A Killing Coast (10 page)

‘Let’s hope the killer telephoned to make the appointment and we can get his number from the phone records,’ Uckfield panted.

If only, thought Horton. ‘One thing’s for certain,’ he said, ‘Yately wouldn’t have gone out wearing his shorts and vest. So wherever he went he undressed and put on that woman’s dress, or his killer made him remove his clothes and put the dress on.’

‘Yately could have been abducted from here during the night wearing his underwear.’

‘If he was he went without a struggle.’

‘How do you know that? The killer could have returned and tidied up the place. He has Yately’s keys. For all we know this place could have been stashed to the rafters with gold bullion before you came here last night.’

Uckfield had a point, though Horton doubted the gold bullion bit. He smiled a greeting at Skinner, while Uckfield gave her the once over, and by the big man’s leer it seemed he liked what he saw, which came as no surprise to Horton. Claire Skinner’s pretty face flushed as Horton swept past her and he nodded a greeting at Beth Tremain, one of the SOCOs, who was in the bathroom. Then, following Uckfield into the small lounge, he found Taylor with his head up the chimney.

Uckfield said, ‘Santa Claus isn’t due for another eight months.’

‘You’d be surprised what we find up chimneys,’ Taylor rejoined, his voice muffled. Then, extracting himself, he said, ‘You’re right, nothing this time, not even a Christmas stocking. Plenty of prints in the room, though.’

‘But not mine. I wore gloves.’

‘Thoughtful of you,’ muttered Uckfield.

Ignoring him, Horton scanned the room; his eyes fell on the narrow desk in front of the small window. Half a dozen steps took him swiftly to it. He registered the photograph frame minus the photograph of Yately and his daughter, which he’d removed, but stared down at the desk, puzzled; that wasn’t the only thing that was missing.

To Taylor, he said, ‘Where are the notes that were here?’

Taylor shook his head while Uckfield said, ‘What notes?’

Horton tried to tell himself it was nothing. ‘They were about the history of Ventnor.’

Uckfield looked bewildered. Horton didn’t blame him. He was confused himself. Why would anyone be interested in them? And how could they have anything to do with the murder of Colin Yately? Simple answer: they couldn’t.

‘They were here last night,’ he said.

‘Can’t see anyone killing a retired postman for that,’ sniffed Uckfield, dismissively, echoing Horton’s thoughts, but the notes
had
been there. He quickly tried to recall what he’d read, wishing now he’d paid more attention. There’d been something about Ventnor once being a hamlet of fishermen’s cottages with an old mill. Why would someone take that?

Uckfield said, ‘Anything else missing?’

Horton studied the desk and then surveyed the room. ‘It doesn’t look like it, not in here.’

He checked the kitchen. Everything was as he’d left it last night. He returned to the lobby and, with Uckfield and Taylor trailing him, made his way into the bedroom. Everything seemed the same as before: the bed, the chest with the books on it, the telescope. But something was different. Horton swiftly crossed to the telescope. Without touching it he peered into it.

‘This is no time for stargazing,’ Uckfield complained.

Straightening up, Horton said, ‘It’s been moved.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ Taylor said quickly, ‘or Beth.’

‘Where was it facing when you looked through it before?’

Judging by Uckfield’s tone Horton knew he didn’t believe him.

‘Ventnor Haven. The small harbour,’ he added for the benefit of Taylor, who wasn’t a sailor like him and Uckfield, although Uckfield owned a motor boat, not a sailing yacht. ‘But I didn’t focus it in.’

Uckfield said, ‘You could have knocked it after looking through it.’

‘I didn’t touch it.’

‘Maybe the cleaner did.’

Horton knew Uckfield was being facetious. He said, ‘Whoever took the notes could also have adjusted the telescope and, as there is no sign of a forced entry, that suggests either the landlord’s been in here with a master set of keys or he gave a set of keys to someone else, which I doubt, or Yately gave his keys to a friend, relative or neighbour, which would fit with why he removed them from the key ring; he didn’t want to part with the picture of his daughter.’

‘So you’re saying the missing keys have nothing to do with Yately’s murder.’ Uckfield scratched his armpit.

‘It’s possible.’

‘But why didn’t this neighbour or friend collect the notes before today, when Yately’s been dead since Thursday?’

It was a point that Horton had also been considering. And he had an answer. ‘Perhaps whoever it is couldn’t get here until late last night or this morning. They could have been away.’

‘But—’

‘Why did Yately give his keys to someone in the first place? He could have been planning to go on somewhere after meeting his daughter. Perhaps he intended being away for a few days.’

‘With a lover?’

Horton shrugged. ‘In between making these arrangements and meeting his daughter on Thursday, Yately met his killer.’

‘Who was into bondage and women’s clothes,’ sniffed Uckfield. ‘Sounds as though it could have been a sex game gone wrong or a jealous lover tied him up and drowned him.’

Perhaps, but Dr Clayton hadn’t reported that Yately was homosexual.

Uckfield said, ‘Could his daughter have come here after you?’

‘No. She gave us her keys to her father’s apartment and she didn’t say she had two sets. Cantelli can check though.’ Horton reached for his phone.

‘Could have been the ex-wife,’ Uckfield said.

‘Why?’

‘How the hell should I know? We’ll ask her. Get her address from Cantelli.’

‘We need to make sure the landlord hasn’t lost a set of keys or given out a set to someone.’

Uckfield retrieved his phone from the pocket of his camel coat as he stomped out of the bedroom.

‘How’s Hannah Yately taking it?’ Horton asked when Cantelli came on the line.

‘She’s upset and bewildered, as you’d expect, and she claims she’s never seen the dress. I told her it was found
with
her father, not
on
him. I didn’t have the heart to break that news to her. She’ll find out soon enough. Her boyfriend is with her. I’m sure neither of them is involved with Yately’s death.’

Horton briefed him about what they’d found in the flat. Cantelli said that neither Hannah nor her boyfriend, Damien, had gone out last night or this morning. They’d been anxiously awaiting any news. Horton said, ‘Have you got Mrs Yately’s address? Uckfield wants to interview her.’

Cantelli relayed it.

Uckfield was in the hall outside the flat on the phone when Horton returned to the small lounge. He asked Taylor if he’d found an address book. It might give them a list of Yately’s friends, but Taylor shook his head. Horton searched but he didn’t find one and neither did he find any scraps of paper with friends’ names or telephone numbers scrawled on it. There were also no old Christmas or birthday cards stashed away. Along with the bank statements he’d seen yesterday he found some utility bills, paid, and the top copy of the last two telephone bills, but no record of the calls made. Trueman would request those. The paperwork would be bagged up and taken back to the major incident suite.

Horton then called Sergeant Norris and explained about the keys.

‘No one’s said anything about having keys to Yately’s apartment but we’ll check.’

Uckfield returned.

‘Let’s talk to the ex-wife and hope she’s not the hysterical kind.’

From what Hannah Yately had said Horton very much doubted it.

SEVEN

‘
I
know why you’re here.’ Margaret Yately gestured them into seats in the untidy cramped lounge of the narrow house in the narrow terraced street in Newport.

Horton pushed aside a blouse, skirt and a pile of cheap magazines before easing himself into a chair that was so worn he thought he was going to end up sitting on the floor. The room stank of cigarette smoke, stale perfume, fried food and alcohol. Horton pulled his body to the edge of the seat, as Uckfield, ignoring the clothes, plonked himself squarely on top of them, stretched out his short legs and eyed Margaret Yately coldly. In front of them, high on the wall above a dusty and grimy fireplace, were the flickering images of repeats of a detective drama on a large plasma screen television that wouldn’t have been out of place in a small cinema. The thought reminded Horton of Russell Glenn’s superyacht and the forthcoming charity auction, which he might now be in danger of missing,
if
he was to continue working on the case and
if
it was still unresolved by Friday.

Margaret Yately reached for a packet of cigarettes from the mantelpiece with nicotine-stained fingers and long fingernails that looked painful rather than attractive. Horton swiftly took in the tall woman. She was in her mid fifties with scraggy bleached blonde hair, fashionably dressed in tight jeans, tucked into calf-high boots, with a low-cut off-the-shoulder T-shirt displaying black bra straps and a tattoo of a butterfly on one shoulder and a cat on the other. All this was squeezed on to a figure with rolls of fat around the hips and midriff. The sand had run out of this hourglass long ago.

‘Hannah called me to tell me Colin was dead. She says he was murdered. I can’t think why. He had no money.’ Margaret Yately shook a cigarette from the packet and perched it on her pink-lipsticked mouth. Grabbing a cheap plastic lighter from the mantelpiece she flicked it on her cigarette and, still with it perched in her mouth, added, ‘It
was
his body I suppose, the police do sometimes get it wrong.’

‘When did you last see your husband, Mrs Yately?’ Horton asked crisply. There didn’t seem any point in wasting sympathy on her. He held her gaze.

‘Ex-husband,’ she said pointedly, jerking her head upwards to exhale. ‘Last year, October. He was in town, shopping. He begged me to have him back. I said no way. I gave up my youth for him; I wasn’t going to give up what I’d got left of my life.’

Horton didn’t believe the bit about Colin begging her to take him back. That was just her vanity speaking. Admittedly his views were coloured by what Hannah Yately had told him but he was more inclined to believe daughter than mother. He wasn’t sure he could believe her alleged last sighting of her husband either, though he couldn’t see that she had any reason to lie about that. There was no evidence in this room of another man being on the scene, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Or a few, come to that.

Uckfield said, ‘Did you know where he was living?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Did you visit him there?’ asked Horton.

She widened her eyes, ‘You must be kidding! Why should I want to do that?’

‘Is this your marital home?’ asked Uckfield.

‘What’s that got to do with Colin’s death?’ she said defensively, glaring at him, then a malicious glint crossed her face. ‘Oh, I see, you think I’ve shacked up with a man and jealous of Colin he’s gone out and killed the poor sod. Well you’re wrong.’ She picked some tobacco from her yellow teeth. ‘The house was sold when Colin and I split up and we shared the proceeds. Not that there was much, him only being a postman. I rent this house and live alone, and Colin rented his flat.’

And Horton reckoned she spent most of her money on clothes, booze, fags and a good time. Not that that was any of his business, but he wasn’t going to pussyfoot around being gentle with her, because clearly she didn’t need it.

‘Did Colin have any life insurance?’

‘No idea.’

‘Did he have a will?’

‘How should I know?’

‘You
were
married to him.’

‘
Were
, yes. The only life insurance he had then was to cover the mortgage if he snuffed it before it was paid up. And he didn’t have a will then.’

‘Do you work?’ asked Uckfield.

Her head snapped round. She bristled. ‘Why do you want to know that?’ Neither Horton nor Uckfield answered, forcing her to add angrily, ‘Instead of badgering me with pointless questions you should be out there looking for his killer.’

‘We are,’ Uckfield said evenly.

She snatched a drag at her cigarette and irritably puffed out the smoke before answering with a scowl. ‘I work in a pub on the River Medina, waitressing and bar work. It gives me a social life. I could have done better but I had Hannah to bring up and working with a child is not always easy, especially when you’ve got no relatives to take care of it and no money to put it in a nursery. Colin used to finish work early, being a postman, unless he was doing overtime, so when he came home, I’d go to work; pub hours suited me. And I like the company. All right?’ She glared at them.

Horton said, ‘Can you give us the names of any of Colin’s friends?’

‘There weren’t any.’

Horton raised his eyebrows, forcing her to add, ‘He was always a loner. No conversation, quiet, dull, while I’m the opposite. We were never suited but we stuck together for Hannah, well you do when you’ve got kids.’

‘What were his hobbies, interests?’

‘He didn’t have any, not unless you mean doing crosswords and reading books.’ Which, by her tone, she clearly considered unworthy pastimes.

Horton recalled the books on the chest in Yately’s flat on naval ships and local history, which fitted with the notes and the telescope.

She made an elaborate show of consulting her watch.

‘Working tonight?’ Horton asked, studying the clock on the mantelpiece. It was three forty-five.

‘I phoned in, told them about Colin. They said not to come in.’

Horton could see she wished she had gone to work now. ‘Do you have any photographs of your former husband?’

‘Hannah says you’ve got one,’ she replied sulkily.

‘Yes, but it might be helpful to look through photograph albums.’ Horton was wondering if it might show them the dress Colin had been found wearing.

She scowled, clearly irritated. ‘Colin took most of them.’

‘Then you do have some.’

‘I don’t know how that can help you.’

‘Perhaps you could get them,’ Uckfield insisted.