Cantelli passed the photograph across to him. Standing beside Hannah Yately was an ordinary-looking sort of man in his mid fifties, slim-faced, with thinning brown hair, dressed in casual trousers and an open-necked checked shirt. The photograph had been taken in summer on the waterfront at Oyster Quays, with the Spinnaker Tower in the background.
Handing it back to Cantelli, Horton said, ‘How tall is your father?’
‘Five foot ten.’
About the height of their body.
‘Inspector, is it Dad?’ she asked, anxiously scrutinizing him.
Cantelli shifted beside him, sensing what he was about to say. There was no easy way to do this.
Gently he said, ‘The description fits your father, and we found this.’
At a nod from Horton, Cantelli reached under the folder on the desk and pushed across the photograph of the key fob. Hannah Yately let out a cry and then gulped noisily before beginning to sob. Cantelli slipped out and moments later returned with a plastic cup of water which he handed to Damien.
‘Drink this, Hannah,’ her boyfriend urged quietly, ashen-faced.
Horton said nothing until she had drunk and composed herself. ‘I understand this must be very upsetting for you, Miss Yately, and although that was found on the body it doesn’t necessarily mean it is your father. But I’m not going to get your hopes up because it seems probable that it is him. If so, we need to find out what happened after you spoke to him on Wednesday. Do you think you could answer a few more questions for us?’
After a moment she nodded.
‘Could you confirm that belongs to your father?’
‘Yes. I bought it for Dad for Christmas about six years ago. He always carries it with him.’
‘Does he keep his keys on it?’
‘Yes. Weren’t they with it?’ she said, surprised.
They weren’t but Horton wasn’t going to mention that yet. ‘Does your father have any distinguishing marks, tattoos, scars?’
She shook her head.
Cantelli said, ‘Has he had any surgery?’
She swallowed hard and tried to pull herself together. Horton admired her for that. ‘He broke his leg five years ago. He was knocked off his bike when working. He was a postman; he took early retirement three years ago. And he had surgery on his knee, cartilage problems, about ten years ago.’
‘So your father doesn’t work at all?’ enquired Cantelli.
‘No. He says he doesn’t need much to live on especially since him and Mum got divorced.’
So that ruled out him wearing his wife’s clothes, thought Horton, unless he secretly had a hankering for her and had taken some with him when they broke up, which was a bit weird but then he’d met some pretty weird people in this job.
Horton said, ‘When did they get divorced?’
‘They spilt up when Dad took retirement. The divorce came through about eighteen months after.’
‘How did he take it?’
‘He was relieved. My mum’s not the easiest person in the world to live with,’ she answered with an edge of defiance.
‘And where is that?’
‘Newport, on the Isle of Wight. My parents were married for twenty-three years, but when Dad retired from the post office Mum said it was bad enough suffering him at weekends and in the evenings, she couldn’t stand being cooped up with him every day and night. I’d already left home and moved here to live with my boyfriend.’ She looked as though she was going to cry again but Damien squeezed her shoulder and that seemed to give her the strength to continue. ‘I work as a receptionist at the Ferry Port Hotel and Damien’s assistant manager. Mum said she’d supported me through college and now she wanted a chance of real life, as she called it, and a bit of fun before she was too old. She seems to be having it too.’
Horton noted the bitterness in Hannah Yately’s tone.
‘I don’t have much contact with my mother. Dad got over Mum throwing him out long ago. In fact, I think it was a relief. They hadn’t much in common and Dad would never have left her, he’s the faithful type. Till death do us part and all that. .’ She stalled, as she realized what she’d said, but instead of the tears came anger. ‘If it is him then he must have had an accident. Why else would he have been in the sea? Does my mother know?’
‘We haven’t spoken to her.’ Horton added, ‘Did your father own a boat, Miss Yately?’
Her surprised expression gave him the answer before she confirmed this with a shake of her dark curls.
‘Did he know anyone with a boat, or ever go out sailing or fishing?’
‘He never mentioned it. You think he might have fallen overboard?’
‘It’s a possibility.’ Though Horton thought a remote one recalling how Yately had been dressed, unless he had been at a party on a boat, as Cantelli had posed. He said, ‘We’ll need to confirm identity.’
Her head came up, panic and alarm in her eyes. ‘You mean you want me to-’
‘No,’ Horton quickly reassured her. ‘We should be able to verify it is your father from fingerprints and DNA. Do you have a key to his flat? We need to check it out,’ he added, hoping that neither she nor Damien King would ask why they didn’t use the keys on the fob. Neither did. As she again reached down into her handbag, Horton wondered if they’d be able to check Colin Yately’s flat tonight.
‘Does your father own or rent the flat?’ he asked.
‘He rents it.’
So unless they could get hold of the landlord it would mean the local police making a forcible entry. Could it wait until tomorrow morning, by which time the keys could be sent over? A twelve hour delay probably wouldn’t make any difference, he told himself, and yet there was a chance that Yately could be lying ill or dead inside the flat, that he was not the body in the mortuary.
Cantelli took the two keys she handed to him. ‘One’s to the front door, the other’s to Dad’s flat,’ she said.
‘We’ll give you a receipt for it.’ Cantelli asked if she knew the name of the landlord. She did, but not his address. She thought it was somewhere in Shanklin.
Horton said, ‘What did your father do with his time?’ She looked a little bewildered so Horton elaborated. ‘He was retired so did he have any hobbies, interests?’ But he might just as well have asked her how far the planet Mars was judging by her expression. Hannah Yately had the self-obsession of youth and he guessed her doting father had been there on those dining-out occasions solely to listen to her and not the other way round. Still, he and Cantelli would do the same with their children when they reached Hannah’s age, and before that. Horton would give anything to spend a day listening to his daughter’s bright chatter.
‘He liked walking,’ Hannah Yately said hesitatingly, as if unsure whether that constituted a hobby.
‘Was there any particular place he liked walking, or did he have a favourite walk?’
‘I don’t know. He just walked.’ She eyed him with an air of desperation.
‘With anyone or alone?’
‘Alone. I think. I don’t know. He didn’t have any girlfriends if that’s what you mean, although he did seem happy. In fact, happier than I’d seen him in some time,’ she added, somewhat surprised that she had managed to recall this. ‘I asked him if he’d found himself a new woman; he laughed and said, better than that.’
‘What did he mean?’ asked Horton, interested in this new nugget of information and thinking of that dress.
‘I’ve no idea,’ she answered forlornly.
Cantelli said, ‘What about male friends? Was there anyone he was particularly close to or that he talked about?’
She shook her head. ‘Dad was very private. The so-called friends he did have were Mum’s and they disappeared quickly after they split up. I don’t know about his neighbours.’
Horton didn’t need a psychologist to tell him that Hannah Yately took her father’s side in the divorce. He again thought of his own daughter and hoped that he’d still be close to her when she was Hannah’s ag
e, despite Catherine’s determination to keep him at a distance.
There didn’t seem anything more Hannah Yately could tell them for the present. Cantelli got her father’s date of birth and address, and the address of her mother in Newport on the Island. He asked if she wanted them to call her mother.
She looked tempted, then pulled herself up. ‘No. I’ll speak to her.’
Horton said they’d let her know as soon as they had further news on her father, and confirmation it was him, and watched her leave.
On the way back to CID, Cantelli said, ‘I’ll contact the ferry companies.’
Horton fetched a black coffee from the machine in the corridor outside CID, and took it to his office where he opened the sandwiches he’d bought earlier. As he ate Hannah Yately’s comment jarred at him. I asked him if he’d found himself a new woman; he laughed and said, better than that. Had Yately found himself a new man and had something gone wrong between them, resulting in his body ending up in the sea? According to his daughter it was five days since he’d disappeared, but that didn’t mean his death was suspicious. And there was no evidence to suggest it, so no need to alert Uckfield and the Major Crime Team. And no need, he thought, to seal off the flat, but he wouldn’t mind taking a look at it, just to be sure they were dealing with Colin Yately’s death. He could bring something of Yately’s back for a match on DNA and fingerprints. And he could see if Colin Yately kept a stash of women’s clothing there. The door burst open and Bliss stormed in with a face like it had supped on sour milk. Why didn’t the bloody woman ever enter anywhere like normal people, Horton thought with a stifled groan.
‘I was expecting a briefing, Inspector,’ she barked.
‘I’ve been interviewing the daughter of the man discovered in the sea. I believe it to be Colin-’
‘I don’t mean that,’ she flapped her thin arm at him as though she was swatting away a particularly irritating wasp. ‘I mean Victor Hazleton. I had to go into a meeting earlier this afternoon with Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer and others involved in Project Neptune without the full facts of the matter. How do you think that made me feel?’
‘Foolish and inadequate?’ he replied brightly. If the cap fits. .
‘It’s you who are inadequate, Inspector,’ she raged, glaring at him. ‘I take the matter of receiving information that could thwart a potential terrorist threat very seriously, and so should you. If you don’t you shouldn’t be in the job.’
Stiffly, he replied, ‘Mr Hazleton’s report of a light at sea poses no threat to shipping or the USS Boise’s visit. If it had I would have informed you immediately. It’s unlikely there was any light. The elderly man has a reputation for exaggeration and fabrication.’
‘Well I hope you’re right.’ She eyed him malevolently before continuing, ‘We have a duty to protect visitors to the city and the community. DC Walters has sent me his report on the security arrangements on Russell Glenn’s yacht; I expect to have yours on Victor Hazleton on my desk within the next two hours along with your report on your team’s performance targets for the next month for my meeting with Superintendent Reine early tomorrow morning. And I don’t want a repeat of the fairy tale you spun last month. Let me you remind you that our new Chief Constable’s mission is “lean and agile, delivering best value for the taxpayer”.’
‘Not sure we can do both,’ Horton muttered, but unfortunately Bliss had excellent hearing.
‘Then you’d better start applying for another job. And I want a full report on the arrangements you’ve made for the additional security for Mr Glenn’s superyacht for Friday night.’
He hadn’t even started on that. He let out a sigh as she swept out. If his CID department, already grossly undermanned, was any leaner there’d be no one in it. He made a start on the reports but with half his mind on Colin Yately. Bliss hadn’t even been interested in their body. Why? He didn’t really need to ask himself that question; with recruitment frozen and promotion severely restricted because of government cut backs there was even less chance of her shinning up the slippery pole, but she was going to make damn sure that however slim her chances she’d get there somehow, and that meant sucking up to the big brass. Project Neptune was her chance to shine. And a cock-up on Glenn’s super-shiny new yacht would severely blot her copy book.
Cantelli knocked and entered. ‘The Wightlink office wouldn’t give me the information over the phone. I told them they could ring back and check I was who I claimed to be but they wanted proof before they divulged the information.’
‘Glad to see someone’s on the ball.’
‘I’ve made an appointment with them early tomorrow morning and with Hovertravel in case Yately decided to come by hovercraft. I’ve traced the landlord to an address in Shanklin but haven’t contacted them. Do you want me to ask the local police to enter the flat?’
‘No, I’m going over as soon as I’m finished here.’
Cantelli rolled his eyes at him.
Quickly Horton added, ‘I know I don’t have to but I’m curious.’
‘When aren’t you? Need any help with that?’ Cantelli gestured at Horton’s littered desk. ‘And I heard what Bliss said.’
‘No. Check if Walters has made any headway on those burglaries and organize extra patrols for the area for the next couple of nights, we might catch them at it. We’ll also need additional officers at Oyster Quays for this charity bash on Friday.’
Horton knuckled down to finishing the reports and clearing his desk of some of the outstanding matters. He was surprised to find it was almost six o’clock when Cantelli knocked to say he was heading home and that Walters had already left. Horton rose and glanced out of his window. Bliss’s car was still there. He’d intended catching the six thirty ferry and if he didn’t leave now he’d miss it. By the time she saw or heard his Harley leave — and the witch had ears like a bat — then he’d be long gone. He emailed the reports Bliss had demanded and shut down his computer. Plucking his leather jacket from the coat stand, he was about to leave when his phone rang.
He cursed. It was bound to be either Bliss checking up on him or the front desk with a report of a crime he’d have to deal with. He should let it ring but with a weary sigh he lifted the receiver.
‘Is that Andy Horton?’ asked a female voice as far removed from Lorraine Bliss’s harsh one as the equator was from the Antarctic.
‘Speaking,’ he answered cautiously, trying to recognize the voice and failing.
‘It’s Avril Glenn. Russell Glenn’s wife, the owner of the yacht at Oyster Quays,’ she added when he didn’t answer.
Horton started, surprised. Why the hell was she phoning him? Then his heart sank, what had that lumbering detective Walters done now? This had to be a complaint. Then he registered her tone. It hadn’t been angry, rather the opposite, quite friendly.
‘You knew me better as Avril Bowyers,’ she said with a smile in her voice before quickly adding more hesitantly, ‘or perhaps you don’t remember me. It was fifteen years ago.’
Avril Bowyers! My God! Their four month affair flashed before his eyes and stirred his loins. It had been before he’d met Catherine. His head reeled with memories of her shapely figure, those seemingly endless legs, her stunning blonde looks and that wicked smile that had matched her sense of humour, not to mention her passion. And now she was Mrs Russell Glenn and living on that ruddy great floating gin palace. What did he say? Haven’t you done well? How are you? But he didn’t need to say anything because she continued, ‘Look, I know this is probably a shock and a cheek of me calling you out of the blue, but I wondered if you could meet me at Oyster Quays in the bar opposite the pontoon.’
‘When?’ he asked, his heart racing.
‘Now, unless you’re busy.’
He thought about that six thirty sailing to the Isle of Wight and Yately’s apartment. He was convinced that Colin Yately was lying stone-cold dead in the mortuary. So did it matter if he delayed visiting the man’s apartment for twelve hours?
>
He said, ‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
FOUR
Horton located her in the window seat overlooking the harbour. It had stopped raining and the wind had dropped, ushering in a calm, pleasant spring evening that had the strollers and shoppers out in force on the boardwalk. Looking at Avril Glenn, it wasn’t difficult for Horton to rekindle those old feelings of lust and longing, not that they had needed much rekindling; his timber was so dry it could have been lit with half a matchstick, he thought, as she locked eyes with him and smiled. Heading towards her he knew that every male in the bar was thinking the same lustful thoughts as him. But she was married and that was enough to make a grown man cry.
‘Hello, Andy.’
She smiled and it was all he could do not to grin back like some idiot schoolboy. The blood was pounding in his ears and his heart was racing as though he’d just run the London marathon, twice. The blue eyes were as beautiful and bright as he remembered and the mouth as enticing as ever. Her shoulder length blonde hair was more expertly styled and highlighted than he recalled, and her make-up more subtle. Her figure though was as shapely as he remembered, only now it was clad expensively in tight jeans and a long cashmere cardigan over a tight-fitting T-shirt, none of which had come from any department store. There were more lines around her eyes and mouth but who was counting?
‘I don’t remember the leathers,’ she said in the flirtatious voice he recalled from the past. It had sent a thrill through him then, and it was no different now.
‘I didn’t have the Harley then.’ Fifteen years ago he’d been a sergeant. That was no reason not to have a Harley, but he’d been in a rare car phase, which had lasted several years of his marriage to Catherine, until he’d seen the light and annoyed Catherine by selling his car and purchasing the Harley. Catherine had never liked motorbikes and had refused to go on it. She’d also forbidden him to take Emma on it. An order he hoped to disobey in the years ahead.
‘You’re looking good,’ he said.
A Killing Coast dah-7 Page 4
