Lethal Waves

by Pauline Rowson

  ‘Could he have gone to a friend or a relative?’ asked Cantelli.

  ‘No. There’s only an aged aunt who lives in Worthing and he wouldn’t go there.’

  Horton didn’t ask why. Perhaps they didn’t get on.

  ‘And Vivian doesn’t have any friends.’

  Horton raised his eyebrows. ‘None?’

  Her eyes dropped before coming up again as she said, ‘He’s a very private person. He sees enough of people when he’s working so prefers to keep most relationships on a business level.’ She headed towards the kitchen, assuming they’d follow her. They did.

  Cantelli exchanged a pointed look with Horton. ‘Could he have gone to see one of these business contacts?’ Cantelli asked.

  She tossed them an anxious glance. ‘I don’t see why he should and he would have told me if that were the case. And before you ask,’ she continued as they entered the kitchen, ‘I’ve called the hospital three times, the last just before you arrived, to ask if he’d been admitted or if anyone answering to his description had and they said he hadn’t. I wondered if he’d been taken ill or had an accident. He might be lying somewhere and hasn’t been found yet.’

  ‘Mr Clements mentioned that he used to have a flat in London. Could he have gone to anyone he knows there?’

  But she was shaking her head a little too vigorously. ‘No.’ Her hands were restlessly playing with the silver bracelet on her wrist.

  Gently, he said, ‘Shall we sit down?’

  She perched on the edge of the chair as Horton took the seat opposite and Cantelli next to him. There was no offer of refreshments this time. Constance Clements was far too agitated to think of that. Cantelli removed his notebook from inside his jacket as Horton asked her what time her husband had left the house.

  ‘I don’t know. I wasn’t here. I’d gone for a walk along the seafront to clear my head.’ She glanced down at her hands in her lap.

  ‘You’d rowed,’ Horton said, interpreting her manner.

  Her head came up. She looked as though she was about to deny it, then nodded. ‘It’s my fault. I should have been more understanding. If anything has happened—’

  ‘Let’s just take it one step at a time,’ Horton quietly interjected.

  She took a deep breath in an effort to get her emotions under control. After a moment, she continued more evenly. ‘Vivian has a bit of a short fuse at the best of times so when we arrived home from the cruise and he discovered some of his collection had been stolen it sent him right over the edge. Well, you saw him, you know what he’s like.’ Her eyes flicked between them.

  Horton recalled the pompous little man. He agreed but made no comment and neither did Cantelli.

  After a short pause, she continued, ‘It got worse. Yesterday he ended up shouting at me. Normally I’d just ignore it or try to mollify him but I’d had enough. I told him … I told him to go to hell and walked out.’ She took a breath and eyed them as though beseeching them to understand and perhaps also looking for approval, fiddling with her bracelet and then with the ring on her left hand.

  ‘I needed some air and space, some time to think. I walked along the seafront to Southsea Castle and back. When I got in he wasn’t here. His car was gone. I made myself something to eat, even though I didn’t feel much like it. I had a couple of glasses of wine and then another. I went to bed, expecting him to come back, listening for the sound of the car, getting angrier with him every minute until I eventually fell asleep. I woke up at four and discovered he still hadn’t come home. That’s the first time I rang his mobile. He didn’t answer it. I sent him a text, thinking that maybe wherever he was he might not be able to take a call or there might not be a signal, although I have absolutely no idea where he might be. I then called the hospital. I tried his mobile again at six o’clock. Nothing. I got dressed and went for a walk along the seafront. I rang him again at eight and then called the hospital. Then I rang you.’ She turned her gaze on Cantelli. ‘And as I said, I rang the hospital again before you arrived.’

  ‘Does he own a boat?’ Horton asked, wondering if he’d taken off on one or was sleeping over on it. His thoughts flicked to Freedman being shot on the shore and his killer possibly having got there by boat. But somehow Horton couldn’t see the squat little man as an expert seaman, although he knew he shouldn’t judge by appearances.

  Constance Clements looked startled at the question. ‘No.’

  So that probably scotched that idea unless he’d kept that secret from his wife.

  ‘Is there anywhere special he’s likely to go when upset?’ asked Cantelli.

  She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Not that I know of, except to his collection room.’

  Horton had some questions to ask about that but he’d do so later. First he wanted to explore his idea of a possible connection between Clements and Freedman because of the information Trueman had given him. ‘Was your husband on a lecture cruise about eighteen months ago to Japan?’ The time when Trueman said Freedman had received the inoculations for Japanese encephalitis.

  ‘Yes. Why? We both were,’ she said, taken aback before Horton caught a hint of wariness in her eyes.

  ‘Do you know a man called Peter Freedman?’

  By her reaction she obviously did. He watched with a quickening pulse as her face flushed deep red and her eyes dropped to her lap. She twiddled her bracelet. Horton said nothing and neither did Cantelli, forcing her to look up and search their faces for a meaning behind the question. ‘Do you think Vivian’s gone to see him?’ she asked nervously.

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘I don’t know – you just said …’

  Horton held her frightened gaze. The name of the dead man hadn’t been given out. ‘Is there any reason why your husband should be jealous of Peter Freedman?’ He could sense Cantelli’s heightened interest but he remained silent.

  ‘Jealous? Vivian? No, of course not. There’s nothing between me and Peter.’

  ‘But you have seen him since returning from that Japanese cruise?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ She shifted. ‘But in a professional sense. I was interested in learning more about mindfulness techniques. I thought it might be something I could pursue,’ she added almost defiantly. It was so obviously a lie.

  ‘And was it?’ Horton asked evenly, holding eye contact.

  After a moment, her body slumped and she let out a sigh. Dejectedly, she said, ‘Not really.’

  ‘When did you last see Peter Freedman, Mrs Clements?’

  ‘What has this got to do with Vivian missing?’ She again ran a hand through her short, highlighted fair hair. It reminded Horton of Evelyn Lyster. They were both of a similar age. But he was convinced from what he had discovered about Evelyn, which was precious little, that she had been far more confident in life than Constance Clements was and possibly had ever been.

  ‘If you’d just answer the question.’

  ‘About six months ago.’

  Another lie? He wondered. ‘Where were you and your husband on Tuesday night?’

  ‘I’ve already told you that. We were both here. Vivian went missing last night not Tuesday. Look, I don’t understand all this.’

  ‘Are you sure you were both here?’ He held her stare.

  Her lips twitched nervously. Her eyes restlessly flicked between them and finally rested on Horton. After a moment, she muttered, ‘I was here. Vivian went out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’

  ‘What time did he leave and return?’

  ‘He went out at six thirty and came home just after nine o’clock.’

  ‘By car?’

  She nodded.

  ‘How did he seem?’

  ‘Angry, upset, distracted. I don’t understand why you’re so interested in Tuesday night …’ Her words trailed off. She frowned as she thought. ‘You think he might have gone to see Peter Freedman on Tuesday and last night and something’s happened? There’s nothing between me and Peter – th
ere never was – and I can tell you now, Inspector, that Vivian never thought there was either.’

  Maybe she had refused to see that or her husband had fooled her into thinking he believed her when she denied it. But Horton was beginning to think that Vivian Clements had staged the robbery and had used one of his pistols to kill Freedman and make it appear that someone else had. And after killing Freedman and hearing about the investigation on the news, he’d taken fright and taken off. Horton thought it time to break the news about Freedman’s death and gauge her reaction.

  ‘Peter Freedman is dead. He was killed on Tuesday night,’ Horton announced rather brutally. He watched the expressions cross her face as she took in the news – first puzzlement, then surprise and finally horror. Her eyes widened and her skin blanched. ‘You can’t think that Vivian killed him! That’s impossible. Vivian couldn’t kill anyone.’

  Horton wished he had a pound for every time he’d heard that. ‘What time did you leave the house last night?’

  ‘What? Oh, just after five thirty,’ she answered distractedly.

  Horton could see her mind trying to grapple with the fact that Freedman was dead and her husband missing. It would have been dark when she’d left the house. ‘Did anyone see you or did you speak to anyone?’

  ‘Why are you asking about me, it’s Vivian who is missing!’ she cried, frustrated.

  ‘We’re just trying to fix the time he went out. He could have left shortly after you and a neighbour might have seen him.’

  ‘Oh, I see. No, I didn’t speak to or see anyone. It was cold and drizzly. The seafront was deserted.’

  ‘And you got back when?’

  ‘About seven o’clock.’

  ‘Have you checked if your husband took anything with him – his laptop computer, for example?’

  ‘Well, it’s not here,’ she said, waving at the table.

  ‘Could it be in his study?’ asked Cantelli.

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t been in there.’

  ‘Not even to see if he has left you a note?’

  ‘He wouldn’t leave one there. He knows I never go in his study or his collection room.’ There was an acid tone to her voice.

  ‘Then you haven’t checked if anything from his personal collection is missing?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Or if any of his clothes or personal belongings are missing?’

  ‘No.’ She looked deeply troubled. ‘You think he’s killed Peter and run away? Well, I can’t believe that.’ But she sprang up and set off for the hall without asking them to follow her. She knew they would. Cantelli asked if she had the combination to the safe.

  ‘Yes.’

  Good. That meant they could check the contents. She pushed open the door to the collection room and switched on the lights. Horton saw exactly what he’d seen last time. Nothing was missing and Clements wasn’t here.

  ‘Do you have an inventory of everything that was in the collection?’

  ‘The insurers have that.’

  ‘But your husband must have a copy.’

  ‘It’ll be in his study.’

  She made to leave but Horton forestalled her. ‘I’d like you to take a good look around. Is there anything missing?’

  She looked baffled. ‘I don’t really know. I don’t come in here.’

  ‘But your husband must show you a new acquisition. He’d be excited, pleased with it.’

  ‘Yes. But that’s before he puts it in this room and there haven’t been any purchases for about a year.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Her eyes fell to the floor.

  She was clearly lying. ‘Did he buy anything on the last cruise?’

  He noticed that she was looking even more harrowed than when they had arrived.

  ‘You mean an antiquity or weapon? No.’

  ‘Did he buy anything while in Japan?’

  ‘Those inkwells.’ She pointed to them on the central plinth.

  ‘Had he already arranged with someone in Japan to purchase them?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose he must have done. He has lots of contacts all over the world.’

  And Horton wouldn’t mind seeing a list of them. He surveyed the room again. Wherever Clements had gone, he hadn’t taken anything from here.

  They followed her along the short passageway to her husband’s study. Horton surveyed the neat room with its quality mahogany desk, low-level matching bookcases, burgundy leather swivel chair and a leather two-seater Chesterfield sofa. It was the archetypal gentleman’s study, he thought, crossing to the desk while Cantelli scanned the bookshelves. There was a blotter on the desk, a tray of pens, a telephone of the antique variety but obviously functional, and space for Clements’ computer. There was also a Wi-Fi router on a cabinet behind the desk. There was no sign of Clements’ laptop computer and no note for Constance Clements.

  He asked her where the safe was. She opened the cupboard doors of the sideboard behind the desk to reveal a sturdy-looking, dark grey safe. ‘It’s bolted to the floor. This is a fake cupboard front, as you can see.’

  He watched her open it. Inside were several files, some jewellery and their passports. So Clements hadn’t skipped the country.

  ‘Could you check whether he’s taken any clothes or other personal belongings with him?’ he asked.

  She hesitated, obviously wondering whether she should leave them alone, then nodded and left.

  Horton reached for the files from the safe while Cantelli went through the desk drawers.

  In the first file Horton found the paperwork for the collection. He flicked through it, mentally noting that the stolen pistols had been purchased from an online specialist as Clements had told them. Some of the other items gave the name of the individual buyers, which included several from the Far East. And there were certificates and paperwork which seemed to authenticate them. He’d need someone more expert to look through this lot and to match the paperwork to the items in the collection. He’d ask Constance Clements for permission to do both. She might refuse but in light of her concern over her husband’s disappearance he couldn’t see how she could.

  Another file contained personal items such as birth and marriage certificates. He assumed the deeds of the house were kept with the solicitors. There was a copy of their wills, each naming the other as beneficiary. A further file contained details of Clements’ talks, including the contract for the recent cruise. It was a sizeable fee.

  Cantelli looked up from his search of the desk. ‘There’s a file here with a list of antiques including pistols with circles around some of the items. There are details pulled off the Internet and some photographs, and notes and names of individuals, websites and contact details. It looks like a shopping list.’

  ‘Might be worth looking into, especially his notes on any pistols,’ Horton said. He caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Constance Clements entered, looking disturbed.

  ‘He hasn’t taken any clothes with him.’

  Horton asked if they could keep the paperwork on the antiques.

  She shifted, uneasy. ‘I don’t think Vivian would like that.’

  She seemed a little afraid. Why? Clements was pompous but was he also violent? Horton couldn’t envisage that but it didn’t have to be physical abuse. Mental torment was just as damaging.

  Cantelli’s phone rang. He dashed a glance at it and excused himself to answer it. Horton turned to her.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you left everything here as it is. We’ll put a call out for your husband. If you could give us his vehicle details and a description of what he was wearing the last time you saw him …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And if he should return in the meantime, let us know immediately.’

  ‘I will.’ She closed the study door behind her and they made their way back up into the hall where Cantelli came off the phone. Horton knew instantly that something had occurred but no one else would have detected it. Swiftly, he ma
de his farewells to Constance Clements after she’d relayed details of her husband’s car and the clothes he was wearing.

  Outside, Cantelli said, ‘That was Sergeant Stride. A woman walking her dog has found a body on Milton Common on the edge of Swan Lake and, before you ask, it’s not wearing a Tutu.’

  Horton gave a grim smile at the black humour.

  ‘It looks like suicide but the description of the pistol beside the body given by the uniformed officer in attendance prompted Stride to call us.’

  Horton felt a cold chill run up his spine. He knew what was coming. Cantelli didn’t have to tell him but he did.

  ‘It sounds very much as though we’ve found Vivian Clements.’

  THIRTEEN

  ‘So Clements killed Freedman and then shot himself?’ Uckfield pronounced as they stood at the entrance to the canvas tent which had been erected over the body of Vivian Clements.

  The area had been cordoned off and they were waiting for Dr Clayton to arrive. Uckfield had given instructions to bypass Dr Sharman, who would only state the bleeding obvious. SOCO were examining the wider area outside the tent, while Clarke was snapping away inside it. Phil Taylor of SOCO had told them they’d found nothing suspicious in Freedman’s flat such as blood traces, which Horton hadn’t expected. There were several sets of fingerprints he’d said, mostly Freedman’s but there were others which could belong to the cleaners, clients or friends. Horton had already asked the fingerprint bureau to match them with the Clements’ prints. Uckfield had released the touched-up picture of the coat Freedman had been wearing when shot to the media, which had set up a frenzy of phone calls but nothing relevant so far.

  Two four-wheel drive police vehicles straddled either side of the scene. One had brought the scene of crime officers with them while the other had transported Uckfield over the rough terrain. Cantelli had parked in the residential area bordering Milton Common, where they had found Clements’ car. Leaving an officer to watch over it, they’d walked to the scene, much as Clements had done last night, thought Horton.

  He understood Uckfield’s reasoning and on the surface it looked like murder followed by suicide. They had a possible motive too – jealousy. Not that Constance Clements had admitted an affair but, reading her body language, Horton thought it highly probable. They also had the means – a pistol. And according to Constance Clements, her husband had certainly had the opportunity. But although Horton could see Clements shooting Freedman he couldn’t see him killing himself. He thought him too arrogant to have taken such drastic action but it looked as though he was wrong.