Horton swore to himself. His heart sank. ‘But he wasn’t bound when he was found,’ he said, thinking aloud.
‘He wasn’t, and neither was he in the water long enough for any restrictions to have rotted. The ties could have become loose while he was in the sea but I’d be very surprised if they had, and even more surprised if the gag had worked its way off. He was only in the sea for about twelve hours, no more than eighteen hours certainly.’
‘But you said—’
‘That he’d been dead for four or five days. And he has. Decomposition was advanced, which is surprising at this time of the year when the sea temperature is still quite cold, barely reaching forty-seven Fahrenheit, and the colder the water the slower the decomposition. There was also no evidence of adipocere; that’s the yellowish-white substance composed of fatty acids and soaps that forms after death on the fatty parts of the body like the abdomen wall and buttocks. It protects against decomposition.’
With dread, Horton said, ‘You’re saying that he was killed, his body left somewhere for a few days, then it was untied before being dumped at sea sometime between Sunday night and early Monday morning?’
‘Worse.’
Shit. What could be worse, he groaned silently.
‘The evidence points to the fact that the gag was removed but not the wrist and ankle restrictions. While he was bound he was submerged, hence the bruising in the neck and chest and the foam in the trachea as the poor man struggled to free himself. Then came exhaustion, followed by coughing and vomiting, loss of consciousness and death by drowning some minutes later.’
Horton drew in a deep breath. His gut tightened as Gaye continued.
‘I think his captor knocked him out, tied him up and gagged him. When the victim regained consciousness his captor dropped him into the sea, removing the gag but not the wrist and ankle restraints. When the poor man eventually drowned, your killer hauled him out, untied him and left him somewhere on land, which is supported by the patterns of animal and bird life eating into the corpse. The body was then either washed out to sea or taken out to sea. The dress acted as a buoyancy aid allowing the body to float rather than sink as it would normally have done.’
Did the killer realize that or had he misjudged it, Horton wondered, his mind reeling from Dr Clayton’s findings and seeing again that small ordinary flat and that average, ordinary man in the photograph. He’d seen nothing to indicate that Colin Yately should be bound and tossed into the sea to die. Should he have looked harder? Had he missed something? Clearly he must have done. To make sure that it was Colin Yately’s body, he said, ‘Can you confirm if he ever suffered a broken left leg?’
‘Yes, and he’d had surgery on his right knee. He’s about late fifties.’
That seemed to seal it but just for good measure, Dr Clayton added, ‘Walters emailed me details of Colin Yately’s dentist, it’s why I’ve taken longer to get back to you. I wanted to check. I can confirm from examining the dental records on line that they match with the victim. It’s Colin Yately all right.’
Horton thanked her and rang off. It was nasty and they were looking for a particularly callous and ruthless killer. But what the devil did Yately have that a killer wanted so desperately? Who could he have angered so much to warrant such a violent death?
He recalled Yately’s daughter and the thought of what this news might do to her, as his mind raced with the implications of Dr Clayton’s findings. They would need to return to Yately’s apartment and take it apart. And although Horton doubted Yately had been taken captive at his flat it still needed to be treated as a crime scene, and with a sinking heart he thought that was what he should have done in the first place.
SIX
It was a view shared by Detective Superintendent Uckfield who expressed it vehemently for the third time in an hour as Horton climbed the stairs behind him to the passenger lounge on the Wightlink car ferry. Horton said nothing. There was no point reiterating what he’d already said in Uckfield’s office earlier about having no evidence to suggest that Yately’s death was suspicious.
‘He was wearing a dress, I call that highly bloody suspicious,’ Uckfield had bellowed.
Horton didn’t point out that it didn’t necessarily follow that Yately had been killed. He’d told both Bliss and Uckfield that he hadn’t had enough evidence to warrant posting a police officer outside the door to Yately’s apartment and another outside the Victorian house for over twenty-four hours until they had the autopsy report, and that a piece of blue-and-white tape alone, saying ‘Crime Scene Do Not Enter’, was hardly going to deter anyone from entering the apartment if they wanted to.
Bliss didn’t back him up. He hadn’t expected her to. When he’d relayed Dr Clayton’s findings to her, she’d accused him of gross incompetence, told him that he should have reported back to her as soon as the body had been found and that she should have made the decision. He didn’t bother reminding her that he had mentioned the body, only she’d been too interested in Project Neptune and his performance targets to listen. Even if she had listened he knew her decision wouldn’t have been any different to his. She was covering her arse in case the investigation went tits up, and if it did then he knew who would carry the can. Him. So nothing new there. She finished her bollocking by telling him that his error of judgement could have seriously hindered the investigation. But Horton was irked that he’d made the wrong decision. Cantelli had told him that hindsight was a wonderful thing.
‘That’s no consolation to Hannah Yately if the delay means her father’s killer goes free,’ Horton had grumbled.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself, Andy,’ Cantelli had replied. ‘I bet Bliss and Uckfield would have made the same decision.’
‘Then I should have let them.’ But that wasn’t his way, and a few words of reprimand and threats weren’t going to frighten him. What was done was done, but he wanted to be in on the investigation and discover who had tortured the poor man to death. It was also a matter of professional pride. He wasn’t going to have this evil bastard of a killer laughing at him, because he’d cocked up, and he certainly wasn’t going to have Uckfield’s sidekick, DI Dennings, smirking at him when he returned from a course tomorrow. There was no love lost between him and Dennings, whom Dr Clayton had nicknamed Neanderthal man. He would wet his pants with glee at the thought Horton had made a balls-up.
Uckfield had insisted that he accompany him back to the Island and Yately’s flat, because as Uckfield had said, ‘You’re the only bugger who’s been in it and can tell us if anything’s changed.’ Horton wanted to look at it afresh in light of this macabre discovery. What had he missed last night? There had to be something that would provide some clue as to why someone had tortured and killed the former postman. He sincerely hoped the apartment was as he’d left it but he couldn’t help having an uneasy feeling about those missing keys. And, as he had pointed out to Uckfield, he’d hardly searched Yately’s flat, so wouldn’t know for certain if something had been taken.
Bliss wasn’t very happy about him being whisked away and neither was she pleased when Walters was pulled in to assist Sergeant Trueman in the major crime suite to dig up all the information they could on Colin Yately, while Cantelli and DC Marsden were detailed to break the news to Hannah Yately and to get further information on her father. They were also going to see if she recognized the dress. Horton didn’t envy them having to tell Hannah that her father had been found wearing it. Cantelli was under strict instructions not to mention the restraints, as were they all. Uckfield had said, ‘We keep that to ourselves. It’s not to be released to the media and neither is the fact the victim was wearing a dress.’
As the ferry slipped out of dock, Horton bought coffee and sandwiches for himself and Uckfield, and found Uckfield at the far end of the ferry. Horton hadn’t been surprised that Uckfield had wanted to view Yately’s flat; he was hoping – just as Horton had been last night – that it might give him an insight into the man. Maybe in light of what Gaye Cla
yton had told him something new might spring to his mind, though he couldn’t see what that could be.
SOCO had been despatched by an earlier ferry and Trueman had informed them that the local police had sealed off the flat and were starting a house-to-house with the photograph Horton had taken, and which Trueman had emailed to Sergeant Norris of the Isle of Wight CID who was leading the inquiry that end.
Biting into his sandwich, Uckfield said, ‘Tell me again what you’ve got.’
For the third time Horton went through what had occurred. He knew that often on retelling people remembered something they’d overlooked the first and second time, but he wasn’t people, he was a policeman, and nothing new had occurred to him.
Uckfield listened while eating and slurping his coffee, with a scowl on his careworn features. His mobile rang just as Horton had finished and clapping it to his ear Uckfield rose, with a ‘Yes sir. On our way over now, sir,’ before he stepped through the door on to the deck.
Horton rang SOCO. Taylor answered.
‘We’ve only just entered the apartment, Inspector. It’s too early to report anything,’ Taylor replied slightly defensively in his usual nasal manner. But Horton heaved a silent sigh of relief that Taylor hadn’t said it had been ransacked. Just to be sure, he asked if there were any signs of a disturbance. Taylor said not. That didn’t mean the killer hadn’t entered the flat using Yately’s keys. And as Yately had been dead for at least five days then the killer had had ample time to go there before Horton had visited it last night. A point he’d made to Uckfield.
What kind of sadistic killer removed keys from a key fob and then neatly put the fob back in a pocket of the dress on a man he intended drowning, wondered Horton, drinking his coffee? The sick kind was the answer. But there had to be a reason.
Eager for action, he rang Sergeant Norris who also had nothing to report. Horton heard the unspoken ‘give us a chance, we’ve only just started’, and tried to curb both his irritation and impatience. He knew that Norris didn’t like him and neither did the man’s boss, DCI Birch, who was fortunately on leave. Horton had put Birch’s nose out of joint a couple of times by resolving cases before the DCI. But Horton wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. He was rather glad though that the desiccated stick insect of a man was on leave. Uckfield was probably glad too because DCI Birch had nearly stitched Uckfield up on a recent case by threatening to tell the former chief constable, Uckfield’s father-in-law, about an extramarital affair. Uckfield returned to his seat and judging by his scowling countenance his mood clearly hadn’t improved.
‘We’re not getting any extra manpower. For Christ’s sake, how am I supposed to run a murder investigation with three men and a dog?’
‘Who’s the dog?’
Uckfield glared at him. ‘I told Wonder Boy this was a brutal, calculated murder and do you know what he said?’
Wonder Boy was the nickname given to Assistant Chief Constable Dean, who had been tipped for the post of chief constable only to find he’d been beaten by a late entrant and an outsider to boot. Horton was betting Dean was in seventh heaven because he could finally exert some power over a once favoured former chief constable’s son-in-law who had previously ignored him. This was going to make for interesting times.
Horton dutifully took up the lead Uckfield had given him, ‘What did he say?’
‘“Do the best you can.” Jesus, I’m not about to sit my ruddy A levels!’
‘You told him that?’
Uckfield sniffed loudly. No, thought Horton, you simply said, ‘yes, sir’, not wanting to cock up your promotion chances.
Uckfield continued. ‘I pointed out that it would be difficult to manage a major crime on the resources I have, but Dean said we’ve all got to pull together in the current climate with government cuts and straitened budgets. I’d like to put him in a sodding straitjacket. Dean’s just echoing Meredew’s corporate claptrap along with this useless government who think we can operate with a piece of string, a tin can and some cardboard cut-outs. Dean says he’ll inform the chief and I’m to keep him fully briefed. Yeah, just so that he can ingratiate himself and claim all the credit, if we solve the case. Why should someone want to tie up and kill a former postman?’ Uckfield said tearing into his sandwich.
It had been a question that had been reverberating around Horton’s mind ever since Dr Clayton had broken the news to him. ‘Absolutely no idea, unless he was heavily insured and hadn’t changed his will, leaving everything to his ex-wife. She and a new boyfriend could have done it, although I’m not sure why they would torment the poor man first.’
‘Because they’re evil bastards.’
Horton had certainly met a few of them in his time.
With his mouth full, Uckfield said, ‘Could it be the daughter and her boyfriend, hoping she’d inherit?’
‘A poky, rented flat in the roof of a Victorian house? Hardly.’ Horton said incredulously.
Uckfield sniffed. ‘Perhaps he’d won the pools or lottery.’
‘Then he would have given most of the money to his daughter.’
‘You don’t know that for certain.’
Horton narrowed his eyes.
‘OK, so it’s not the daughter,’ Uckfield acquiesced, disgruntled, and gulped back his coffee. ‘Why was he wearing a dress?’
‘No idea, apart from the theories we’ve already discussed.’ And Horton counted them off on his fingers. ‘One: he could have been a cross-dresser and a lover killed him; two: he could have been at a party and someone took exception to his hobby of dressing up in women’s clothes; three: the dress has some other significance, meaning it belonged to a woman Yately had at some time been involved with.’
‘And hurt or even killed, and Yately’s killer was set on revenge.’
Horton looked doubtful. ‘Somehow I can’t see Yately as a murderer.’
‘We barely know the man,’ Uckfield scoffed.
He was right.
Uckfield added, ‘Let’s hope the lab can get us something on the dress.’
‘I think we’d have more success with a fashion expert.’
‘Yeah, well you don’t seem to have had much success so far.’
‘I wasn’t investigating a murder.’
‘You should have been.’
He tensed. There was no need for Uckfield to keep rubbing his nose in it. ‘Well, DI Dennings will be back tomorrow and no doubt he’ll solve the case in five minutes flat,’ Horton quipped.
Uckfield grunted and polished off his sandwiches. After a moment, Horton said, ‘Are you still trying to get Dennings to transfer out of your team?’ Uckfield had mentioned it in the past along with the suggestion that the job might be his.
‘That’s up to him,’ Uckfield said, wiping his mouth with a large handkerchief.
‘Is it?’
‘Look, haven’t I got enough to worry about with a major crime on my plate, a paranoid ACC and a beady-eyed DCI trying to waggle her slim arse on to my team and eventually take my place?’
It took a moment for Horton to realize Uckfield was referring to Bliss. ‘You can’t seriously believe Bliss is a threat?’ he said, surprised. He’d also had no idea that Bliss had designs on the Major Crime Team. But there was still a DCI vacancy to fill, and maybe Bliss considered a Major Crime Team success would make her more visible in the promotion stakes.
‘Dean likes her. And we all know why.’ Uckfield sneered.
Horton raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You think she’s having an affair with him?’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised. She wouldn’t be the first to drop her knickers to get to the top.’
That was a bit rich coming from a man who had slept around almost as many times as Rasputin. Horton didn’t say so, though. That might be pushing his luck.
Uckfield added, ‘She’s probably already working out how she can get the new chief into bed.’
Maybe she wouldn’t have to if Project Neptune was a success, thought Horton. But Bliss as DCI on the Ma
jor Crime Team was a terrifying prospect and meant he didn’t want to be anywhere near it.
Uckfield fell into a moody silence that was punctuated by a telephone call from Trueman, who confirmed that Yately wasn’t in debt and his GP said she hadn’t seen him for five years, and then only because he’d had a touch of arthritis in his right foot. Yately had been a postman for twenty-two years, working out of Newport. He had an exemplary record, was rarely off sick and thoroughly reliable. A friendly man, but quiet, was the opinion of the manager. No scandal and no womanizing. Yately had taken early retirement three years ago aged fifty-five.
‘And no mention that he liked to wear women’s clothes,’ added Uckfield grumpily.
As they were disembarking Horton’s phone rang. It was Walters with the news that someone from Wrayton Lettings was on his way over to Yately’s flat with a set of keys that would open the post box and a storage shed.
Walters added, ‘Mr Wrayton asked why we wanted the keys and I had to tell him because he was blabbing on about warrants and all that crap. He wasn’t best pleased.’
‘About us not informing him?’
‘No, about letting the flat to someone who managed to get himself killed. He said it lowers the tone of the area.’
Horton had been in the job long enough to believe that. Walters continued, ‘Oh and he said could we officially confirm that Mr Yately is dead as soon as possible because he’d like to re-advertise the flat.’
‘The caring type, then.’
‘Yeah,’ Walters sighed.
They made good time to Ventnor and Horton was relieved to see there was no sign of the press. There was also no sign of the stout Sergeant Norris, or his uniformed officers, except for one posted outside the front of the house, who told them the others were conducting their house-to-house enquiries and that WPC Skinner was waiting for them upstairs.
Killing Coast, A (Detective Inspector Andy Horton) Page 7