‘Other things to do,’ Horton said hastily.
Outside in the corridor, he was about to discuss Dr Clayton’s findings with Cantelli when the sergeant’s phone rang.
‘It’s Charlotte. Mind if I take it, Andy?’
‘No need to ask.’
Horton walked on, leaving Cantelli to take his wife’s phone call. Outside the mortuary, Horton took a deep breath of the damp, cold January air and stared down at the city spread out before him in a dull grey haze which merged with the sea beyond to make the Isle of Wight almost invisible. He reached for his mobile phone and called Uckfield.
‘Great,’ was Uckfield’s predictably grumpy response after Horton had relayed what Gaye had told them. ‘So now we’ve got a vagrant who sounds more like a male model. I’ll get Marsden to contact the tailors. They might know who they sold that coat to and when.’
Horton doubted it unless the label contained some kind of code or the make had been discontinued at a certain time. Even then he doubted that it would lead them to the vagrant. The forensic analysis of it might tell them more. But he didn’t say. Uckfield wouldn’t thank him for it. And besides, Uckfield would know that.
Uckfield continued, ‘Trueman’s still trying to find someone in the rates office who can give us the houseboat owner’s details. You’d think he was asking for a catalogue of where every stone on that beach came from judging by the difficulty he’s having.’
‘Surely it’s easy enough to look up on a computer.’
‘It would be if he could find someone to do it. Marsden says the warden at the hostel doesn’t recognize the dead man, which isn’t surprising given what you’ve just said, so he and Somerfield are doing the rounds of the other places he might have hung out, but as he wasn’t homeless – just dressed up to appear homeless – that’ll be a waste of time.’
Horton said he’d give Elkins the earlier time of death and ask him to interview the Hayling ferry staff.
Uckfield said, ‘Could our victim have been an actor, getting into costume to get the feel of the part or some such crap? You know what these poncy actors are like.’
‘Not really. But if he was then why go out on such a dreadful night? And who would want to kill him?’ Uckfield’s suggestion had sparked another thought, though. ‘He could have been working undercover.’
‘Christ, you don’t mean he’s one of us!’
‘If he is then sooner or later someone will start shouting.’
‘Not if they don’t know he’s missing or dead.’ By Uckfield’s tone of voice Horton could tell he was worried.
‘Dr Clayton estimates the victim is in his mid-fifties. He might be too old for one of our lot to be undercover but he could be a private investigator or an insurance, benefit or tax fraud investigator. That would give someone a motive for killing him if whoever he was investigating wanted him silenced. Perhaps someone objected to his benefit being taken away.’
Uckfield sniffed loudly. Horton held the phone a short distance away.
‘It would help if we knew what kind of gun he was shot with,’ Uckfield grumbled. ‘Trueman’s pulling off a list of the usual scumbags who have had guns in the past and those caught bringing them in illegally and selling them but most of the villains are banged up, thank God. It could be a new kid on the block, though, or some nutter from outside, or someone who’s been watching too much of the Antiques Roadshow on the telly and thinks he’s found a niche market. See what these Clements have to say for themselves, and if they can’t explain why they had an arsenal in their house, bring them in.’
The line went dead. Cantelli joined him. ‘Sorry about that. Mum’s not been feeling well and Charlotte’s managed to persuade her to come and stay with us for a few days. It took some doing – she’s fiercely independent, even more so now dad’s gone. She doesn’t want to be a burden and all that sort of thing, not that she ever can be or will be to us.’
‘It’s nothing serious, I hope.’
‘I don’t think so. She’s got a heavy cold and is tired. She hasn’t been eating or drinking properly. Could lead to pneumonia if she’s not careful.’
And Charlotte would know about that, being a former nurse. Cantelli’s father, Toni, had died thirteen months ago and his death had left a big hole in the Cantelli family. Horton had admired and liked Toni Cantelli, who had been an Italian prisoner of war during the Second World War, had met and fallen in love with a land girl on the farm he’d been detailed to work on, married her and built up a successful business which had diversified from ice-cream selling to owning cafés, one of which was on the seafront run by Cantelli’s sister, Isabella.
‘Charlotte can keep an eye on mum and get the doctor out to check her over. You know what some people are like, especially mum’s generation – they don’t want to trouble the doctor.’ Cantelli zapped open the car. ‘What do you make of Dr Clayton’s information? Not sure this makes it easier or harder to identify our victim,’ he added, removing his chewing gum and pushing it into a piece of silver paper and in his pocket before starting the engine.
Horton agreed. ‘I’ve just broken the news to Uckfield. He’s going to see if we can trace the ownership of the coat but our victim could have picked it up anywhere.’
‘Like the rest of his outer garments. He might even have taken them from a charity bag left outside someone’s house ready to be collected. The best we can do is circulate the pictures to the media, put them on the Internet and hope someone recognizes him.’
Horton’s phone rang. It was Guilbert.
‘Rowan Lyster’s confirmed the body is that of his mother,’ Guilbert said.
There hadn’t really been any doubt. But the formalities had to be observed and it was always best to make sure. ‘How did he take it?’
‘Much calmer than I expected. He didn’t cry or express regret but he was clearly very agitated. When I explained about the inquest being held tomorrow he looked annoyed rather than distressed. He couldn’t understand why there had to be one but I told him that given the circumstances of his mother’s death it was standard procedure. No one’s come forward yet to say they recognize or know her, or to say that she was booked into a hotel. And we can’t trace her owning a property on the island. Her son is adamant she didn’t and certain that she didn’t have any connections here, and that bothers me. If her death is due to natural causes as the pathologist found then why travel without any luggage?’
Horton’s concerns exactly.
‘Rowan Lyster has given us permission to look over his mother’s apartment – rather reluctantly, I might add. He couldn’t see why it was necessary but I told him the coroner would ask and we didn’t want to delay matters. There might be something in there to tell us why she came to Guernsey. Could you send someone to meet Rowan’s wife, Gina, at the apartment? She has a key.’
‘I’ll go myself.’ He didn’t think Bliss or Uckfield would like that very much given that they were in the middle of a murder investigation but he had seen the body and was curious about Evelyn Lyster.
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ Guilbert relayed Gina Lyster’s mobile number. Horton rang her, introduced himself and made arrangements to meet her outside the apartment at twelve thirty. That gave them enough time to interview the Clements. Next he rang Elkins and gave him the revised time of the vagrant’s death, explaining that he didn’t appear to be a vagrant, and asked him to interview the skipper of the Hayling ferry and get some details of their last passengers from both Portsmouth and Hayling. Not that the ferry company would be able to give them names and addresses – they simply issued a ticket to cross the small stretch of water – but they would be able to tell them how many people had been on that ferry and the skipper would be able to identify his regulars. They could probably be ruled out of the investigation but someone might have seen either the dead man or the killer hanging around. Elkins reported that the harbour master hadn’t noted any movement in the harbour last night, which wasn’t surprising given the weather, and Chris
Howgate had said there had been no one at the lifeboat station and they hadn’t had any shouts.
Cantelli turned on to the seafront and headed east. There were a few people walking along the promenade and a French warship was making its way out of the harbour. There were a couple of yachts on the Solent but it was too chilly and too dull for all but the hardiest of sailors and strollers.
Just past the nine-hole golf course Cantelli indicated left and almost immediately left again. After a few hundred yards he turned right into a wide road of substantial detached Edwardian houses. The Clements’ was the second on the left.
‘Surely someone must have heard the alarm before it was disabled by the burglars,’ Horton said, studying the large three-storey house behind double wrought-iron gates and a brick paved driveway where a top-of-the-range Mercedes was parked.
‘Uniform have called on the neighbouring houses and put leaflets through the doors but so far no one claims to have heard or seen anything suspicious. It’s the kind of street where people keep themselves to themselves.’
And the kind of house that would set you back a small fortune, Horton thought, climbing out of the car and viewing the large double bay windows on the first and second floors, rooms in the eaves on the top floor that in the days when the house was built would have been for the servants, and a basement that would have harboured a kitchen where a cook would have slaved over a hot stove.
‘It’s a large house for only two people,’ he said, approaching the front door. He noted there was a grill on the basement window on his right. According to Walters, that was where the guns had been kept.
‘I could lose my five in it,’ Cantelli said winsomely, pressing his finger on a shiny brass bell. Horton heard it chiming through the house. ‘Walters says that Vivian and Constance Clements don’t have any children or lodgers.’
They also seemed reluctant to answer. Cantelli rang again, keeping his finger pressed on the bell and this time, after several seconds, the door was flung open and a grey-skinned, grey-haired, squat man in his early sixties glared at them. ‘How many times do I have to tell you people this is a no cold calling zone so—’
‘Police, Mr Clements,’ Cantelli hastily broke in, flashing his warrant card.
Clements didn’t look appeased or impressed. He squinted at it with bloodshot eyes, sniffed and said grudgingly, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
SIX
‘Can’t you just do the job you’re paid to do and catch these thieves instead of pestering us every five minutes?’ Vivian Clements rounded on them as they followed him into a modern, white, black and chrome kitchen that looked to Horton like something out of mission control. It opened up into an expansive conservatory. Beyond was a small garden laid with decking and surrounded by well-tended evergreen shrubs cut in a variety of shapes. Hovering nervously in the centre of the kitchen was an elegantly dressed, slender woman with short, highlighted blonde hair, blue eyes and an expression akin to embarrassment on her oval-shaped, lined face. Horton thought Walters’ description of the Clements had been spot on.
Vivian Clements’ reaction wasn’t a total surprise. It wasn’t unknown for the victims of crime to vent their anger at the police but it wasn’t every burglary victim who got a detective inspector and sergeant working on their case. Then again, it wasn’t every householder who was robbed of firearms, antique or otherwise. And Clements’ anger could be masking his fear that he knew one or more of those guns were quite capable of being fired.
‘Vivian is very upset and angry,’ Constance Clements hastily and unnecessarily explained, turning to her husband with a pleading look in her faded blue eyes which seemed to make him even angrier. His small mouth tightened.
‘They know that,’ he snapped, his eyes flashing contempt.
Horton saw her flinch.
Sternly, but making sure to show nothing of the dislike he felt towards the pompous little man, Horton said, ‘This is a gun theft, Mr Clements, and as such is a very serious matter.’
‘They were antique pistols. How many more times do I have to say it? They aren’t capable of being fired.’
‘Are you certain of that?’ Horton held his eye contact.
‘Of course I am.’
‘When did you inform the police that you had guns on the premises?’
‘I didn’t because being antiques I didn’t need to tell the police,’ he said loftily and in a superior tone as though speaking to an idiot.
Time to wipe that sneer from his face. With a steely glare and an icy tone Horton said, ‘Section 58 of the 1968 Firearms Act does not define “antique”. It is for the police and the courts to consider each case on its merits. You should have contacted us with a full description of the weapons. Possession of a firearm without a licence, and one which does not fall under the heading of antique or historic, carries a mandatory prison sentence of five years. Not just for you but also for your wife.’
Constance Clements’ eyes widened with alarm, her skin paled and her slender hand flew to her neck where it played with a bold, turquoise stone necklace matching the colour of her top. Her husband’s skin blanched. Good, but Horton could see he wasn’t beaten into submission yet.
‘This is ridiculous. I’ve broken no law; it’s the bastards who stole them who should be imprisoned.’
‘And they will be when we catch them.’ Or at least Horton hoped so but, given the way some of the magistrates and the slippery solicitors the crooks engaged operated that was doubtful. ‘That still doesn’t alter the fact that the weapons were in your possession and that you did not notify the police. Now I’d appreciate some cooperation.’ He didn’t mention they had a man who had been killed by a firearm. Uckfield wanted that kept quiet for now.
Clements opened his mouth to retort but the trilling of his mobile phone intervened. Glancing at it, he snatched it to his ear and marched off into the conservatory, bellowing down the line at the poor soul who had chosen the wrong time to ring. Horton caught the sigh of relief from Constance Clements.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. This has really shaken Vivian.’ Fearfully, she added in a low voice, ‘Is it true he should have told you about the guns being on the premises?’
‘Yes.’
‘He couldn’t have known that. It must have been an oversight.’
‘That’s no defence in law,’ Horton sternly retorted.
She shifted nervously.
‘Perhaps you could show us where the alarm is.’
‘Of course.’
She threw a glance over her shoulder to her husband, who was raging down the line to what sounded like the insurance company. It was, Horton thought, as though she was seeking permission to leave the room. But Clements was intent on pursuing his irate phone conversation and Horton was already moving towards the door. She gave him a nervous smile and eased passed him. Horton caught Cantelli’s raised eyebrows.
They followed her into the ornately decorated hall with its flamboyant wallpaper of birds and flowers in pale blue and mauve stretching up to the high ceiling from which an elaborate candelabra was suspended. The cream ceramic floor was spotlessly clean. The staircase on their left was covered with an immaculate cream cord carpet and brass stair rods which gleamed. The staircase also led down to the basement where the pistols had been displayed.
She waved a slender arm at the alarm panel to the right of the front door.
‘Was it set before you left for the cruise?’ Horton asked. Walters had already told him it had been but there was no harm in going over it again in case the Clements remembered something they’d omitted first time around, either deliberately or accidentally.
Cantelli took out his notebook and removed his stubby pencil from behind his ear.
‘Yes. Vivian had re-set it with a new code after it was serviced by the engineer.’
‘Have you or your husband set it in view of anyone, perhaps before leaving the house with a friend, neighbour or relative?’
‘No. There hasn’t been anyone i
nside the house.’
‘Not since October when it was serviced?’ he asked, sounding slightly incredulous.
She blushed. ‘No.’
‘No friends or neighbours?’
She shook her head.
‘Family?’ asked Cantelli.
‘We don’t have any. Both our parents are dead. We don’t have children. We haven’t been married very long and neither of us has been married before.’
Again, she blushed. Horton wondered why. He asked to see where the thieves had entered.
‘They came in through the side window in the drawing room.’
She turned and they followed her up the stairs to the first floor and a door on the left. Horton caught Cantelli’s look. He knew what Barney was thinking: there was no such thing as a drawing room in his three-bedroom semi-detached house with a loft conversion. But as Horton stepped inside the sumptuously decorated, high ceiling, spacious, ornately furnished room he thought the term drawing room was an apt description. It certainly wasn’t the sort of place you’d sprawl out on a sofa watching a plasma television screen fixed on the wall; it was more Jane Austen like, somewhere you’d sip afternoon tea in china cups and make polite conversation. In fact, there wasn’t a television in sight. Catherine would have despised it, though. There were too many paintings on the walls and too much gilt, including the mirror over the Adams-style fireplace, and she’d never have stomached the cream-coloured wallpaper with grey swirls. There was also too much furniture of the material kind. Catherine preferred cream leather and bleached wood.
He turned his attention to where the burglars had entered. The long sash window had a wooden frame rather than a PVC one. As though reading his mind, Constance Clements said, ‘It’s the only window apart from those in the eaves that we haven’t renewed. We’ve applied for planning permission to turn the garage roof into a terrace. I’d like French doors here in keeping with the style and design of the house and railings around the terrace. You get a nice view of the sea across the golf course. It would be tastefully screened with plants.’
Lethal Waves Page 6
