Killing Coast, A (Detective Inspector Andy Horton) Read online

  They found Taylor and his crew outside the house. Clarke was photographing the stone-covered driveway which Taylor and Tremain were examining. It had finally stopped raining and a weak sun was descending towards a watery late afternoon.

  ‘No blood markings visible to the naked eye,’ Taylor volunteered as Horton and Uckfield climbed into scene suits. Horton thought it more a precaution than a necessity because he didn’t believe Hazleton had been killed in the house. Still they couldn’t take any chances. And he wanted no more slip-ups.

  There was no sign of a forced entry and extracting the keys Taylor had taken from the dead man’s pockets, Horton inserted one in the lock. ‘Whoever killed Hazleton didn’t want anything from here; otherwise they’d have taken his house keys, or broken in.’

  ‘Lisle’s not a thief,’ said Uckfield abruptly.

  The house was still and silent. Everything was exactly as Horton remembered, the big oak staircase, the antique rugs on the polished parquet floor. It was chilly, but there was some heat emanating from an electric storage heater that looked out of place in the old house.

  Taylor and Tremain started in the hall, while Horton slipped into the room on the right and Uckfield the one on the left. Horton found himself in what was clearly a dining room with a large oak table in the centre on a huge deep-red rug. There was some impressive orange-coloured glassware and china figures on top of a bowed glass-fronted cabinet against the wall, inside which was a selection of blue and mauve china cups, saucers and tea plates that clearly were not intended for use. There were also some impressive watercolours of country scenes hanging on the plain walls above a dado rail and panelling beneath. He peered at the signature on the paintings but the names meant nothing to him. He wouldn’t mind getting an expert’s opinion out of curiosity, rather than because of any connection with the case, because, clearly, as Uckfield said, robbery was not why Victor Hazleton had been killed and shoved in the boot of a car. And there was no sign of a struggle in here. He thought of Oliver Vernon on Russell Glenn’s yacht. Perhaps he’d know a thing or two about these antiques; he was supposed to be an expert.

  He joined Uckfield in the lounge, where he was immediately drawn to the French doors opposite. They gave on to the landscaped garden and a view of the English Channel that was shrouded in the mist. There was nothing to see except a wide expanse of grey sea, but on a fine day the view would be miles and miles of sparkling blue ocean.

  Nodding at the phone on a small table to the right of a sofa, Uckfield said, ‘The last call he made was to you and I can’t find any letters, or correspondence.’

  Horton surveyed the spacious lounge with its old-fashioned and rather faded furniture, before turning to study the porcelain figures of dancers and clowns on the mantelpiece of a stone fireplace spoilt by a modern electric fire. Along with them were a vase and an unusual-looking clock. As Taylor entered, Horton said, ‘What’s your opinion of these, Phil?’

  ‘Valuable. Antique.’

  Horton’s view too. There were also more impressive paintings, one a little abstract and striking. It was a sailing scene that could have been anywhere along the coast but he fancied it was of Cowes Week in August early last century. There were no family photographs.

  ‘Any idea what Hazleton did for a living?’ Uckfield asked.

  ‘Antique dealer?’ suggested Horton. He wondered if WPC Claire Skinner would know. She hadn’t mentioned it when they had been here before.

  Uckfield said, ‘Is there a study?’

  ‘No, but there’s an observatory.’

  Taylor forestalled Uckfield as he headed for the door. ‘It would be better if you’d wait for us to finish, sir.’

  Uckfield looked as though he was about to contradict him, then he grunted. ‘OK, let’s talk to the cleaner, or rather we could if we knew her address,’ he added, glowering at Horton.

  But Horton was saved from answering by Beth Tremain. ‘This might help, sir.’ She handed Horton a piece of paper. ‘It was pinned on a notice board in the kitchen.’ And clearly a reminder to Hazleton of his staff’s contact details. But had he needed it? Horton wasn’t so sure. He recalled Hazleton’s dismissive attitude to WPC Skinner and Sergeant Elkins and thought he understood. The cleaner and gardener’s details, as far as Hazleton was concerned, didn’t merit the trouble of remembering.

  As they headed for the Walker’s residence, Horton wondered what Vivien Walker’s reaction was going to be when she heard her boss had been brutally murdered.

  ELEVEN

  ‘It’s those illegal immigrants, they killed him,’ she snapped.

  They’d found her in front of the television, with a box of chocolates and a cup of tea at her side, watching a TV game show that Horton had heard people talking about at the station but had never seen because he didn’t have a television set on the boat.

  ‘You’ve seen them?’ asked Uckfield, surprised.

  ‘No, but Mr Hazleton saw that light. It must have something to do with that. Who else could want to kill him?’

  Norman Walker threw Horton an apologetic glance. Horton again got the feeling he’d had when first meeting Vivien Walker on Monday that she’d been involved with the police somewhere along the line. He noted that Norman looked more upset at Victor Hazleton’s death than his wife. Perhaps she was just made that way.

  ‘Do you know who Mr Hazleton’s next of kin is?’ he asked, perching his backside on the edge of a chair. Uckfield took the chair opposite. It was a stuffy little room crammed with knick-knacks and photographs that seemed to clash with the flock wallpaper and patterned carpet.

  ‘There isn’t anyone. Mr Hazleton wasn’t married,’ she answered warily.

  ‘No nephews or nieces?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard of and no one ever visited him.’

  ‘How long have you worked for him?’

  ‘Fifteen years.’

  ‘That’s a long time.’

  ‘So what if it is?’

  Horton stifled a sigh. It was definitely one of those interviews. ‘How about you, Mr Walker?’

  His wife answered for him. ‘Eight years.’

  ‘And what are your duties?’ Horton tried politeness, then wondered why he’d bothered; clearly it was wasted on this woman.

  ‘I don’t see that’s any of your business.’

  OK, so that’s how it is. Leaning forward, he said harshly, ‘It is my business when a man has been found brutally murdered. And I’m beginning to wonder exactly why you are so hostile. And why you haven’t shown the slightest sign of distress at his death after being in his employment for fifteen years.’

  The flush deepened. ‘You think we had something to do with it?’ she cried.

  ‘Did you?’ he asked coolly.

  ‘No, we flaming well didn’t and if you’re going to talk like—’ Mrs Walker sprang up indignantly.

  ‘Sit down,’ Horton said firmly and held her hostile stare. ‘Sit down, Mrs Walker.’

  After a moment she exhaled and sat down heavily. Horton said, ‘Now shall we start again, and this time I’d appreciate a little more cooperation.’ Horton shifted his gaze to Norman Walker who nodded sheepishly, while his wife pressed her lips together and eyed him through slits.

  ‘What were your duties?’

  She sniffed and said, ‘I cleaned the house, did his shopping and cooked for him on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. On Sundays I cook a roast dinner and do him up a plate and Norman takes it over.’

  ‘Did you clean the observatory?’

  ‘Only when he was in it and then he wouldn’t let me touch his telescopes, afraid I’d damage them, though I’ve not so much as broken a cup or one of his fancy figurines since I worked there. He collects them and china. He was always coming back with something he’d picked up at some market or antique shop.’

  ‘Have you ever seen any photographs of Mr Hazleton’s family?’

  She shook her head.

  Uckfield spoke. ‘When did you last see Mr Hazleton?’


  ‘Monday, when he was there.’ She nodded at Horton.

  ‘What time did you leave?’

  ‘Same time as always; two o’clock. Mr Hazleton was up in his observatory when I called out goodbye.’

  Uckfield picked at his fingernails. ‘On Monday did he say he was going to meet anyone on Tuesday?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he have any telephone calls while you were there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did he seem when you left him?’

  ‘Annoyed with him,’ she jerked her head at Horton, ‘for not believing him. I suppose you do now it’s too late.’

  Horton held her accusatory stare. But he knew that even if he had believed Hazleton he wouldn’t have prevented his death. To Norman Walker he said, ‘What are your duties for Mr Hazleton?’

  ‘He does—’

  ‘I’d rather hear it from Mr Walker,’ Horton interrupted firmly.

  She pursed her lips together and gave him another hateful look but he’d had worse.

  Norman Walker said, ‘I do the gardening and anything that needs fixing in the house. I left with Vivien on Monday afternoon. She doesn’t drive.’

  Horton made no comment about Hazleton’s house being within walking distance. He said, ‘We’ll need you to look over the house and tell us if you think anything is missing.’ It seemed unlikely because there was no evidence of a break in, but Hazleton’s killer could have used the keys and taken something from the house before putting the keys back in the dead man’s pocket.

  ‘Well we haven’t stolen anything,’ she snapped.

  ‘No one said you had,’ Horton replied somewhat wearily, before adding, ‘Did Mr Hazleton talk about his past: his loves, life, job, experiences?’

  She swivelled her hard eyes on him. ‘He used to work for a firm of solicitors.’

  Horton’s ears pricked up at that. He resisted a glance at Uckfield but knew he was thinking the same. Lisle had worked for a legal firm, but then many other people did too. It was probably just coincidence. ‘Doing what?’ he asked before Uckfield could.

  ‘He was a clerk,’ Norman answered, drawing a scowl from his wife.

  ‘Office manager,’ she corrected.

  ‘If you believe him; you know how Mr Hazleton liked to exaggerate.’

  ‘But not about that. Mrs Jarvis confirmed it.’

  ‘Jarvis?’ Horton quickly interjected in what looked like becoming a sparring match between husband and wife, and they could do without that.

  ‘She’s an elderly lady I also clean for. Wallingford and Chandler drew up her will years ago and she told me Mr Hazleton was in charge of all those solicitors and the office.’

  Horton sensed Uckfield’s heightened interest at the name of the firm; it was the same one Arthur Lisle had worked for. Coincidence? He didn’t think so. Hazleton must have recognized Arthur Lisle when he saw him killing Yately. He asked how long Hazleton had worked for Wallingford and Chandler.

  Mrs Walker answered. ‘Don’t know but he told me he retired in 1986.’

  Hazleton must have been quite young to retire, Horton calculated, in his mid fifties, and that was a long time before Arthur Lisle had retired.

  Uckfield said, ‘Do you know or have you ever heard Mr Hazleton mention a man called Arthur Lisle?’ She shook her head. Her husband did the same. Horton stretched across a photograph of Lisle but they both stared blankly at it. He then tried one of Yately but again got a negative response.

  ‘Did Mr Hazleton mention who was named in his will?’ Having worked for a legal firm Horton felt sure he must have made one.

  They shook their heads but Horton couldn’t help noticing their sly glance. No doubt they were hoping the old man had been generous to them.

  At a sign from Uckfield, Horton rose. ‘We’ll need you both to make a statement. And we’ll arrange a time for you to go to the house. Meanwhile, if you could give me the keys.’

  ‘We don’t have any. He wouldn’t give us one,’ Vivien Walker announced. Horton studied her closely wondering if it was the truth. Maybe it was.

  At the door, Norman said, ‘How did he die?’

  ‘We can’t tell you that yet. There’ll be a post-mortem.’

  ‘Of course,’ he nodded and made to close the door when Horton turned.

  ‘Did Mr Hazleton own a mobile phone?’

  ‘No. Said he had no need for one.’

  ‘Can you tell me where you both were between seven and midnight last night?’

  ‘You can’t think we had anything to do with his death!’

  Horton said nothing.

  ‘We were in the pub from seven until eleven. It was quiz night, I’m in the team, and then we came home to bed.’

  ‘Which pub?’

  ‘The Bugle.’

  ‘And at the weekend?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Do you own a boat?’

  Horton might just as well have asked him if he owned a private jet; the answer was clearly no.

  Uckfield already had the car door open when Horton said, ‘Does Mr Hazleton own any other properties, or a boat?’

  Norman shook his head. ‘I never heard him mention anything.’

  In the car, Uckfield said, ‘What was all that about owning a boat?’

  ‘I wondered if the Walkers could have killed both Lisle and Hazleton if Hazleton had left them something in a will.’

  Uckfield snorted. ‘We know who killed Hazleton: Arthur Lisle.’

  Horton still thought he’d get Trueman to run the Walkers through criminal records.

  Uckfield said, ‘Hazleton could also have been shagging Abigail Lisle years ago and Lisle recently discovered it along with his missus’s affair with Yately. Maybe he read his late wife’s diaries.’

  And that sounded highly plausible. Despite his vowed intentions to stop thinking about the past Horton’s thoughts veered back to his mother. Had she kept a diary? If so, nobody had mentioned it and no diary had been passed on to him. Therefore it was unlikely, unless that diary had contained something incriminating or implicated someone in her disappearance, and that made him wonder if their council flat had been searched either by the police or by someone else who could possibly have had a key or forced an entrance. There was nothing on the missing person’s file to indicate either. And Adrian Stanley, by his own admission, hadn’t even entered the flat. But Horton had seen his discomfort when he’d asked the question.

  ‘I need a drink.’ Uckfield’s voice crashed through his thoughts

  ‘The Bugle?’ Horton said, catching the Super’s drift.

  ‘Might as well kill two birds with one swallow and I’m bloody hungry.’

  Over fish and chips, which Horton didn’t feel much like eating after viewing the body of Victor Hazleton, the landlord and landlady of The Bugle confirmed the presence of the Walkers in the bar the previous night until just after eleven o’clock and denied knowing Arthur Lisle and Colin Yately. They claimed they had never seen either man when Horton showed them photographs and neither had they seen Lisle’s Morris Minor.

  Uckfield headed for Lisle’s house, where Dennings, who had phoned as they were finishing their meal, said they’d completed the search without finding any love letters or diaries.

  ‘There are some missing pictures in the albums though.’ Dennings indicated the gaps and eyed Horton moodily, clearly put out by his presence.

  ‘Where’s the daughter?’ Uckfield said, disappointed.

  ‘In the kitchen with her husband. I haven’t shown her the photograph of the dress Yately was wearing, but I told her about the car and Hazleton being found dead in it. She claims she’s never heard of Victor Hazleton, and neither has her husband. She thinks her father’s in the sea and wants to know if we’re searching for him.’

  Horton had already mooted that to Uckfield in the pub and had got a short answer: ‘Have you any idea of how much a helicopter search would cost?’

  A great deal, and then it was unlikely they’d find Lisle.

>   ‘No suicide note, I suppose,’ Uckfield asked, hopefully.

  Dennings shook his big shaven head. ‘I’ve got all the paperwork bagged up. We can double-check it but I know there isn’t one.’

  Horton said, ‘Perhaps he posted it and it’ll arrive at his daughter’s house tomorrow.’

  Uckfield raised his eyebrows. OK, so Horton didn’t believe that either. It was just an idea. ‘Not all suicides leave notes,’ he added, before following Uckfield into the kitchen. Dennings’ phone rang, forestalling him. With a scowl at Horton he answered it gruffly.

  Rachel Salter sprang up from the table with hope and worry on her flushed face. ‘You’ve found him?’

  Gently, Uckfield said, ‘There’s every possibility that your father wasn’t in the car.’

  ‘Then how did it get into the sea?’

  ‘He could have driven it there at low tide, abandoned it, and waded back to the shore.’

  Paul Salter, a smallish muscular man in his early forties, said, ‘Then where is he?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Uckfield said, trying without success to squeeze the exasperation from his voice.

  Quickly, Horton asked, ‘Have you any idea where he might have gone? To a friend’s, a relative or somewhere that was special to him, or to him and your mother.’

  Paul looked blank, while his wife answered, ‘I’ve rung round all our relatives, not that we have many, only a couple of aunts on the Island, and none on the mainland, and they’ve not seen Dad since mum’s funeral, and he certainly hasn’t gone to Singapore.’

  ‘A friend’s house, then?’ Horton asked again, feeling Uckfield’s impatience and wishing he’d leave and let him pursue his questioning in peace.

  ‘Dad’s a solitary man. Well, he hardly had time for friends with mum being so ill for years,’ she added defensively.

  ‘That must have been very difficult for him, and for you,’ Horton empathized.