‘They might also have criminal contacts.’
‘The cleaners wouldn’t know the security code.’
‘Not unless they’d seen the Clements set it or he had it written down somewhere in his study.’
‘I guess that’s possible. Or one of them could have planted a skimming device on the alarm to obtain the code and then removed it the next time they came.’
‘We’ll check them out, but my money’s on Clements.’ Horton stared across the Canoe Lake where a middle-aged couple with a young child were feeding the swans. ‘It has to be an insurance fraud, except why the guns and why risk exposing himself to being prosecuted? Even if they are exempt from the firearms act he still failed to notify us and could be charged. It would have been much simpler for the Clements to have said the oriental objects had been stolen.’
‘Maybe they’re not worth as much.’
‘Maybe there isn’t such a ready market for them.’
Cantelli turned on to the road by the pier. ‘And is Mrs Clements in on the insurance fraud?’
‘Bound to be.’ Horton looked at the grey, swirling Solent as they made their way west towards Old Portsmouth and Evelyn Lyster’s apartment. In the distance he could see the Wightlink ferry heading into Fishbourne. To the left of the ferry terminal, rising above the trees was the abbey where he had found Antony Dormand, and to the right, tucked away around a bay and out of view was Richard Eames’ Isle of Wight property, rarely used except for the international sailing regatta of Cowes Week in August and occasionally at Christmas. It backed on to a private beach, where Horton had met a beachcomber, who had said his name was Lomas.
He recalled the solidly built man in his late fifties scrutinizing him with curious and intelligent grey eyes in a bronzed, weather-beaten face, the close-cropped greying beard, shabby shorts and old leather sandals over bare feet. He’d come from nowhere. He’d certainly not been in Eames’ private woods when Horton had trekked through them to reach the beach and neither had he seen a dinghy on the shore. He’d tried to locate him since then but couldn’t. He had vanished and it had occurred to Horton that maybe Dormand had been masquerading as a monk at the nearby abbey because his mission had been to silence Lomas, who was in fact no beachcomber but one of those five men in that picture Ducale had left on his boat and which he’d shown Violet Ducale. They were all supposed to be dead but Horton was beginning to wonder if one of the five was still alive or had been before Dormand had got to him. Dormand hadn’t been in the monastery to make peace with his God before his impending death from cancer. Horton wasn’t even sure if Dormand had died in the Solent after he’d watched him climb into the small dinghy on the dark, windy night. His body had never been found but the sea didn’t always give up its dead. It might have been Jennifer’s final resting place. And what of the man who had taken that 1967 photograph? Was he still alive? Was it Andrew Ducale?
Cantelli’s voice broke through his thoughts. ‘Are the Clements hard up?’
‘Doesn’t look that way but who knows? They could be mortgaged to the hilt. And why take that cruise lecture job unless he needed to? He didn’t sound too keen on it.’
Horton rang Walters and gave him instructions to talk to the Clements’ insurance company to see if they’d made any previous claims. ‘Also, check their credit rating,’ he added.
Walters said he would when he returned from Treadwares. ‘I’m on my way there now, guv. Trevor Lukein’s back in the office for lunch.’
The parking spaces lining the road opposite Evelyn Lyster’s apartment were full, which was unusual given the time of year. But the reason for it became evident when Horton saw a van with Bellman’s Catering written on the side and several people in naval dress uniform making their way inside the building where Evelyn Lyster had an apartment on the top floor. The building had originally been a bank and then had become an exclusive sailing club for gentlemen from the higher echelons of the armed forces and the banking and business world, before opening its doors to their wives in the 1970s and then business and professional women in the 1990s. It was still a club and maintained its exclusivity, but also offered its high-ceilinged, chandelier-lit, sumptuously decorated function rooms to those who wanted to celebrate their anniversaries, weddings, birthdays and other special events in taste and style. Horton had been here with Catherine and his in-laws on three such occasions. He’d always felt out of place. He wasn’t sure now whether that was because of the exclusivity of the club or the fact that his in-laws had always looked down on him. He’d never been considered good enough for their only child, a fact that they now believed had been proved. The middle floor of the building comprised of a members-only bar, lounge, games room, library and viewing room while the top floor had been converted into two luxury penthouse apartments.
Cantelli eventually managed to find a space around the corner in Grand Parade close to the statue of Nelson looking out to sea. They walked the short distance back towards the building in time to see a small sports car swing into a space that had just been vacated and a woman with fair hair clipped high on her slightly tanned, chubby face climb out. She was texting on her phone. She glanced up, looked uncertain for a moment and then, pushing the phone into the pocket of her fleece jacket, headed towards them with a nervous smile. Gina Lyster, Horton assumed.
SEVEN
‘Do you always keep a key to your mother-in-law’s apartment?’ Cantelli asked as they stepped into the hall that smelled of paint and new carpets. Ahead was a staircase covered in a thick-pile pale blue carpet and, to their right, a lift. Horton couldn’t hear a sound from the function rooms. No alarm sounded. And he couldn’t see one.
‘It’s Rowan’s key. He left it with me before he flew to Guernsey,’ she answered, studying them with light-blue tired eyes, not surprising given the fact she’d received tragic news about her mother-in-law, thought Horton. He noted that her skin was pitted from scars on her high forehead and around the cheeks, the legacy of acne, he guessed, and although she couldn’t be more than in her mid-twenties, there were fine lines stretched at the corners of her eyes and mouth, which, coupled with her tan, to him betrayed the fact that she spent a lot of time in the open air. The logo on her fleece jacket confirmed that: Winner Watersports. Horton knew it. He’d seen the hut set back off the beach not far from his marina and close to the swimming baths and caravan holiday centre at the eastern end of Southsea promenade, although he couldn’t recall seeing Gina Lyster there. But then he hadn’t really looked that closely, just run past it during the summer months.
She headed for the stairs. Horton was glad. He didn’t use lifts unless he had to.
‘I’m not sure what you expect to find,’ she said over her shoulder. Horton noted she spoke well without any accent, local or otherwise. ‘But I guess you have to look. Is there any more news?’ She was understandably anxious.
Horton avoided answering. Instead he asked her the same question Guilbert had asked her husband. ‘Do you know why your mother-in-law was travelling to Guernsey?’
‘No. She never said she was going away, not even on Saturday when we had dinner with her here. I suppose she could have business associates there but she’s never mentioned them.’
‘What did she do?’ asked Cantelli.
‘She was a freelance translator. She spoke fluent French, German and Spanish.’
‘What type of clients?’
They came out on to a landing. There were several doors leading off it.
‘All sorts. Doctors, lawyers, accountants, brokers, dealers in jewellery, gems, art, the pharmaceutical companies. She travelled a lot to conferences, seminars, exhibitions and trade shows until Dennis died. Since then she’s been busy selling their apartment and buying this one but she did say she was keen to get back to work. Not that she needed to financially but I guess she missed the buzz of it. She always liked to have a lot on the go.’
Horton wondered if Evelyn Lyster had perhaps been intending to visit a client in Guernsey, only she’d
had nothing on her to indicate that, and there was the fact she’d had no luggage and no one had yet come forward or called her phone to ask where she was.
‘How long has your mother-in-law lived here?’ he asked.
‘She bought the apartment last September and moved in in October. The lounge is through here.’ Gina Lyster indicated the door in front of them.
It was a wide, open-plan living area with an ultra-modern kitchen beyond. To the right, three steps led up into a small dining area surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides with French doors on the fourth giving on to a small balcony. There were also wide windows in the lounge which gave splendid views across the Solent to the Isle of Wight. Everything in the lounge looked brand new – a fact Gina Lyster confirmed.
‘Evelyn put a lot of time and energy into decorating and furnishing this. She got rid of everything in the apartment which she and Dennis lived in in Clarence Parade overlooking the common. I guess she wanted to start afresh.’
And obliterate everything that reminded her of her husband? wondered Horton, including any photographs of him, although there might be some in her bedroom. Perhaps the relationship had been strained.
‘She also helped me and Rowan to get the business up and running – Winner Watersports. We started it last March in order to catch the main summer period. Rowan is a European champion windsurfer,’ she said proudly. ‘I’ve done a fair bit myself and I paddle board. We give tuition to groups and individuals and hire out equipment.’ Her eyes swept the room before coming back to Horton. ‘We’ll miss her. Rowan’s devastated. I can’t really believe it. Rowan saw her, you know, in the mortuary.’ She gave a slight shudder. ‘I wished he’d let me go with him but he said someone had to stay here and see to things in the business. Not that there is much to see to at this time of year. What would you like to do here?’
Cantelli answered, ‘We’ll just take a look around, if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course.’ Her mobile phone rang. She glanced at it. ‘It’s Rowan.’ She stepped back on to the landing to take the call.
Cantelli left to check out the bedrooms while Horton gazed around the living room. It was expensively furnished and plainly decorated in white with splashes of red in the cushions and curtains, and in a rug as well as on the tasteful modern paintings which even to his untrained eye looked very expensive. The kitchen units were also white with a black granite top, with the latest kitchen gadgets on display. It reminded him of the Clements’ kitchen. Everything was clean and neat. Had Evelyn cleaned the apartment herself or, like the Clements, did she engage cleaners, he wondered, crossing the room and flicking through the magazines on the low, glass-topped coffee table. They were a mixture of fashion and home furnishing; three were dated for the month of January, another February. He couldn’t see any books. There was a large plasma television on the wall.
He crossed to the kitchen and opened the fridge and freezer. Both were well stocked and there was milk, cheese, butter and eggs in the fridge. There was also a loaf of bread, opened, in another cupboard. She certainly hadn’t intended to be away for long. Guilbert said she hadn’t booked a return flight or ferry home so why had she left food here? And why not buy a return ticket?
The cupboards were neatly stacked with crockery and in one he found six cup flasks of the same kind that she’d had on her. He turned as Gina Lyster entered. She looked upset – understandably so, given the circumstances.
‘Rowan wants me to contact the undertakers to arrange to bring Evelyn home. He’s hoping the coroner will issue a burial certificate tomorrow at the inquest. It’s tough on him having only just lost his father, and now this.’
‘Was Evelyn upset over her husband’s death?’ asked Horton as Cantelli returned with a slight shake of his head.
‘She couldn’t understand why he did it. None of us could.’
‘Did what?’ asked Cantelli.
‘Dennis killed himself. Didn’t you know?’
Horton hid his surprise. ‘How?’
‘He walked into the sea. We don’t know where but his body was found by Ryde Pier on the Isle of Wight. He didn’t leave a note or, if he did, it got washed out to sea or blew away.’
Her hands played with her phone agitatedly. She seemed less at ease than previously. Whether that was because of what she was saying or her phone conversation with her husband, Horton didn’t know. He guessed the latter. Perhaps they’d argued on the phone or snapped at each other under the strain of the bereavement.
She continued, ‘Dennis was depressed because he’d been made redundant and he couldn’t get another job. He was fifty-eight and companies want younger people, especially in his line of work. He was a civil engineer but he was hardly ever at home. He spent most of his time working overseas.’
And suddenly there had been no more travelling, no more work, no sense of purpose and no company, just an apartment. Dennis had been stuck at home and that’s when depression had set in.
‘Do you know if your mother-in-law kept any personal papers or any correspondence here?’ Horton hadn’t found any and neither had Cantelli by that slight shake of his head.
Gina looked around as though searching for them. ‘No idea.’
‘Could they be with her solicitor along with her will?’
‘They could be. Yes, I guess so. It’s Makepeace in the High Street, just around the corner.’
Horton knew them. ‘Did your mother-in-law use a computer?’
‘She had a laptop.’ She gazed around. ‘It’s not here unless it’s in her bedroom.’
‘It’s not,’ answered Cantelli.
‘Then she must have taken it with her.’
But it hadn’t been found with her body. Maybe she’d ditched it in the sea. Perhaps she had committed suicide after all and the toxicology tests would show that because the single ticket, the lack of luggage, the absence of anything personal on her phone and now her missing laptop computer, and the fact her husband had killed himself seemed to be all pointing to that. Perhaps when the whirl of purchasing and decorating this apartment had worn off she’d gazed around it and felt lonely and depressed. According to Gina, Evelyn Lyster had worked with doctors and the pharmaceutical industry, which could mean she knew where and how to obtain drugs. But why do it on the Guernsey ferry?
‘Does anyone else have access to the apartment?’ Horton asked as they made their way down the stairs.
‘Not unless Evelyn gave someone a key. We came in through her private entrance. There is another apartment on the other side of the tower but that also has its own entrance.’
‘Would it have been normal for Evelyn to have taken a ferry instead of a plane?’
‘She’d travel by either but she didn’t much care for flying. If she went to Europe on business or for a holiday she’d go by train, or by ferry and train. If it was America or South Africa she’d fly and then she always travelled business class or first class.’
They stepped outside. ‘Your mother-in-law had a driving licence but no car.’
‘She used to drive but after an accident two years ago decided to give it up. She’d been held up in a horrendous traffic jam on the A34 heading south towards the M3, which was blocked because of an accident, so as soon as she could get off it she took the A272 across country to Petersfield where she came off the road on a sharp bend. You see, she’d been stuck for a very long time without a drink and because she suffered from low blood pressure she passed out at the wheel. Fortunately the motorist behind her saw it happen and called the ambulance which arrived very quickly. She was very lucky not to have been seriously injured. In fact, she had hardly a scratch on her.’
‘Is that why she carried a cup flask?’
‘Yes. She now has … had a bit of a phobia about always making sure she had a flask made up with coffee to act as a stimulant.’
Hence the row of them in her cupboard and one of them on her when she had died. The flask had been empty so she’d obviously had a drink. The drop in her b
lood pressure couldn’t have been caused from lack of fluids. But she could have taken drugs with the liquid.
Horton said that they might need to look around the apartment again.
‘Why?’ she asked, surprised.
‘It’s just routine.’ He handed over his card. Cantelli did the same. They crossed the road, watched her climb in her sports car and drive away.
As they walked back to the car, Cantelli said, ‘The bed was made up, the room clean and neat, and the same for the shower room. Looks like something out of a show home. No note and no personal correspondence. No laptop computer or any computer device. No landline, no book beside her bed and no photographs, not even of her husband or her son, and not a wedding picture in sight. You’d think she’d have some baby pictures of her boy, or one of the wedding.’
‘Perhaps she does but stored elsewhere, although I shouldn’t think with her solicitor. Or perhaps she had them on her laptop. Maybe she didn’t go in for photographs.’
Cantelli looked dubious.
Climbing in the car, Horton said, ‘She seems to have stripped back her life since her husband died. Get hold of the coroner’s report on Dennis Lyster’s death. I’m curious, that’s all,’ he added to Cantelli’s quizzical look.
‘Her clothes are good quality and expensive. The same for her shoes. She’s got six pairs. She’s very neat. Nice underwear. Not your sexy stuff, but tasteful and newish.’ Cantelli started up and reversed out of the space, adding, ‘I may be wrong, but to me she didn’t have enough clothes and shoes. Not that Charlotte’s got stacks of stuff, but there’s her summer clothes stored away in a cupboard and a bunch of clothes in another cupboard that she might wear again and probably never will. And even Charlotte’s got more than six pairs of shoes on a sergeant’s low pay.’
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