He turned his attention to the bedside cabinets. He found a pair of shop-bought reading glasses, a packet of over-the-counter painkillers and little else. The window faced the rear of the building and he looked out on to the fire escape to his left and down on to the waste bins and car park, which contained four cars. They’d check the registration numbers with the occupants. Directly opposite was another block of flats – modern ones this time with some windows facing this way – but given that it had probably been dark when Freedman had left here, Horton didn’t think anyone would have seen him climbing down the fire escape. There was no view to the sea as there had been in Evelyn Lyster’s apartment.
The shower room was spotlessly clean like the rest of the flat. As he briefly examined Freedman’s shaving gear and toiletries he could hear Uckfield’s laboured breathing, occasional sneeze and nose blowing as he skimmed through Freedman’s files. This wasn’t a crime scene so there had been no need to preserve it, but Horton didn’t think it helped having Uckfield’s DNA spattered over everything. He was certain Uckfield would get SOCO in here because Freedman’s killer might have visited him at some stage.
He joined Uckfield in the small office area. ‘Anything?’
‘No client list, no blackmail letters, no death threats. Sod all except some lecture notes.’
‘Where would he have changed into those clothes if not here?’
‘A public toilet?’
‘Possible. And he stashed his other clothes inside it waiting to retrieve them later, but he wouldn’t have left his wallet and keys.’
‘The killer took them.’
‘But the killer hasn’t been here unless he’s the neatest one we’ve ever seen. Or he came specifically to look for something, removed it then left. You’ll have to get SOCO in.’
‘You don’t need to tell me how to do my job,’ Uckfield said bad-temperedly.
But maybe Horton did. ‘Why don’t you go home, Steve? You’re clearly not well.’
‘I’m fine. OK?’ thundered Uckfield before breaking into a coughing fit.
‘OK.’ Horton held up his hands in capitulation.
‘I’ll ask Dennings to instigate a search of all the public lavatories in Portsmouth,’ Uckfield croaked.
‘Where is Dennings, by the way?’ Horton asked, following Uckfield back through the lounge to the kitchen. He’d wondered why Dennings hadn’t joined Uckfield here, or had been sent instead of coming himself, although Uckfield had said earlier that Dennings and Bliss were working the investigation from the incident suite.
‘At the houseboat. Trueman finally got the information out of the rates office. That old wreck is owned by a Mrs Cecily Thomas. She’s in her mid-eighties, lives alone and seems to have all her marbles, according to Dennings. He’s sent someone round with a picture of Freedman taken off his website to ask if she recognizes him. She gave Dennings the key to the houseboat. Took her an age to find it and he’s over there now with a unit. Packman also said he’d meet Dennings there. Dennings will re-interview him and see if the name means anything to him.’
Horton pulled open the kitchen cupboards. They were clean, neatly arranged with crockery, cutlery and glasses and the food cupboards were well stocked.
‘Maybe the killer is someone he knew while a vagrant,’ he said. ‘Or while in prison?’
‘Trueman’s getting hold of his prison record.’
The fridge was also well stocked. ‘No notes, correspondence or photographs,’ Horton said, turning to gaze around the open-plan room. He thought it very much like Evelyn Lyster’s apartment in that respect, but then many people kept their pictures on their phones and computer devices these days rather than on display or stashed away in photo albums. And given the former lifestyle of Freedman, he wouldn’t have had any belongings from his past.
Uckfield said, ‘I’ll get all these files bagged up and taken back for a proper examination and the same for the computer.’ He detailed Keating to call the locksmith and to wait for a scene of crime officer to arrive, then to bag up everything from the study area. Allen reported that the occupant of the opposite flat was out.
Uckfield addressed Horton. ‘I’ll send Marsden and Somerfield over. They can oversee things this end and start interviewing the residents.’ He stepped into the lift. Horton said he’d meet him on the ground floor and took the stairs. This time he beat the lift and Uckfield emerged with his phone clamped to his ear. By the time they reached the car Uckfield had come off the phone.
‘Freedman’s registered as self-employed. For the last three years he’s filed a tax return that shows his income steadily increasing. The first year he earned twenty-eight thousand pounds; the second year he doubled that and last year he declared earnings of seventy-three thousand pounds.’
Horton gave a low whistle. ‘Must have been damn good,’ he said with surprise. And perhaps on that kind of track record he had been given a mortgage to buy the apartment.
‘I told you these suckers will pay for any kind of twaddle,’ Uckfield said, climbing in.
‘Should have gone into business ourselves.’
Uckfield snorted. ‘All Dennings has found in the houseboat are insects, woodworm, damp and dust. Nothing in Packman’s houseboat either. And Packman swears blind he’s never seen or heard of Freedman but we’ll see if he shows up on Freedman’s computer.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought a self-employed carpenter would be able to afford him.’
‘You never know – he might have been desperate to change his life.’
‘To what?’
‘A plumber?’
Horton smiled and eased the car through the open electronic gates. ‘Did it say on his website where he held coaching sessions for his clients?’
‘No. Could have been in his flat or perhaps he has an office somewhere or hired an office by the hour. His tax return will tell us if he claimed it as a business expense.’
‘I’ll talk to Glyn Ashmead. I know him.’
Uckfield’s phone rang. He listened. ‘We’ll be there in five minutes.’
‘That was Bliss. Dr Clayton’s finished the autopsy.’
Horton thought Uckfield’s five minutes was rather ambitious. It would take at least twenty to travel from the southernmost tip of the island to the hospital on the hill slopes on the northern edge, and that was barring any hold ups. But Uckfield reached into the glove pocket. Horton anticipated him. He dropped a gear.
‘No point in having a blue light if you can’t use it,’ said Uckfield.
NINE
‘The victim was alive when shot as opposed to being unconscious or already dead having been killed by another method,’ Gaye announced in her small office off the mortuary. Horton had taken the seat opposite Gaye, who had divested herself of her mortuary garb and was wearing her customary jeans and T-shirt, while Uckfield stood leaning against the filing cabinet. Gaye had ordered him to keep his distance, saying that on Friday she was travelling to Denmark to attend an international conference on forensic research and technology and would be tacking a week’s holiday on the end of it to visit friends in Europe; she didn’t want to be infected by his germs. Horton felt a stab of disappointment that she wouldn’t be around but then he’d probably be busy on this case.
‘Let me explain,’ she continued. ‘As a bullet perforates the skin it scrapes the epidermis, creating an abrasion around the bullet hole. Because the abrasions in the victim are reddish brown, that indicates he was alive when he was shot as opposed to being already dead, because then the abrasion would have been yellow, tan or greyish brown. The entrance wound is round with a margin of abrasion surrounding it of uniformed thickness, which means the bullet penetrated the skin nose on rather than at an angle.’
Her eyes rested on Horton and connected, causing his pulse to skip a couple of beats, and then swivelled to Uckfield.
‘As to range of fire, well, the shape of the entry wound, the stippling – a pattern of tiny abrasions in the skin around the wound – and my examinatio
n of the clothes, matching the tears in it to the entry and exit wounds, and the absence of soot on them indicate he was shot at intermediate range, between two feet and two and a half feet, possibly three feet.’
‘I’d call that close range.’ Uckfield sniffed noisily.
‘Not as close as the muzzle of the gun being placed against the skin or the clothes,’ Gaye answered. ‘He was shot face on while standing.’
She left a pause while they assimilated this. Horton visualized Freedman standing in front of his killer, perhaps looking down at the gun – shocked, terrified, or perhaps thinking it was a joke and feeling confident he could talk the killer out of his proposed action using his neuro-linguistic programming techniques. Then he pictured his expression turning to astonishment and horror as the gun was fired.
Gaye continued, ‘As a bullet moves through a body it crushes and shreds the tissue in its path while flinging outward the surrounding tissue, creating a temporary cavity which then collapses, contracts and disappears, and it is the crushed and shredded tissue and any marks against the bone that gives us the path of the bullet and possible clues as to what kind of bullet. However, in the case of handgun bullets, there is very little internal disturbance and this is the case here. To cause significant injuries to an organ a handgun bullet must strike that structure directly. This is different with a high-velocity rifle bullet. So I can confirm that he was killed with a handgun.’
‘What type of handgun?’ Uckfield impatiently demanded.
‘I’ll come on to that shortly. The exit wound again confirms he was shot while standing and not while lying on the ground or sitting. But the fact that there is an exit wound means there is no bullet in the body to retrieve.’
‘Great,’ Uckfield scoffed. Horton knew exactly what he was thinking: they couldn’t tell which weapon had been used, and that was a blow. The bullet hadn’t been retrieved from the scene either, but how could it when the area was covered with stones? They could hardly dig up the entire beach.
‘But I can tell you what we do have,’ Gaye continued, shifting position and sitting slightly forward across her desk, her green eyes shining. ‘We’ve taken internal X-rays to ascertain the type of ammunition and weapon used. It doesn’t give us a great deal but it does tell us that he wasn’t killed by a metal jacket bullet because there are traces of lead, and the pattern also indicates it was conical, so we’re looking for a weapon that can fire conical-shaped lead bullets. I contacted the ballistics expert who has the pictures of the stolen pistols DC Walters sent to him. Percussion revolvers like the ones stolen have been involved in homicides and in some suicides in the USA and here in the UK.’
Horton interjected, ‘Even antique ones.’
‘Yes. Percussion weapons appeared in the early nineteenth century and became obsolete with the introduction of metallic cartridges. Until recently they’ve mainly been of historical interest, collected by enthusiasts, but the ballistics expert confirmed my findings. In the last ten to fifteen years there has been an increased interest in them and in replicas. Most are manufactured abroad.’
Uckfield broke in, ‘You mean they’re making new guns based on these old designs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do we know if the Clements’ stolen guns are genuine antiques?’ Uckfield fired at Horton.
He didn’t. ‘We haven’t asked to see any provenance.’
‘Then do so,’ he growled.
Horton saw Gaye’s eyebrows rise slightly. She continued, ‘Many of these guns are available as flintlock and percussion muskets, rifles, shotguns and percussion revolvers like the ones your man had in his collection, but I can’t say for certain that the victim was killed by one of the stolen guns. The ballistics expert might be able to give you more on that in due course.’
Horton wasn’t certain now that they were looking at insurance fraud. But as Gaye had said, Freedman could have been shot with a replica antique pistol.
She said, ‘In homicides the highest percentage of fatalities by gunshot wounds are caused by those to the head while a quarter are to the heart and aorta. In our victim, it’s the latter.’
Horton interjected. ‘So not a professional killer because he would have shot Freedman in the head?’
‘Not necessarily,’ she corrected him. ‘The killer might not have been the given the opportunity to do that so he went for the next best thing – the heart. The victim was not only alive when he was shot but he didn’t die immediately.’
Uckfield tossed her a horrified stare. ‘You mean he didn’t die where he was found?’
‘The victim can incur a fatal gun wound but still be capable of physical activity. In fact, he can run hundreds of yards before dying.’
‘Great,’ Uckfield cried before breaking into a coughing fit.
‘Would you like some water, Detective Superintendent?’
He waved an arm at her to decline.
Horton said, ‘Do you have any idea of how far he could have got after being shot?’
‘No. And I’m not saying the victim definitely did this but it’s a possibility that has to be considered.’
‘Even if he was shot in the heart?’ Uckfield croaked disbelievingly.
‘Yes, an individual can still function for a short time.’
‘Dean’s functioned for a long time without one,’ muttered Uckfield.
Gaye said, ‘It’s the oxygen supply to the brain that’s the critical factor in survival and time of death tests have proved that an individual can remain conscious and can function, he can run or walk for ten seconds, before collapsing.’
Uckfield addressed Horton. ‘We need to test that out.’
‘Hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to shoot anyone,’ Gaye said.
‘I could think of a few to nominate.’
Horton turned to Gaye. ‘How fit was Freedman?’
‘Not bad for a recovering alcoholic but even if he hadn’t been very fit the instinct for survival could have taken over and spurred him to almost superhuman activity in the hope he could seek help in time to save him.’
‘And the killer let him run or stagger about rather than firing again.’
‘The killer might not have had time to reload and fire the pistol or he might not have had the ammunition to do so. Or perhaps he thought it unnecessary because he knew that the victim would die.’
Gaye was right. Horton knew the killer would rather use the time to get away.
‘I don’t have access to his full medical records but Sergeant Trueman sent me over Freedman’s prison medical file. He underwent a full programme to help him recover from alcohol abuse and responded well. Fortunately he undertook it before his liver was irrevocably destroyed. And the liver can make a remarkable recovery if the disease hasn’t gone too far.’
‘Could he have killed himself?’ Horton asked.
Uckfield looked at him as though he’d lost the plot. Maybe he had but he still thought the question worth asking.
‘There is no gun residue on his hands, although the rain could have destroyed that, but if he had killed himself then he’d have pressed the gun against his clothes and it would have shown up. And usually, although not always, suicides chose the head or mouth.’
‘And there was no gun found with the body,’ added Uckfield pointedly.
‘Someone could have picked it up, thinking it was valuable.’
‘No, this is murder,’ Uckfield said firmly. Horton was inclined to agree, he just thought it worth exploring all possibilities, which was what Guilbert was doing with Evelyn Lyster’s death, although that was the other way around – it had been natural causes but it looked like suicide. Horton was beginning to wonder if in fact it was murder – something he knew must be crossing Guilbert’s mind. Could she have been given a drug before boarding the ferry? Maybe he should check out the CCTV footage from the port? But why kill her and why did someone kill Freedman? He asked if they had a next of kin in his prison file.
‘Not unless he changed it since being
released from prison. His records state that he wished to leave his body to medical science. A local solicitor is named as his executor – Framptons.’
The legal firm that had handled Horton’s divorce.
Uckfield said that a member of his team was checking with the General Register Office to find out if Freedman had ever been married and if he had children.
Gaye said, ‘I’ll let you have my full report and ballistics will hopefully give you more on the bullet and the gun.’
Uckfield hauled himself away from the prop of the cabinet, blowing his nose. As he did so, Gaye rose and began to spray the air behind him. ‘Antiseptic spray,’ she explained to Horton. He thought they could do with some of that in the incident suite.
As they headed down the corridor to the exit, Horton said, ‘The Clements say they were in on Tuesday night when Freedman was shot but there’s no one to corroborate that. The guns were missing on Monday when they returned, uniform can confirm that, but we’ve only got Vivian Clements’ word that there were no other pistols in the house. But why report the robbery if one of them intended killing Freedman with an antique pistol? Clements could easily have done the deed or handed the gun to an accomplice and then put it back in his collection.’
‘Maybe he thought if he reported it stolen it would make him look as though he was in the clear, just like when someone reports his car stolen and it’s used in a raid, I know nothing about it, guv,’ he said mockingly and coughed.
Yes, Clements was arrogant enough to believe the police were stupid and, from what he’d seen, Constance Clements was too timid to contradict her husband, certainly in his presence.
‘Got any Panadol?’
‘Not on me.’
‘Stop at the nearest chemist.’
Horton did so. Uckfield returned with a large paper bag. It looked as though he’d bought every conceivable cold cure imaginable. He swallowed some painkillers and then put a strong throat lozenge in his mouth before lapsing into a silence punctuated by nose blowing, sniffing and coughing.
At the station, Horton made for the canteen, which thankfully had been spared recent police spending cuts. He bought a coffee, sandwiches, banana and a Kit Kat and returned to his office, wondering how long it would be before the axe fell on the canteen and they’d all end up buying food from a vending machine or a kebab takeaway down the road; the latter of which would please Walters, it being one of his favourite foods. He glanced into Bliss’s office on the way to CID and breathed a sigh of relief that she wasn’t there. She was still getting under Trueman’s feet in the incident suite.
Lethal Waves Page 10
