She eyed him warily, looking for signs of insincerity. Horton got the impression of an embittered and maybe frustrated woman, as well as a rather self-centred one.
‘It was,’ she replied, tight-lipped.
‘How long was your mother ill for?’
‘Eleven years.’
Horton was surprised and showed it, prompting Rachel to add rather defensively, ‘She wasn’t too bad at first but it progressively got worse until Dad had to give up work and care for her. But I’ve already told you this.’
Horton thought that Rachel Salter had resented her mother’s illness. Perhaps because her father had showered more devotion on his wife than he had on his daughter, and that reminded him of something Cantelli had once said about why Catherine was so hostile towards him and his demands for access to Emma: because she was jealous that he had loved his daughter more than his wife. He saw that it could be true of both his own circumstances and Rachel Salter’s. He was no psychologist, just a policeman who had seen a great deal of human nature in all its guises, for better and worse.
He said, ‘Your mother was an attractive woman from the photographs we’ve seen in the albums. You look as though you were a very happy family.’ He wondered what Rachel’s response to his probing was going to be. He heard Uckfield sniff.
‘We were.’ Her reply was crisp and hostile.
‘But every marriage has its problems; were your parents happily married?’
‘Of course they were. What are you saying?’ She glared at him.
Uckfield made to speak but Horton broke in, ‘Was there anywhere special for your parents?’ Horton again asked, ‘Somewhere they liked to go together?’
‘No. And I know why you’re asking. You think Dad might have gone there to . . . to kill himself. Well you’re wrong. Yes, he was upset when Mum died but not enough to do that. I can’t think what’s happened to him. And I have no idea what that man was doing in the boot of Dad’s car. Have you considered that my father’s life could be in danger?’ she demanded.
Horton ignored the question and her hostility. ‘Did your father speak about his work or the people he used to work with?’
It took her a moment to answer and when she did she spoke grudgingly. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Who did he speak of?’
‘For God’s sake, I can’t remember. You should be out there looking for him, not badgering me with all these questions and tearing the house apart.’
‘Rachel, they’re only doing their job,’ her husband interjected.
‘And not very well,’ she snapped, glaring at him.
Horton saw Paul Salter flinch. ‘And you’re sure your father never mentioned Victor Hazleton.’
‘Yes, I’m sure,’ she almost shouted. Then her expression darkened. Horton could see her mind racing as she followed the conversation. ‘My God, you actually think my father could have killed this man!’ She ran a hand through her long hair. ‘This can’t be happening. It’s ludicrous. Look, I’m telling you, Dad’s had an accident, he staggered out of his car and someone stole it and put this . . . this other man inside. He could have been attacked.’ Her faced paled as she realized that her father could also be dead.
While both scenarios were possible, Horton thought it unlikely. ‘We’ve checked the hospital and your father hasn’t been admitted.’
‘Of course he hasn’t,’ she snapped, ‘because he’s lying in a ditch or he’s fallen over a cliff. I want the search and rescue services out looking for him.’
Uckfield said, ‘We’re doing all we can to locate your father, Mrs Salter.’
She snorted her disbelief.
Uckfield’s phone rang as Horton stretched into his pocket for a photograph of the dress that Yately had been wearing.
‘Has either of you seen this dress before?’ he asked, while Uckfield slipped out of the room.
Rachel glared at it then back at Horton. ‘What has this to do with my father?’
‘Do you recognize it?’ pressed Horton gently.
‘No.’
Paul shook his head. ‘Me neither.’
‘Do you know where your father was over the weekend?’
‘Here,’ Rachel said sharply.
‘You saw him or spoke to him?’
‘No. But he’s always here.’
Just because she thought so didn’t mean he was. There seemed nothing more they could get from the Salters. Horton tried to reassure them that they were doing everything they could to locate Arthur Lisle, but he wasn’t convincing Rachel Salter.
He entered the dining room that Lisle had used as a study and gazed around it again, as though it might reveal something he’d overlooked the first time. Officers had been through the books and found nothing, and idly Horton opened one on the table that was about the history of British passenger ships. He turned to another about the history of the Isle of Wight coast. The last time he’d been in this room he had noted that Lisle and Yately had the same interests, which was in maritime matters and local history, the latter of which tied in with Yately’s notes, but he still couldn’t see where that got them.
He stepped outside, noting that Uckfield was in the living room in conversation with Dennings. It was a clear evening. Soon it would be dark. The streets were deserted, though there was movement behind the curtains and blinds in the neighbouring houses and those opposite. Horton stood and took in the air. He could taste the silence and smell the sea. He wasn’t surprised the Victorians had celebrated the place as a health resort and a cure for tuberculosis with the air so clear, and with that came the memory of the notes on Yately’s desk. Lisle had taken them and hadn’t been afraid to be seen by a neighbour, so unless he was a callous murderer with nerves of steel, it had been an innocent gesture and one which indicated to Horton, along with the similarity in their reading matter, that the two men were working together on some kind of historical project, possibly to do with the sea and possibly, he thought, on something connected with the coast.
Then there was the connection between Hazleton and Lisle; they’d both worked for the same firm of solicitors and had done so at the same time. If Hazleton had met Abigail Lisle then and had an affair with her it was doubtful her daughter would have known about it. Maybe someone from Uckfield’s team would find out more tomorrow when they visited Wallingford and Chandler. His phone rang. He thought it must be Cantelli, but he didn’t recognize the number so answered it somewhat cautiously.
‘Is that Inspector Horton?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, not recognizing the man’s voice.
‘I’m so glad I’ve got hold of you. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m Robin Stanley.’
Horton started at hearing the name. There was only one Stanley he knew.
‘I think you know my father, Adrian.’
‘I do.’ Horton’s mind raced. Why was the son calling him?
‘I found your card in dad’s trouser pocket. He’s had a stroke. He’s in Queen Alexandra hospital. He’s been trying to talk and he’s very agitated because he can’t express himself clearly, but the nurse and I finally worked out what he was trying to say. We believe it’s your name. I think he wants to see you.’
Horton’s heart seemed to skip several beats.
‘I might be completely wrong, Inspector, and I’d hate to waste your time,’ Robin Stanley added hastily, ‘but I wondered if you’d mind calling in to the hospital when you have a moment. I would really appreciate it. It might help him rest more easily. I know I shouldn’t ask but—’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’ So much for letting go of the past! No wonder he hadn’t got an answer to his call at Stanley’s apartment this morning. He only hoped Stanley hadn’t been lying ill inside. He didn’t like to think that he might have been able to do something to help him.
It was bad timing for him that Stanley had had a stroke, he thought with a trace of bitterness, before reminding himself that the poor man hadn’t invited one. Had Adrian Stanley really been asking to see him or
were they mistaken in his feeble attempts to speak? And if he was struggling to speak then what more could Horton get from the sick man about the disappearance of his mother? Very little he reckoned.
He got the ward number from a grateful Robin Stanley and rang off. Uckfield’s growl brought him up sharply.
‘What are you standing out here for? Looking for a lost ship?’
No, thinking about a lost mother.
Uckfield zapped open his car. ‘Let’s see what Taylor’s found at Hazleton’s house.’
TWELVE
Nothing was the answer. They met Taylor outside who said there was no visible evidence that Hazleton had been killed there. The grounds hadn’t been searched though and that would have to wait until the following day because it would soon be dark, and tomorrow the Walkers would also be brought here to tell them if anything was missing. Also tomorrow, Dr Clayton would tell them how Hazleton had been killed and hopefully give them some indication of what the murder weapon looked like.
Horton and Uckfield made a cursory search of the house.Only one bedroom was in use, with a view out to sea. It was cheaply furnished. There were no antiques here and the carpet was of the bulk standard chain store type, wearing thin in several places. Two of the other three bedrooms were furnished, with a modern divan bed in each and with heavy old-fashioned wardrobes and chests of drawers. The beds were covered with blankets or bedspreads of no particular note, the wardrobes were empty and the chests of drawers lined with brown paper and again empty. The storage heaters were turned off but the rooms had been dusted. The smallest box room was devoid of furniture.
Hazleton’s bedroom yielded nothing much. His clothes, Horton could see by their labels, were expensive and of excellent quality and what jewellery there was looked to be valuable. The bathroom was dated and held all the usual medicines and toiletries, nothing to show that Hazleton suffered from any illness. In fact, by the lack of pills, Horton thought the elderly man must have been very healthy.
They climbed to the observatory. Taylor had given Horton the keys and indicated that one of the larger ones unlocked the door. As they stepped inside, Uckfield gave a low whistle of appreciation. ‘Anything different? Telescope been moved?’
Horton ignored his sarcasm. ‘No.’ The large modern telescope was where Horton had last seen it two days ago on Monday and the antique one was resting in its box on the top of a low cupboard. Horton recalled Hazleton’s lecture on its origins. No doubt it was valuable, like a lot of things in the house. It had been dusted for prints and as Horton picked up the box he thought that Hazleton would have had forty fits at the state of it. He opened it and gently lifted it out while Uckfield wrenched open the cupboard doors.
‘That’s what I like,’ he said. ‘A man with a method; makes our job a lot easier.’
Horton eyed the neatly stacked folders inside the cupboard before turning his attention back to the telescope. He put it to his eye and focused it in. There was a container ship in the distance. Then he pointed it in the direction of the shore.
‘I could do with a hand here when you’ve finished stargazing,’ Uckfield said grumpily.
There weren’t any stars to look at but Horton didn’t correct Uckfield. Replacing the telescope in its box, he took the two files Uckfield handed him: one was marked ‘correspondence’, the other ‘personal information’. Inside the latter Horton found Hazleton’s birth certificate and those of his parents, along with their death certificates. There were a few other personal items but no love letters, photographs, marriage certificate, and no will.
‘According to his birth certificate he was born on the Isle of Wight in November 1932.’
‘His bank balance is healthy,’ said Uckfield, flicking through the statements.
After a cursory glance in the file marked ‘House deeds’, Horton read that the house had been purchased by Victor Hazleton in 1990.
Uckfield said, ‘We’ll take these with us and get a team in tomorrow in case there’s anything else of use stashed away.’
Horton locked up the cupboard and the observatory. Uckfield gave instructions for a unit to remain until they were relieved by another. ‘Don’t want any more telescopes moving in the night or notes being pinched,’ Uckfield added facetiously.
Horton said nothing. They returned to Ventnor and collected Dennings and Marsden. Heading towards the ferry, Uckfield said, ‘Dennings, you’ll head up the investigation over here from tomorrow with DC Marsden. Norris will book you into a bed and breakfast. Trueman will stay in the major incident suite and will be responsible for coordinating both ends of the investigation, which means you,’ Uckfield tossed at Horton beside him, ‘with Sergeant Cantelli, will interview the solicitors, Wallingford and Chandler, tomorrow morning.’
‘What about DCI Bliss?’
‘It’s been agreed,’ Uckfield said tersely. ‘I want Lisle found.’
‘That might be difficult if he’s in the sea.’
‘Then I want the evidence to confirm he killed two men and dressed one of them in his late wife’s dress.’
Horton didn’t think Cantelli was going to be very pleased about his seafaring trip to the Isle of Wight.
Uckfield added, ‘Let’s hope that Dr Clayton can give us something from the autopsy and this fashion expert can tell us something about the dress.’
By the way Uckfield said the word ‘expert’ Horton could tell that he didn’t hold out much hope, but then the big man had an inbuilt distrust of so-called ‘experts’. Horton wasn’t quite so firm in his opinion but he understood Uckfield’s scepticism; they’d heard too many ‘experts’ get criminals off the hook.
Uckfield continued. ‘I’ll give a press briefing tomorrow morning asking for sightings of all three men.’
Horton said, ‘And Lisle’s boat?’
Crisply, Dennings answered, ‘There’s no evidence to say it was used last night but it’s being transported to the same garage where Lisle’s car is and the forensic team will examine it there.’
So that seemed to be everything with the exception of one or two points. On the ferry, out of earshot of the others, Horton called Sergeant Elkins and asked him to liaise with Customs and the Border Agency for any intelligence on smuggling operations and to let Cantelli know if there was anything going on. Then he called Cantelli on his mobile. From the sound of the children’s voices in the background Cantelli was at home. He asked if Walters had turned up anything on Glenn’s crew.
‘I checked with him before I left. There’s nothing known on any of them or on Dominic Keats or Oliver Vernon. Hang on, I’ll just get my notes.’ There was a moment’s pause then Cantelli continued. ‘Keats is a former Royal Navy Commander, left six years ago to become a skipper on a private yacht and then set up the Superyacht Training Academy two years ago. Divorced with three children. His wife lives in Somerset and he has an apartment in Oyster Quays and a yacht on the Hamble. He’s into yacht racing so there’s quite a lot of information about him on the Internet. His business is booming, or so it seems from the latest company records. Oliver Vernon has a Masters Degree in Art History and worked for Landrams, the auctioneers, for three years before becoming a freelance valuer, researcher, lecturer and consultant six years ago. According to his tax record he also seems to be doing well for himself. His address is given as an apartment in London.’
‘And Lloyd?’
‘Ex-commando. Been working for Russell Glenn since he left the army eight years ago.’
That left Russell Glenn.
‘There isn’t much. He joined the Merchant Navy as a Deck Rating, Ordinary Seaman in 1968, working on tankers, and was promoted to Able Seaman in 1972. He then joined Carnival Cruises in 1978 until late 1981.’
‘When in 1978?’
‘December. He left them in October 1981. He was out of the UK until 1985 when he resurfaced as the owner of the Enderby hotel chain and started on his road to riches. Walters says he’s left you some notes and some photographs he printed off the Internet on your desk
. Do you want me to carry on looking into his background tomorrow?’
‘No. Sorry, Barney, but you’re coming with me to the Island to talk to Lisle and Hazleton’s former employer. Uckfield’s orders.’
Cantelli groaned. ‘Knew I should have joined the Birmingham force.’
‘The good news is the weather forecast says it’s going to be a fine calm day.’ Horton had no idea if it was but no need to tell Cantelli that.
‘I’ve heard that before,’ Cantelli said with justifiable scepticism. ‘Think I’d better stock up on seasickness pills.’
Horton rang off and stayed on deck as the ferry slipped into the harbour. Lights blazed from the cabins of the superyacht. According to those dates it was possible that Glenn had known Jennifer before joining Carnival Cruises. Horton wondered where Glenn had been living until December 1978, and in addition which ports he’d sailed into while working on the tankers. It could have been Portsmouth if the tankers had been small; otherwise it was far more likely to have been Southampton or the oil refinery there. That didn’t rule out the possibility that Glenn had met Jennifer; Southampton was only twenty-five miles away. Despite his earlier vows to concentrate on the present and the future, he knew he couldn’t let go, particularly in light of the unexpected phone call he’d received from Robin Stanley. What could Adrian Stanley want to tell him? It was pointless speculating. He’d find out soon enough. The announcement came over the Tannoy for all car owners to return to their vehicles as the ship was about to dock.
Dropping Horton at the station, Uckfield told him and his team to be available for a briefing tomorrow morning, and half an hour later Horton was being shown into a small hospital room by a nurse. He apologized for the lateness of his visit. But the nurse wasn’t put out by it. ‘When you’ve only just come on duty this is early,’ she said smiling down with concern on Stanley’s recumbent figure. ‘He’s very troubled and restless, though you wouldn’t think it now. And that’s not helping his recovery. He’s a little difficult to understand, he’s been severely affected by the stroke, but if you listen hard enough and tune yourself in, you’ll get the gist of what he’s saying. If you sit beside him for a while I’m sure he’ll soon realize you’re here.’
Killing Coast, A (Detective Inspector Andy Horton) Page 14