A Killing Coast (24 page)

Horton swiftly told Trueman about the archive box file they’d retrieved with Wallingford and Chandler’s permission. ‘You’d better tell the Super in case Dennings conveniently forgets. The names in the files will need to be checked, especially the late Harold Jenkins’ estate. Was Hazleton ever married?’

‘No, and there’s no personal correspondence in the files we’ve got from his house.’

And there didn’t seem to be anyone around who had really known Hazleton, especially when he’d been a young man.

‘There are also no receipts or invoices for the antiques in his house.’

And Horton couldn’t see why he should throw those away when they would add value to the items, unless Hazleton
had
come by them illegally.

‘Is the Super there?’

‘Yes.’

On the ferry, Horton finally managed to get hold of Uckfield. ‘I’d like to bring in an expert to tell us something about the antiques and paintings in Hazleton’s house,’ he said as soon as Uckfield grunted a reply. ‘I know someone we can ask. I’ll arrange it for tomorrow and I’d like to come over to hear what he has to say.’

‘Don’t see how that can help,’ Uckfield said tetchily, but when Horton remained silent he grudgingly agreed, adding, ‘Dean’s given authorization for you and Cantelli to continue working on the team until Saturday morning. He hopes by then we’ll have found Lisle’s body or at least evidence to confirm he murdered Yately and Hazleton.’

Horton wasn’t convinced they’d be able to meet that deadline and by the sound of it Uckfield wasn’t either. He relayed what Dr Clayton had told them about the dress. Uckfield said he’d get Marsden to check it out with Rachel Salter.

Horton rang off, leaving either Trueman or Dennings to tell Uckfield about the archive file. He then called Walters, who had nothing new to report on Russell Glenn. ‘You’re lucky you got me, Guv. I’ve been answering the phone all morning.’

‘Anything I should know about?’

‘PC Seaton’s picked up a report of a white transit van seen close to the last house that was burgled which matches with one seen at another of the properties.’

‘Sounds hopeful. Follow it up.’ That also reminded Horton about the CCTV footage of the blue van. He gave instructions to Walters to retrieve the disc from his desk and send it across to the Scientific Services department, then asked for the telephone number of the superyacht. A couple of minutes later, Horton punched it in and asked to speak to Mrs Glenn, announcing himself with his rank.

‘Hello Andy, don’t tell me you can’t make it tomorrow night. I heard about the body found in the sea on the Isle of Wight,’ she said anxiously.

‘No, everything should be fine for tomorrow.’ Of course he wasn’t sure that it would be with regards to the murder investigation, but he was determined to make that charity reception come hell or high water. He had an unscheduled appointment with Russell Glenn.

‘I was hoping you could give me Oliver Vernon’s telephone number. I’d like his help.’

‘On the case?’ she asked, surprised.

‘I need an antiques expert.’

‘Ah. He’s staying on board. In fact he’s with me now. I’ll hand you over. It’s Inspector Horton,’ he heard her say.

Horton swiftly explained what he needed.

‘Delighted to help, Inspector.’

‘Would eleven fifteen at the Hover terminal on the Isle of Wight be all right with you, Mr Vernon?’

‘Fine.’

‘We’ll send a car to collect you. You should be back on the mainland in plenty of time for the charity reception and auction. Can I take your mobile number in case I need to get hold of you or change arrangements?’

Vernon relayed it before handing the phone back to Avril. She said, ‘Is Oliver allowed to tell me about it when he returns?’

‘I’ll let him know. It depends on what he finds.’

‘Of course. Perhaps you’ll be able to tell me all about it tomorrow night, if the case has been solved.’

Horton hoped so but he wasn’t overly optimistic. He toyed with the idea of calling Bliss and updating her on Hazleton but as his death didn’t have any connection with a suspected terrorist attack, and as he and Cantelli were now officially working on the case, he decided not to. He stood for several moments watching the Portsmouth horizon draw closer and the ships making their way in and out of the old historic harbour. The day had clouded over and the wind was picking up. It carried the threat of rain. He was glad they’d made it back before the sea had become too rough, for Cantelli’s sake. As the ferry swung alongside the ancient walls of Old Portsmouth, Horton called the number Trueman had given him for the fashion expert and was pleased when she answered.

‘I was just about to call Sergeant Trueman,’ a pleasant female voice declared.

‘You have some information on the dress?’ Horton asked eagerly.

‘Yes. I wondered if you could call in at the university, Inspector. It might be easier to discuss this in person.’

Horton glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll be there in about forty minutes.’

SEVENTEEN

D
r Louise Adams greeted them warmly and offered them refreshment, ‘It’s from a machine, I’m afraid.’ They both refused. ‘I don’t blame you,’ she said smiling, pushing a hand through her long dark hair and waving them into seats in her small office, which was covered with pictures of fashion models, drawings and material samples. ‘The tea looks like bathwater and probably tastes like it too.’ She sat forward allowing Horton a glimpse of cleavage above the tightly fitting red dress. She was an amply proportioned woman in her mid forties and very attractive to look at, Horton thought. Clearly Cantelli agreed. In fact, Horton thought she reminded him of Charlotte Cantelli.

‘I’m so glad you asked me about the dress. It’s a fascinating find.’

In more ways than she meant, thought Horton. She’d been told it had been found in the sea but not how. Horton wondered if she’d made the leap between that and the news of the body being recovered from the Solent on Monday. They’d dropped Dr Clayton off at the hospital much to her chagrin; she said she would love to have heard what Dr Adams had to say but she was due in a meeting. Horton promised he’d update her. Outside the rain was spitting at the window in fitful bursts and the afternoon was drawing in as Louise Adams continued.

‘It’s in extremely good condition.’ Her lively eyes flashed with excitement as she smoothed her jewelled fingers over the evidence bag containing the dress. ‘I’m very honoured and thrilled to have been given the opportunity to examine it, thank you. Her dresses are such rare gems.’ Her dusky skin flushed with animation. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t said who. It’s a design by Thea Porter.’

Dr Clayton had got the first name correct. They both stared at Louise Adams blankly. She smiled. ‘You’ve never heard of her. But then you wouldn’t be expected to, but she was extremely well known in the 1960s and 1970s.’

Horton said, ‘Tell us about her.’

‘Gladly. She was such an amazing woman. Born in Jerusalem on December twenty-fourth, 1927, raised in Syria, studied at London University and Royal Holloway College, Egham, Surrey. She was small, with red hair, loyal, generous and some would say a little eccentric; others, including myself, would say she was extremely artistic, talented and inspirational. Her designs are wonderfully magical and mystical but she wasn’t a very good businesswoman. Her business went into liquidation in 1981, but she started again a year later. She had so much energy, you couldn’t keep her down.’ Louise Adams beamed at them and both men found themselves smiling back. Her enthusiasm was infectious, thought Horton.

She leant further across her desk allowing Horton an even greater glimpse of cleavage of which she seemed totally unaware.

‘Thea Porter started by importing kaftans to cut up and make into huge cushions, but quickly saw that in 1966 kaftans were fashionable so she began to make them to her own designs using furnishing fabrics and braid. She became very popular with the rich and famous. Her clothes were very sexy like she was. She designed dresses and blouses in chiffon and expensive soft fabrics.’

Horton interjected. ‘So whoever once owned these dresses would have had money?’

‘Oh, yes. Even to buy one now, second, third or fourth hand, would cost a small fortune, unless you were very lucky indeed to stumble across one in a charity shop or jumble sale. Her clothes are often auctioned by Christie’s. They’re very sought after, especially in America.’

Cantelli looked up from his notebook. ‘Were her clothes on sale in America in the 1960s?’

‘They were, in New York in 1968, and she had another shop in Paris from 1976 to 1979. She mixed with rich, famous and powerful people but she was never overawed by them. She was loved by her friends but she was too unique and individual to be loved by all the fashion press, though she had her fans.’

And was Abigail Lisle one of them? wondered Horton doubtfully. It didn’t sound like it.

Dr Adams sat back and continued. ‘As the sixties gave way to the seventies the mini-skirt, though still popular, gave way to a choice of other styles. Women could choose between mini- midi- or maxi-skirts and a multitude of styles and influences, very much like the fashions of today, I’m pleased to say. Back then there was the hippy style, nostalgia for the past, first for the twenties, then the thirties, forties and fifties and finally the Edwardian era, and that’s what this dress reflects. During the 1970s Thea began to design high-waisted midi- and maxi-dresses with voluminous sleeves in luxurious brocades, which you can see in this dress in the rich gold, red and black silk cord. Thea’s Edwardian look also featured vintage trimmings, and this dress has them on the high neck, and on the end of the sleeves as a ruffle.’

Horton said, ‘So this is definitely a design from the 1970s.’

‘Yes, about 1975 or 1976, I’d say. In 1994, Thea got a form of Alzheimer’s and died on the twenty-fourth of July, 2000.’

‘What sort of woman would have bought these clothes?’ asked Horton.

‘One who loved quality,’ was Dr Adams’ instant reply. ‘A very feminine woman who wasn’t afraid to show it. A confident woman; artistic, successful, wealthy, knowledgeable.’

And that didn’t sound like Abigail Lisle from what he’d heard from Rodney Chandler at Wallingford and Chandler, and it didn’t match with what Rachel Salter had said about her mother either. But perhaps Abigail Lisle had once been that woman, before her son and daughter had been born. How old had Abigail been in 1975? Twenty-five, twenty-six?

‘A young woman?’ asked Cantelli, following Horton’s train of thought.

Dr Adams considered her reply for a moment. ‘Older rather than younger, and by that I mean a woman between thirty and fifty, give or take a few years. A woman roughly a British size fourteen and five foot six, who could carry off these clothes.’

Dr Clayton’s estimate was spot on then. The age range as well as the height and size sounded wrong for the dress to belong to Abigail Lisle, though Horton wasn’t discounting it completely yet, not until he heard back from Trueman. If the dress hadn’t belonged to Abigail, and it certainly wasn’t Margaret Yately’s, then what had happened to this woman after 1976? And why had Colin Yately, a former postman, been found wearing it? Had he known this woman? Had Victor Hazleton known her? Although he was a humble clerk in the seventies, had he dated a wealthy, free-spirited and artistic woman? And had that woman a connection with Harold Jenkins, deceased?

‘How often would you say the dress has been worn?’

Horton knew that Trueman would have the full forensic report, which would hopefully give them that information and more about where the dress had been kept. Unless the submersion in the sea had destroyed the evidence, and that might have been exactly what the killer had intended.

‘It’s difficult to be certain,’ Dr Adams answered, ‘because the fabric is of such high quality and the stitching so superb. But there is no sign of wear, no fading, and the seams are as strong as if they’d just been sewn. I would say it’s not been worn very much at all.’

And was that because the owner had died shortly after buying it?

‘Can you tell us where it was bought?’

‘Not precisely, and I couldn’t swear on oath to it, but most probably in New York.’

‘So a woman who lived abroad or travelled?’

‘Or was there on holiday or business, either alone or with her husband. Unless it was purchased for her by someone and brought back to this country. But equally, Inspector, she could have bought it in London. I’m sorry to be so vague.’

‘No, you’ve been a great help. Would records of Thea Porter’s customers still exist?’

‘Unlikely but you could try the Victoria and Albert Museum. They might be able to help you.’

Horton thanked her. On the way back to the station he chewed over what he’d learnt and where that took them. Reading his thoughts, Cantelli said, ‘Just because she bought the dress in 1976 or thereabouts doesn’t mean to say that’s when she disappeared or died. She could have lived until this year. But if the dress belonged to the late Harold Jenkins and his estate, then surely it would have been sold or destroyed long ago.’

Horton agreed, and there was no connection they’d discovered yet between Yately and the late Harold Jenkins. There was nothing for it but solid background work, checks and double-checks. Horton said nothing of his idea about a missing woman, or one that had died in mysterious circumstances during the seventies. It didn’t seem relevant now because, as Cantelli had indicated, the woman could have lived a lot longer than that. Nevertheless, the idea had taken root in his mind and Horton knew that he would have to check.

In the major incident suite Horton relayed to Trueman and Uckfield what Dr Louise Adams had told them.

Grouchily, Uckfield said, ‘Marsden’s just called in to confirm that Abigail Lisle was five foot four and slim, a size ten dress, according to her daughter, but that doesn’t mean Lisle didn’t kill Yately or Hazleton and then himself, or that Abigail hadn’t had an affair with both men. The dress could still have belonged to her. It could have been her mother’s or a friend’s or a charity find, and she knew its value and treasured it. Lisle couldn’t bear to part with it on his wife’s death until he discovered her diaries, or maybe Yately’s diaries, when he was in his flat one day, and made Yately wear it and drown in it as some kind of sick ritualistic killing.’