Read Online All Quiet on Arrival by Graham Ison - Free Book Online

see if they could shed any light on his movements yesterday. All they could come up with was a check of the switchboard records, which showed that Barton made a telephone call at two o’clock yesterday afternoon. We can only assume that he left the hotel at some time after that. And that fits in with what the restaurant manager had told me earlier, that Barton had lunched in the hotel restaurant.’
    â€˜Any clue as to who he phoned, Dave?’
    â€˜No, they just note the time and duration so they can put it on his bill. And it was too late to do a trace this morning, if ever. But I’m wondering if someone lured him out of the hotel for the express purpose of killing him. And, if so, why.’
    â€˜Post-mortem’s at eleven thirty, sir,’ said Colin Wilberforce from behind his desk. ‘Will you be attending?’
    â€˜No. Where’s Miss Ebdon?’
    â€˜Here, guv,’ said Kate, appearing in the incident room holding a cup of coffee.
    â€˜Dave and I are going to Southampton to follow up on the two stewards who were on the Bartons’ cruise liner, Kate. Perhaps you’d cover the post-mortem.’
    â€˜No worries, guv,’ said Kate. As usual, she was wearing a man’s white shirt, and a pair of tight-fitting jeans. That should ruin the commander’s day if he happens to catch sight of her. But at least she was wearing high-heeled shoes.
    First of all, however, I had a telephone call to make to a friend of mine in Hampshire.
    Jock Ferguson is a detective superintendent in the Hampshire Constabulary, and when he and I were inspectors, we’d wasted three months together at the Police College at Bramshill.
    The Police College, which is regarded by its devotees as the Holy Grail of policing, is an establishment in the depths of Hampshire that has the audacity to convince itself it’s the policeman’s university. In an attempt to prove how clever they are, the instructors all talk their own gobbledygook and write in strangulated prose that no one else can understand. And they spend valuable time trying to persuade their students to do likewise. And they seem to be very successful at it, but perhaps I’m a cynic.
    Fortunately, being a Hampshire copper, Jock knew all the decent pubs in the area, and that’s where we’d spent a great deal of our time. When we weren’t listening to lectures on subjects we knew more about than the lecturers, that is. The only benefit to accrue from those three months was that I’d made a lot of friends and contacts. On the downside, I probably did my liver irreparable damage.
    A few years ago, Jock and I had worked on a murder case that involved an Aldershot-based soldier and his wife, along with many others. But I knew that he had since been transferred from Aldershot to Southampton, and that might just prove to be useful.
    Having got through to Jock, I told him that I was coming down to the city later on that day, and briefly explained about the two murders.
    Typical of Jock, he immediately named a pub where he would meet us.
    It was almost half past twelve by the time Dave and I arrived at Southampton Central railway station. From there we went straight to the pub mentioned by Jock Ferguson and found him holding up the bar. After the customary exchange of insults, we settled for a pie and a pint: the policeman’s usual substitute for a midday meal.
    Once we’d finished discussing the appalling state of the Job and had criticized a few senior officers, Jock left us, but told me to get in touch with him if we needed any help.
    Half past two found us at Birley Road, the last known address for Thomas Hendry, sometime seagoing steward. It was a short street of old houses close to the city centre.
    The woman who answered the door was in her late twenties, had shoulder-length black hair, and bits of metal embedded in various parts of her face and ears. There was a gap between her crop-top and her jeans,