She added, ‘I could ask you why you’re interested but I don’t think you’ll tell me so I’ll save you from making a polite excuse to fob me off.’
‘I don’t want to do that,’ he said seriously. ‘I’d like to tell you but not here or now.’
‘Over that dinner?’ She must have seen him hesitate. ‘Or maybe when you’re ready.’ And she smiled to show that she understood. He wondered, though, when he would be ready. When he discovered the truth? When he got as far as he could go before the trail came to a complete dead end? Would he ever be ready though to talk about someone who had been locked away inside him for so many years and whom he had vowed with vengeance to cut out of his life, something he thought he had succeeded in doing until recently?
Gaye rose. As they left the canteen, she said, ‘I never pursued it myself because if my father didn’t there was a very good reason why and I certainly wasn’t going to go against him. But it is interesting and it’s also curious why it’s never come up in all my training or at any of the conferences.’ She paused and stared at him. ‘Or maybe it’s not so curious.’
‘Why do you say that?’ His heart picked up a beat.
‘Someone did a very good hush, hush job on that fire. There was a lot going on in mental institutions in the fifties and sixties that governments and the medical fraternity would prefer not to have exposed and they’ll make sure it stays that way.’
And they weren’t the only ones, it seemed. ‘Such as?’
‘I’ll tell you that over dinner or, better still, you can take me out sailing. No flapping ears at sea.’
There was nothing he’d like better and, with his spirits lifted, he bid her good night and returned to CID, where he wrote up his reports before heading home.
It was very late. He made himself something to eat and listened to the icy wind whistling through the masts. There was plenty to occupy his thoughts – not only what Gaye had told him about that fire in 1968 but also the murder of Peter Freedman and what now appeared to be the murder of Vivian Clements. Then why did his mind keep veering back to Evelyn Lyster? Her death wasn’t murder. It was either suicide or natural causes. But still it nagged at him. There were so many unanswered questions. Just as there were with Jennifer’s disappearance and that fire.
Theories ran swiftly through his mind. Had Zachary Benham and the man he’d gone to help, or to kill, been locked in by someone else? Dormand? Had Benham started that fire to eliminate a traitor and then walked out to leave all those men to die? Had Benham perished and the man he’d been sent to kill walked away? Was Benham the ghost Susan Nash said Jennifer had seen walk into the casino? Was Benham his father and a mass murderer?
Horton felt a cold chill run through him and took a deep breath. Was that the secret so awful that Eames was keen for him not to discover it? Was he better off leaving things where they were? Would he be allowed to do so? Did Andrew Ducale want him to discover the truth and Eames to bury it? His head ached with it all and with the questions troubling him about the deaths of Evelyn Lyster, Peter Freedman and Vivian Clements. He’d get nowhere thinking of any of it. Best to grab some sleep, but as he retired to his bunk he wondered if sleep would ever come.
SIXTEEN
Friday
At four fifteen Horton gave up, showered, shaved and climbed on his Harley. He made his way along the dark and damp seafront to the harbour where he parked in the nearby multi-storey car park, crossed to the railway station and headed down into the Wightlink ferry terminal. He bought a return ticket for the five fifteen to Ryde, wondering why the hell he was doing this. The ferry office had confirmed that no one by the name of Evelyn Lyster had bought a ticket by credit or debit card and so far none of the staff remembered selling her a ticket at the Portsmouth office, but maybe she’d done the same as she had at the international port – bought a single ticket across to the island using cash and a single one again using cash at the Ryde booking office. He’d ask them at Ryde ticket office.
He bought a coffee and watched the Fast Cat ferry ease its way in to the dock. He knew this wasn’t the way that Bliss policed. She’d simply lift the phone and ask an officer in Ryde to investigate. That was the correct use of resources, but hell, it was his time and money he was wasting and it had been him who had seen Evelyn Lyster’s body in that cabin. And him who had been following this through. He knew what questions to ask.
Within thirty minutes he was stepping off the ferry at the end of Ryde Pier waiting for the passengers to embark before questioning the terminal staff. At this time of the morning it was essentially one-way traffic as far as passengers were concerned. Most were travelling from the island to work on the mainland.
He showed Evelyn Lyster’s photograph to the terminal staff. No one remembered her but that didn’t matter because he’d already had confirmation from one of the crew at the Portsmouth end that she had been on the Fast Cat on Monday morning. He made his way up to the railway station but halted at the coffee shop, which was in the departure lounge. Evelyn Lyster had been carrying a cup flask. It had been empty. He recalled what Gina Lyster had said and the six cup flasks he’d seen in Evelyn Lyster’s kitchen cabinet. Because of Evelyn’s car accident as a result of not drinking enough and further lowering her blood pressure, she’d always made sure to have a flask made up with coffee to act as a stimulant. Perhaps she’d bought one here to pour into the flask which she’d drank on the Solent crossing. He crossed to the staff serving in the coffee shop.
‘Yes, I remember her – smart woman. It was early Monday morning,’ one of the women unexpectedly told him. ‘She didn’t buy a coffee but she had one of those drinking flasks with her. She took it out of her bag, looked up, saw me then put it back again. Probably thought I was going to tell her she couldn’t drink it in here.’
‘Did she speak to anyone?’
‘Not that I saw. After she put her flask back in her bag the ferry came in so she got up to leave.’
That didn’t get him any further. He called in at the ticket office and again showed Evelyn Lyster’s photograph. The clerk didn’t remember her. It had been busy and they were short-staffed. He’d had a headache. Horton headed through the station towards the pier exit on the far right, feeling out of sorts. He crossed to the water and stared at the black mass of swirling sea as it slapped up against the struts. This was where Dennis Lyster’s body had washed up.
The wind, though not as strong as it had been during the night, buffeted him. He was glad of the sea air, hoping it would clear his head and shake off the slough of despondency that he could feel sleeking over him. The pier was half a mile out to sea. There was no entertainment on it. It had been constructed purely as a means of enabling the wealthy of the nineteenth century to arrive on the island from the mainland on the steamer service without getting their feet wet on the sands because the tide went out for miles. Trams and trains had traversed it. Now only one small train consisting of former London underground railway carriages trundled up and down it twice an hour, along with cars and pedestrians. There were several cars parked behind him and taxis dropped off their fares for the ferry service to Portsmouth.
He gazed westwards along the coast to the wooded area of Fishbourne, where he could see the lights of the car ferry easing its way into its berth. Beyond it were more trees and a bay, above which was Osborne House, once the holiday home of Queen Victoria, but between Fishbourne and Osborne House was another imposing house hidden by the trees and not as stately as the former queen’s, belonging to Eames. Where was Eames now? Not there, not in January. Perhaps at his Wiltshire estate or abroad at one of his other properties. Perhaps he was sailing in the Caribbean or on a trade mission on behalf of businesses and the government. But wherever he was, Horton wouldn’t mind betting Eames had an update on his movements.
He looked up to see a taxi heading towards the pier head. He crossed to it and waited for it to discharge its fare. The taxi driver climbed out and lit up a cigarette. Horton didn’t expect a result that was
any different from what he’d already had but Evelyn Lyster had got to this ferry terminal somehow. Maybe she’d caught the train from Shanklin or perhaps a friend had given her a lift. Or perhaps she’d caught a taxi as she had done in Portsmouth.
He showed his warrant card and then Evelyn Lyster’s photograph and was astounded when the taxi driver said, ‘Yeah, I recognize her. I dropped her and her friend here on Monday morning.’
‘Friend?’ Horton asked, startled and with a racing pulse. ‘She was with someone?’
‘Yeah, a tall man, collar-length brown hair, going grey, teeth like a film star, about mid-fifties.’
Horton’s head whirled. My God! Was it possible? There were a lot of tall men going grey in their mid-fifties but there was only one he’d recently come across who’d had expensive dental work. With a pounding heart, he rapidly scrolled through the photographs on his phone until he found the one he wanted.
‘Was this the man?’
‘Yeah, that’s him, who is he?’
A dead man, thought Horton. Peter Freedman.
He asked the taxi driver to take him to where he had picked up his fare. The address was on the north-western edge of Ryde and within ten minutes they were pulling up in front of a large pair of wrought-iron gates, behind which was an imposing Victorian house built in the warm grey stone of the Isle of Wight quarries. It was set in a small cul-de-sac of other substantial Victorian properties just off a leafy lane. The intercom showed that it had been divided into apartments and Horton’s knowledge of the area told him the property backed on to the Solent.
His head was teeming with questions since the surprising news, which he hadn’t yet passed on to Uckfield. He paid off the driver after ensuring he had all his contact details and scrutinized the intercom, but it listed only the apartment numbers and no names.
The driver had told him that the couple hadn’t spoken a word in the taxi and they hadn’t appeared close or in the middle of a row. The woman had ordered it on Sunday night for Monday morning at six thirty and had given the address, but not the flat number, and her name as Smith. After dropping her off at Ryde Pier Head the driver had then taken the male passenger to the hovercraft terminal to catch the hovercraft from Ryde to Southsea. Freedman had paid the taxi fare in cash. So why not travel across the Solent together? Why the false name? Had Freedman known that Evelyn Lyster was travelling on to Guernsey? What had he done the rest of Monday while Evelyn was on board the ferry? Had he been expecting to hear from her? If so, how did he feel when he didn’t? Or did he know she’d be dead before she arrived because he’d killed her? But how? It had to be poison – something in that flask she’d drunk and which had taken effect on board the Guernsey ferry. Guilbert’s toxicology experts must be able to find traces of it in her blood and forensics in the flask lining. But if Freedman had killed Evelyn Lyster then who the devil had killed him on Tuesday night? Was it the same person who had then killed Clements?
So many questions assailed him as he studied the house. Had they come from this property? he wondered, glancing around the area. Maybe they’d just asked to be picked up here. There were two large houses behind trees opposite the converted Victorian building. They’d had no need to think anyone had followed them here but they had been cautious enough to pay by cash and give false names. Why? Had they been lovers? Had the relationship been active when Dennis Lyster had been alive? Had Freedman killed Dennis Lyster in order to be with Evelyn? That had been ten months ago – time enough for them to reveal it now. So why the secrecy? Not because Rowan would object. No, there was something more.
He pressed the intercom for flat one. He’d work his way through each of the seven numbers, hoping he’d get an answer from one of them and praying that they weren’t all holiday apartments. He struck lucky on flat five when a disembodied man’s voice said rather querulously, ‘Yes?’
Horton introduced himself and held up his ID to the CCTV camera, which he’d seen to the right of the gates. He was buzzed through and met by a man in his mid-sixties who introduced himself as Edwin Godley. Horton showed him the photograph of Evelyn Lyster and asked if he had ever seen her.
‘Of course I have. She has the penthouse apartment,’ Godley promptly answered. Then added warily, ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong.’
‘How well do you know her?’ Horton asked, making sure the excitement coursing through him didn’t show on his face or in his voice.
‘We speak when she’s here, which is about two or three times a month. A very pleasant lady.’
‘How long have you known her?’
‘Since I bought the apartment eight years ago.’
‘She’s been here that long?’ Horton said, this time unable to conceal his surprise. Her son had denied any knowledge of why his mother should be on the Isle of Wight. Was that a lie?
‘She sold me the apartment, or rather, I should say her agents did.’
Horton looked at him, mystified.
Godley explained, ‘Mrs Brookes bought the building, had it renovated to a very high standard, kept the top floor for herself and sold off the other flats.’
‘Mrs Brookes?’
‘The woman in the photograph.’
‘You’re absolutely sure that it is the same woman?’
‘Positive. Is everything OK?’
‘Have you seen this man before?’ Horton showed him the photograph of Freedman but Godley shook his head.
‘No. I hope she’s all right and hasn’t met with an accident.’
‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful,’ Horton politely and evasively replied.
Godley looked taken aback by the fob off but shrugged an acceptance as Horton made his way across the tiled hallway and up the wide sweeping staircase. Godley was correct – everything here was tastefully decorated and maintained to a high standard. A property management company was obviously engaged to ensure the fabric of the building and the grounds were meticulously maintained.
He came out on the top landing which had an arched window to his right giving splendid views across the Solent to the lights of Portsmouth, which were gradually fading as a weak winter sun rose. In front of him was the door to her apartment. He didn’t have a key but he suspected one of those on her key ring would be to this flat. And those keys, along with her other personal effects, had been given to her son by Guilbert. Had Rowan Lyster queried what each key was for? Or had his grief and shock blunted his curiosity? But perhaps Mr Godley was mistaken and the woman who owned this apartment only looked like Evelyn Lyster. Horton quickly scotched that idea, though, when he put it together with the taxi driver’s evidence. He could get an officer over here to affect a forced entry or he could wait for someone to collect the keys from Rowan Lyster and send them over with an officer on the hovercraft. The latter would alert Rowan and delay entry, and the former could be considered excessive because he had no suspicion that a person lay dead or ill inside the apartment or that any crime had been committed inside it, but one had certainly been committed on someone who had in all probability been here, and that was the murder of Freedman.
He rang John Guilbert on his mobile phone, who expressed no surprise at the early call. Swiftly Horton told him what he had discovered and suggested that he look for a property on Guernsey registered in the name of Evelyn Brookes and a bank account in that name, although there was always the possibility she had used yet another identity. He didn’t know why but if he put that with her desire to pay by cash when travelling and the fact the man accompanying her on Monday morning was dead he strongly suspected a connection with some criminal activity.
‘I’ll instigate enquiries but the banks aren’t obliged to give us that information, even in a murder investigation,’ Guilbert said. ‘I’ll also ask for the toxicology tests to be given top priority, chase up the analysis of the flask and recirculate her picture with the new name to all the landlords and estate agents. Keep me posted.’
Horton said he would. Next he called Newport police station and requested
assistance, hoping that DCI Birch wouldn’t get wind of it. He didn’t fancy the acid-tongued head of CID breathing down his neck. Hopefully he was still off sick.
Then he rang Gaye, apologizing for disturbing her so early. ‘There’s something I’d like you to do for me if you have time before you jet off to Denmark. There’s another autopsy report I need you to review, that of a Dennis Lyster. I want to know if anything was missed.’
‘Who performed it?’
‘A Dr Sealing ten months ago, in the mortuary on the Isle of Wight.’
‘I’ll access it my end and call you as soon as I can.’
Finally he rang Uckfield on his mobile phone and rapidly explained where he was and why.
‘How the blazes did you know they were connected?’ was Uckfield’s shocked response.
‘I didn’t. I was just curious as to why she got off one ferry and went straight on to another one.’ He didn’t have time to explain all his other queries regarding her death. ‘I’ll get Cantelli to check with the Isle of Wight ferries and the hovercraft for any details of when Evelyn Brookes and Peter Freedman travelled during the last year, but it sounds as though they both used cash to avoid being traced. We know that Guernsey is very advantageous for those who have capital to invest and don’t want to pay huge amounts of tax.’
‘Or any tax?’
Uckfield was referring to money laundering, which could be why this Victorian property had been purchased. It was Horton’s thought exactly. He told Uckfield he was going to affect an entry. He then rang Cantelli, who was at home, brought him up to speed and asked him to check with the ferry companies.
With growing impatience, Horton returned to the hall, left the front door open and headed up the drive to the gates as the patrol car drew up. He pressed the release switch and the gates swung open. With the two officers, PCs Tom Wilkinson and Sean Palmer, Horton returned to the top-floor apartment where, with one swift thud on the door, Evelyn Lyster’s apartment was opened. Horton stepped into a generous hall. To the right was a door that gave on to the living quarters while to the left were three doors that he guessed must be to the bedrooms and bathroom.
Lethal Waves Page 18
