Horton ruminated over Cantelli’s remarks as they headed into the centre of the city. ‘It sounds very much as though she has another property where she keeps more clothes, her personal belongings and possibly a computer. A property which her son and daughter-in-law know nothing about.’
‘In Guernsey?’
‘Looks possible, although Guilbert can’t find any trace of her owning one there and it’s not an easy commute if she doesn’t like flying. But given that was where she was heading maybe she has and he hasn’t found it yet. Or she’s living with someone there who hasn’t come forward.’
‘Because he’s married. That might be why she didn’t mention it to her son.’
‘And it could explain why Dennis Lyster became so depressed that he took his own life – he’d discovered that his wife had been having an affair. I’ll ask Guilbert if he’s checked whether she’s previously booked on flights from Southampton, or the ferries from both Poole and Portsmouth.’
Cantelli pulled into the station car park and silenced the engine but Horton made no attempt to alight.
‘OK, so if we rule out suicide, she sets off to meet her lover in Guernsey but not to stay with him for long because she hadn’t cleared out the fridge. Why not?’
‘She forgot?’
But Horton shook his head. ‘That doesn’t seem to fit with what we saw. She seemed very fastidious. And why buy a single ticket – why not a return?’ He answered his own question. ‘Because she intended returning with him.’ And Horton knew there were two ways she could have done so, apart from using the ferry or commercial aeroplanes. ‘Lover boy might own a private plane or a boat. I’ll get Elkins to circulate her picture to the staff in the marinas in case she ever came back with him on a boat. When you’ve got a chance get on to the private airfields – Goodwood near Chichester, Sandown and Bembridge on the Isle of Wight – see if anyone recognizes her flying in with someone.’
A figure loomed large beside Horton and a fist tapped none too gently on the window. Horton let it down.
‘Is this a private meeting or can anyone join in?’ Uckfield growled.
Horton climbed out. Cantelli followed suit.
‘Fingerprints have got a result on our dead man.’
‘That was quick,’ Horton said with surprise. But perhaps not if he’d had a previous conviction, which Uckfield confirmed.
‘He’s not an actor and he’s not an undercover cop. But he was a vagrant. He’s also an ex-con. He’s got convictions for drink driving, being drunk and disorderly, vagrancy and assault. Once on a uniformed officer and twice for fights, the last one when he smashed a bottle in a man’s face and was in possession of a knife, which he fully intended to use, and which copped him a custodial sentence of six years. He served four years, during which time he dried out, took a degree in neuro-linguistic programming, gained qualifications as a life coach and found himself a lucrative business as some kind of motivational guru giving public talks about changing your life.’
‘That’s where I’ve seen him.’ Cantelli clicked his fingers, delighted. ‘There was an article about him in the local paper about a year ago. He was holding a public lecture in the Guildhall.’
‘Wish you’d remembered before,’ Uckfield grunted. ‘His name’s Peter Freedman. Come on.’ He threw Horton his car keys. ‘Let’s see if anything in Mr Freedman’s flat can tell us why he decided to dress up like a tramp and get himself shot. You’re driving. I’m likely to sneeze and blow us off the road.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Horton.
EIGHT
The area where Freedman’s flat was located was far more impressive than Horton had expected. It was a tree-lined, narrow, twisting street set back off the seafront, comprising of large Victorian villas that had once housed the influential, rich and professional people of Portsmouth, and still did judging by the expensive motors parked in front of some of the properties. He counted two Bentleys, a Porsche Cayenne and a Ferrari, the last of which caused Uckfield to cast an envious glance before he sneezed loudly. Horton had made sure to keep his window open in the vain hope he could avoid catching Uckfield’s cold but Uckfield’s window was securely shut. Horton didn’t rate his chances of escaping the germs. In fact, he thought the entire incident suite would probably go down with colds.
On the way, Horton had briefed Uckfield about the Clements’ robbery, expressing his view that he believed it was an insurance job, which meant the pistols were stored away somewhere, probably in the house or in the boot of the Mercedes and, by the descriptions of them, it seemed unlikely they could have been made to fire. Which, worryingly, meant someone on their patch had a gun and was prepared to use it. He asked if the house-to-house in Ferry Road or the press briefing had yielded anything more on the murder of Peter Freedman.
‘Sod all,’ was Uckfield’s answer. ‘And we’re still waiting on Dr Clayton’s report. The bus driver’s been interviewed but she doesn’t remember Freedman getting on the bus and she didn’t see him walk down Ferry Road. By the time she reached the houseboats she had no passengers on board and nobody got on the bus at the ferry. She doesn’t remember seeing anyone hanging around or any cars parked up by the houseboats either.’
Horton had anticipated as much. But it was disappointing. ‘He could have walked along the seafront from here to the houseboats. It’s about two and a half miles and he’d have been used to tramping.’ But Horton didn’t think they’d pick up any sightings of Freedman on the CCTV cameras along the promenade because the bad weather would have obscured the images. ‘Where are his keys?’ he asked, pulling up in front of a set of electronic gates outside the large house that had been converted into apartments. ‘They weren’t found on the body.’
‘Maybe the killer took them.’
And that meant they might find the flat ransacked.
A patrol car waiting further down the road moved off to come behind them as Uckfield pressed the intercom.
‘Does he own or rent this?’ Horton asked.
‘Owns it, according to the council rates department.’
‘On a mortgage?’
‘Trueman’s checking.’
‘Life coaches must do very well.’
‘It’s all the crap they spout, filling people with the idea that with the flick of an eyelid they can turn their lives around.’
‘He seems to have turned his around.’
Uckfield grunted.
Horton said, ‘Neuro-linguistic programming isn’t just about body language, it’s about the way we think and how that affects our behaviour and actions.’
‘It’s all bollocks.’
Horton smiled. ‘It’s what we were told on those courses.’
‘Yeah, and a waste of bloody time and money they were too,’ scoffed Uckfield, again pressing the intercom for Freedman’s apartment. ‘Trying to tell us that the nasty bastards we have to deal with are just highly creative individuals and if we were only to see that we’d understand them better. I don’t want to understand them; I just want to lock them up. It’s a load of pseudo-science shit which some poor sods believe in. And, judging by this place and Freedman’s website, there’s quite a few of the suckers who do. His company’s called Ascend. Trueman’s getting the background on it and his finances but Freedman’s mobile number was on the website. The line’s dead.’
‘Like Freedman,’ muttered Horton. So where was his phone?
There was no answer to Uckfield’s summons at the intercom. ‘Looks as though he lives alone,’ Uckfield said, making it sound as if there was something obscene or abnormal in that.
‘Perhaps his partner, if he has one, is working.’ But no one had come forward to say he was missing.
Uckfield pressed the buzzer of apartment number one and this time got a disembodied female voice. Uckfield assumed his most sugary tone. Horton wondered if he’d remain so sweet if the female turned out to be seventy. There was a camera over the gates and as Uckfield introduced himself, he held up his warrant card so that the woma
n could see it. That and the patrol car behind them persuaded her to buzz them in. She had the main entrance door open before they had climbed out. PCs Keating and Allen followed them, Keating carrying the ramrod.
‘Is this a raid?’ she asked excitedly rather than alarmed as she let them in. Horton took in the luxuriously decorated wide hall with its sweeping staircase, brass stair rods, highly polished brass rail, pale green carpet and an impressive chandelier. To the right of the stairs was the kind of lift that Horton only ever saw in television dramas set in the 1930s. Not that he watched TV – he didn’t have one on the boat and he didn’t miss it – but the programmes he’d seen when he’d lived at home with Catherine and Emma.
‘Should it be a raid?’ Uckfield asked. Horton put his gaze back on the lady in front of them. She was well into her seventies, slender, well dressed, well spoken and with a distinct twinkle in her eyes.
‘Not unless one of my neighbours has done something illegal.’
‘Would they have?’
‘You never know.’ She smiled. ‘But I think you’ll find us a very law abiding lot, if not a little boring.’
‘And you are?’ Horton asked, also smiling.
‘Mrs Stella Nugent. I’ve lived here since the building was refurbished five years ago. It’s very quiet and handy for the shops, especially John Lewis, just around the corner.’
Into Horton’s mind flashed the picture of the dead man’s boxer shorts and Gaye’s remark that they had been bought from John Lewis. But then there were a lot of John Lewis’s around the country.
Mrs Nugent was still in full flow. ‘There are only ten apartments here, two on each floor, so it’s quite select and most of us have been here since it was refurbished. I was the first in.’
‘And Mr Peter Freedman?’ Horton interjected as Uckfield shifted impatiently while Keating and Allen stood silently behind them.
‘He moved in, now let me see, yes, it must be two years or perhaps eighteen months ago. That’s right, because he bought the apartment from poor Mr Randall. He had a heart attack right where you’re standing. Dropped down dead, just like that, and only seventy-two. A lovely man, so kind and very polite.’
‘Who? Mr Randall?’ interrupted Uckfield.
‘No.’ She beamed at Uckfield. Horton thought she was almost flirting with him. She gave a small laugh and said, ‘Mr Freedman.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Horton asked.
‘Tuesday morning, I think it was. Yes. He was walking across the driveway. I looked out of the window.’
‘How was he dressed?’
‘Smartly, as usual,’ she answered, looking quite bemused by the question.
Uckfield threw Horton a slightly impatient glance that had a hint of exasperation in it. ‘He’d hardly have gone out dressed as a tramp,’ he muttered nasally.
Stella Nugent looked confused. ‘Is there something wrong? Has Mr Freedman had an accident?’
Horton broke the news that he’d been found dead but didn’t say how, where or the circumstances surrounding it, but she’d been listening to the news. Her eyes widened with surprise.
‘The man found by the houseboats. Is that poor Mr Freedman?’
Horton said it was.
She looked sorrowful but Horton saw the gleam in her eyes that betrayed her excitement at such calamitous news. He said an officer would call on her later to take her statement and police officers would be speaking to the other residents. She returned to her flat, where no doubt she’d be on the phone in an instant to her friends and family, relaying the news.
Uckfield pressed the button for the lift.
Horton said, ‘Freedman could have left his flat when it was dark. No one would have seen him dressed as a tramp.’
‘He’d have been taking a chance going down in the lift or the stairs and crossing the hall.’
‘Not if he said he was going to a fancy dress party or a tarts and tramps ball.’ And if one of the occupants had seen him they’d be able to confirm that. ‘He might have used the fire escape. There are CCTV cameras in the shopping precinct and there’s a camera over the front gates – we might pick up a sighting of him.’
Uckfield removed a large handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers and sneezed into it, then blew his nose loudly. The lift arrived. Uckfield stepped inside it. Horton had no intention of joining him. Quickly, he said, ‘I’ll meet you at the top.’
‘Me too,’ Allen rapidly agreed, stepping out, leaving a startled and wrong-footed Keating to travel in the lift with Uckfield’s germs.
Horton arrived on the landing just after the lift, Allen a little later and breathing more heavily. Uckfield was blowing his nose noisily as he stepped out and Keating was looking resigned to the fact he’d probably end up with the Super’s cold.
‘Go on then,’ Uckfield growled at Keating. ‘Don’t just stand there like you’re holding your cock.’
‘Chance would be a fine thing if it was this big,’ Keating muttered, and with one swift movement the door sprang open. Horton asked Allen to find out if there was anyone at home in the flat opposite while Keating remained on the door.
‘Did Freedman drive?’ Horton asked, stepping into a small lobby, noting there was no post on the mat. There hadn’t been in Evelyn Lyster’s flat either. He wondered if Freedman had changed his clothes in a car.
‘There’s no record of him with the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency.’
But he could have owned a car without registering it and been driving it illegally. It might be parked behind the building or perhaps he kept it elsewhere.
The carpeted hall gave on to two doors. Only silence greeted them. The door on the left opened into a cloakroom. Two coats hung on hooks: a man’s overcoat and a waterproof jacket. Uckfield put his hands in the pockets and shook his head. ‘Empty.’ He pushed open the door ahead and they entered a modern, clean kitchen which led through to a dining room and into the lounge. There was a door beyond, which Horton assumed must lead to a bedroom and a bathroom. The floor was covered throughout with good quality light oak. A table and four chairs in the dining area were also modern and light oak. Beyond, in the lounge, was a TV fixed to the wall, a large three-seater sofa covered in a striped fabric and an oak-style coffee table in front of it. The windows to Horton’s right were draped with blue-and-green-striped Roman blinds and looked out over the front of the building.
Uckfield strode to the door ahead. ‘He’s got a study area here,’ he called back. ‘And a computer.’
Horton joined him. It was an inner hallway which gave on to a bedroom and, as he had suspected, a bathroom.
Next to the desk were some built-in cupboards. Uckfield opened them. Inside were some books on neuro-linguistic programming and personal motivation, the sort that told you how you could change your life in sixty seconds. ‘Took Freedman six years to do it,’ Uckfield grunted.
‘Four,’ corrected Horton.
‘Still bloody longer than sixty seconds.’
There were a couple of lever-arch files. Above the desk, pushed up against the wall, were some framed certificates that declared Peter Freedman had qualified in neuro-linguistic programming, had various coaching qualifications and had completed a course in mindfulness.
‘What the hell’s that?’
‘Something to do with focusing on the present rather than the past,’ muttered Horton, thinking he’d be a prime candidate for that. ‘It’s said to help people with mental ill health and those who want greater well-being.’
‘Can it cure the common cold? Because if it can’t it can sod off, along with all the other airy-fairy claptrap.’
‘Maybe the power of positive thought can stop you from getting one.’
Uckfield snorted. ‘Then I must have been thinking about Wonder Boy the day the germs decided to attack me. Looks like someone loved Freedman – there’s two messages flashing on his answer machine. Let’s send out some positive thoughts and hope it’s the killer confessing to having shot the poor bugger a
nd leaving his name, telephone number and address.’
With a latex-covered finger, Horton pressed the play button.
‘Peter, it’s Glyn Ashmead. Sorry I missed you yesterday. I had a conference in Southampton which went on for ever and ended up in drinks in the pub. There’s someone I’d like to discuss with you. Give me a call when you’ve got a moment.’
Horton explained to Uckfield’s baffled scowl, ‘Ashmead runs Gravity, the homeless charity, around the corner from the station.’ He’d had occasion to visit it many times in the course of investigations and he’d referred people to it. Glyn Ashmead was very well-respected by both his customers and the professionals he liaised with. Given Freedman’s background, Horton could see the connection between the two men but not the exact nature of it. They’d get that, though.
The second message played. ‘Hi, Peter, it’s Rosie Pierce. Just wanted to say a huge thank you for everything. It seems to be working. I’m having a great month, my sales are up by thirty-five per cent and the boss is happy. Buy you a drink or two. Give me a call.’
‘Sounds like he was on a winner there,’ said Uckfield. ‘Could be a disgruntled client who killed him, who didn’t get the life-changing results they were expecting.’
‘Why would he dress up as a vagrant to meet a former client?’
‘No bloody idea. You take the bedroom and the bog; I’ll look through these files.’
The double bed was made up. The room was immaculately tidy, a habit perhaps Freedman had picked up in prison. Horton crossed to the built-in cupboards where he found a row of very good quality suits, some ties and some casual clothes, again good quality, and some designer labels. In the drawers were half-a-dozen shirts of varying colours, socks and boxer shorts, all neatly folded and arranged. Most of these, he could see from checking the labels, were from John Lewis. There was nothing, he noted, from the Savile Row tailor, Gieves and Hawkes.
Swiftly he searched among the clothes for any personal items and correspondence but didn’t find anything. The drawers weren’t removable so there couldn’t be anything stashed under them or at the back.
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