Killing Coast, A (Detective Inspector Andy Horton)

by Rowson, Pauline

  The cold evening air helped to clear Horton’s thumping head. It had been a long day and it wasn’t over yet. ‘What about interviewing Chandler?’ he asked.

  ‘Tomorrow will do when his brief shows up. Let him stew in a cell overnight. I’ll get him shipped back to the mainland for the questioning and a confession.’

  If he’ll make one, thought Horton, heading for the ferry. And even if he didn’t Trueman and the team would dig up the evidence and check Chandler’s movements. And they would show him photographs of Lisle’s body. Horton spared a sorrowful thought for Rachel Salter and for Hannah Yately, before his mind switched to his forthcoming meeting with Avril and the unpleasant task that lay ahead.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Horton waved his ID at the security guards at the marina office at the top of the pontoon. There were three more than usual and two of them were coppers who tried to avoid his gaze. He headed down to Russell Glenn’s superyacht. Lights blazed from every porthole but there were no guests on board yet. The reception wasn’t due to start for another hour. He’d just managed to catch a ferry, leaving a no doubt fuming Uckfield at the terminal, kicking his heels, or rather cursing vehemently, while waiting for the next sailing. He was glad. He wanted to be alone with Avril when he broke the news.

  Climbing on board he didn’t need to show his ID to Walters. ‘Where’s Lloyd?’ he asked.

  ‘Not sure, haven’t seen him for hours. Mr Danby’s with the skipper, up there?’ Walters jerked his head towards the flybridge. Good. Horton hoped he’d stay there. ‘Not come to fetch me, Guv, have you?’ Walters asked warily.

  ‘Why would I want you?’

  ‘Dunno. Good bit of extra money this, wouldn’t want to lose it.’

  ‘I think you might have to.’ Walters’ face fell, but before he could comment Horton pushed open the glass doors and stepped into the gleaming luxurious lounge where the smell of new leather, mahogany furniture and deep-pile wool carpets greeted him. Beyond it he could catch the faint aroma of food that was no doubt being prepared for the reception. The steward was behind a bar in the far right-hand corner setting out bottles of champagne in ice buckets. He asked Horton to wait while he fetched Mrs Glenn. Horton crossed to the seaward windows and gazed across the harbour at Gosport beyond. It had grown dark. The lights of the harbour and the tower blocks behind it glinted down on them. It made him think about his own childhood gazing across a brightly lit city from the eighteenth floor of their council flat to the dark sea beyond, watching the lights of the boats slowly cross a black horizon with a panicky feeling that he’d be encased in the tower for ever. The memory startled him. The thought that he was alone, afraid and imprisoned caught at his breath and tightened his chest, but before he could explore his feelings the door behind him opened and he spun round to see Avril smiling. She was exquisitely dressed in an expensive, figure-hugging aquamarine-blue evening dress, and immaculately made-up. Her blonde hair shone and her pale-blue eyes greeted him with a friendly smile. It made his heart lurch but this time with disappointment, not excitement or lust.

  ‘Andy, what a surprise,’ she said, moving forward to greet him when his solemn expression stalled her.

  ‘Can you leave us, please.’ Horton addressed the steward.

  Avril frowned and nodded.

  In the silence that followed Horton heard the engines of a boat heading into the harbour. Part of him wished he were on it.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Before he could speak, she added, ‘It’s Russell. Something’s happened to him. He’s had an accident.’ Her complexion paled. ‘That’s what you’ve come to tell me.’ Her worried blue eyes scoured his face. ‘He went out ages ago on the RIB. He should have been back by now but then the fog came in. I assumed he’d moored up somewhere.’

  ‘He’s dead, Avril,’ he announced bluntly.

  ‘Dead! But how—’

  ‘Oliver Vernon killed him.’

  ‘Oliver! No. I don’t understand . . .’ she stammered, sinking down on one of the leather seats.

  ‘He claims it was an accident and that Glenn had a gun and intended killing him, rather than letting him have the necklace.’

  ‘Necklace? What necklace?’ Her eyes widened.

  Was her surprise genuine? He didn’t think so. ‘The one you told him Glenn had. Sarah Walpen’s necklace.’

  ‘Who’s Sarah Walpen?’ she asked him, bewildered.

  Horton steeled himself to continue. ‘Perhaps you don’t know about its origins, and perhaps Oliver tricked you, but you knew Russell had the necklace and Oliver told you he had found a buyer for it, one who would pay a considerable amount of money, enough for you to leave Glenn.’

  She opened her mouth to speak then decided not to. Instead she shook her head.

  Horton continued. ‘This buyer or his representative was to come here tonight and collect it while everyone’s attention was focused on the auction.’ And that was who the Intelligence Directorate were after. ‘What was the plan, Avril? That the necklace would be passed to this buyer but that Glenn would be found dead in his study the next morning? And with lots of police officers around as security, including me at the auction, to say it couldn’t possibly have been you or Oliver Vernon. But then I unwittingly gave you and Oliver a better plan by calling Oliver in as valuer. Oliver seized his chance to demand that Glenn meet him with the necklace, otherwise he’d tell everyone at the auction how Glenn had made his millions. The fog made it perfect. Oliver could kill Glenn, take the necklace and everyone would think that Glenn had got lost in the fog, had an accident and had been killed. His body would have rotted in that old house just as Sarah Walpen’s has.’

  She stared at him, her forehead creased in a deep frown, but he wasn’t fooled.

  ‘But your husband was never going to submit to blackmail. Surely you must have known that?’ And he saw that she did. Oh, clever Avril. He’d forgotten how clever.

  Whether something in his expression betrayed his thoughts or she sensed them, he didn’t know, but she rose and crossed to the bar. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. This is such a terrible shock.’ She poured a drink, but with a steady hand.

  Horton continued. ‘You used the necklace, and probably expressions of undying love to Oliver, to trick him into blackmailing Glenn, knowing that Glenn would go armed and that Oliver would have to kill him, or at least that’s how you planned it. You didn’t care about Oliver, the necklace or your husband but you do care about wealth. Russell Glenn would never have divorced you because he loved you or rather, I should say, he saw you as a beautiful thing he wanted to possess, and, as Vernon told me, Glenn loved owning beautiful things.’ Horton knew he was correct by the tiny flicker in her eyes. ‘And Glenn does not give up his assets easily. He had you trapped, Avril, and, as you said in the bar on Monday night, you hate traps. But once you were in this one you found it difficult to escape. Not only because you’d grown so accustomed to wealth, but because you were afraid. Glenn might have fooled many by that dishevelled appearance and absentminded act but behind it was a ruthless man, and one who had killed at least once that we know of, and he probably used Lloyd to kill for him when and if it was demanded. Lloyd was also to make sure that Glenn knew exactly where you were and what you were doing every minute of the day and night when Glenn couldn’t be there. Your husband was possessive and extremely jealous.’ Horton saw he’d got that right.

  ‘You wanted Glenn’s wealth and you wanted him dead. Well, you’ve got it, Avril. Congratulations. It was convenient that Colin Yately and Arthur Lisle stumbled on Sarah Walpen at the right time, adding weight to the blackmail. Convenient for you but unfortunate for them.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of those men.’

  ‘But you know Oliver dressed the corpse of one of them in one of Sarah’s dresses to make your husband believe the blackmailer meant business.’

  She shook her head, looking bewildered, and sipped her drink. Horton hadn’t expected her to play the full grieving widow bit, n
ot yet and not in front of him; that performance would come later.

  He said, ‘You told Russell the same story you told me, that you wanted to stop over in Portsmouth and see it for the last time, and make amends for deserting your mother with a fund-raising reception. Russell agreed because he knew that you were planning something, but he didn’t know what. Oliver Vernon had discovered the background to the missing necklace and Sarah Walpen’s house on the Isle of Wight, and for your plan to work you needed to be close by, because when Glenn would be found dead in his cabin, you could reveal that he was being blackmailed but you didn’t know why, leaving the police to think his blackmailer had inadvertently killed him in a struggle.’

  She swallowed her drink and nursed the empty glass, taking it with her as she returned to her seat, looking confused and bereft, but Horton knew it was an act. Equally, he knew it would fool everyone except him. And if Vernon kept quiet about their collusion, as Horton was inclined to believe he would, then Avril would be OK. And even if Vernon didn’t, Avril would deny that she knew her husband had left to meet him, and she’d certainly deny that she knew Glenn would take a gun. With the best lawyers, which she would certainly have, Avril would be in the clear. She might have plotted to steal her husband’s necklace and break away from him, but that was all. And even then she could probably bring evidence to say he was a hard, ruthless man.

  After a moment, she said, ‘I know nothing about Oliver killing Russell. Russell was often moody but I loved him, and Oliver was rather infatuated with me. But I’d never have left Russell and I certainly didn’t want my husband dead.’

  And that was the story she would stick to. There was nothing more to be said except for one thing.

  ‘Where’s Lloyd?’

  She blinked. ‘Around somewhere, seeing to the security arrangements, I guess.’

  ‘I don’t think so. In fact, I think you’ll find he’s gone.’

  She frowned. ‘Gone? Didn’t he leave with Russell?’

  ‘You know he didn’t. Why didn’t Glenn take Lloyd with him to meet Oliver?’A point that had gnawed at Horton ever since he’d discovered Glenn’s body and found Oliver Vernon trying to start the RIB.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Horton studied her closely. Maybe she didn’t. Or maybe she didn’t know the real reason, just that Oliver Vernon had told Russell Glenn that he had to be alone when handing over the necklace. Normally Glenn would have ignored that advice and taken Lloyd with him anyway, but this time he didn’t. Why? Because Glenn couldn’t find Lloyd. Lloyd had already cleared out.

  ‘Goodbye, Avril.’

  She made no attempt to stop him. He felt both disappointed and relieved. A weaker woman would have begged him to stay, pleaded that he must understand how much she had hated or loved or feared her husband, made up all sorts of stories as to why she couldn’t have wanted him dead or the reverse, but Avril held her nerve to the last. It was nothing more than he had anticipated. The Avrils of the world, like him, had been brought up the hard way. You quickly learnt that silence was often your only weapon.

  His heart was heavy at the thought of Avril’s deceit and even heavier at the idea she had colluded in the murder of her husband. What would she have done if Russell Glenn had killed Oliver Vernon? Tried again in some other way to rid herself of her rich husband, most probably.

  Climbing on his Harley, he saw the Wightlink ferry easing its way into its narrow berth. Uckfield would be on it. He, along with Uniform, would no doubt meet the new Chief Constable at Oyster Quays and head for Russell Glenn’s yacht, where they would find a distraught widow.

  Horton’s mobile rang. Seeing it was Uckfield he ignored the call for the third time and headed out of the city for the large building straddling the hill that overlooked Portsmouth. Once there he cleared his mind of the case, not without difficulty, and made for Adrian Stanley’s hospital room, where he drew up startled. It was empty. Or rather there was a man inside it, but he wasn’t lying on the bed and he wasn’t Adrian Stanley.

  He spun round. ‘Oh, Inspector, I was just going to call you,’ Robin Stanley said. His face was drawn and his eyes sorrowful. Horton’s heart sank; he knew it was bad news. ‘My father died this afternoon at three fifteen. He had another massive stroke.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ So that was it as far as Stanley was concerned. Horton’s hope of discovering some news about his mother’s disappearance from either Glenn or Stanley had come to nothing. After a short pause in which Horton bit back his disappointment, he said, ‘Did your father say anything more?’

  ‘No.’

  Horton let out a long slow breath as he surveyed the hospital room. Robin Stanley had stripped it of his father’s belongings but Horton hoped there was one thing he would allow him to have a copy of. ‘The photograph that was beside your father’s bed. I’d like to see it again, if I may.’

  ‘You could if I knew where it was.’

  Horton started with surprise.

  ‘When the hospital called me this afternoon it wasn’t there.’ Robin Stanley pointed to the bedside cabinet. ‘I asked the staff if they’d seen it and I’ve looked everywhere but it’s gone.’ He frowned. His eyes filled with tears. ‘Dad was so proud of that moment and so was Mum, why would anyone take that? It doesn’t mean anything to anyone else.’

  But Robin was wrong. It meant a great deal to someone and Adrian Stanley had known that.

  ‘Do you have a copy of the photograph?’ he asked. Robin Stanley must have – it was his father’s proudest moment.

  ‘There’s not one in Dad’s flat. I can look at home but the house is in a terrible state. We were burgled last night and everything’s still all over the place.’

  Horton’s gut twisted tighter. Then the photograph would be missing, Horton had no doubt about that. And he didn’t think Robin Stanley’s burglary had anything to do with the others that had been happening in the north of the city. There would be no sighting of a white transit van outside Stanley’s house, but Horton wondered if there might be one of a muddy blue van.

  Robin Stanley dashed a hand over his eyes. ‘It’s all so . . .’

  Horton wanted to reach out a comforting hand but couldn’t. All he could repeat were the words, ‘I’m sorry,’ and he was; genuinely sorry. More sorry than Robin Stanley could ever know.

  He left. There was nothing more he could do and he doubted that whoever had ransacked Robin Stanley’s house had left any fingerprints. He had reached the Harley when a car door opened and a tall man in an immaculate suit stepped out, leaving in the passenger seat a dark-haired Chinese woman: DCI Harriet Lee.

  Horton held Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer’s steady gaze, as he said, ‘Adrian Stanley’s dead and the photograph is missing, but then you know that. Did you take it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know who did?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Or the reason why it was taken?’ Horton could see that Sawyer knew something. But what that was, Horton didn’t know. He said, ‘Russell Glenn’s dead.’ No doubt Sawyer already knew this, even though his expression gave nothing away. ‘Was it him that you and DCI Lee were interested in, or was it Oliver Vernon or Lloyd? Or perhaps it was someone who was going to attend the reception tonight?’

  There was a fraction of a pause before Sawyer answered. ‘We believe that Glenn had been financing high-level criminal activity.’

  ‘Involving Zeus.’

  Sawyer made no comment and showed no reaction.

  Horton said, ‘You thought Glenn, or this other person coming tonight, might help lead you to Zeus.’

  ‘Might have done,’ Sawyer answered.

  Horton wanted to ask him about his missing social services file, and about his mother’s personal belongings, but to do so would mean bargaining for some answers and Horton wasn’t sure he wanted to do that yet. He put on his helmet. Sawyer let him go. Horton needed space. And he needed to think.

  Fifteen minutes later he pulled up on the seafront and swit
ched off the Harley. He stared across the black sea to the lights on the Isle of Wight in the distance. In 1981, because of a dock strike at Southampton, a liner had disembarked its passengers here in the Solent. One woman had not alighted alive. Had Russell Glenn killed her or had she died naturally and he’d seized the opportunity to steal from her and begin a new life? They’d probably never know, unless Dr Clayton could penetrate the secret from Sarah’s bones. But what he did know was the necklace Oliver Vernon had taken from Russell Glenn’s dead body had been a fake. A superb one, but a fake, and Vernon would see that the moment they asked him to examine it closely in a good light, not in the dank, derelict interior of a rotting house or in the fog when Vernon had been more preoccupied by the gun in his hand. The real necklace was with Lloyd, wherever he was; ready to be passed on to the next private collector, his real paymaster. How long had Lloyd and his real boss planned this job? Years, Horton thought; long enough for Lloyd to prove himself a loyal and trusted employee of Glenn’s, and to wait for the right opportunity to present itself, which was Avril and Oliver’s plan to blackmail Glenn into handing it over. Lloyd switched necklaces, leaving Glenn to go alone to meet his blackmailer with the fake one. Horton knew they could look for Lloyd, but they wouldn’t find him. There was no longer any point in Sawyer’s surveillance of Glenn’s superyacht because the purchaser wasn’t going to show. Maybe he never intended being there because Lloyd would have switched necklaces anyway.

  And the necklace brought Horton back to Adrian Stanley. He knew now what Stanley had been trying to tell him. It had been something to do with the brooch that his wife had been wearing in the photograph taken when Stanley had gone to the Palace to collect his Queen’s Gallantry Medal. Had PC Adrian Stanley stolen it from Jennifer’s flat when following up the missing person’s report, or had someone given it to him as payment for his part in stifling what he had discovered?

  Had Stanley’s first stroke been deliberately provoked by shock, or fear? Had someone entered Stanley’s apartment after his visit there on Monday morning, terrorized the man or threatened him into keeping silent about what he knew about Jennifer’s disappearance?