A Killing Coast (17 page)

Uckfield already had the car door open when Horton said, ‘Does Mr Hazleton own any other properties, or a boat?’

Norman shook his head. ‘I never heard him mention anything.’

In the car, Uckfield said, ‘What was all that about owning a boat?’

‘I wondered if the Walkers could have killed both Lisle and Hazleton if Hazleton had left them something in a will.’

Uckfield snorted. ‘We know who killed Hazleton: Arthur Lisle.’

Horton still thought he’d get Trueman to run the Walkers through criminal records.

Uckfield said, ‘Hazleton could also have been shagging Abigail Lisle years ago and Lisle recently discovered it along with his missus’s affair with Yately. Maybe he read his late wife’s diaries.’

And that sounded highly plausible
. Despite his vowed intentions to stop thinking about the past Horton’s thoughts veered back to his mother. Had she kept a diary? If so, nobody had mentioned it and no diary had been passed on to him. Therefore it was unlikely, unless that diary had contained something incriminating or implicated someone in her disappearance, and that made him wonder if their council flat had been searched either by the police or by someone else who could possibly have had a key or forced an entrance. There was nothing on the missing person’s file to indicate either. And Adrian Stanley, by his own admission, hadn’t even entered the flat. But Horton had seen his discomfort when he’d asked the question.

‘I need a drink.’ Uckfield’s voice crashed through his thoughts

‘The Bugle?’ Horton said, catching the Super’s drift.

‘Might as well kill two birds with one swallow and I’m bloody hungry.’

Over fish and chips, which Horton didn’t feel much like eating after viewing the body of Victor Hazleton, the landlord and landlady of The Bugle confirmed the presence of the Walkers in the bar the previous night until just after eleven o’clock and denied knowing Arthur Lisle and Colin Yately. They claimed they had never seen either man when Horton showed them photographs and neither had they seen Lisle’s Morris Minor.

Uckfield headed for Lisle’s house, where Dennings, who had phoned as they were finishing their meal, said they’d completed the search without finding any love letters or diaries.

‘There are some missing pictures in the albums though.’ Dennings indicated the gaps and eyed Horton moodily, clearly put out by his presence.

‘Where’s the daughter?’ Uckfield said, disappointed.

‘In the kitchen with her husband. I haven’t shown her the photograph of the dress Yately was wearing, but I told her about the car and Hazleton being found dead in it. She claims she’s never heard of Victor Hazleton, and neither has her husband. She thinks her father’s in the sea and wants to know if we’re searching for him.’

Horton had already mooted that to Uckfield in the pub and had got a short answer: ‘Have you any idea of how much a helicopter search would cost?’

A great deal, and then it was unlikely they’d find Lisle.

‘No suicide note, I suppose,’ Uckfield asked, hopefully.

Dennings shook his big shaven head. ‘I’ve got all the paperwork bagged up. We can double-check it but I know there isn’t one.’

Horton said, ‘Perhaps he posted it and it’ll arrive at his daughter’s house tomorrow.’

Uckfield raised his eyebrows. OK, so Horton didn’t believe that either. It was just an idea. ‘Not all suicides leave notes,’ he added, before following Uckfield into the kitchen. Dennings’ phone rang, forestalling him. With a scowl at Horton he answered it gruffly.

Rachel Salter sprang up from the table with hope and worry on her flushed face. ‘You’ve found him?’

Gently, Uckfield said, ‘There’s every possibility that your father wasn’t in the car.’

‘Then how did it get into the sea?’

‘He could have driven it there at low tide, abandoned it, and waded back to the shore.’

Paul Salter, a smallish muscular man in his early forties, said, ‘Then where is he?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Uckfield said, trying without success to squeeze the exasperation from his voice.

Quickly, Horton asked, ‘Have you any idea where he might have gone? To a friend’s, a relative or somewhere that was special to him, or to him and your mother.’

Paul looked blank, while his wife answered, ‘I’ve rung round all our relatives, not that we have many, only a couple of aunts on the Island, and none on the mainland, and they’ve not seen Dad since mum’s funeral, and he certainly hasn’t gone to Singapore.’

‘A friend’s house, then?’ Horton asked again, feeling Uckfield’s impatience and wishing he’d leave and let him pursue his questioning in peace.

‘Dad’s a solitary man. Well, he hardly had time for friends with mum being so ill for years,’ she added defensively.

‘That must have been very difficult for him, and for you,’ Horton empathized.

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

N
othing 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.