Horton climbed out of the window on to the flat garage roof and saw immediately what she meant. The neighbouring house on the right on the corner was set back behind this house and if he turned to face into the chilly, damp, southerly wind he had a clear view of the small golf course, the seafront road, promenade, shingle beach and the grey, choppy Solent beyond. He could even make out the Bembridge peninsula on the Isle of Wight and the lifeboat station at the end of its long pier. Facing east, though, he merely looked out at the similar properties on the opposite side of the road. To the north, there were others spaced out along the road which culminated in a T-junction, giving on to more large Edwardian detached and semi-detached houses. Several cars were parked in the street even though the houses had garages.
He looked down. The thieves must have brought a short ladder with them to scale the side of the garage because there was no drain pipe or any other climbing structure. He wondered what time the house had been burgled. He assumed probably sometime between nine and midnight because an alarm sounding briefly would have been disguised behind the sound of televisions. And even though there were street lights, given the time of year, the occupants of the nearby houses would have been tucked up inside their homes, much as they had been last night when the vagrant who hadn’t been a vagrant had been killed.
Horton climbed back inside and glanced at the sensors above the window.
Constance Clements said, ‘There are infra-sensors in every corner of the room.’
Horton could see them. ‘And you found this window open when you came in here on your return?’
‘Yes. When the alarm didn’t sound Vivian at first thought we must have a power cut. He tried the light switch and everything was fine. He then thought the circuit must have fused. It was only when I came in here after I’d been in the kitchen and put the coffee on that I noticed the window was open. I was horrified, thinking that I must have left it open by mistake, but I knew I hadn’t when I heard Vivian shouting. I rushed down to the basement and found him so upset he could barely tell me what had happened. He phoned the police while I checked over the rest of the house.’ She frowned, puzzled. ‘Nothing else has been taken and there are some rather valuable pieces in this room and elsewhere in the house. Why didn’t the thieves take them? We were away – they could have emptied the place.’
Why indeed? Perhaps something had happened to disturb them. But his earlier belief that the pistols had been stolen to order and that this was a professional job was being confirmed except for the fact that the sash window had been left open. But even professionals made mistakes, thank goodness. He’d get Clarke out here to photograph the point of entry and the basement, which he’d view in due course, but first he said, ‘I’d like to talk to your husband.’
She nodded and gave him a timid smile. They followed her back to the kitchen where she offered them refreshments but Clements, who was now off the phone and sitting in front of a laptop computer at a table in the conservatory, snapped, ‘They haven’t got time for that.’
‘Coffee would be nice, Mrs Clements,’ Horton said firmly, especially as he saw it was the fresh variety concocted in a sophisticated machine.
Cantelli plumped for tea.
Clements glowered at them. ‘There’s nothing more I can tell you. I’ve already been over it twice, once with the first uniformed officers who arrived on Monday and again on Tuesday with that detective.’
Clearly, by his tone, he didn’t think much of Walters.
Cantelli politely answered, ‘It sometimes helps us if you can go over it again, sir. There might be something you missed the first couple of times, or something that has only just occurred to you.’
‘There isn’t.’
With a hint of concern in her voice, Constance Clements threw her husband a pleading look. ‘Darling, please.’ Then her eyes swivelled between Horton and Cantelli. ‘Vivian’s tired, he’s been working very hard and coming home to this has been an appalling shock.’
‘Working?’ Horton picked up. ‘I thought you’d just returned from a cruise?’
Clements glanced at his wife, then heaved a heavy sigh and sat back in his chair. ‘It was a working cruise, Inspector. I was a guest lecturer on the Savana, the cruise ship that sails from Portsmouth. It’s part of the cultural lectures fleet. They’re smaller than the huge liners that sail from Southampton and, shall we say, have a more discerning clientele.’
As well as prices to match, thought Horton. He’d seen the ships when he’d been out sailing in the Solent and he’d also seen them docked at the international port.
Constance Clements took up the conversation. ‘They’re discovery cruises. Vivian gives lectures about the places the ship is visiting.’
Clements broke in. ‘It sounds glamorous, and of course my wife and I get the cruise for free, but it’s bloody hard work. I have to give a different lecture every day and attend some of the tours with the local guide. We also have to mingle with the guests at cocktails and dinner and, quite frankly, it’s difficult being pleasant and looking and sounding as though you’re interested in the person who is boring the pants off you or insists on telling you all the things you already know because you’ve just told him that. When I come home I’ve had enough of my fellow creatures. I just want to be alone and quiet for a while. I certainly didn’t need all this.’
His wife put the tray of drinks on the table and waved them into seats. She took the one next to her husband and handed him his coffee. Horton had already noted the expensive rings on her well-manicured fingers and his thoughts flicked to the rings on the fingers of Evelyn Lyster – diamond clusters and coloured stones, much like the missing brooch his mother had once owned. He heard Cantelli say, ‘How did you get to be a cruise lecturer, sir?’
Horton wondered if Clements would retort, ‘What’s that got to do with the robbery?’ but his wife’s presence and the coffee seemed to be having a soothing effect. His anger had subsided and he now appeared to Horton to be a very disturbed man with a hint of despair in his haunted eyes.
‘I won’t bore you with the full CV, Sergeant, so to summarize, I have a degree in oriental studies and the history of art.’
Horton recalled what he’d learned about Andrew Ducale. He too had a degree in oriental studies from Cambridge where Lord Eames had also graduated, but they hadn’t been there at the same time. He’d checked. Eames had left there in 1967, three years after Ducale, with a first-class honours degree in economics, politics and philosophy, after which he’d joined the Foreign Office – another thing he and Ducale had in common.
Clements was saying, ‘I’ve worked for auctioneers, art galleries and universities. Six years ago I met Constance and began helping her to source items for her clients. Constance is an interior designer.’
That explained the décor in the house, thought Horton.
‘Three years ago we got married, sold our apartments in London and moved back here. Or rather, Constance did. She used to live here. She was reluctant at first but it’s been OK.’ He dashed her a glance as though seeking her to confirm this. She gave a weak smile. She wasn’t going to contradict her husband but Horton thought she looked as though she’d like to. He wondered why she had been reluctant to move back. Maybe she disliked the city or perhaps she would have preferred to stay in London with her clients.
Vivian Clements was steaming on. ‘I felt at a bit of a loss giving up my consultancy and lecturing and Constance suggested that I would make a very good cruise lecturer so I wrote to the shipping companies – the select ones,’ he quickly added as though he was fearful of being accused of having bad taste, ‘and I was immediately accepted. I’ve cruised with Constance to Japan, China and Asia. But this last one took it out of me. I’d already decided it would be the final one then to come home to this.’ His voice was dejected now rather than angry.
‘And you left on the nineteenth of December, returning on Monday morning?’ Cantelli asked, his pencil poised.
‘Yes.’ His should
ers drooped. Constance Clements gazed anxiously at her husband and fiddled with an expensive-looking silver or possibly white gold bracelet on her right wrist.
Horton said, ‘I know you’ve already given a list of what was stolen to DC Walters but perhaps you’d tell us about the pistols taken.’
Vivian Clements sighed heavily before beginning in almost a monotone: ‘One was a Webley Fosbery self-cocking, or semi-automatic revolver, invented by Lieutenant Colonel George Vincent Fosbery, holder of the Victoria Cross, in 1894, manufactured in Birmingham from 1901 to 1915. I have, or rather had, one of the very first that was manufactured there. It’s worth approximately six thousand pounds.’
Horton was surprised at the value but made no comment.
Clements continued, ‘The others are a Volcanic Repeating Arms Company lever-action navy pistol dated about the same time and in good condition. It would probably fetch about three thousand pounds – maybe more – at auction. There was a US Model 1842 navy rifled percussion pistol by Deringer, again worth about three thousand pounds; a French 25 Bore Double Barrelled Percussion Travelling Pistol, valued at six thousand pounds; and a Joseph Egg rare70 Bore Over and Under Double Barrelled Percussion Overcoat Pistol circa 1840, valued at five thousand pounds.’
Horton was quickly totting this up. The value came to at least twenty-three thousand pounds.
‘How much are they valued for insurance purposes?’
‘My total collection is insured for one hundred thousand pounds but the thieves only took the pistols, so I will be making a claim for those amounts I’ve just relayed to you, Inspector. I’d rather have my pistols returned, though.’
Horton rose, saying, ‘Could I see where they were kept?’ He dashed a glance at Cantelli, who would correctly interpret it. Cantelli made no attempt to move, a fact that Vivian Clements didn’t seem too keen on. He scowled at Cantelli, who simply sipped his tea and, as Horton was already at the door, it left Clements no option but to join him.
Horton followed Vivian Clements down the stairs leading to the basement.
‘My study is next to my collection room and there’s also a utility and a shower room on this floor at the rear,’ Clements explained. Horton could see steps from the passageway leading up into the garden.
Clements turned to his right and a door facing the front of the house.
‘Do you keep this locked?’
‘I didn’t think I needed to with alarm sensors everywhere and the rear door locked, bolted and alarmed,’ he said sourly, pushing open the door.
So the thieves had picked the most vulnerable entry point, indicating that they must have previously surveyed the house from the inside.
Clements picked up a remote control and the room was suddenly filled with sophisticated lighting, strategically placed to show off an impressive and clearly highly valuable collection. Horton was impressed by the layout and design of the room and by the quality of the items arranged within it. He was no antiques expert but he had seen enough of them during his years of crime to recognize the genuine thing when he saw it. From Walters’ description he had envisaged a few shelves dotted around the walls with something just a little more upmarket than bric-a-brac displayed on them. This looked more like a high-class art gallery or museum.
There were two sets of arched alcoves on the walls to Horton’s right and another two on the opposite wall. The two on the right contained porcelain antiques – plates, jugs, figurines. The two on his left were bare. It was where the pistols had been displayed. Through the centre of the room ran a wooden plinth with cupboards beneath. On top, tastefully arranged and lit was a row of oriental-decorated vases, more figurines and plates. The window opposite was covered by slatted shutters, behind which was a grill. To the right was a tan leather wing chair and a small table. Horton could imagine Clements sitting here sipping a whisky or a glass of wine, admiring his collection. He wouldn’t mind betting soft, classical music was piped into the room. Whoever had done this job was one hell of a careful burglar, and a very particular one.
‘You were comfortable with having such a valuable collection here?’ Horton asked, concerned and inflecting a tone of incredulity in his voice.
‘What’s the point of owning it if you can’t look at it? I thought the security was adequate. The insurance company seemed to think so.’
‘Have you ever shown anyone your collection?’
‘No.’
Horton wasn’t sure if he believed him. Surely the joy of owning this type of collection was to show it off. He caught a sense of unease about Clements. There was something he was holding back. Horton crossed and examined the collection of oriental objects on the plinth. There was a handsome yellow and blue decorative vase, another blue and white one and two iron-red and gilt shell containers on four tiny feet about five inches high, which looked like egg cups.
‘They’re intended to be used on a desk, by scholars, probably for ink, late Qing Republic and worth about five thousand pounds,’ Clements explained.
‘I recommend you move your most valuable items or all your collection to a secure location. A vault, perhaps.’
‘Isn’t that a bit like locking the stable door after the horse has bolted?’ Clements rejoined sourly.
‘I’m concerned that having seen this collection, the thieves might return.’
Clements shifted uneasily. ‘I’ve re-set the alarm.’
‘They managed to bypass it once. Do you employ cleaners?’
‘My wife does but nobody is allowed to clean this room. I do that myself.’
‘But they could have access to it because you said it isn’t locked.’
‘It isn’t but how would a cleaner know what to steal and, even more pertinent, how to get rid of it?’ he answered pompously.
‘It’s dangerous to make assumptions, sir,’ Horton stiffly replied. ‘They could easily have told someone. When was the last time you let any workmen in?’
‘Two years ago, shortly after we moved in, when the room was decorated. I had the cabinets and lighting installed and none of my collection was in here then. I moved it to a secure lock-up.’
Horton noticed a thin film of perspiration on Clements’ brow.
‘Have you sat with the shutters open when someone has come to the house or the front door?’
‘How can I remember that?’ he cried tetchily and ran a hand over his hair.
Horton held his gaze for a fraction then said, ‘Why do you collect the pistols?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Clements replied defensively.
‘They weren’t oriental and they’re very different from the other items in your collection,’ Horton persisted.
‘It’s just something I’m interested in.’
‘How do you source and buy them?’
‘Usually through the Internet and from reputable dealers. I can give you their names,’ he quickly added. ‘I also attend specialist auctions.’
‘And this is where the pistols were displayed?’ Horton crossed to the bare alcove. There was nothing to see. Fingerprints had been taken but there was no trace of them. Either Clements or his wife had cleaned up. Horton turned and said, ‘Where were you and your wife last night?’
Clements looked taken aback. ‘Why do you want to know that?’
Horton made no reply, just held Clements’ hostile stare.
After a moment, Clements said tautly, ‘We were here. Neither of us was in any mood to go out. We were still tired and in shock.’
Horton nodded. ‘Thank you.’
‘That’s it?’
Was that relief he heard in Clements’ voice? Horton said he would send a photographer round to take pictures of where the thieves entered and of the collection room.
They returned to the kitchen. Horton nodded at Cantelli, who rose. ‘Thanks for the tea, Mrs Clements.’
‘You’re welcome. Will you be back?’ She fingered her rather ornamental necklace.
‘DC Walters will keep you up to date with any developments,’
Horton answered. But they would be back whether or not it transpired that one of the stolen guns had been used to kill their victim last night, because Clements had still failed to comply with the law on gun ownership. Antique or not, historic or not, he should still have informed them.
She showed them to the door but not before Horton caught her exchanging a glance with her husband that he couldn’t quite interpret.
In the car, Horton said, ‘Well?’
‘She’s nervy, tired and unhappy and I’d say that was before the burglary. The only time I saw her eyes light up was when she was talking about her interior design business in London, which she clearly misses and I’d say regrets giving up.’
‘Did you ask her where she and her husband were last night?’
‘At home, still exhausted after their cruise and the robbery. Went to bed early.’
‘He said more or less the same.’
‘Do you want to talk to the neighbours?’
‘No point if Walters and uniform have done that.’ Horton glanced at the clock on the dashboard. They were due at Evelyn Lyster’s apartment.
Cantelli started the car and pulled away. Horton continued, ‘Clements’ collection is very impressive and very valuable. He’s also very uncomfortable about something but I can’t see him nipping out last night and killing our supposed vagrant with one of his allegedly stolen pistols.’
‘Insurance job?’ Cantelli indicated right.
‘Possibly. It’s too neat. And why just the pistols? He claims the cleaners never went in the room and it was never locked.’
‘Mrs Clements said the same. She’s used the same cleaning company for the last eight months – Valentines. They’ve got an office in Fawcett Road not far from Fratton railway station. The cleaners go in twice a week, Mondays and Fridays. On Mondays they do the downstairs and the basement, not the collection room, but they clean Vivian Clements’ study, and Fridays the bedrooms and bathrooms. It’s usually the same two women, who Mrs Clements says are very friendly and nice.’
Lethal Waves Page 7