Horton felt the first lean spits of rain as the launch motored past the naval ships and eased its way towards the deserted quayside, not far from the gigantic berths of the commercial ferry port, where a continental ferry was belching out black smoke preparatory to sailing. The wiry dark-haired figure on the quayside looked up at the sound of the launch and a few minutes later Horton was replacing his sailing jacket for his leather one. He told Elkins that Cantelli would give him a lift back to Gosport Marina to collect his Harley and that they’d let him know what they discovered about the dead woman.
As Cantelli pointed the car in the direction of the hospital mortuary, he said solemnly, ‘From what I saw of her, Andy, she looks as though she’s been dead a few days.’
And Horton knew what that meant. He primed himself for the ordeal that lay ahead.
‘There was something odd about her though,’ Cantelli continued. ‘It was her dress. Kind of old-fashioned I’d say: long-sleeved, high-neck and down to her ankles, and she was wearing trainers.’
That could possibly rule out suicide because most suicides removed their shoes before wading into the water to drown. ‘Old or young?’
Cantelli pulled a face as he considered this then shook his head. ‘Couldn’t say.’
‘That bad, eh?’
‘Yep.’ There was a moment’s silence before Cantelli added, ‘The clothes don’t fit the descriptions of any of the three missing women but that doesn’t mean it isn’t one of them. They could have changed.’
‘Does Bliss know about it?’
‘I haven’t told her.’
Then he would, and he also needed to report back on his interview with Victor Hazleton, which he swiftly told Cantelli about before trying Bliss’s number. He got her voicemail. He didn’t think there was any urgency to leave a message or call her on her mobile. He’d try again after they had the preliminary report from Dr Clayton, and by then they might have an identification.
Horton’s stomach did its usual double somersault as the smell of the mortuary greeted them. Cantelli popped a fresh piece of gum in his mouth to try and distract him from it, but Horton knew nothing would, as he nodded at Tom, the mortuary attendant.
‘Just finished taking photographs of her,’ Tom said jerking his head at the fully clothed, filthy body on the slab. ‘I’ll fetch Dr Clayton.’
Horton took a breath and ran his eyes over the corpse. Cantelli was right, judging by the deterioration she’d clearly been dead for some time. There wasn’t a great deal left of the soft tissue of the face; the eyelids, nose, lips and ears had all been chewed by the marine life. What remained was filthy, and what was left of the hair was matted with dirt, seaweed and sea life. The clothes were, as Cantelli had described, rather unusual. The dress was covered in multicoloured small flowers and had a ruffle at the neck, long voluminous sleeves with ruffles on the wrists and a high waistband that fell just under the breast. There were no pockets that he could see, but he hoped there might be some identification on her. What was left of the hands was dark bluish-pink and there were no rings.
The door from the anteroom swung open and Horton looked up to see the petite figure of Gaye Clayton advancing toward them with a smile of greeting on her freckled face. Despite the circumstances Horton found himself smiling back.
‘Let’s see what you’ve got for us this time,’ she said cheerfully, running her practised eye over the corpse. ‘Well, I can certainly certify death. As to the time, I’ll be more precise when I conduct the autopsy, which I’ve scheduled for first thing tomorrow morning, but I’ll give you an estimate once we’ve undressed her.’
Horton watched her ease down the ruffle around the neck and caught a glimpse of a slightly quizzical expression as she studied the head and neck.
‘I can’t see any obvious signs of cause of death, no bullet or stab wounds, and no visible marks of strangulation, although there is trauma to the skull, but that could have been caused by the body coming into contact with an obstruction in the sea.’ She stepped back and nodded at Tom to begin undressing the body.
Horton tensed in anticipation and sensed Cantelli’s heightened interest beside him as Tom eased off the sodden trainers.
‘Size nine,’ he announced, turning them over. ‘Cheap, ordinary chain store make, marking too faint to read. Well worn, especially on the right foot, but size still visible on the sole.’ He dropped them into one of the evidence bags on the nearby trolley.
Surprised, Horton said, ‘Large feet for a woman. How tall would you say she was?’
‘Five foot ten, maybe eleven,’ answered Gaye. ‘We’ll measure the body, of course.’
Consulting his notebook, Cantelli said, ‘Karen Jenkins, the missing forty-year-old, is five three, and the teenagers are five four and five six. So we can positively rule out all three.’
So who was she? Had anyone missed her? Perhaps she had lived alone. Horton watched Tom’s big hands ease the dress up the purple, half-chewed flesh of the legs. He frowned in puzzlement as a pair of dark-coloured lightweight shorts came into view.
‘Unusual underwear for a woman,’ Cantelli said.
‘But not completely unknown,’ added Gaye.
Cantelli stopped chewing. ‘She’s wearing a T-shirt.’
‘So am I, Sergeant, under this get-up,’ Gaye replied, brightly, pointing at her mortuary garb.
‘Yeah, but there are T-shirts and T-shirts, and that one looks more like a-’
‘Vest,’ furnished Horton, thoughtfully. It was loose, round-necked and short-sleeved, not the sort of garment to compliment the intricate and old-fashioned dress that Tom was now holding. And there was something else peculiar about the body, but before Horton could express it, Tom said, ‘There’s a label inside but with only faint markings on it. There’s also a pocket in the side. It’s zipped up. There’s something in it.’
Horton’s pulse quickened as Tom eased the small zip down, thrust his big hand inside it and retrieved a small object. It was a plastic key fob minus the keys and inside the small plastic case, shaped like a Christmas tree, was a perfectly preserved picture of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, with dark curly hair and a broad smile.
Cantelli studied it, puzzled. ‘Could that be a daughter or granddaughter who has died and, distraught, this woman took her own life?’
It was possible, Horton supposed, but it could also be a photograph of the corpse itself taken when younger. Tom put the key ring into a small evidence bag and handed it to Cantelli, then he folded the dress carefully into another evidence bag. Gaye stepped closer to the corpse.
‘Anything wrong?’ Horton asked as her brow furrowed.
‘Plenty, but please go on, Tom.’
Horton saw a knowing glance pass between them. He dashed a look at Cantelli and got raised eyebrows in return. With his heart beating fast Horton watched as the mortuary attendant eased the shorts carefully down the decaying legs. Cantelli gave a low whistle and Horton drew in a sharp breath. He could see exactly what was ‘wrong’ but it was Gaye who expressed it.
‘As I suspected, your she is a he,’ she said brightly, pointing to the genitals.
And a missing man wearing a dress certainly put a new slant on things, thought Horton. It was an opinion Cantelli ventured twenty minutes later as they headed towards Gosport Marina to collect Horton’s Harley. There were no further surprises from the body and no indication either from Dr Clayton of the cause of death. She estimated the man was aged between thirty-five and sixty and that he’d been dead four to five days, which took them back to last Wednesday or Thursday. There was nothing to indicate, at this stage, it was a suspicious death, and although Horton didn’t much care for the fact that the corpse had been wearing a dress there was no law against it.
‘A transvestite?’ Cantelli posed.
The dress wasn’t sexy but then Horton knew it didn’t need to be. ‘Don’t transvestites usually wear women’s underwear? Isn’t that what gives them the buzz, wearing something feminine
and sexy close to the skin?’
‘If you say so. Maybe he didn’t have time to put it all on, go the whole hog.’
‘Possibly. But the dress, as you pointed out, Barney, is old-fashioned.’
‘Perhaps it was his mother’s. Depressed over her death he decided to end his life wearing her favourite dress. Or perhaps he liked dressing up, got drunk, went cavorting around the beach on a full moon and thought he’d seen Amphitrite beckon to him from the sea.’
‘Who?’ asked Horton, throwing Cantelli a surprised look.
‘Greek goddess, Queen of the Sea. I thought being a seafaring type you would know that,’ Cantelli grinned. ‘Marie’s got a thing about Greek mythology. Says it’s helping her to write her first fantasy novel.’
Marie, at twelve, was the third of Cantelli’s five children and had recently won a scholarship to a private school where she was blossoming. Horton hoped the same would apply to Emma.
Cantelli said, ‘Or perhaps he was at a fancy dress party and always carried that picture with him, so he put it in the pocket, got pilled up, wandered off and fell into the sea from a cliff.’
In this job, thought Horton, they’d all seen ten incredible things before breakfast so anything was possible. Should there have been keys on the key ring though, he wondered, staring through the rain-soaked windscreen as Cantelli headed past the old town quay at Fareham down towards Gosport. And if so, where were they? Or had he simply carried the fob because of the picture?
‘The girl’s name might be on the reverse of that photograph,’ Cantelli suggested, following Horton’s train of thought.
‘That would be nice.’ Horton didn’t think it would be that simple, though. ‘Send it over to Joliffe and ask if someone in the forensic lab can open it without damaging it. Get a photograph of it first though.’ He called Walters who took an age to answer. ‘I was beginning to think Russell Glenn must have offered you a job as a security officer on his superyacht,’ Horton grumbled.
‘He’s already got one, with muscles like Schwarzenegger.’
‘A broad-shouldered man with cropped hair.’
‘Yeah, how do you know that?’
‘I know a lot of things, Walters, like you’re eating your way through a packet of Hobnobs.’
Walters swallowed noisily. ‘That boat’s bloody huge, Guv. And it’s got this state of the art security system that would make the scum cry.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Infra sensors in every room-’
‘Cabin,’ corrected Horton.
‘Yeah, and a GPS locator and notification system, which can raise the alarm by all means known to mankind. It’s got an ignition immobilizer security alarm, as well as a marine security system alarm with a siren for every cabin, which is broadcast so loud that everyone will think the three minute warning’s gone off, or so Schwarzenegger claims.’
‘And his real name?’
‘Lloyd.’
‘First or surname?’
‘Dunno. Just said he was called Lloyd.’
Horton sighed. How Walters had got to be a DC was a mystery to them all. ‘Well let’s hope he never has to put it to the test; on my patch at least,’ Horton added, thinking that with the increase in pirate attacks on superyachts and commercial shipping in other less friendly waters Glenn probably needed all the security he could afford, and that was clearly a great deal.
Walters said that the press had been on asking for a statement about the body recovered from the sea. Cantelli could deal with it when he returned. He asked Walters to check for reports of missing men since Wednesday, then tried Bliss’s line with the same result as before, getting her voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message. He’d be back at the station soon.
Cantelli dropped him outside the marina office where Horton asked the manager if he or any of the staff knew anything about the muddy blue van parked there that morning. No one claimed even to have seen it, but when the manager checked the CCTV footage on Horton’s request there it was. It was difficult though to make out the registration number or any occupants, and no one alighted from it, which worried Horton. He headed back to the station with a copy of the footage after leaving instructions he was to be called if anyone saw the van in the marina. He wondered if the CCTV camera at the front of Adrian Stanley’s apartments might have picked up a sighting of it, but then he remembered that the camera was only focused on the gated entrance and front door and not on the promenade.
Bliss’s car was in its allotted spot and Horton hoped he’d be able to get to his office without her accosting him. He stopped off in the canteen realizing it had been some time since he’d last eaten and was paying for his sandwiches when Cantelli appeared.
‘A young woman’s just come in to report her father, Colin Yately, has been missing since Thursday. She heard about the body being found on the news, they didn’t give out the gender, and she’s concerned it could be him,’ he said excitedly.
‘And?’ Horton asked knowing there was more by Cantelli’s expression.
‘She’s the girl in the key fob.’
THREE
Hannah Yately looked up from her plastic cup of tea with a worried frown on her attractive dark features. Her chocolate-brown eyes swivelled between them and must have read something in their expression because her face paled and tears welled up. She was accompanied by a man in his early thirties and both were dressed in the black-suited uniform of the hotel across the road from the station. Even before the man introduced himself as Damien King, Horton saw it on his name badge.
‘It’s Dad, isn’t it? That body in the sea,’ she stammered. The man beside her squeezed her hand and turned an anxious expression on them.
This was the part of the job Horton hated the most, breaking the bad news to relatives, if indeed the man in the mortuary was this girl’s father; just because her picture had been found on the dead man it didn’t mean to say it was him. That could have been planted. But somehow he didn’t think so. And how did you tell a daughter that her father had been found dead wearing a woman’s dress? Simple answer: you didn’t, not until you were sure it was him.
Horton began gently. ‘Why do you think your father is missing, Miss Yately?’
Her troubled eyes flitted to Damien King. Horton guessed he was also her boyfriend as well as a work colleague. King gave an encouraging nod.
‘Dad and I see one another once a fortnight, on a Thursday,’ Hannah began. ‘We go for a meal at Oyster Quays. Dad calls me the Wednesday before just to make sure it’s OK and I haven’t got to work. I said it was fine but he didn’t show up, and he didn’t call me either. I telephoned him but didn’t get an answer. I thought he must have changed his mind. Dad doesn’t have an answer machine and he refuses to have a mobile phone or a computer. So I couldn’t contact him, and Damien and I were in London from Friday morning and all weekend. We stayed at one of the hotels in the chain we work for, just for a break.’ Her face flushed deep red and Damien looked down at his hands. Horton guessed she felt guilty at having put her poor old dad completely out of her mind until this morning. ‘I rang Dad this morning but there wasn’t an answer. I thought he must have gone out. I tried him again at lunchtime, nothing, and then just after two o’clock when Damien heard on the local news that a body had been found in the Solent, I, well, we. .’ She fought to hold back the tears.
Horton wondered why she hadn’t visited her father, but he’d save that question for later. He recalled Dr Clayton’s estimate of time of death. Had Colin Yately set out to meet his daughter last Thursday and had an accident? But no; not in that dress. It didn’t sound as though he’d killed himself, not if he’d spoken to his daughter on Wednesday and arranged to meet her, but they only had Hannah Yately’s word on that. How could they be sure the conversation had gone as she said? Maybe they rowed and Yately, distraught, had decided to end his life. Horton wasn’t sure where the dress came into it because he didn’t think it was Hannah’s, but who could tell? Time for speculation l
ater. Facts first.
‘What time did he call you on Wednesday?’ he asked.
‘Six o’clock.’
‘On your mobile?’
‘Yes.’
They might at least be able to check that if they needed to.
‘How did he sound?’
‘Happy,’ she answered miserably.
‘And you were looking forward to seeing him?’
‘Of course,’ she frowned, clearly bewildered by his questions. If they had rowed she wasn’t going to mention it and there were no telltale flushes of guilt.
‘Did he know you were going away together for the weekend?’ Horton’s eyes swivelled to Damien’s and back to Hannah’s.
‘Yes.’
Horton noted that Damien hadn’t been invited to the Thursday evening meal. He could have been working, Horton supposed. Or perhaps it was a father and daughter bonding thing. Yately might not approve of Damien. Or he might have held the opinion that no man would be good enough for his daughter.
Cantelli said, ‘Did your father say what he was going to do on Thursday before meeting you? Was he working?’
‘No. Dad’s retired,’ she replied. ‘We were meeting in the pizza restaurant as usual at about seven thirty. He was coming over on the Fastcat from the Isle of Wight. He lives in a flat at Ventnor.’
That explained why Hannah hadn’t visited her father to check if he was all right. But Colin Yately’s address, Horton noted, was not far from where Victor Hazleton lived. Could there be a connection between Yately’s death and Hazleton’s light at sea? Surely not. For a start he didn’t believe Hazleton and, secondly, they had no reason to believe Yately’s death was suspicious. And they could certainly check whether Colin Yately had ever caught the Fastcat or any ferry on Thursday.
Cantelli again. ‘Could you describe your father to us, Miss Yately.’
‘I have a photograph.’ She reached down into a handbag at her feet. Horton didn’t like to tell her it probably wouldn’t be much use in helping to identify their body.
A Killing Coast dah-7 Page 3
