arrived at the Embankment at Twickenham and parked the Land Rover in a residential area just beyond the pay-and-display car park. No cars were permitted on the tiny island, a fact he’d checked out that morning while kicking his heels in Poole waiting for the storm to subside.
He made his way across the footbridge over the River Thames – it was the only access to the Island – and turned right along the lane until he found the small, detached red-bricked cottage at the end of it. Ahead was a copse. The house was squeezed between a large detached one on its left and a chalet style one on its right, the last in the lane. There was no sign of life in either property and neither had there been in the handful of houses he’d passed on the way. Most were obviously used as weekend retreats or holiday homes. There was also, disappointingly, no answer to his knock on Bryony Darrow’s door. So perhaps she was working in that cocktail bar that Strathen had mentioned, or still kicking her heels at that audition.
He surveyed the tiny brick built cottage with only one window on the ground floor to the left of the door and another window above it, but even such small properties like this cost a fortune to buy here and he didn’t think Bryony Darrow was the type of actress who could afford it. But then, for all he knew she could be shacked up with a rich boyfriend, or perhaps a sugar daddy paid for it. Whatever the case it didn’t matter – what did was talking to her and Marvik felt restless and irritable at the delay and increasingly frustrated that he’d come here probably for nothing when he might have got more out of Freynsham. Sometimes, though, following your instinct got results. And he, like Strathen, knew they had to follow this line. He just hoped they were right. There was nothing for it but to wait for as long as it took, until midnight if necessary – maybe all night if she was at a party celebrating the fact she’d got the part. Or she could have decided to stay with a lover for the night. If there was no sign of her by midnight he’d drive back to the West Country and shake something out of Freynsham, which was probably what he should have done in the first place, given that he could be Sarah’s killer.
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