A Killing Coast dah-7

by Pauline Rowson

  Several ideas were swimming around Horton’s head but he shelved them for the moment to concentrate on what more Williams had to tell him.

  ‘Walpen began to invest his money in building projects and most specifically in the boom in building in Ventnor as it became a health resort. In 1844 he married the wealthy daughter of a landowner. She inherited when her father died, only to die a year later in 1856, childless, making William Walpen even wealthier. He then married a woman thirty years younger than him, in 1862, Mary, who after many miscarriages and stillbirths finally produced a son, Elliott, in 1872, dying herself in childbirth. William didn’t remarry but put his energies into his business which now included shipping, hotels and land. He died in 1893 leaving it all to Elliott, then aged twenty-one. But Elliott, with a good education and a quick brain, was an even better businessman than his father. He also got heavily involved in Cowes Week and indulged his passion for yacht racing and the America’s Cup and was a keen astronomer. He married Julia in 1905, but she died in 1914, so, like his father before him, Elliot remarried a young woman, Lisa, in 1920, who produced Sarah Walpen in 1921. Elliot died in 1935 and his wife in 1955. Sarah took herself off to America in 1957 and that was the last anyone heard of her.’

  Thoughts hurtled through Horton’s mind. So much added up: sailing. . Cowes Week. . the Raoul Dufy painting. . astronomy. . Hazleton’s telescope. . the Thea Porter dress that Yately had been wearing when his body had been found, possibly purchased in America, and in 1976 Sarah Walpen would have been fifty-five and within the age range Dr Adams had said the buyer of the dress might have been. But none of these were evidence of why Yately was killed.

  Williams said, ‘Sarah Walpen must have died in the States and I’m not aware that she ever married. The line died out with her and I told Mr Yately this.’

  ‘How did he seem when you told him?’ asked Horton eagerly.

  Williams considered this for several moments. ‘Satisfied. Yes, that’s how I’d describe it. And possibly even triumphant.’

  At last Horton was beginning to feel a little triumphant himself. His visit here hadn’t been a waste of time, on the contrary it had given him the key to the case and that key was Sarah Walpen. Colin Yately had discovered, or had had an idea about what had happened to her. Horton did too.

  When he ascertained that Ian Williams could contribute no more to the case, Horton quickly and warmly thanked him and hurried outside, where he drove a short distance away before calling Uckfield. Quickly, he gave the Super a potted summary of what Williams had told him, ending with, ‘We need to find out if Sarah Walpen died in the States, but it’s my belief she didn’t. I think she returned to the Isle of Wight and Hazleton killed her and stole her possessions to fund his lifestyle. I think Sarah Walpen arranged to buy a house here, the place of her birth. She asked Wallingford and Chandler to act for her in the purchase of the property. They did, or rather Arthur Lisle did. On her return Hazleton struck up a friendship with her, before killing her and stealing from her so he could buy that big house on the cliff top and retire from Wallingford and Chandler to live the life of a gentleman. When Yately began his passion for local history he discovered the Walpens and was curious to trace the last of the line, Sarah. He mentioned it to his new friend who shared the same interest, Arthur Lisle, and Lisle recalled acting on the property purchase for Sarah. He couldn’t remember what property she’d purchased, hence his request to see the archives files.’

  ‘But there’s no Sarah Walpen named in that file,’ protested Uckfield.

  ‘Exactly, because Hazleton, as office manager, never filed the papers. And he erased all trace of her from the office records, so it was never entered on the computer.’

  ‘And when Lisle discovered this he called on Hazleton,’ interjected Uckfield excitedly.

  ‘Yes, but initially without mentioning Sarah Walpen. Remember Lisle checked the files two weeks ago, a week after Yately had consulted Ian Williams for the third time. I think Lisle bided his time, doing further research with Yately, until he was certain about Sarah Walpen. Then last week Lisle must have told Hazleton that he and Yately knew the truth. Hazleton must have fobbed them both off, saying he’d confess, and then lured Yately to meet him in the bay beneath his house where he killed him.’

  ‘Could he have the strength for that?’

  ‘Dr Clayton says that Hazleton was very fit and strong for his age and he could have surprised Yately. He knocked him out and then bound and gagged him.’ But there were still things that didn’t add up. He thought back to Dr Clayton’s report on Colin Yately’s death. He’d been tied up and almost drowned until the poor man had given his tormentor the information he wanted. Horton suspected that the information was what was contained in his historical notes about the Walpens. Could Hazleton have been physically capable of that? There were other anomalies too.

  Frowning, he added, ‘I know that doesn’t account for Yately wearing what I think must have been one of Sarah Walpen’s dresses. Hazleton would hardly have wanted to draw attention to that, unless it was some kind of sick joke. And it doesn’t explain how Yately ended up in the Solent when Hazleton didn’t have a boat.’

  ‘Lisle had one though,’ said Uckfield. ‘Perhaps Hazleton persuaded or bribed Lisle to keep quiet about it. But Lisle then realizes he’ll be at Hazleton’s mercy, he collects all the evidence from Yately’s flat, i.e. the notes, visits Hazleton and kills him. Then he kills himself, unable to live with what he’s done.’

  It made some kind of sense, but Horton still wasn’t sure.

  Uckfield added, ‘I’ll get Trueman working on this Sarah Walpen. We’ve no sightings of Lisle for the weekend between Yately’s death and his showing up at Yately’s apartment, so perhaps he was hiding out at Hazleton’s house and that was when the guilt set in.’

  Horton thought of those blows that had killed Hazleton. Could Arthur Lisle have inflicted them? People were capable of all sorts of terrible things when desperate, angry or provoked.

  Uckfield continued, ‘We’ve got a sighting of Yately, but it’s for the wrong time. It’s the Monday before he was killed. He travelled to Southampton on the hi-speed Red Jet. Bought his ticket by cash, but one of the staff there recognized him. She’s been interviewed and it seems genuine but I can’t see how that helps us.’

  And neither could Horton.

  Uckfield said, ‘He probably went to do some sightseeing. Apparently he was carrying a briefcase and camera.’

  ‘I didn’t see either in Yately’s apartment, not on my first visit or our second one.’

  There was a minute pause before Uckfield said curtly, ‘I’ll check with Taylor.’

  Horton knew Taylor would confirm that neither had been in the flat, and Horton didn’t recall the witness mentioning Lisle carrying them. Lisle might already have put them in his car before returning to Yately’s flat when the witness had seen him. Or he could have put both in the briefcase, unless Yately had taken them with him when he’d met his killer. And why would he do that? Because the briefcase and camera contained something that would incriminate the killer in the death of Sarah Walpen. Horton’s pulse quickened. And if that were so, then had Yately gone to Southampton on the Monday before his death to collect and photograph the final piece of evidence? What was it? Horton needed to think and there was one place to do it: Victor Hazleton’s house.

  When he reached it, there was no sign of the patrol car or Oliver Vernon. He must have finished his cataloguing and been taken to the Hovercraft terminal. Perhaps the sight of the bank of fog Horton could see out to sea beyond a RIB had persuaded Vernon to call it a day, and time was getting on. Horton checked the house; it was securely locked but he recalled Vernon’s advice about removing the valuable items. They’d have to see to that tonight.

  As he crossed Hazleton’s garden, Horton’s thoughts returned to Colin Yately and his trip to Southampton. If Yately had been on the Sarah Walpen trail then what had taken him to Southampton? The city might not have been his fi
nal destination. He could have caught the train to London.

  Horton stood at the top of the cliff path as his mind raced with possibilities. If he was correct in thinking that Sarah Walpen was returning to the Isle of Wight where she’d purchased a property through Wallingford and Chandler, then how would she have been travelling? By aeroplane? The city of Southampton had an airport but it didn’t take transatlantic flights, not even now when it was a bloody sight bigger than it had been when she must have returned. And they didn’t know exactly when that was, but it had to be before Victor Hazleton had retired prematurely early in 1986, when he’d suddenly had enough money to live like a gentleman, and most probably after October 1980, when Arthur Lisle thought he’d handled the property conveyance. But Southampton, like Portsmouth, did have a port and the Southampton port, then as now, took the big cruise liners. With excitement Horton recalled the book he’d seen on the table in Arthur Lisle’s dining room on British passenger ships. Now, Horton knew exactly where Colin Yately had been visiting on the Monday before his death: the headquarters of the company owning the cruise ships which sailed from Southampton.

  He reached for his phone. Uckfield was engaged. Horton called Cantelli. After bringing him up to speed, he said, ‘Contact the shipping company headquarters in Southampton and find out if Sarah Walpen was a passenger on any of their liners sailing into Southampton in the period from October 1980 to December 1985. If so, which one? Find out when it docked and if Sarah Walpen disembarked.’

  ‘Surely she must have done, otherwise she’d have been reported missing.’

  Horton knew she hadn’t been. Rapidly thinking, he said, ‘Then Hazleton must have met her at her house and killed her there.’

  He turned and stared at Hazleton’s house. Into his mind drifted a fragment of the interview with the Walkers. He was always coming back with something he’d picked up at some market or antique shop. Or rather, Horton thought, picked up from Sarah Walpen’s house, which meant it had to be close by, because it was the reason why Hazleton had fed those false stories to the police all these years about smugglers and illegal immigrants. It was a bluff. Hazleton didn’t want the police to investigate. On the contrary he wanted everyone to think he was a crank, because that way he could come and go as he pleased and he could steal from Sarah Walpen’s house without anyone knowing about it. That was until Colin Yately had turned up. And Horton thought he knew exactly where Sarah Walpen’s house had to be.

  TWENTY

  It took him forty minutes to find it. It would have taken less but for the fog, which had rapidly rolled in and was now so thick he could barely see a yard in front of him. The air was still and deathly silent, except for the occasional boom of the foghorns filling him with a chill foreboding that seemed to reach inside and squeeze the breath from him. He knew that Sarah’s house had to be well screened from both the sea and any road or track that had once led to it because no one had discovered it for over thirty years, and that meant it had become overgrown with shrubs and trees. He remembered seeing a dense copse of trees when he’d explored this area on Wednesday and headed towards it. With relief and excitement he soon found himself on a well trodden narrow path that Victor Hazleton had frequently used. From out of the fog suddenly loomed a sprawling derelict Victorian house which must once have been a splendid building. How fortunate for Hazleton to have bought his house on the cliff top so close to it. Or was it? Perhaps he had made the owners an offer they couldn’t refuse.

  Horton thought about returning to Hazleton’s house where he could pick up a mobile phone signal and call in with the location, but he decided that he should wait for the fog to clear. From his years spent sailing he was acutely aware that fog was very disorientating and he might think he was heading for Hazleton’s house when in reality he could be going in the opposite direction, or worse, end up falling over the cliff and into the sea.

  His thoughts flicked to Russell Glenn and the reception on board the superyacht. Glancing at his watch he saw it was only just after four o’clock. It felt much later than that because of the fog and the fact that so much had happened. But it meant he had time to explore here, return to Hazleton’s house, and get back to Portsmouth in time for the charity reception at eight thirty. He didn’t want to miss that and his chance to talk to Glenn.

  He found a rough path cut through the undergrowth and followed it to the rear of the house. The ivy, brambles and weeds had been cleared from the door, so it was clearly Hazleton’s way inside. Horton pushed at it and it gave easily to his touch. The fog seemed thicker now and Horton reached for his pencil torch. Its thin beam of light barely pierced the gloomy interior as he stepped inside and on to a filthy flagstone floor. It was dark and dank, and perhaps it was the fog stretching its cold tentacles inside, along with the groaning bindweed, that made it feel evil and caused him to shiver. But there was no mistaking the rancid smell that permeated the air. It was death.

  He tensed and edged forward. The fog soaked up the meagre light his small torch emitted, but he could make out a few items that told him he was in what had once been the kitchen. Moving into a passageway he was relieved to find sturdy flagstones underneath him instead of gaping rotten floorboards. To his left was what remained of a staircase torn apart by ivy and weeds. The smell was worse here and a cold sweat gripped him as his heart raced with the inevitability of what he would ultimately find. Crossing the hall he stepped inside another room. The darkness was too deep to penetrate, however the stench told him what was there, but not who. The breath caught in his throat. One thing for certain, it wasn’t Sarah Walpen. She’d be bones by now.

  Beneath him now were floorboards and a glance down warned that a step forward could result in injury. And it would take a long time for anyone to find him, if they ever did. He didn’t want to end up like Arthur Lisle, because he was convinced that was who he would find in the next room. And he wasn’t about to verify that, not now, not alone, and not in the dark and the fog. It was definitely time to leave. He turned to go.

  It was all wrong, though. If Hazleton had agreed to meet Lisle here and had then killed him, how did he end up in the boot of Lisle’s car? Simple, Hazleton hadn’t killed Lisle, but had stumbled on someone doing just that and so had to be killed himself. And who the blazes could that be? Was it the same person who had killed Yately? It had to be. And that person had put that dress on Yately’s body, hoping that it would be identified. But that was a very long shot, and the killer hadn’t done it as revenge for Sarah’s death, because why kill Yately when he had nothing to do with it? Sarah didn’t have any relatives, and if she’d had a lover, he’d be a very old man by now, much older than Hazleton, and incapable of carrying out three killings. So why had Yately’s killer wanted the body in that dress? And why had Yately’s killer wanted him silenced and the trail covered up with the further killings of Lisle and Hazleton?

  The house creaked and groaned as the fog reached inside. It felt as though the place was giving itself up to the dead. Time to leave. He could reason all this out in the safety of Hazleton’s driveway or on the ferry back to Portsmouth, not here. He stepped forward. The floor creaked behind him. Spinning round, he could see nothing and no one. He turned and his foot caught on something. Experience and instinct told him what it was. Surely he couldn’t have been so disorientated as to have stumbled into the room and found Arthur Lisle. But no, there was the rotting staircase to his right. He’d gone further into the passageway instead of the kitchen. His breathing laboured as he played the thin beam of his torch on the floor. Steadily, with his heart pounding, he took in the bloody mess of the head, the sightless staring eyes. But there was no mistaking who it was. With a shock he saw that it was Russell Glenn. Shit! He’d killed himself.

  That was Horton’s first thought; his second was anger that the chance of interrogating Glenn to find out if he’d had a connection with Jennifer had been snatched from him. His third was disappointment, followed by the realization that Glenn hadn’t killed himself. For a
start there was no gun and Glenn had been shot in the head. And from what he could see, Glenn hadn’t been dead for very long. Horton hadn’t heard a shot but the fog could have muffled the sound, and neither had he heard any vehicle approaching. He stiffened. He had seen a boat though before the fog had come in. A RIB. Russell Glenn’s RIB. He must have been coming here to meet his killer. And who the hell could that be? More to the point, was the killer still here?

  Horton spun round, sensing rather than hearing someone behind him, but he was too late. The blow struck him across the back of his head, and as his legs buckled beneath him and his face hit the dirt and dust of the rotten floorboards Dr Clayton’s words flashed before him: a single blow to the back of the head is rarely enough to kill someone unless the victim is unfortunate enough to have a thin skull, but several blows can. The last thing Horton wondered as the darkness swallowed him up was what type of skull he had.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The thick type was the answer, thankfully, because a short time later, maybe only minutes, Horton opened his eyes to find his head pounding and his mouth full of dust. Gingerly, he rose, trying to focus his vision in the dark, wondering why the killer hadn’t finished him off, but immensely grateful that he hadn’t.