Silent Running

by Pauline Rowson

  She deserved a truthful one, not a fob off. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Because of his work?’

  ‘It’s linked to it but I don’t know how. Did he ever mention a woman called Charlotte Churley?’

  She shook her head.

  Marvik decided to reveal something of the truth. ‘It’s why I’m here asking questions. I am working with Shaun Strathen as I told you, but we’re both also trying to find the whereabouts of Charlotte who went missing the day after Ashley and we believe there’s a link.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We don’t know except that she nursed service personnel amputees. I wondered if Ashley might have met her, if he’d visited the Queen Elizabeth Hospital Birmingham in the course of his research for Chiron. Charlotte’s a nurse there.’

  ‘He never mentioned it.’

  ‘Does the name Paul Williamson or Terence Blackerman mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or Esther Shannon?’

  ‘No. I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of any of them.’

  Which also meant that Feeny and Howe hadn’t asked her about them. But then Marvik hadn’t thought they would – not Esther Shannon or Terence Blackerman at any rate, they wouldn’t know about that, but why hadn’t they asked her about Charlotte? Had they dismissed any link between the two missing persons’ cases on their patch, or perhaps, as he’d thought earlier, they weren’t working on the case and another team had been briefed. Crowder’s team could be handling Charlotte’s disappearance; he had no idea how many officers Crowder had at his command. He rose, thanking her for her time.

  She sprang up. ‘I’ll see you out.’ As they walked along the corridor she said, ‘Will you keep me informed? I’ll give you my mobile number.’

  ‘Of course. And if you remember anything that might help, it doesn’t matter what it is, or how insignificant you think it might be, will you call me?’

  She nodded. They halted outside the reception office. Marvik gave her his own personal mobile phone number. He switched it on and saw that Strathen had tried to contact him twice. In the car he rang him back.

  ‘Where are you?’ Strathen asked.

  Marvik quickly told him and relayed the outcome of his meeting with John Stisford and Louise Tournbury. ‘Have you got something?’

  ‘Yes. Vera’s come up trumps,’ Strathen said excitedly. ‘There are three fund-raising dinners that Esther organized for Danavere, an autumn celebrity dinner in 1996, a spring auction in 1997 and a summer ball in 1997, all in London. I have the guest lists. There are a handful of people who appear at every bash but one of the names jumps out and slaps you right in the face. Vince Wycombe.’

  ‘So he knew Esther,’ Marvik said contemplatively.

  ‘He must have done.’

  ‘And did he declare this interest at Blackerman’s trial?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Strathen scoffed.

  No. And that was another question in a long and growing list that he was very keen to put to Vince Wycombe QC – and the sooner the better.

  SEVENTEEN

  Portsmouth Crown Court had risen for lunch. Marvik was tempted to send in a message requesting an interview with Wycombe – the name Esther Shannon would guarantee him an audience – but he wanted to get the feel of the man first. And the best way to do that was to see him in action in court, even though he wasn’t defending but sitting as a judge.

  He bought some sandwiches and a can of drink and took both to the old fortifications in Old Portsmouth, built in the 1420s overlooking the narrow entrance to Portsmouth Harbour. The city’s importance as a naval base meant that it was one of the most heavily defended in Europe. It made Marvik again think about the navy possibly being behind both Esther’s death and the more recent developments. But how could they be involved? Certainly they would have no connection if this was related to a fraud that was being perpetuated.

  The blustery cold wind meant he had the old tower to himself and his thoughts returned to his conversation with Louise Tournbury. According to her, Palmer was keen, intelligent, normally introverted but had displayed a sudden burst of uncharacteristic animation and sociability at Christmas. Why? Because there was a new woman in his life, despite what Louise thought? But if so then why hadn’t the police found her or why hadn’t she come forward? Perhaps she had and the police hadn’t told Louise because they had no reason to.

  Or perhaps, it suddenly occurred to Marvik, the new woman was Charlotte. He let his mind run along those lines. Charlotte was older than Ashley Palmer but that accounted for nothing, and normally he would have said that Ashley Palmer wasn’t Charlotte’s type but how did he know that for certain? Perhaps they had met at a medical seminar organized by Danavere. Charlotte might have been intending to meet up with Palmer on the island after visiting Blackerman, but no, she would have said if that was the case. But it was just possible that Palmer had been told he was meeting Charlotte. Perhaps Palmer had been sent a false text message, ostensibly from Charlotte, asking him to meet her.

  He took a swig from his drink and watched the largest of the Wightlink Ferries, the St Clare, sail out of the harbour across the five-mile stretch of the Solent to the Isle of Wight. He could see the houses of Ryde rising on the hill slopes and the Downs beyond it stretching out to the west and east. The location of Palmer’s supposed rendezvous was on the far eastern coast of the island and not visible from where Marvik was sitting. There was another reason for Palmer’s heightened excitement just before Christmas, he thought. Palmer could have met someone who had promised him new and great things connected with funding his research and he’d been tricked into meeting this person on the island.

  Marvik polished off his sandwiches. It was time he was heading back to court. He took a seat at the front of the public gallery and watched the court room assemble. Wycombe entered last. The court rose. As the session opened Marvik tuned out the lawyer speak and studied the tall, lean and distinguished looking man with an angular lined face and fair complexion. Crowder had told him that Wycombe was fifty-seven. He looked his age although he was well preserved. Marvik wondered what he’d looked like seventeen years ago. Then he’d have been a successful barrister, on the brink of being made Queen’s Counsel, a mark of outstanding ability. Beneath the bench wig Marvik could see flecks of silver-grey hair. In 1997 it had probably been fair or light brown. Wycombe had a keen expression tinged with a slightly superior air. Marvik expected the session to last at least until four but as his concentration focused back on the barrister standing and speaking, he heard him say that his client had changed his plea. That was it. The jury was dismissed. The trial and the session was over. Wycombe left. The court emptied.

  Outside Marvik called Strathen on the pay-as-you-go mobile and told him what had happened. He relayed his idea that Charlotte and Ashley might have met at a medical seminar or conference and Strathen said he’d get on to it. Marvik added, ‘I’m heading for Wycombe’s house at Itchenor. He’ll show up there sooner or later.’

  An hour later he was parking the car, not in Copse Road, but in the driveway of a house that led down to the quay. It had taken him a while to find the right property, a holiday home, which would have no possibility of being occupied on a damp day in early March. And it was perfect as it was almost opposite the entrance to Copse Road.

  He climbed out, zapped the car shut and headed for Wycombe’s house, his brain computing how long it would take to walk, or run if necessary, back to the car. There were no vehicles parked along the road, a fact he’d noted on his earlier exploration by taxi. And although there was nothing to stop anyone parking, no yellow lines prohibiting it, it wasn’t the sort of road where casual visitors left their vehicles, not only because there was no reason to park here – there being no shops, offices or access to the sea – but because visitors and tradesmen would be admitted to the inner sanctum of the exclusive properties which lay behind the electronic gates, and that meant any parked vehicle would be noticed and probably noted and that
was the last thing Marvik wanted.

  When he reached Wycombe’s house he didn’t even look at it but turned right on to a narrow, muddy footpath surrounded on either side by woods. From here he scrambled into the wood, wishing it was any season but winter when the leaves would have given him better protection. But the day had turned overcast and the night would draw in quicker because of it. The twilight, then darkness, would give him plenty of cover. And from here he could survey the house.

  The electronic gates across the entrance would open as Wycombe approached and pressed his remote control. His car would glide in and the gates slowly close behind him giving Marvik plenty of time to run from his cover into the driveway but not enough to run the length of the driveway and accost Wycombe as he climbed out of the car, and for all Marvik knew there could be dogs, although he hadn’t seen or heard any. He needed to get to Wycombe before he entered the driveway. In fact before those gates swung open. He had to assume that his car would be centrally locked and that he wouldn’t be able to jump inside. He toyed with the idea of announcing himself perhaps to Wycombe’s wife or a housekeeper with a request to speak to Wycombe. He could make up a story to gain admittance but he wasn’t sure he’d be granted it. There was only one thing he could do, and that was to step forward as Wycombe pulled up and, as the gates slowly swung open, stand in front of the vehicle and refuse to budge until Wycombe was forced to let down his window and demand a reason for his behaviour, no doubt with one hand stretched out for his phone to summon help.

  Marvik would hear Wycombe’s car approaching and see the vehicle’s headlights. He wouldn’t be able to swear it was Wycombe’s car though because he had no idea what he drove, but there would be time enough from when Wycombe pulled up for Marvik to reach him before he could drive in.

  He could wait. No matter how long it took. He crouched down on a tree trunk, using it as a makeshift seat, and pulled up the collar of his jacket. The trees and shrubs gave him some protection from the wind and the fitful rain. He didn’t let his mind wander but concentrated on the job ahead, focusing only on that and the outcome he required. He couldn’t afford to miss this chance and he wasn’t going to.

  He heard several cars but none of them came this far. Then a vehicle approached. He saw the headlights. He sprang up and broke cover as it stopped outside the house, but with surprise and annoyance Marvik saw Helen climb out of a taxi. He cursed. She swung round and as she did another car approached and even before it reached them Marvik knew it was Wycombe. She was going to spoil everything. She must have overheard Strathen on the phone, or perhaps she’d seen the list that Vera at Danavere had forwarded, and she knew where Wycombe lived because they’d come here in the taxi after interviewing Amelia Snow at Bognor Regis.

  ‘You’re not going to stop me,’ she blazed, as the taxi drove off and Wycombe’s car drew nearer. She raced to the electronic gates and stood solidly in front of Wycombe’s car as it swung towards her, just as Marvik had intended to do. Marvik registered Wycombe’s shock and saw him reach for the mobile phone lying on the passenger seat.

  ‘Esther Shannon,’ shouted Helen.

  Wycombe’s hand froze.

  Marvik stepped towards the driver’s side. ‘Let down the window,’ he commanded. Again Wycombe’s fingers flexed for his phone. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you, not unless you want the police and the judiciary to know why you withheld vital information.’

  The window slid down. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ Wycombe tried to sound confident but Marvik detected a hint of fear in his cultured tones.

  Before Marvik could continue though, Helen, who had marched around to the window, her expression furious, shouted, ‘I want to know why you killed my sister.’

  Wycombe’s eyes widened with shock, then alarm. They shifted nervously towards the house as Helen continued, ‘And if you don’t tell me then I am going to make sure all your precious lawyer friends know exactly what you did.’

  Marvik could see Wycombe rapidly mentally weighing up his chances. Deny it, bluff it out or admit it? Marvik said, ‘We have proof that you knew Esther and that you forgot to admit this when defending the man convicted of killing her. Helen and I can make enough noise so that no matter how many times you say it’s not true people will begin to think it is. No smoke without fire,’ he sneered.

  Wycombe threw an anxious gaze at the house. ‘Can’t we talk this over later?’

  Helen thrust her angry face forward. ‘No, we bloody can’t. I want to know why you killed her or shall I go inside and tell your wife that you’re a murderer.’ She made to move towards the house.

  ‘No!’ His nervous gaze shifted between them. Then he took a breath. More evenly he said, ‘OK. Let me move the car.’

  ‘Not without me inside,’ Helen said, making to climb into the rear. But Wycombe had the central locking on.

  ‘Get out, Wycombe,’ ordered Marvik. ‘We’ll discuss this over there.’ He jerked his head at the woods.

  ‘My wife will wonder why I’ve left the car here.’

  ‘Then let her bloody wonder,’ Helen snapped.

  ‘She might call the police.’

  ‘Good, then we can tell them you strangled my sister seventeen years ago.’

  ‘They won’t believe you.’

  ‘You’re forgetting we have proof,’ Marvik said.

  ‘You can’t have because I didn’t kill her.’

  ‘But you did know her.’

  Impatiently Helen interjected, ‘I’ll call the police for you. It will force them to re-examine my sister’s murder. Or perhaps I should just call the newspapers.’

  ‘No.’ The car door opened and Wycombe scrambled out.

  Eyeing them warily he stepped across to the edge of the woods. Marvik scanned the area to see if anyone was taking any notice of them but it was as quiet as a wet winter Sunday at the seaside. Marvik threw Helen a pointed look, willing her to let him handle this, but she was too irate for that.

  ‘OK then, so why did you kill her? What the hell had Esther done to harm you?’

  ‘I didn’t kill her,’ he repeated.

  Marvik quickly broke in. ‘No, you just slept with her.’

  ‘Not on the day she was killed,’ he hastily replied.

  ‘But on the previous night, the Friday before she attended the Remembrance Service, she was with you in your London flat. How long had you been having an affair with her?’

  Wycombe ran a hand through his hair. Clearly rattled he said, ‘This mustn’t come out. My wife mustn’t know. It will ruin me.’

  ‘Should have thought about that before you decided to seduce my sister.’

  ‘She was a grown woman. I didn’t seduce or force her. It happened. We were attracted to one another. It was just one of those things.’

  Helen snorted.

  ‘I was sorry when she was killed.’

  ‘Sorry!’ Helen spat with fury.

  If she’d had a gun Marvik thought she might have shot him. But Wycombe seemed to find refuge in her anger. He was regaining his confidence and there was a superior expression now on his angular face. He was a clever man and Marvik could see he was calculating how he could squirm out of this. Helen was mentally unbalanced, she didn’t know what she was saying, she’d persuaded her boyfriend to go along with her. Wycombe had friends in high places, no one would believe them. The fact his name was on some guest lists that Esther had compiled meant nothing. It was time to take a different approach.

  Marvik balled his fist and struck Wycombe, not with all his force, just a tap as far as Marvik’s fists were concerned, but it was enough to make the man reel back and stumble to the ground. He put a hand to his bloody mouth and stared up at Marvik, shocked and petrified. Helen’s surprised expression gave way to a grim smile of satisfaction and the anger seemed to drain out of her.

  Marvik towered over Wycombe. ‘Let’s start again. You and Esther met while she was organizing an event for Danavere, her employer.’

  Wycombe nodded. ‘The
first time was April 1996.’

  ‘And the affair started when?’

  Wycombe coughed nervously and put his hand in his pocket. Marvik stepped menacingly forward. ‘I need a handkerchief,’ Wycombe said, clearly terrified. Marvik nodded. Wycombe withdrew a handkerchief and placed it to his cut mouth. ‘After that I called her at work and said that if she was in London again soon, would she like to have dinner with me. We could discuss how my Chambers, and my friends at the Bar, could help raise funds for the charities that Danavere supported. We had dinner two weeks later and it developed from there.’

  Helen said, ‘Did she know you were married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose you told her your wife didn’t understand you,’ she sneered. ‘Or that you would leave her when the time was right, which would be never.’

  ‘I know it was wrong, which was why it had to end. I told her the night before she was killed that it was over.’

  ‘Oh great. And you expected her to walk away?’ Helen scoffed.

  ‘She was upset. But she’d get over it. She did, and pretty quickly,’ he added spitefully.

  Wycombe was referring to Esther having slept with Blackerman. Marvik saw that Helen had also registered this and it confused her into a silence that Marvik took advantage of. He said, ‘The next day she was dead. Did she threaten to expose the affair, call your wife, tell your Head of Chambers? Or perhaps when you went to visit her at the Union Services Club on Saturday evening to plead with her not to tell anyone about the affair, you discovered her in bed with another man. That really hurt your male ego. You waited until Blackerman left and then you went inside and strangled her, knowing the police would think it was Blackerman. You then made a pretence of defending him and making such a balls-up of it that he got convicted and you had your revenge.’

  Marvik could feel Helen’s eyes on him. It fitted with what he knew of the case. ‘Blackerman has protested his innocence for years but you, through your contacts, have made sure he stayed inside and any appeal quashed. You and your cronies in the old-boy network have stuck together. You wiped the room clean of your fingerprints. And made certain that whatever DNA was found in that room somehow got contaminated. Besides, you were well in with the police, you knew Detective Inspector Bryan Grainger, and had worked with him on several cases, where you’d not only defended but prosecuted.’ That was a guess on Marvik’s part but not such a wild one and he could see he was right by Wycombe’s increasingly horrified expression. ‘So between you, you made sure that Blackerman went down for it. Grainger got a result and you got let off the hook.’