‘Married,’ declared Uckfield. ‘God knows what he sees in her.’
Was that it, Horton thought, as Uckfield turned the car back towards Ventnor. Had married men come calling on his mother? Not in the flat they hadn’t, except for one man, and Horton had discovered who he was, and he was now dead. But they’d lived in a little terraced house before they’d moved to the council flat and he remembered it clearly, sitting in a row of similar houses in a crowded area of Portsmouth. There had been men, and he now recalled raised voices on one occasion, and he’d been sent out to play. How old had he been? Seven or eight? Younger? He couldn’t say. He needed to check where they had lived. The census information would give him that.
‘I’ll ring in the car registration number,’ he said, reaching for his phone. Trueman would trace the owner and they’d ask him whether or not he knew Colin Yately and when he’d last seen him. He hadn’t looked as though he’d kill Yately out of jealousy or for money, but who could tell?
After he hung up, he told Uckfield what Margaret Yately had said about the dress.
‘Trueman’s sending it over to the university as soon as the lab has finished with it, which should be tomorrow. What was that stuff about caves and chines I heard you ask her?’
‘Just something I read in those notes.’
Uckfield’s phone rang. Horton leant over and put the call on speaker. It was Sergeant Norris and he sounded excited. ‘We’ve got a witness who saw a man entering and leaving Yately’s flat early this morning at about nine thirty-five. We’ve got a good description of him, about five-eleven, slim, grey-haired, in his early sixties, and what’s more we’ve got a name. The neighbour got the car registration and we’ve traced it to an Arthur Lisle. He lives in Bonchurch. He was carrying a briefcase.’
Uckfield bellowed, ‘Do nothing. We’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Ambitious, thought Horton, though by the way Uckfield was driving maybe not.
EIGHT
Norris dashed through the rain and slid his fat backside into the rear of Uckfield’s BMW, his trousers squeaking on the leather upholstery, his balding round florid face glistening from the rain and exertion. They were parked in a winding, tree-lined road of elegant Victorian terraced houses. The heavy rain and trees made it prematurely dark prompting lights to shine from several of the rooms, allowing a glimpse inside of subdued suburban life, but there was no light at Lisle’s house.
‘He’s clean, no previous,’ panted Norris. ‘He doesn’t seem to be in and his car isn’t here, although he could keep it in a garage somewhere. It’s a 1961 Morris Minor convertible, burgundy with a cream hood and cream leather interior. The man who saw Lisle — Grant Millbeck — lives in flat six, he was just off to work when he saw this man entering-’
‘With a key?’ Horton interjected.
‘Well he didn’t ring the front doorbell so he must have had one,’ Norris tossed caustically at Horton, before turning his attention back to Uckfield. ‘Then Millbeck saw the same man leaving and he was carrying a briefcase.’
‘Why did Millbeck hang around waiting for Lisle to come out?’ asked Horton suspiciously.
‘He didn’t. He’d forgotten his lunch box and went back to his apartment to collect it. He was just locking up when Lisle came down the stairs from apartment seven. Millbeck claims that Lisle didn’t seem or look nervous. He smiled and said “good morning”. Millbeck’s seen the Morris at the apartment block a couple of times, and admired it, and he remembered the registration number because it was unusual, MOG 61, so he wasn’t worried about Lisle being there.’
Horton addressed Uckfield, ‘Lisle could be the friend Yately gave his keys to. He probably removed the notes from the apartment with Yately’s prior permission. He doesn’t sound like our killer.’
‘You never can tell,’ Uckfield said optimistically, adding to Norris, ‘Call up the nearest patrol car.’
‘Just arriving, sir.’
Horton swivelled in his seat to see the police vehicle pulling in behind them. There were no blue lights or sirens but he fancied more curtains would be twitched in Grove Way.
Climbing out, Uckfield said, ‘We’ll start by being polite and knock.’
Horton obliged, rapping loudly on the front door and then pressing and keeping his finger on the bell to the right of it, but all was silent. He stooped down and peered through the letterbox. ‘No signs of life,’ he said straightening up. Addressing Norris he asked, ‘Is there a rear entrance?’
‘No.’
That made things easier. Uckfield stepped back and nodded at the uniformed officer with the ramrod. Looking at the rather flimsy front door Horton didn’t think it would take much to break it in and he was right. A couple of minutes later he was stepping inside the hall straining his ears for sound. Only the solemn ticking of a clock coming from the room to his left greeted him. Arthur Lisle clearly wasn’t here or if he was he was dead or unconscious, and there was no reason why he should be either of the latter. But it was the excuse Uckfield would give for entering the house without permission and without a search warrant.
Swiftly Horton took in the worn pale-blue carpet that looked as though it had once been of good quality, the wooden balustrade, picture rails and architrave ceiling, before turning to see that a small audience was gathering at the front of the house in the pouring rain. He instructed the uniformed officers to get what information they could on Lisle and his movements, while Uckfield crossed to a telephone on a walnut table under the stairs and with latex-covered fingers lifted the receiver. ‘No answer machine,’ he said, punching in the number to get the last call. ‘Number withheld.’ He nodded Norris upstairs. To Horton he said, ‘I’ll take the kitchen, you do the lounge.’
Horton stepped inside the room on his left. Everything looked in place. It was neat and tidy if a little outdated and worn. There was a television in the corner by the bay window and a hi-fi system opposite it, both several years old. On the mantelpiece was the clock, which Horton had heard on first entering the house, and alongside it several family photographs and a picture of Lisle beside the Morris Minor which Norris had described to them. It looked in good condition and wouldn’t be difficult to spot; classic cars like it were few and far between these days.
Horton studied the photographs. Arthur Lisle looked to be a happily married family man, lean and tall with brown hair turning to grey as the photographs showed him through the passage of the years. In every one he was smiling. In some he was accompanied by young children and a pretty, dark-haired woman. And he was also with the same woman dressed in walking clothes against the backdrop of some mountains, which, to Horton, looked like the Brecon Beacons in Wales. Other photographs were of two couples in their thirties accompanied by babies and toddlers. The Lisle family through the ages, he guessed. Not only did Arthur Lisle not sound like their killer, he didn’t look like one either, although Horton knew that was a very dangerous and foolish assumption for a police officer to make. Yately had seemed an ordinary man but had ended up being brutally murdered. Why?
He reconsidered the third theory he’d expressed to Uckfield, that the dress found on Yately could have belonged to a woman Yately had been involved with. Was that woman connected with Arthur Lisle, Horton wondered, studying the photograph of the dark-haired woman? Had Lisle entered Yately’s flat and taken those notes because they contained a reference to it? But if Lisle had killed Yately and taken the keys off him, why leave the photograph of Hannah Yately behind and why wait until now to visit Yately’s apartment when he could have done so any time since Thursday? And why chance being spotted and recognized? No, Lisle had to be a friend and his visit to Yately’s flat innocent.
He wondered where the Lisle family were now, especially Mrs Lisle. There was no evidence of her in this room, no female magazines, no sewing or knitting, but maybe Lisle liked it that way. Perhaps he was a tyrant, despite the photographs. Some of the vilest bullies Horton had known had looked and behaved to the outside world like pillars of v
irtue.
He stepped along the hall and into a middle room. He could hear Uckfield opening and closing doors and drawers in the kitchen and Norris’s heavy footsteps overhead. No one had shouted out to say they’d found either Mrs Lisle or her husband, so where were they? wondered Horton, surveying the old-fashioned dining room, which looked as though its current use was as an office. Would they return horrified and angry to find the police in their house?
Uckfield joined him. ‘There’s food in the cupboards and fridge so he wasn’t planning on leaving.’
Horton’s eyes ran over the mahogany table and chairs in the centre of the room, the sideboard opposite the fireplace, the books scattered on the table and on the bookshelves either side of the hearth, before coming back to the table. ‘Where’s the computer?’ He pointed to a cable and charger that led to an electric socket.
‘Perhaps he’s taken it to night classes or is with friends,’ suggested Uckfield.
Horton crossed the room and picked up one of the books. It was on local history and some of the others were on ships, including naval, merchant and passenger. Clearly Lisle and Yately shared the same interests. He glanced out of the narrow window to his right. It was still raining heavily.
‘There’s a shed at the bottom of the garden,’ he said as Norris entered.
‘No sign that Lisle was intending to leave. His passport’s here.’ Norris handed it to Uckfield. Horton looked over the Super’s shoulder. It was the same man as in the photographs on the mantelpiece. There were a few stamps in it to show that Lisle had travelled abroad but nothing for the last six years.
‘Any women’s clothing?’ asked Horton.
‘None, but there’s a photograph of a dark-haired woman beside his bed.’
Not divorced then, thought Horton, because if Lisle had been, that, along with some of the photographs on the mantelpiece, would have been consigned to the bin. Widowed? Possibly.
Peering into the garden Uckfield said, ‘Check the shed, Sergeant.’
Norris made no protest but Horton could tell by his expression he wasn’t best pleased at being sent out in the rain. Uckfield made to reach for his phone when a woman’s voice, raised in anger, reached them from the front of the house. Uckfield threw Horton a questioning glance as they stepped into the passageway.
‘What the devil is going on?’ she demanded, glaring at both of them in turn, her round face flushed, her dark eyes smouldering with fury. ‘What gives you the right to barge in here like this? Where’s my father?’
‘That’s what we’d like to know,’ muttered Uckfield, before stepping forward, flashing his warrant card and introducing himself and Horton. ‘And you are?’
‘Rachel Salter,’ she snapped.
Horton had already recognized her from the photographs on the mantelpiece.
‘What’s happened?’ she again demanded, but this time more warily. Then her face paled. ‘Dad’s had an accident.’
‘Shall we go inside, Mrs Salter.’ Uckfield stood solidly in front of her, stretching an arm towards the lounge so that she had no option but to enter it.
She went under protest and Horton could see she was torn between anger and fear.
‘I think you’d better sit down,’ Uckfield began, but that only made her stand more squarely in the middle of the room.
‘Tell me, what’s happened? He’s not-’
‘We believe your father can help us with our inquiry into the death of Colin Yately,’ Uckfield quickly interjected.
Horton could see that the name meant nothing to her. She stared at Uckfield with a mixture of bewilderment and subdued anger.
Uckfield continued. ‘Colin Yately’s body was found in the Solent yesterday morning and your father was seen entering his apartment this morning. Do you know if he and your father were acquainted?’
‘Obviously they must have been,’ she said tartly. ‘What’s this man’s death got to do with my father? Where is he?’ Her eyes scanned the room as though he might be hiding somewhere. It was an instinctive gesture, Horton knew.
He said, ‘When did you last see your father?’
She swivelled hot angry eyes on him, but the fury was there to mask her concern.
‘Last Tuesday, why?’
‘Have you spoken to him since?’
‘No.’
‘He didn’t call you to say he wouldn’t be in?’ It was a silly question but he had a reason for asking it
‘Of course not. If he had I wouldn’t be here, would I?’
She eyed him as though he was thick and with a slightly superior manner, but Horton thought it was the truth.
She added, ‘I come here every Tuesday before my evening class and have a cup of tea and a chat with Dad. My husband, Paul, takes our two girls to Brownies, then picks them up again and puts them to bed. Look, this is ridiculous; Dad’s probably just popped out somewhere.’
Uckfield said, ‘On the only day of the week you visit him? Surely he’d wait in for his daughter.’
‘Maybe he’s run out of tea bags,’ she snapped, eyeing Uckfield malevolently.
‘He hasn’t,’ answered Uckfield.
‘You’ve searched the house!’ she cried indignantly. ‘I hope you’ve got a warrant because you shouldn’t be in here without one.’
Smoothly Horton said, ‘We were concerned for your father and had to take the decision to enter.’
‘Concerned? Why should you be concerned?’ she said mystified.
Uckfield gave it to her bluntly. ‘Colin Yately’s death is suspicious. Your father could be in danger.’
She almost laughed. A smile played at the corners of a generous and petulant mouth, before her forehead creased in a worried frown. ‘My father’s a retired solicitor and a widower. He can’t possibly be in danger. And I’ve never heard him speak about this man, Yately.’
Evenly, Horton said, ‘How long has your father been widowed?’
‘Eighteen months, why?’
He’d been right about that then. But if Yately had been involved with Mrs Lisle then it was some time ago, making it more unlikely that Lisle had sought revenge, unless of course he’d only just discovered the affair. He asked her if she knew what her father’s hobbies were and got much the same reaction as when he’d asked the question of Hannah and Margaret Yately, a blank stare. Again he had to prompt. ‘What does your father do in his spare time?’
‘He does the Telegraph crossword, the housework, shopping, gardening, reads.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘He is retired,’ she emphasized as though Horton was an idiot.
He felt like saying that doesn’t mean he’s practically dead, or living such a dreary life he might just as well be. Instead he said, ‘That usually means time to take up new interests.’
She looked surprised, as though her father couldn’t possibly want anything more than to wait in every Tuesday evening for his daughter to condescend to have a cup of tea with him. It probably wasn’t really like that, but he felt as though it was. Lisle’s daughter was older than Hannah Yately, by about ten years, but her attitude towards her father was similar to Hannah’s.
‘Dad nursed Mum for three years,’ she said defensively. ‘Since she died he’s found it hard to adjust.’
Yeah, and I bet you haven’t asked him about that. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently, sensing Uckfield’s impatience beside him and willing him not to charge in. ‘What was your mother’s illness?’
‘MS,’ she replied tautly and with a finality that said the subject was not open to discussion. And that put any possible affair Yately might have had with Lisle’s wife even further back in time. It was looking more unlikely as a possible motive for Yately’s death with Lisle as the killer.
‘Was your father away over the weekend?’
‘Not that I know of,’ she answered, surprised.
So if Lisle had been given Yately’s keys then why had he waited until this morning to visit the flat and pick up the notes? But perhaps Lisle had been away a
nd hadn’t bothered telling his daughter.
Norris slipped back into the room with a slight shake of his head. Nothing in the shed then. Horton thought of how Yately’s body had been found, in the sea, and said, ‘Does your father have a boat?’
She looked startled by the question. ‘Yes. But he hasn’t been out on it for ages.’
Uckfield looked as if he was about to say, ‘That’s what you think,’ when Horton quickly interjected. ‘What kind of boat?’
‘A Cornish Crabber.’
And Horton knew that was a small day sailing boat, and one that could easily have been used to dump Yately’s body. ‘Where does he keep it?’
‘Down in the bay by the slipway. It’s on a trailer. .’ Then her dark eyes widened and Horton thought she’d made the leap between his question and Yately being found in the sea. He expected outrage but instead he saw genuine fear for the first time since she’d entered the house. ‘You don’t think Dad’s gone out on it? Not in this weather?’
Uckfield said, ‘We’ll check. What’s the boat called?’
‘Abigail. It was my mother’s name.’
Horton saw her eyes flick to the photographs on the mantelpiece, as Uckfield nodded at Norris, who then slipped out of the lounge. He’d despatch someone to check, but Victor Hazleton’s tales of a light at sea again flashed into Horton’s mind. Could Arthur Lisle have been out on his small sailing boat on Wednesday night killing Colin Yately? But even if he had been he hadn’t dumped the body in the Solent then. For now he pushed the thought to one side and said, ‘Your father owns a computer; do you know what kind?’
‘Isn’t it in the dining room?’ she answered distractedly. ‘It’s a laptop; Dad must have taken it with him.’ She crossed to the fireplace and seemed to be studying the photographs before she spun round and with a defiant stare, exclaimed, ‘This is silly. There must be a perfectly logical explanation for all this.’
And maybe there was, thought Horton. ‘Would your father have sent you an email perhaps to say he’d gone away for a few days?’ he asked.
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