He brought his mind back to George Warner and the casino where his mother had worked. The casino was now flats and George Warner and his empire long since gone. Trying to track down and speak to anyone who might have worked there and who would remember Jennifer, or know anything about this man she might have associated with, would take for ever and probably result in zilch. It was a dead end.
Stanley said, ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but there’s not much I can tell you, and it’s all on file. No one hinted at foul play.’
‘Did you keep any of your notebooks where you might have jotted down something?’
‘No.’
Horton wasn’t sure if he believed him. It sounded like the truth and Stanley maintained eye contact, but then he had been a copper. ‘What was the word on the street, the gossip about her and her disappearance? There must have been some.’ Horton could hear the desperation in his voice and hated himself for it. When Stanley looked uncomfortable Horton wished he hadn’t asked. He braced himself to hear what others had already told him over the years.
‘There wasn’t much. She probably got bored with being trapped inside a poky flat with a kid and wanted a good time, but that was only rumour.’
‘What do you think happened to her?’
‘It could have been true.’
Horton eyed the former policeman closely and saw only his concerned expression, and yet he felt there was something more. Perhaps Stanley was being economical with the truth to spare his feelings. Horton knew there had been two men in his mother’s life in 1977 and that neither of them had been upstanding citizens, in fact, quite the opposite; villains to the core, and both were now dead. Jennifer’s track record of choosing lovers wasn’t exactly healthy, which made Horton consider briefly who his father was. But that was a road he certainly didn’t want to travel down.
He said, ‘Do you know what happened to her belongings?’
But Stanley shook his head.
‘You went into the flat I take it?’
Horton thought Stanley looked uneasy. ‘No. I spoke to the neighbour, to George Warner and a couple of his staff, and that was it.’
Horton wasn’t convinced. Sensing this Stanley quickly added, ‘I was a PC, told to talk to anyone who knew Jennifer Horton, and they were the only people I came up with. She didn’t seem to have any friends outside work.’
There was something in Stanley’s tone, in his manner and posture, that made Horton doubt this neatly wrapped excuse. He sensed there was more to it. Had Stanley or anyone really looked for Jennifer’s friends? It seemed not to him. The more questions Horton asked the more he seemed to generate and the fewer answers he got.
‘Why weren’t any fingerprints taken?’ If they had been then they certainly weren’t on the file.
Stanley shrugged. ‘No idea. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.’
Horton decided not to press him. For now. He rose and handed Stanley a business card. ‘If you remember anything would you give me a call?’
Stanley took the card with a sense of relief, Horton thought. After a moment Stanley said, ‘I hope you find out what happened to her.’
Part of Horton hoped so too, and another part of him hoped not, but he knew that not knowing would leave him with a permanent itch that would always need scratching.
He thanked Stanley and left with an uneasy feeling gnawing at him. As he negotiated the heavy morning traffic towards Gosport Marina he knew that Stanley had lied or rather he had held something back. Why? To spare his feelings? Possibly. But if so, what had Stanley uncovered about Jennifer’s disappearance that was so awful he couldn’t tell her son?
Horton shuddered. Perhaps he didn’t want to know. But he was compelled to find out despite or perhaps because of it. Mentally he replayed the interview. Stanley had shown no curiosity about why and when Horton had become a police officer. He hadn’t even been surprised. Why? The obvious answer was because he already knew, which meant either someone had told him, or Stanley had kept an eye on him over the years, and that seemed unlikely.
Secondly, Stanley hadn’t asked him why he had chosen now to find his mother when he’d had years and the opportunity to do so before. Stanley hadn’t so much as uttered the words, I expected you sooner. Either he was remarkably lacking in curiosity – which for an ex-copper was unusual – or he knew the reason why Horton was now raking up the past. Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer must have interviewed Stanley and informed him that he might approach him. And perhaps Sawyer had left instructions with Stanley to say as little as possible and to contact him when Horton came calling. But why should he do that?
And another thing that bugged Horton, why wasn’t Stanley curious about what he would do next in his search for Jennifer? Stanley had simply said I hope you find out what happened to her. Did he not care or did he know that Horton would hit a brick wall? Or would someone keep Stanley informed? And there were only two people who could do that: Sawyer, or someone who knew the truth behind Jennifer’s disappearance. Was that Zeus?
Horton felt a cold shiver prick his spine as he swung into Gosport Marina and made his way to the waiting police launch on the pontoon. The sight of the glistening superyacht across the narrow stretch of Portsmouth Harbour, moored up at Oyster Quays opposite, made him shelve his concerns about Stanley and Zeus and filled him with new worries. It was the size of a small cruise ship and would act like a ruddy great beacon for all the lowlife scum of Portsmouth, and those higher up the slime, including villains from London, who would take great pleasure stripping it of its spoils, and that was even without the added attraction of a high-profile VIP charity auction and reception being held on board on Friday night, before she sailed off to the Caribbean or wherever.
‘It’s a beauty,’ Sergeant Dai Elkins said, following the direction of Horton’s gaze.
‘I prefer wind over motor,’ Horton replied, discarding his leather jacket in favour of a sailing jacket and life vest.
‘I wouldn’t send it back if it was offered me.’
Horton let his gaze travel over the four-decked cruiser as PC Ripley throttled back the launch and eased it into the busy channel. The portholes on the lower deck were probably crew accommodation, while the first and second decks with the wide windows must be the living accommodation. There was a huge flybridge, a swimming platform at the aft of the first deck and a large RIB suspended on a davit from the rear. He hoped Russell Glenn had a good security system. DC Walters would report back on that, but Horton made a mental note to liaise with Inspector Warren, Head of Territorial Operations, to make sure that extra uniformed patrols were covering the boardwalk for the next five days, with additional officers on duty Friday evening for the reception. He could hear Inspector Warren’s gripes: ‘And just where the hell am I going to get them from?’
Horton phoned Cantelli.
‘There’s been another house burglary in the Drayton area,’ Cantelli solemnly reported.
Horton cursed. That made four in the last week.
‘They’ve all got the same MO: jewellery and cash taken, no mess, no fingerprints, no noise. Owners off the premises, back door panel neatly removed and matey climbing in by using it like a giant cat flap. Bliss is going ballistic. I don’t think she appreciated it when I nicknamed him the cat burglar.’
‘Bliss hasn’t got a sense of humour,’ Horton replied. But burglary was no joke.
‘I’m reviewing all the case notes and checking criminal records to see if I can get a lead,’ added Cantelli, ‘but it looks as though this is a new one on the block.’
And something neither they nor the poor householders needed. Cantelli said that Walters had left for Russell Glenn’s superyacht.
Horton rang off and as he did something in the marina caught his attention. ‘Give me the glasses, Dai,’ he commanded.
Elkins stretched them across and Horton quickly trained them on the marina.
‘Something wrong?’
‘Just thought I saw that blue van earlier this morni
ng.’ He’d seen a blue van outside Adrian Stanley’s apartment block, but then there were thousands of blue vans in the country and hundreds in the area. He tried to read the registration number but couldn’t. As the police launch headed further out into the harbour the van slipped out of his view. It couldn’t have been the same van, or if it was then it was a coincidence. But Horton was suspicious of coincidences. If it was the same van, had it been following him? If so, why? Bloody Zeus was the answer. Shit, he was getting paranoid. Angrily he pushed all thoughts of Zeus, DCS Sawyer and Adrian Stanley aside. Enough of the past. He had a job to do and that was to interview an elderly man about seeing a mysterious light at sea, and the sooner he did it the sooner he could get back to some real work such as catching the scumbag criminal robbing houses on his patch in Portsmouth.
TWO
‘On a good day, when the light is right, you can see France, Inspector,’ Victor Hazleton declared, pointing at a telescope that Horton thought large enough to rival the one at Jodrell Bank. He wasn’t surprised Hazleton had seen lights at sea; with that thing he could probably see the Eiffel Tower.
Horton eyed the dapperly dressed little man, with his blue and yellow spotted cravat, his beige cardigan over camel-coloured slacks and his walnut face and wiry grey hair, wondering if he was senile. Admittedly his view was coloured by what WPC Claire Skinner had told him and Sergeant Elkins in the patrol car on their way here after meeting them at the small harbour of Ventnor Haven. Apparently Hazleton had a reputation for seeing smugglers and illegal immigrants at every flicker of a sea light. Over the years he’d made a hobby out of reporting these to the local police who had long since learnt to ignore him, but this time, because of Project Neptune, Hazleton’s report had landed on DCI Bliss’s desk. Did she know about Hazleton’s background? Surely the local police would have commented on it? But if she did know then why waste time and money by sending him here on a wild goose chase, thought Horton angrily. He calculated how quickly he could wrap this up and get back to CID.
‘I said you can see France, but not with this,’ Hazleton added, tapping the instrument he’d been peering through. ‘Know anything about telescopes, Inspector?’
Horton silently groaned. Even if he had declared he was the world’s greatest expert that wouldn’t stop Hazleton from spouting forth on the subject. Elkins fidgeted beside him and Skinner stared stoically out to sea. Horton resisted the impulse to glance at his watch.
‘This is a Meade sixteen-inch Lightbridge Deluxe.’ Hazleton patted the large telescope beside him. ‘It has an extremely high specification and makes target finding simplicity itself. From it I can view thousands of stars across the universe millions of light years away, the desolate terrain of the Moon and the surface detail of many planets. It’s an astronomy telescope,’ he said patronizingly, pausing to make sure his audience were hanging on his every word. Mistake. Horton didn’t have time for this. He interjected.
‘Which means you didn’t see the lights out to sea through it.’
‘No.’ Hazleton scowled, clearly annoyed at being trumped and interrupted. ‘For that I use this.’
He crossed to the right of the room and a range of low cupboards. Horton caught Elkins’ raised eyebrows and Claire Skinner’s apologetic glance before Hazleton swung round holding a slim wooden box. Carefully, and with tenderness, he opened it and extracted a sleek mahogany and brass antique telescope.
‘This is a nineteenth-century day and night telescope by George Dolland. Yes, you may well screw up your face, Sergeant, in an attempt to recall the name,’ he snapped at Elkins. ‘Because you probably know Dolland as the firm of opticians on every high street. It has a relatively large objective lens, and the power is low, which means it’s not really suitable for viewing the planets. But I can view galaxies and star-clusters, which is what I was doing on Wednesday night when I saw the light at sea.’
‘What time was this, sir?’ Horton asked. Hazleton flashed an irritated glance at the woman police officer, causing Horton to add, ‘WPC Skinner has relayed what you reported but I’d like to hear it from you.’
‘To check I’m not going gaga?’
Skinner’s fair face flushed and she averted her gaze. But Horton was busy trying to interpret Hazleton’s expression. He registered neither dislike nor disrespect for the young police woman. In fact he registered nothing; perhaps Skinner was of too low a rank to warrant any feelings in Hazleton, and the same went for Sergeant Elkins, because although Hazleton had shaken hands with Horton, he had made no attempt to proffer his hand to Elkins. Clearly, Hazleton was wealthy, if the size of the Victorian house and its location overlooking the English Channel was anything to judge by. Hazleton was also a snob.
‘It was ten thirty-one p.m. or twenty-two thirty-one if you prefer. It was approximately a mile out to sea. There was only one light – white – flashing erratically for a few minutes. The sea state wasn’t rough but it wasn’t exactly calm either, moderate I’d say, so the light could have been dipping with the waves, as a craft made its way through it. I know it wasn’t a regular shipping vessel because not only was it too close to the shore but the light was certainly wrong for it to be one of the ferries, cruise liners or container ships, which are usually lit up like a Christmas tree, and I would have seen them through the telescope. The same goes for a commercial fishing boat. In fact there wasn’t another ship in sight. I scanned the area for several minutes.’
‘What do you think it was?’ asked Horton, curbing his impatience and trying not to think of all the paperwork that would be mounting up on his desk, which Bliss would be screaming for the moment he returned, conveniently forgetting she had ordered him here.
‘A black or dark-coloured canoe,’ Hazleton answered promptly. ‘With a light on the for’ard and the canoeist dressed in black.’
This was beginning to sound more like a James Bond movie every minute, thought Horton, making sure to keep the irritation from his expression
Hazleton added, ‘I called the coastguards; they found nothing but then they wouldn’t. By the time they arrived it could easily have put in to any one of the coves along the coast or even reached Ventnor Haven.’
Horton swivelled his gaze to Skinner. She said, ‘I went down to the shore but couldn’t see anything and the houses are too spread out and the area too rural to make enquiries.’
And Horton guessed she had got a flea in her ear when she had suggested it. They simply didn’t have the manpower.
Caustically, Hazleton said, ‘If it’s terrorists or smugglers they’re hardly likely to broadcast what they were doing, or leave clues around for the police to find.’
‘What do you think they were smuggling, Mr Hazleton?’ asked Horton.
‘Arms, booze, drugs, cigarettes, people? Could be anything.’
In a canoe, thought Horton? The drugs and cigarettes were a possibility, although they wouldn’t have been able to stow much inside such a precarious vessel in the night in a moderate sea. But illegal immigrants were out of the question. And why would terrorists come ashore on the Isle of Wight in a canoe? Where would they have come from? Horton doubted they would have paddled all the way from France. Admittedly it was easier to gain access to Portsmouth via the Isle of Wight where they could slip across to the mainland on one of the ferries, which weren’t checked or stopped. It was a possibility but a very remote one.
Stiffly, Hazleton said, ‘I’m not senile, I know what I saw.’
‘Have you seen it again?’
‘I would have said if I had,’ Hazleton replied tartly.
Elkins said, ‘Have you seen any strangers about?’
Hazleton gave Elkins another of his withering looks. Horton thought he was rather good at them. ‘It’s April, Sergeant, and therefore officially the start of the holiday season. Of course there are strangers.’
It was time to end the interview. Horton stretched into the pocket of his sailing jacket and pulled out his second business card of the day. He wasn’t sure if he was goin
g to regret this, but if it was the only way to pacify the little man so be it. He said, ‘If you see anything again, Mr Hazleton, call me.’
Hazleton took the card in his slim, liver-spotted hand with a smug smile and a glance at Skinner that said someone believes me.
They took their leave, earning a glare from Hazleton’s middle-aged, surly cleaning lady, who Claire Skinner had told him was Vivien Walker. Her husband, Norman, was the handyman and gardener. And he did a good job, thought Horton, eyeing the beautifully tended landscaped garden with its exotic and tropical-looking plants, leading down to the cliff top. Skinner had said that the couple lived off the premises and had never seen any lights at sea while they’d been working at Hazleton’s house, but claimed it didn’t mean there wasn’t one. ‘They’re very protective of the old man,’ Skinner had explained.
And perhaps that was why Vivien Walker had appeared so hostile towards them. Clearly she trusted no one, which wasn’t a bad thing when the elderly could be easy prey.
‘Do you believe him?’ Elkins asked, as they climbed into the police car, parked on the wide gravel driveway.
Reason told Horton that Hazleton’s tales should be taken with a pinch of sea salt. But there was a small part of him that said what if it was true? What if this was a case of the boy who cried wolf and he ignored it? It would be his balls on the line, not Bliss’s, if she had any, and he half suspected she did. She’d be sure to slope shoulders and see that he carried the can for anything that could be traced back to Hazleton, which was probably why she had sent him here, to cover her arse. But how could a small light at sea here, miles away from Portsmouth Harbour, be connected with the visit of the USS Boise? Surely the answer was it couldn’t be. OK, so the American submarine would pass through this stretch of water but it would be miles out to sea and manned with its own armed guards before the Royal Navy escorted it in. Perhaps he should check the shore, though God alone knew what that would reveal except sand, stones and sea. Before he could give instructions to Skinner his phone rang. It was Cantelli.
Killing Coast, A (Detective Inspector Andy Horton) Page 2