It would have been dark, like it was now, when Freedman had been shot on Tuesday night sometime between seven and nine. And in the dark and the wind and rain Horton didn’t think a critically wounded man would have walked, run or staggered very far.
He swung the Harley across the road and parked beside the lifeboat station. Climbing off, he removed his helmet. The wind was gusting off the sea, bringing with it the smell of salt and a fine, chilly drizzle. The killer’s car could have been parked beside the lifeboat station except someone would have noticed it. There were no reports of anyone seeing a car or motorcycle. The bus stopped directly opposite. But the killer could have timed his arrival to coincide with when the bus wouldn’t be here. Or perhaps the bus driver had seen a car and hadn’t thought anything of it because after doing this journey several times a day she’d stopped noticing. In Horton’s experience, people weren’t very observant. Usually their minds were running along different tramlines just as his kept jumping back to Jennifer’s past, and the thought now occurred to him that perhaps those numbers on the envelope he’d been bequeathed by Dr Quentin Amos, who had worked at the London School of Economics at the same time as Jennifer, weren’t a location at all but the code to a safety deposit box and one kept in a private bank in Guernsey. The bank that Violet Ducale had once worked for, Zuber’s, which had become Manley’s. Was that what the former lecturer, Amos, and Andrew Ducale had been leading him to? Would Violet Ducale recognize the numbers or rather the format of them? He could return and ask her and he would but that would have to wait for a few days, unless Guilbert wanted him back there sooner for the Evelyn Lyster investigation but he couldn’t see why Guilbert should for a natural death, or why Bliss would permit it while they had a definite murder investigation on their patch. Which brought him back to Freedman.
He crossed to the slipway in front of the wide doors of the lifeboat station. The sea was a black, swirling mass in front of him, crashing on to the shore. The icy wind buffeted him, growing colder by the minute, it seemed.
He turned and scrutinized the sizeable modern building. Was it possible that Freedman had met his killer here? They would have been completely hidden from the view of anyone in the road. And no one would have heard the shot. Here the killer had shot Freedman, then what? Had he expected Freedman to drop dead in front of him? What had he done when Freedman hadn’t? Surely Freedman would have used his strength to try and plead with his killer for help. Or perhaps not – perhaps he’d seen that course of action was hopeless and instinctively knew he had to get away, to get help before risk being shot again.
He put himself in Freedman’s shoes. In pain, shocked, desperate to get help, the wind buffeting him, the stones impeding his progress, he staggered up to the road. It was heavy going walking and running on stones in daylight let alone on a dark, wild night with a bullet in you. But desperation can drive people to extraordinary lengths, as Gaye had said.
Opposite were the houseboats. Why would Freedman have made for the last one in the row of five? Why not head back towards the marina where there was a chance of help? But when you have a bullet in you you’d hardly be thinking straight. Maybe he’d seen Packman’s car parked beside the second-to-last houseboat and reasoned, despite his injury, that it was his best hope? Packman hadn’t heard the shot or Freedman’s cries for help because of the roar of the wind, but he would have seen or heard a boat or car and Dennings said he hadn’t.
Then when Freedman had finally fallen, had the killer calmly gone through the dead man’s pockets and taken his wallet, keys and phone? Or had Freedman, with the gun pointing at him, been asked to empty his pockets before he was shot? In both scenarios the killer hadn’t wanted Freedman’s identity discovered, or at least not for some time. Perhaps the killer hadn’t known that Freedman had a prison record and that his identity would be traced that way. But Horton remembered that Cantelli had said the newspaper article had mentioned it and Freedman had made no secret of it on his website, so perhaps the killer was someone from outside the city who hadn’t read the local article, or someone who didn’t have access to the Internet or know how to use it so hadn’t seen his website. Taking the keys and wallet could have been used as a tactic to delay identification while the killer got away. Freedman’s murderer could be out of the country by now.
But on Tuesday night had the killer returned to his vehicle parked close by? Or perhaps he had returned to a boat on the shore. The weather had been atrocious and if the killer had come by boat Horton didn’t think he had crossed the turbulent racing currents that separated Portsmouth from Hayling Island, or motored further up into Langstone Harbour. But, as he’d previously considered, he could have arrived and left by a small boat or RIB across the more sheltered waters of Eastney Lake to the shore at Milton.
He thought of the pistols stolen from the Clements and of the pompous little man. He couldn’t see Vivian Clements risking his life in a RIB or small boat on a stormy night but had he travelled here by car, shot Freedman and then returned home?
Horton returned to his boat, his mind speculating on Freedman’s death for which, as yet, they had no apparent motive. Why would Vivian Clements kill him? Jealousy? Did Constance Clements know Freedman? Horton reckoned Vivian Clements, a man full of his own self-importance, would be unable to stomach the thought that his wife found another man attractive or vice versa, but why was Freedman dressed as a vagrant? It was hardly the kind of clothes he’d wear for a secret assignation with Constance Clements on her return from a cruise.
And what of Evelyn Lyster? Why had she caught a taxi at the Hard? It was late but not too late to call Guilbert on his mobile. He came on the line almost at once. Horton asked if he’d discovered anything more or if someone had come forward claiming to know her. The answer was no on both counts. Horton told him about the taxi driver.
‘She could have stayed with a friend,’ he added. ‘Except there were none listed on the phone we found on her body.’
‘Maybe she had another mobile phone.’
Horton had already considered that. ‘If she did it’s not in her apartment and there was nothing of a personal nature in it. She puzzles me. There’s a lot about her death that’s not right.’
‘I know,’ Guilbert said with feeling in his gentle voice. ‘I’ll talk to Rowan Lyster tomorrow before he flies back, see if he can tell me who his mother’s friends were. She must have had some.’
‘And clients. Gina Lyster said she had stopped working as a freelance translator after her husband’s death but she might have had some clients in Guernsey who she’d kept in touch with.’
‘They’re in no hurry to come forward.’
‘Maybe they just haven’t heard the news yet.’
‘Yeah,’ Guilbert said sceptically.
‘Her client records could be with her accountant, which could be the same one that Rowan Lyster uses for his business.’
‘I’ll ask him.’
Horton said he’d return to the Gosport and Isle of Wight ferry terminals in the morning. ‘And I’ll see if the British Transport Police have any CCTV footage of the station for Monday morning in case she got off a train.’ But again he came back to that same question. Why was she travelling with no luggage?
He pushed away all the questions about her death and Freedman’s murder and tried to sleep. Surprisingly he did, rising early, which meant he had time for a run and after it time to call in at the Hard before heading for the station. He didn’t expect to gain any new information so he was astounded when a crew member of the Isle of Wight Fast Cat ferry remembered her. She had been on the second sailing of Monday morning, the six forty-seven from Ryde Pier. The Solent crossing took approximately twenty-two minutes so the timing tallied with that of the taxi driver, Woolacombe, who said he’d picked her up at eleven minutes past seven. She wasn’t a regular commuter. The crewman knew all of those but he did think he had seen her before. The booking office clerk didn’t remember selling her a return ticket from Portsmouth to the Isle of Wight but she could
have bought it online or perhaps she’d travelled to the island by the car ferry or the hovercraft and had returned by the Fast Cat. Did it matter? he wondered. Maybe she had come straight from a friend’s house on the island. He was curious to know what Guilbert would discover from Rowan Lyster. He called him with the latest news before heading for the station.
Bliss’s car was in its allotted space but there was no sign of Uckfield’s. Perhaps he’d called in sick, but somehow Horton doubted it. Knowing Uckfield as he did, he thought he’d rather crawl into work than miss out on a major investigation and, although Uckfield might have faith in Bliss’s ability, he certainly didn’t in the burly, squat DI Dennings, who Gaye Clayton had nicknamed Neanderthal Man.
He found both Cantelli and Walters in CID. It was just after eight o’clock.
‘How’s your mum?’ Horton asked, stopping at Cantelli’s desk.
‘Not too good. Charlotte called the doctor last night and he’s prescribed some antibiotics, but unless Charlotte can get mum to drink more she’s going to dehydrate and that means a drip and hospital. Charlotte hopes that will put the fear of God in her and make her take more fluids.’
Horton said he hoped it worked. He told Cantelli and Walters what Woolacombe and the Wightlink crewman had said and asked Cantelli to get on to Wightlink and Hovertravel to find out if Evelyn Lyster had bought tickets to the island and when. ‘Also get on to the Isle of Wight council rates office and see if she owns a property on the island. Maybe she keeps most of her clothes and shoes, and her photos and personal papers there.’
He detailed Walters to look through the video footage from the port for Monday morning and to see if Evelyn Lyster showed up on it.
‘I was just going to the cleaning company.’
‘OK, do it when you get back.’
Walters scooped up his newspaper, stuffed it in the pocket of his shapeless suit jacket and padded out.
Horton dumped his helmet and leather jacket in his office and picked up his sailing jacket. To Cantelli, he said, ‘I’m walking over to Gravity to talk to Glyn Ashmead about Peter Freedman.’ The centre opened at eight and, unless Ashmead was attending a conference or had a day’s holiday or was sick, Horton knew he’d find him there.
ELEVEN
The two-storey building, erected in the mid-1960s, had been many things over the years – shops, offices and an amusement arcade. Now it was a day centre for the homeless and those struggling to make ends meet, funded partly by the council but mainly by donations. It gave food and drink free to its rapidly expanding clientele. The catering supplies were donated by generous individuals and supermarkets offloading their out-of-date stock. At the rear were a communal laundry and a couple of shower rooms, which were available free of charge. There was also a clothing bank. Horton had donated many of his clothes to it, especially after Catherine had thrown him out. He didn’t have much space on his boat.
He pushed open the door and stepped into the steamy café that smelt of sweat and fried food and something else not quite definable, but, as he surveyed the forlorn, weatherworn and hardened faces at the tables, he thought it a mixture of dirt, diesel and decay, while defeat hung in the air. Hostile eyes watched him warily as he headed towards the counter. He was too clean, too well-dressed and too self-assured. His demeanour smacked of the ‘authorities’. It was as though he had police officer emblazoned across his chest.
It was busy even this early, but then, he thought sadly, there was no shortage of homeless people and those in need in the city and their numbers were shamefully growing. They spanned all age groups. Not all were victims of alcohol, drug or gambling addictions – many had mental health issues, some had become homeless as the result of abusive and failed relationships, ruined businesses and health problems. And some had lost or had their benefits frozen through stringent changes to the system and had been kicked out of their homes by private landlords increasing rents to extortionate amounts which they couldn’t pay. They had very few places to turn for help. One was the Salvation Army, the other was Ashmead’s charity. It wasn’t such a big step down but it was a bloody huge one up. Freedman had managed it though and so had Glyn Ashmead, and for that Horton admired them.
He smiled a greeting at the two women behind the counter and addressed the older, thinner woman, whose sallow cheeks were crisscrossed with a myriad of tiny fine lines while deeper ones were scored into her forehead and around her mouth. She, like the other younger woman beside her, was wearing a short, light-blue nylon overall over black trousers. The younger woman was serving a man in rough, soiled clothes who could have been any age between forty and sixty. She was new to Horton but over the last eleven months from his occasional visits here he’d got to know the older one, Martha Wiley, who, like others at Gravity, with the exception of Ashmead, was a volunteer. Horton asked Martha if Glyn was in.
‘Yes. Go through and I’ll bring you a coffee, Andy.’
She knew how he liked it. Black and strong. No sugar.
Horton entered the narrow corridor behind the café and knocked on the door of an office on his right. It was open but he didn’t like to walk straight in.
‘Come in,’ a voice called out.
Glyn Ashmead looked up from his untidy desk, laden with paper, and smiled a weary greeting. His heavily lined face was like a knife, his hazel eyes sharp but kind and intelligent. He’d been down as far as you could get and, like Peter Freedman, he’d managed to climb out of the cesspit and claw his way back up. But, unlike Freedman, he hadn’t made a fortune. Instead, he’d used his experience to help others who had suffered hardship and homelessness as he had done, and three years ago he’d been given the position as paid manager of the charity. He gestured Horton into the worn seat across his desk and after exchanging a few pleasantries Horton broke the news about Freedman’s death. Ashmead looked shocked then sorrowful.
‘You left a message on his answer machine.’
‘Yes. He used to volunteer on Tuesdays but I was at a conference in Southampton and I just wanted to catch up with him about one of our customers who I thought he might particularly be able to help. I heard something on the local radio about a man being found dead by the houseboats but I never imagined it would be Peter. How did he die?’
Before Horton could answer there was a tap on the open door and Martha entered. She handed Horton his mug of coffee and put the second she was carrying on the desk in front of Ashmead.
‘Is it OK if I break the news to Martha?’ Ashmead asked.
Horton nodded. He watched her lined, narrow face register alarm before she sank heavily on to the chair next to Horton. He knew from Ashmead that she was in her mid-fifties but whatever life had thrown at her it had made her look at least ten years older. Her light brown eyes were slightly bloodshot and ringed with fatigue. She studied him anxiously.
‘Peter, dead? I can’t believe it.’
‘When did you last see him?’ Horton asked her gently. He could hear voices outside. They grew louder as two men headed past the office towards the showers. Ashmead rose and quietly pushed the door to but didn’t close it completely.
‘On Tuesday,’ she answered. Her voice was soft, her accent local.
The day he’d been killed, thought Horton.
‘Tuesday was his day for helping us unless he was away on one of his lecture tours, but that wasn’t very often.’
‘How did he seem?’
‘Fine, his usual self. We chatted about the weather, the news. He joked, as he usually did, asking me if I’d found a good man to whisk me off to the continent. I said chance would be a fine thing.’
‘And his love life?’
‘He told me he was single. He said no one would put up with him. All I know about him is that he had been homeless, was a recovering alcoholic and that he’d been in prison. He made no secret of it, which was why he was able to relate so well to some of our customers. He never preached at anyone. He just listened and if they asked for advice he gave it if he could.’
> Horton noted the slight flush under her skin and how her eyes dropped. He guessed she’d asked Freedman for advice. Maybe she had also experienced homelessness and drink problems.
She continued, ‘Peter sat in the café, as he usually did, drinking tea and chatting with anyone who stopped by him. Some of them came to talk to him specifically. He arrived at about ten and stayed until four, his usual hours.’
Ashmead explained, ‘Peter was generous with his time. He was also generous with his money. He donated ten per cent of his earnings to us.’
So Freedman hadn’t been all talk.
Ashmead added, ‘I wish I’d seen him but the conference went on for ages and then I stayed on for drinks – a mineral water in my case. It was about attracting funding and sponsorship. It raised some interesting ideas but equally it was rather depressing because we’re all chasing the same pot of money, which is getting smaller despite the increase in the number of people getting wealthier. They seem to want to hold on to their wealth. The same for the big corporations, and despite what we’re told there is no trickle-down effect to the poor. Some benefactors see medical charities, and those connected with children and dogs – donkeys, even – as being far more important and vital than helping a bunch of down-and-outs, drug addicts and drunkards, with many believing it’s our own fault.’ Horton heard the bitterness in Ashmead’s voice. ‘I left Martha my office key in case Peter needed to use my office to talk to anyone privately.’
‘He didn’t,’ Martha said. ‘How did he die?’
It was the question Ashmead had asked earlier. Both were looking at him eagerly as they awaited his answer but Horton hadn’t been authorized to give it. ‘I can’t say, sorry,’ he apologized. Then added, ‘Only that we are treating his death as suspicious.’
Martha’s skin paled. She dashed a frightened glance at Ashmead and then back at Horton. ‘Who would want to kill him? It wasn’t one of our customers, was it?’
Could it be? he wondered. He kept coming back to that one question above all others that nagged and gnawed away at him: why had Freedman been dressed as a tramp?
Lethal Waves Page 12
