Dead Man's Wharf dah-4

by Pauline Rowson

  'They divorced years ago,' Jackson snarled. 'And I don't see that it has anything to do with the investigation.'

  'Why didn't you choose her as your diving partner?' Cantelli asked.

  'Because she hates publicity. She prefers to lecture.'

  'When did you meet her?' Horton this time.

  'About a year ago. I was asked to give a lecture at Bournemouth University on the work I'd done on The Kravel Project. It's an early sixteenth-century wreck in the Baltic. I was working with a team from Southampton University, surveying and recording it. Annette and I hit it off immediately.'

  'I didn't think you liked giving talks.'

  'I don't, but I made an exception for Annette. She's very well respected in underwater archaeological circles. I've read her books on wrecks…'

  Something clicked in Horton's mind: A. Hill. 'Is that Dr A.W. Hill?'

  'Yes.' Jackson looked shocked. 'You've read Annette's books?'

  'I've seen them.' And he had, in Daniel Collins's lair, only he hadn't made the connection until now. 'Go on.'

  Jackson looked as though he wanted to ask more questions about his girlfriend's books, and then decided against it. Perhaps, Horton thought, it was his cold stare that put him off, either that or the fact that he was running out of time to catch his train because Jackson looked at his watch again before saying, 'Nick hated her being so well known. Jealous, of course. She's an expert, like me. We both have Masters in marine archaeology and Annette has a PhD. We've worked extensively on wrecks around the world, whereas Nick was just an estate agent with an interest in diving.'

  Blimey, this man's ego was as big as Farnsworth's, thought Horton. No wonder they clashed. 'If you despised Farnsworth that much, and you have a say in who co-presents with you, why didn't you sack him?'

  For the first time during the interview Jackson looked uncomfortable. 'He was good for the ratings.'

  Maybe, but there seemed more to it than that. Horton recalled what had happened to Ryan Oldham and Gary Manners. Jackson knew about Farnsworth's ways of getting even with those who thwarted him and Horton could see that Jackson's Achilles heel was his reputation. Farnsworth would have found a way to ruin Jackson and Jackson knew it. What a relief Farnsworth's death must have been to him. The case for Jackson being their killer, possibly in league with Lester, was beginning to build, especially if you put it with Cantelli's theory about a wreck.

  Cantelli said, 'How did Farnsworth take your affair with his wife?'

  'Ex-wife,' Jackson sniped. 'As I keep saying, he couldn't care less. By then he'd moved on. There were several affairs before Farnsworth took up with Corinna. I told Corinna she was a fool to give up Jason for Nick, but she wouldn't listen.'

  'Why didn't you go to the Caribbean with Ms Hill?' Cantelli again.

  'Dr Hill,' corrected Jackson. 'Because I was committed to the programme. Now, if you don't mind…'

  Horton rose. Taking his cue, Cantelli did the same, slowly putting away his notebook. 'We'll need to talk to you again, sir.'

  'Then you'll do so in the presence of my solicitor,' said Jackson.

  'Of course,' Cantelli continued cheerfully, as they headed towards the door.

  On the threshold, Horton turned. 'When will you be back from London, sir?'

  'Late this afternoon. Why?'

  'We'll let you know when we need you at the station.' He made it sound like a threat and a forgone conclusion, which was his intention.

  Jackson slammed the door on them. Horton hoped that he wouldn't do a disappearing act. Horton had already made one mistake by not taking those threatening telephone calls seriously, although that seemed to have little relevance now to their case. But he didn't want to give Uckfield or Superintendent Reine the slightest cause to ball him out.

  He said as much to Cantelli as they took the stairs to the ground floor.

  'Jackson's a stuffed shirt but my money's on Nathan Lester,' Cantelli answered. 'He gets Farnsworth's job and the wreck, and he dived with Daniel Collins.'

  Yes, thought Horton, and not only that but Lester was small and wiry — the ideal build to climb in and out of car windows.

  EIGHTEEN

  'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' Cantelli said, peering through the grilled windows of Lester's antiques shop some minutes later.

  'Antiques and antiquities,' Horton answered, though antiques was a kind word for the junk he could see in the gloom beyond the grill. The room was crammed with heavy old furniture and bric-a-brac rather than valuable memorabilia from sunken wrecks.

  The door was locked and the closed sign displayed. Getting no response from Lester's house, a neighbour had directed them to the shop, which was situated in one of the less fashionable shopping areas of the city, on a busy road running from east to west and not far from the cemetery opposite Mr and Mrs Collins's house. Lester's Emporium was sandwiched between a cheap and grubby cafe and a Chinese takeaway, and shared the street with a charity shop, a newsagent, a pub and a betting shop. Starring in a television programme was a long way from this and Horton reckoned that Lester must have thought his ship had come in.

  'Let's try Fort Cumberland. He might be in the marine archaeological offices.' And if he wasn't then Horton would instruct Uniform to force an entry into Lester's home. After all he might be lying ill inside.

  There was no car outside the marine archaeological office, but Horton recalled that Lester rode a bicycle. That wasn't here either, and it hadn't been in the forecourt of Lester's terraced house or in the narrow hallway when he'd looked through the letter box.

  Cantelli rattled the door but it refused to budge. Peering through the grimy window to its left, Horton saw only a deserted, darkened office. Climbing back in the car, they headed for the main building a few hundred yards further along the road towards the centre of the Fort.

  Before Horton could push open the door to the reception area, a slight man with a haggard expression and tired eyes, wearing an anorak over a uniform and carrying a plastic sandwich box stepped out. Horton recognized him instantly as Mr Kingsway from the Rest Haven Nursing Home.

  'How's your mother? Has she mentioned the intruder again?' asked Horton, after the usual preliminary greetings were over.

  Kingsway looked sheepish. 'I made a bit of a fool of myself, didn't I? But she was so adamant. I called in yesterday to check she was OK and she muttered something about it, but I managed to divert her by talking about the past. That's not difficult,' he added sadly. 'It's where they all live.'

  He left a short pause before adding more brightly, 'Anyway, I'd better be going. Need my beauty sleep. I've been on since nine.'

  Horton watched him climb into a silver saloon car, sensing that he'd just heard something important but couldn't quite grasp what it was. Never mind, he hoped it would come to him later.

  The receptionist told them that no one had seen Nathan Lester since Wednesday. She handed over the key and they made their way back to the marine archaeological offices. Cantelli flicked on the lights in the outer office and began mooching around the desks, whilst Horton headed for the inner office where he'd previously interviewed Jackson.

  There was no sign of Lester and nothing that Horton could see to tell them where he was.

  After dropping the keys back to reception, Horton said, 'Let's check the sub-aqua club.'

  The gates to the car park were locked and bolted, so Lester couldn't be there either.

  'He's probably away on an antique-hunting expedition,' Cantelli said.

  It was possible and perhaps, thought Horton, his neighbouring shopkeepers could tell them where Lester was and when they'd last seen him.

  The consensus was they had no idea and didn't much care either. Not that he was unpopular, just that he kept himself to himself. Stuck up was one woman's rather uncharitable opinion, but then she was voluble about anything and everything. And she didn't have a kind word to say about anyone, least of all the police. The shop was hardly ever open, and she, like the other shopkeepers, recko
ned that Lester did most of his business on the Internet and through word of mouth. The last sighting of him was late Thursday afternoon about four p.m.

  'I don't much care for this "word of mouth" stuff,' Cantelli said, stretching the seat belt across him. 'It sounds like he's passing off stolen goods, after buying them in dodgy pubs and backstreet alleys. I think we'll take a good look around Lester's Aladdin's cave. I'll get a warrant.'

  'Good idea. And whilst you're looking, you might see if Irene Ebury's stuff has turned up there. I got Lee to check the shops and pawnbrokers in the area where Keynes lives, but not in the area where she works, and the Rest Haven isn't far from here. She could have heard about Lester from Daniel Collins and thought Lester was worth approaching.'

  'Unless Daniel stole them and sold them to Lester.'

  Horton didn't much like the sound of that. For Mr and Mrs Collins's sake he hoped that wasn't so. But it hadn't escaped his notice that Daniel lived almost on Lester's doorstep. In fact a few streets away. The sooner they got hold of Lester the better. He'd try one more avenue before busting into Lester's home.

  Returning to the Queen's Hotel, Horton found Corinna Denton and Jason Kirkwood together in Kirkwood's bedroom but there was no sign of Lester. And neither, they both claimed, had he been in touch with either of them.

  Cantelli said, 'Has Mr Lester made any suggestions about where you should dive for this series?'

  Horton knew where Cantelli's questions were leading. He was probing a link with the discovery of a wreck.

  'Not to me,' Kirkwood said, shuffling some papers around on the bed where both he and Corinna were perched. She'd been crying and clearly had had little sleep. Wearing her customary black she had a large jumper stretched over her knees which she hugged to her chin.

  'Have you changed your diving location at all in the last couple of months?' Cantelli persisted.

  Corinna looked up and with a puzzled frown said, 'Nick did mention something about switching locations.'

  Kirkwood started surprised. 'That's news to me. When?'

  'Monday.

  Horton glanced at Cantelli. 'Where did he suggest you dive?'

  'I'll show you on the chart.'

  She shifted position and shuffled down the bed. Leaning towards Horton she stabbed at a spot that was just off the eastern tip of the Isle of Wight, not far out of Bembridge Harbour. Kirkwood leaned over to see where it was, whilst Cantelli too craned his neck.

  'Why there?' asked Kirkwood.

  'Nick didn't say.'

  Maybe it had been a whim, or could Cantelli be right, wondered Horton, and that somewhere in that region lay an important hitherto undiscovered wreck?

  He left Corinna and Kirkwood with instructions to contact him the moment they heard from Nathan Lester and radioed for Uniform assistance to break into Lester's house. Twenty minutes later he was pacing the small living room, puzzled and irritated. Lester wasn't here and there were no signs he'd left in a hurry.

  'His passport's still here,' Cantelli said, delving into a drawer in a heavy old bookcase and pulling out a small maroon document.

  The house was crammed with antique furniture, which seemed completely out of place in the tiny rooms they'd swiftly searched. Horton had put one officer outside the front door to stop anyone from entering, while another was asking the neighbours for their opinions and last sightings of Nathan Lester.

  'He's not travelled far,' Cantelli added, flicking through the passport.

  Horton examined a small octagonal mahogany table in the corner by a door that led into a small conservatory. 'I'm no antiques expert, but I'd say there's some good stuff here, better than in his junk shop. He's just got no taste when it comes to placing things in their correct stetting, or in decorating,' he said, staring at the faded wallpaper that didn't look as though it had been changed since 1970. Keep it long enough, he thought, and it would come back in fashion. The house was grubby, uncared for and overfull. It smelt as though it had never been aired and looked as though it had never been dusted.

  'He likes his books,' Cantelli said, craning his neck to read the spines of those in the bookcase. 'Lots on diving, marine life, and antiques. Some first editions here too,' he added, picking one out and opening it in a cloud of dust that made him sneeze.

  There were also books lining the stairs and more in each of the three bedrooms, along with antique glass, more furniture and china. This place, thought Horton, was like an antiques shop. Several clocks scattered around the house suddenly burst into life.

  'Blimey, I wouldn't like to sleep with that lot chiming all the quarter hours,' Cantelli cried, glancing at his own watch. 'They're slow. It's half past one. I wondered why my stomach was beginning to make strange noises.'

  'Contact the art and antiques squad when you get back to the station, after you've grabbed some lunch,' Horton said pointedly. 'I want someone logging this lot to check if any of it has been stolen.'

  He walked through to the kitchen. His shoes stuck to the grime on the cracked linoleum and he screwed up his face with disgust at the dirt and fat-encrusted kitchen work surfaces, littered with crockery, some used and some untouched and clearly an overspill of a job lot brought from the house of a deceased person. What Lester couldn't fit in the emporium he obviously tried to squeeze in here.

  How could Jackson have given someone who lived like this the position of co-presenter? Horton thought, amazed. It just didn't ring true. Jackson must be mad. Either that or Jackson had been blackmailed into appointing Lester. Maybe Lester had killed Daniel Collins under Jackson's instructions and threatened to go to the police unless Jackson gave him the job.

  Horton flicked opened the waste bin, glad he was wearing his latex gloves. He didn't like to think what he might catch otherwise. There were the remains of a couple of ready meals inside. The bread was beginning to go off in the bread bin, but the cupboards were fairly well stocked with food. It didn't look as though Lester had fled. If he had, then he must have gone by taxi or train, seeing as he didn't have a car.

  He heard Cantelli give a surprised whistle and hurried back to the living room to find him waving a wodge of bank statements. 'There's some serious money here, Andy.'

  'Coming in or going out?'

  'Both. I haven't looked through them all and they're not in any order, but, according to this one in 2004, Lester had over thirty thousand pounds in his bank account. I wonder how much he's got now. I can't find a recent statement, but it's probably here somewhere.'

  'And judging by this — ' Horton waved his arm around the room — 'and his mouldy shop, I'd say not a great deal. There are no empty bottles lying around, so it doesn't look as if he's a drinker but maybe he gambles.'

  'Not in the betting shop near his emporium. I asked the manager. He said Lester had never been in. Perhaps he gambles on the Internet.'

  There was no sign of a computer, but then Horton thought they might have missed it amongst all the furniture. Lester could have used a computer in his shop or the one in the marine archaeological offices. But that was all speculation.

  'Bag up all the personal documents you can find, Barney.' He'd get DC Lee to sift through it, which would keep her occupied for several hours, he thought, wondering where she was. He hadn't heard from her or seen her this morning.

  'Don't we need a search warrant?'

  'Lester's life might be in danger. This could help us to find him.'

  Cantelli eyed him sceptically.

  Horton added, 'But you'd better apply for one anyway.' And then they could really tear this place to pieces.

  Horton had reached the door when Cantelli called him back. He was holding a photograph album.

  'This will make your heart sing.'

  Horton found himself looking at several photographs of Nick Farnsworth with Nathan Lester in naval uniform on-board ship. In a couple of them Farnsworth had his arm loosely round Lester's shoulder. In others Lester was just standing close by with an enraptured expression on his squirrel-like features. Horto
n slipped one out of its plastic holder and flicked it over. Obligingly Lester had written the date on the back: June 1995. That was after Gary Manners' diving accident and could have been after he had left the navy.

  Horton rang through to the station and asked Trueman to tell Uckfield about Lester and then to find out more about his navy record. Had Farnsworth wrecked Lester's career as well as Manners'? Had the two of them conspired to get even with Farnsworth? If so why had it taken them so many years?

  Outside Horton spoke to PC Allen and discovered that Lester was rarely seen, never heard and no one knew anything about him. It was par for the course. He was about to call the arts and antiques squad when his phone rang. It was Dr Clayton.

  'Something you might find interesting,' she announced brusquely.

  He was surprised to hear anger in her voice. In the short space of time he'd known her, since August, he'd only seen her lose her temper once and that was over remarks made about her competence by DI Dennings. What or who had upset her now? It surely couldn't be Dennings. But then the DI had a knack of rubbing everyone up the wrong way, including his boss, it seemed.

  'Like you, Inspector, I don't like coincidences and I particularly don't like being told what I should find before all the tests have been completed.'

  Ah! So that was it. But test results on which body? One of the Eburys? It had to be. His heart went into overdrive.

  He opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat as Cantelli emerged from Lester's house carrying a large plastic bag full of papers and the photograph album. Barney stopped to talk to the PC at the door.

  Stiffly Gaye continued. 'I sent Peter Ebury's blood for analysis, as you well know. Twenty minutes ago I enquired about the results to be told they weren't ready. I said, "What the hell are you doing, recycling them for Dracula?" I was fobbed off with some pathetic excuse about being short-staffed and equipment breaking down. Three minutes ago I got a phone call from a smooth-talking, grovelling bastard who said the blood analysis need not concern me. Me! Did you hear that, Horton?'