A Killing Coast (28 page)

It made some kind of sense, but Horton still wasn’t sure.

Uckfield added, ‘I’ll get Trueman working on this Sarah Walpen. We’ve no sightings of Lisle for the weekend between Yately’s death and his showing up at Yately’s apartment, so perhaps he was hiding out at Hazleton’s house and that was when the guilt set in.’

Horton thought of those blows that had killed Hazleton. Could Arthur Lisle have inflicted them? People were capable of all sorts of terrible things when desperate, angry or provoked.

Uckfield continued, ‘We’ve got a sighting of Yately, but it’s for the wrong time. It’s the Monday before he was killed. He travelled to Southampton on the hi-speed Red Jet. Bought his ticket by cash, but one of the staff there recognized him. She’s been interviewed and it seems genuine but I can’t see how that helps us.’

And neither could Horton.

Uckfield said, ‘He probably went to do some sightseeing. Apparently he was carrying a briefcase and camera.’

‘I didn’t see either in Yately’s apartment, not on my first visit or our second one.’

There was a minute pause before Uckfield said curtly, ‘I’ll check with Taylor.’

Horton knew Taylor would confirm that neither had been in the flat, and Horton didn’t recall the witness mentioning Lisle carrying them. Lisle might already have put them in his car before returning to Yately’s flat when the witness had seen him. Or he could have put both in the briefcase, unless Yately had taken them with him when he’d met his killer. And why would he do that?
Because the briefcase and camera contained something that would incriminate the killer in the death of Sarah Walpen
. Horton’s pulse quickened. And if that were so, then had Yately gone to Southampton on the Monday before his death to collect and photograph the final piece of evidence? What was it? Horton needed to think and there was one place to do it: Victor Hazleton’s house.

When he reached it, there was no sign of the patrol car or Oliver Vernon. He must have finished his cataloguing and been taken to the Hovercraft terminal. Perhaps the sight of the bank of fog Horton could see out to sea beyond a RIB had persuaded Vernon to call it a day, and time was getting on. Horton checked the house; it was securely locked but he recalled Vernon’s advice about removing the valuable items. They’d have to see to that tonight.

As he crossed Hazleton’s garden, Horton’s thoughts returned to Colin Yately and his trip to Southampton. If Yately had been on the Sarah Walpen trail then what had taken him to Southampton? The city might not have been his final destination. He could have caught the train to London.

Horton stood at the top of the cliff path as his mind raced with possibilities. If he was correct in thinking that Sarah Walpen was returning to the Isle of Wight where she’d purchased a property through Wallingford and Chandler, then how would she have been travelling? By aeroplane? The city of Southampton had an airport but it didn’t take transatlantic flights, not even now when it was a bloody sight bigger than it had been when she must have returned. And they didn’t know exactly when that was, but it had to be before Victor Hazleton had retired prematurely early in 1986, when he’d suddenly had enough money to live like a gentleman, and most probably after October 1980, when Arthur Lisle thought he’d handled the property conveyance. But Southampton, like Portsmouth, did have a port and the Southampton port, then as now, took the big cruise liners. With excitement Horton recalled the book he’d seen on the table in Arthur Lisle’s dining room on British passenger ships. Now, Horton knew exactly where Colin Yately had been visiting on the Monday before his death: the headquarters of the company owning the cruise ships which sailed from Southampton.

He reached for his phone. Uckfield was engaged. Horton called Cantelli. After bringing him up to speed, he said, ‘Contact the shipping company headquarters in Southampton and find out if Sarah Walpen was a passenger on any of their liners sailing into Southampton in the period from October 1980 to December 1985. If so, which one? Find out when it docked and if Sarah Walpen disembarked.’

‘Surely she must have done, otherwise she’d have been reported missing.’

Horton knew she hadn’t been. Rapidly thinking, he said, ‘Then Hazleton must have met her at her house and killed her there.’

He turned and stared at Hazleton’s house. Into his mind drifted a fragment of the interview with the Walkers.
He was always coming back with something he’d picked up at some market or antique shop.
Or rather, Horton thought, picked up from Sarah Walpen’s house, which meant it had to be close by, because it was the reason why Hazleton had fed those false stories to the police all these years about smugglers and illegal immigrants. It was a bluff. Hazleton didn’t want the police to investigate. On the contrary he wanted everyone to think he was a crank, because that way he could come and go as he pleased and he could steal from Sarah Walpen’s house without anyone knowing about it. That was until Colin Yately had turned up. And Horton thought he knew exactly where Sarah Walpen’s house had to be.

TWENTY

I
t took him forty minutes to find it. It would have taken less but for the fog, which had rapidly rolled in and was now so thick he could barely see a yard in front of him. The air was still and deathly silent, except for the occasional boom of the foghorns filling him with a chill foreboding that seemed to reach inside and squeeze the breath from him. He knew that Sarah’s house had to be well screened from both the sea and any road or track that had once led to it because no one had discovered it for over thirty years, and that meant it had become overgrown with shrubs and trees. He remembered seeing a dense copse of trees when he’d explored this area on Wednesday and headed towards it. With relief and excitement he soon found himself on a well trodden narrow path that Victor Hazleton had frequently used. From out of the fog suddenly loomed a sprawling derelict Victorian house which must once have been a splendid building. How fortunate for Hazleton to have bought his house on the cliff top so close to it. Or was it? Perhaps he had made the owners an offer they couldn’t refuse.

Horton thought about returning to Hazleton’s house where he could pick up a mobile phone signal and call in with the location, but he decided that he should wait for the fog to clear. From his years spent sailing he was acutely aware that fog was very disorientating and he might think he was heading for Hazleton’s house when in reality he could be going in the opposite direction, or worse, end up falling over the cliff and into the sea.

His thoughts flicked to Russell Glenn and the reception on board the superyacht. Glancing at his watch he saw it was only just after four o’clock. It felt much later than that because of the fog and the fact that so much had happened. But it meant he had time to explore here, return to Hazleton’s house, and get back to Portsmouth in time for the charity reception at eight thirty. He didn’t want to miss that and his chance to talk to Glenn.

He found a rough path cut through the undergrowth and followed it to the rear of the house. The ivy, brambles and weeds had been cleared from the door, so it was clearly Hazleton’s way inside. Horton pushed at it and it gave easily to his touch. The fog seemed thicker now and Horton reached for his pencil torch. Its thin beam of light barely pierced the gloomy interior as he stepped inside and on to a filthy flagstone floor. It was dark and dank, and perhaps it was the fog stretching its cold tentacles inside, along with the groaning bindweed, that made it feel evil and caused him to shiver. But there was no mistaking the rancid smell that permeated the air. It was death.

He tensed and edged forward. The fog soaked up the meagre light his small torch emitted, but he could make out a few items that told him he was in what had once been the kitchen. Moving into a passageway he was relieved to find sturdy flagstones underneath him instead of gaping rotten floorboards. To his left was what remained of a staircase torn apart by ivy and weeds. The smell was worse here and a cold sweat gripped him as his heart raced with the inevitability of what he would ultimately find. Crossing the hall he stepped inside another room. The darkness was too deep to penetrate, however the stench told him what was there, but not who. The breath caught in his throat. One thing for certain, it wasn’t Sarah Walpen. She’d be bones by now.

Beneath him now were floorboards and a glance down warned that a step forward could result in injury. And it would take a long time for anyone to find him,
if
they ever did. He didn’t want to end up like Arthur Lisle, because he was convinced that was who he would find in the next room. And he wasn’t about to verify that, not now, not alone, and not in the dark and the fog. It was definitely time to leave. He turned to go.

It was all wrong, though. If Hazleton had agreed to meet Lisle here and had then killed him, how did he end up in the boot of Lisle’s car? Simple, Hazleton hadn’t killed Lisle, but had stumbled on someone doing just that and so had to be killed himself. And who the blazes could that be? Was it the same person who had killed Yately? It had to be. And that person had put that dress on Yately’s body, hoping that it would be identified. But that was a very long shot, and the killer hadn’t done it as revenge for Sarah’s death, because why kill Yately when he had nothing to do with it? Sarah didn’t have any relatives, and if she’d had a lover, he’d be a very old man by now, much older than Hazleton, and incapable of carrying out three killings. So why had Yately’s killer wanted the body in that dress? And why had Yately’s killer wanted him silenced and the trail covered up with the further killings of Lisle and Hazleton?

The house creaked and groaned as the fog reached inside. It felt as though the place was giving itself up to the dead.
Time to leave
. He could reason all this out in the safety of Hazleton’s driveway or on the ferry back to Portsmouth, not here. He stepped forward. The floor creaked behind him. Spinning round, he could see nothing and no one. He turned and his foot caught on something. Experience and instinct told him what it was. Surely he couldn’t have been so disorientated as to have stumbled into the room and found Arthur Lisle. But no, there was the rotting staircase to his right. He’d gone further into the passageway instead of the kitchen. His breathing laboured as he played the thin beam of his torch on the floor. Steadily, with his heart pounding, he took in the bloody mess of the head, the sightless staring eyes. But there was no mistaking who it was. With a shock he saw that it was Russell Glenn. Shit! He’d killed himself.

That was Horton’s first thought; his second was anger that the chance of interrogating Glenn to find out if he’d had a connection with Jennifer had been snatched from him. His third was disappointment, followed by the realization that Glenn hadn’t killed himself. For a start there was no gun and Glenn had been shot in the head. And from what he could see, Glenn hadn’t been dead for very long. Horton hadn’t heard a shot but the fog could have muffled the sound, and neither had he heard any vehicle approaching. He stiffened. He had seen a boat though before the fog had come in. A RIB. Russell Glenn’s RIB. He must have been coming here to meet his killer. And who the hell could that be? More to the point, was the killer still here?

Horton spun round, sensing rather than hearing someone behind him, but he was too late. The blow struck him across the back of his head, and as his legs buckled beneath him and his face hit the dirt and dust of the rotten floorboards Dr Clayton’s words flashed before him:
a single blow to the back of the head is rarely enough to kill someone unless the victim is unfortunate enough to have a thin skull, but several blows can
. The last thing Horton wondered as the darkness swallowed him up was what type of skull he had.

TWENTY-ONE

T
he thick type was the answer, thankfully, because a short time later, maybe only minutes, Horton opened his eyes to find his head pounding and his mouth full of dust. Gingerly, he rose, trying to focus his vision in the dark, wondering why the killer hadn’t finished him off, but immensely grateful that he hadn’t.

He staggered up, swaying a little. His head was hurting but he was alive, and that was the main thing, not like Glenn beside him. Horton couldn’t immediately see his torch and he wasn’t going to waste time searching for it. He only hoped he could find his way out of the house without it and not stumble over Lisle’s body deeper in the dark interior.

His eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom and within a couple of minutes he found himself staggering through the kitchen and, with relief, outside into the damp clinging fog. Hastily, he followed the path to the front of the house. He recalled there was a turn and then it was straight ahead to the low cliff top. Clearly, Glenn had come on the RIB into the bay either alone or with his killer. If he’d come unknowingly with his killer, then the RIB would be the murderer’s means of escape. And if Glenn had come alone for his rendezvous, then either there was another boat down in the bay or the killer had already been on the Island. Horton knew that no one could have got close enough to the house by road, but it was always a possibility that the killer had a car parked further away.

But no, Horton heard the spluttering of a boat engine and hurried in its direction towards the bay. The killer was a fool to try and get away in the fog. He could be dashed to pieces on the rocks, and Horton very much wanted this killer alive. His mind was racing with thoughts at Glenn’s unexpected death. Who could have wanted him dead and why? How was it connected with Sarah Walpen – because it had to be, why else would Russell Glenn have come to her house? Had Glenn killed Colin Yately, Arthur Lisle and Victor Hazleton to prevent a secret from being exposed?

Horton recalled the expression on Glenn’s face when he’d come on deck and stared at him on Monday evening. He thought he’d witnessed recognition and thought it had been directed at him, but perhaps it hadn’t been. Perhaps there had been someone nearby or behind Horton who had caught Glenn’s attention. And Horton swiftly recalled what Cantelli had told him: Glenn had joined the Merchant Navy in 1968, working on cargo ships and tankers, joining Carnival Cruises in 1978 until 1981. Then he’d re-emerged in the UK in 1985 with enough money to buy up a chain of hotels. Where had that money come from? Not from a merchant seaman’s pay.