Killing Coast, A (Detective Inspector Andy Horton) Page 15

  Horton sat and stared at the sleeping man. His heart was pumping fast with anticipation of what Stanley might hopefully tell him. Was this the breakthrough he needed? he thought, with a mixture of dread and excitement. Or would it lead to yet another dead end? The sounds of the hospital intruded into the quiet room: the continually bleeping buzzer, a trolley clanging, people murmuring. How long would he have to wait?

  His eyes scanned the room taking in a couple of get-well cards and someone, Robin Stanley, Horton assumed, had brought in a few photographs. He’d sounded a kind man on the phone, but voices as well as looks could be deceptive, as he knew only too well. Horton studied the photographs. Propped up on the bedside cabinet was one of a young man and woman with two fair-haired children. That must be Robin and his wife and kids, he thought, picking it up. Nice-looking family. It made him think of Emma, the only family he had left, and he hastily pushed away such thoughts before more nightmares of being isolated from her returned to haunt his waking hours.

  Replacing the silver-framed photograph he turned to the one beside it of Adrian Stanley and his late wife. Stanley was in police uniform and his slim, elegant wife wore a mauve dress and jacket with some discreet but impressive jewellery – a necklace and brooch – a big mauve hat, gloves, handbag and shoes. But it was the medal that Stanley was holding that drew Horton’s attention. It was the Queen’s Gallantry Medal and the picture must have been taken at the Palace when Stanley had received it from the Queen. What a proud moment for him and his family.

  He turned to study the lean grey-haired man lying in the bed and willed him to wake up. He looked much smaller and older than Horton remembered. Then, as though sensing his gaze, Stanley opened his eyes. Horton’s heart quickened. Stanley seemed almost at once to register who was with him, and Horton thought he saw a hint of relief in the tormented eyes.

  ‘You were asking for me,’ Horton began gently, easing himself on to the chair beside the bed and praying no one would disturb them.

  Stanley moved his head slightly.

  ‘You wanted to tell me something about Jennifer?’

  Again Stanley nodded. Horton’s chest contracted and the sounds of the hospital faded into the far distance.

  ‘You remembered something?’

  Stanley closed his eyes. OK, it was the wrong question. Horton tried again. ‘There was something you didn’t tell me.’

  Stanley opened his eyes and again gave that slight movement of his head.

  Horton caught his breath. It was as he’d surmised. His body ached with impatience but harassing Stanley wasn’t going to get him the information any faster.

  ‘About why my mother disappeared?’

  But Stanley’s eyes remained shut. Horton thought he’d slipped back into sleep. Shit, this was torture.

  He tried again. ‘About who my mother went to meet that day?’

  Still nothing. Horton took a breath. What the hell was Stanley trying to tell him? His brain scrambled to think. Stanley moved his head a little to his left but Horton could see it was an effort. His lips were trying to move but the sound was struggling to emerge. Horton tried to be patient.

  ‘You discovered something and kept silent about it.’

  Stanley’s eyes opened. Horton thought he saw fear in them. ‘You found my mother’s diaries.’

  Stanley closed his eyes.

  ‘Photographs? A photograph?’ Still the eyes remained closed. Frustration gnawed at Horton. He took a deep breath and willed patience. ‘What did you discover, Adrian? Something dangerous? Dangerous to me and my mother?’

  Stanley opened his eyes and his lips moved. Horton’s heart quickened. This time some sound emerged from Stanley’s frozen body and Horton desperately tried to tune himself in to it. It sounded like ‘ouch’. But that didn’t make sense. Puzzled, he said, ‘I’d be hurt if you told what you knew?’

  Again Stanley made a noise that sounded like ‘ouch’ and another word that sounded like ‘dead’. Horton stiffened. ‘Someone would be killed if you told what you knew or thought you knew?’

  Stanley’s body seemed to slump, although he never moved and his eyes closed. He looked greyer than when Horton had entered and his breathing was more laboured. Horton felt alarmed and anxious. He should call the nurse, but he didn’t. He could see that the strain of trying to communicate through a petrified body had taken its toll on the elderly man.

  Frustrated, Horton resigned himself to getting nothing more for now. He laid a hand on Stanley’s arm. ‘It’s OK. I’ll come back later when you’re rested. Don’t worry.’

  Stanley opened eyes that were full of pain. Again he tried to move his head but only succeeded in moving his eyes to his left. Horton frowned as that same sound came feebly from Stanley’s mouth: ‘ooch’. Then he slumped, clearly exhausted.

  Disappointed, Horton relayed to the nurse what had happened and left instructions for anything that Mr Stanley said to be written down, but he wasn’t completely confident the message would be passed on to the other nurses who came on duty later. He telephoned Robin Stanley and after telling him what had happened he asked him to do the same thing if his father tried to speak again.

  ‘Do you know why he is so anxious to communicate with you, Inspector?’

  Horton wasn’t going to tell him the truth, but he gave a version of it. ‘I think he’s trying to tell me something about an old case he was on. Did he ever talk about his cases?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Horton’s pulse picked up a beat. ‘Did he mention anything about a missing woman some time back in the late 1970s?’

  ‘No. I don’t recall that. He might have made some notes though. In fact, I teased him recently about writing his memoirs.’

  ‘And are there notes?’ Horton daren’t hope.

  ‘I’m not sure. I could look for you.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d appreciate that. It might help.’

  With his head spinning, Horton left the hospital and headed for home. Stanley definitely knew something about Jennifer’s disappearance, which he had kept to himself for years. Had he been threatened? Had this master criminal Zeus got to him? But if that were so, surely Zeus wouldn’t have let Stanley live. The Zeuses of this world covered their tracks. So what could Stanley know? And why keep silent? Had he known Jennifer Horton? That was a possibility. Had he been involved with her and kept silent because he’d been afraid for his job? Had he heard some snippet of news or rumour about her disappearance that implicated someone he knew, and kept silent to protect them?

  Horton needed more than ‘ooch’, whatever that meant, and frustratingly for him and poor Adrian Stanley he didn’t think he was going to get it.

  THIRTEEN

  Thursday

  Horton reached his office early after a restless night. He’d drunk countless cups of coffee throughout a troubled night, which had only served to keep him awake, maybe deliberately so, because while awake he could control his thoughts; once asleep the nightmares would return. At one time he’d taken his drink on deck and felt the crisp night air chill his bones, hoping it would cleanse his mind of those terrible years. He’d turned to recollections of when his mother had been there and tried to recall the men he’d seen her with. Russell Glenn unwittingly came to mind. Now in his sixties, he would have been twenty-seven then. But Horton couldn’t recall him. Perhaps one of the photographs Walters had printed off the Internet might jog his memory.

  The sound of a car driving past in the early hours of the morning had caught his attention, causing him to wonder where the driver was heading at that hour. The road went nowhere except to Langstone Harbour and the Hayling ferry, which didn’t run through the night. He’d waited for the car to return but it didn’t. It was high water and he had strained his ears for the sound of a boat going out, but had heard nothing. Growing cold he’d gone below and had lain on his bunk, letting the slapping of the water soothe his troubled mind. Eventually he’d slept but only for a couple of hours.

  Sipping his coffee and
pushing his weariness aside he logged on to his computer and searched the police files for events in 1978. What had so preoccupied the police in November 1978 that they had only sent PC Adrian Stanley to investigate the disappearance of his mother, and he hadn’t done that very thoroughly. But the reports from that period hadn’t been scanned, which meant he would need to check them manually. He cursed softly. That would have to wait. He tried the local newspaper archives but they didn’t go that far back either. All he could find was that Portsmouth football team had been relegated to the fourth division; so a visit to the newspaper office or the library to check the archives was needed.

  Horton then called up the national news events of that year just for background. The Home Secretary announced a pay increase for police officers of an average of forty per cent. Those were the days. They were lucky now if they got four per cent and only then if they promised to make cuts. Yearly inflation was at just over eight per cent and interest rates at twelve and a half per cent. Naomi James broke the solo round-the-world sailing record by two days, the first test-tube baby was born, and Labour faced a vote of confidence.

  He sat back feeling restless and agitated. There was something nagging at the back of his mind, something he’d seen or heard, but it refused to come to light. He rummaged around on his desk and found three photographs of Glenn that Walters had printed off. Two of them had been taken in the last seven years and were clearly publicity shots taken on the sale of two of Glenn’s businesses. He wore the same gold-rimmed spectacles and was casually dressed; his hair wasn’t as grey or as untidy as when Horton had seen him on Monday evening, but there was the same slightly shambolic, uneasy air about the man who was clearly uncomfortable in front of a camera. The other picture was of a younger Russell Glenn at a black-tie function, unaware that the camera was on him. Horton studied it. Glenn must then have been in his early to mid forties. He was still wearing glasses but Horton thought he caught sight of a different Glenn, one more relaxed, more confident, sharper.

  He folded all three photographs and thrust them in his pocket before swinging round to stare out of his window at the clear bright morning. Had Glenn changed over the years? Had he lost his confidence, or rather his edge? Hardly, if he could afford to buy a superyacht. So who was the real Russell Glenn, the dishevelled man who looked ill at ease or the other sharper one?

  The door to the CID room opened. That must be Cantelli or Walters. He pushed thoughts of Stanley and his mother from his mind and turned round, starting in surprise as he stared up at the lean silver-haired figure in the immaculate grey suit on the other side of his desk. Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate closed Horton’s door behind him.

  ‘Sir.’ Horton made to stand, but Sawyer waved him back into his seat and took the one the other side of Horton’s desk, where he crossed his legs and eyed Horton with a serious and assessing air.

  ‘DCI Bliss tells me that Victor Hazleton’s death is not connected with Project Neptune.’

  ‘We believe it’s connected with the death of Colin Yately.’

  ‘Whose body was pulled out of the Solent on Monday.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And neither of these deaths has any connection with a possible terrorist attack on the USS Boise?’

  Horton studied the lean-featured man with eyes as cold as marble. ‘Not unless you know something we don’t.’ Which was always possible. He thought of DCI Harriet Lee with Mike Danby in that restaurant.

  ‘By “we” you mean Detective Superintendent Uckfield.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s his case.’

  Sawyer nodded. After a moment he said, ‘But Hazleton did report two incidents of lights at sea.’

  ‘Yes, although there is no corroborating evidence. He could have seen Yately’s killer the first time but we’re not sure that applies to the second sighting.’

  Sawyer seemed to consider this.

  Horton said, ‘Have you evidence to show that Hazleton could have witnessed something connected with a potential terrorist attack, sir?’

  ‘No. But that doesn’t mean to say that he didn’t. What theories do you have for his death?’

  Horton wanted to say, why ask me? Why not Uckfield? But that could be construed as being insubordinate. That aside, he didn’t think he’d get a straight answer anyway. Instead, with his mind whirling with thoughts of why Sawyer was here, he swiftly brought him up to date with what they knew and the most likely theory: Lisle had killed Yately for having an affair with his wife, and had then killed Hazleton because he witnessed the murder, or because he’d also had an affair with his wife.

  Sawyer listened without showing the slightest sign of emotion or interest. Finally, he said almost casually, ‘But you’ve no evidence to support this.’

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘And you agree with this theory.’ There was a slight question mark in Sawyer’s tone and behind it a hint of surprise.

  Horton should have answered immediately that he did, but a moment’s brief hesitation gave Sawyer his answer. Horton silently cursed himself for betraying his thoughts. But why was a Chief Superintendent interested in a mere Detective Inspector’s theories? And why was this Chief Superintendent particularly interested? There were two answers to that question and Horton wasn’t quite sure yet which was the correct one.

  He said, ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘What other theories do you have, Inspector?’

  ‘None at the moment, sir,’ Horton replied. He could see that Sawyer didn’t believe him, but if he explained his theory about Yately and Lisle cross-dressing in secret in one of the bays on the coast and being discovered by smugglers it would sound incredible, probably because it was.

  He heard the outer door open and the voices of Cantelli and Walters. Sawyer rose. But Horton knew he hadn’t finished yet. He hardened himself for what was coming, while taking great pains not to betray any outward tension.

  Sawyer had reached the door before he turned. ‘How is the search for your mother going?’

  ‘It isn’t, sir.’ Horton held Sawyer’s unblinking gaze. The lean man’s lips twitched with the ghost of a smile. Horton’s stomach twisted. The bastard knew he’d been to see Stanley in the hospital and that he’d visited him in his apartment. The blue van sprang to mind. Had Sawyer’s officers been in that? Had they been following him or watching Stanley’s apartment? Both, apparently.

  Sawyer said, ‘You can still reconsider your decision to help us find Zeus.’

  Horton had refused to be used as a sacrificial lamb to lure this master criminal from his lair as Sawyer wanted.

  ‘It might help you to find out what happened to Jennifer.’

  ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Sawyer didn’t reply. He opened Horton’s office door a fraction, before turning back again. ‘How do you know Russell Glenn?’

  This time Horton didn’t bother to hide his surprise. He couldn’t if he had tried. ‘I don’t.’

  Sawyer nodded slowly and then swept out, leaving Horton confused as to the real purpose of the man’s visit. What the hell had that been about?

  Before he could formulate any kind of answer his door swung open and Bliss swept in with a worried frown on her high forehead.

  ‘Why was Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer here? What did he want? Did he ask for me?’ she demanded.

  ‘He wanted an update on Hazleton’s death,’ Horton answered calmly, and watched her face pale. He could see the thoughts chasing around her mind, and among them were fears that Sawyer didn’t trust her and had gone to her DI to get the real story.

  ‘What did you tell him?’ she asked, eyeing him warily.

  ‘The same as I told you. We don’t believe it has any connection with a potential terrorist attack.’ Horton rose. ‘Superintendent Uckfield wants us for the briefing.’

  He swept past her, catching her off guard. She seemed too preoccupied with her thoughts to order him back. She wasn’t the only one. As he made his w
ay to the second floor and the major incident suite, with Walters and Cantelli in tow, his head spun with the implications of Sawyer’s question about Russell Glenn. It could only mean one thing. Russell Glenn must have been involved with his mother.

  The incident room fell silent as Uckfield perched his large backside on the edge of one of the desks, which seemed to give a protesting creak, and asked for an update from Sergeant Trueman. Dennings and Marsden had already left for the Island. Horton fetched a drink from the water cooler. His eyes fell on the photographs on the crime board of Lisle’s sodden car and the furled up body of Hazleton in the boot. It seemed inconceivable that four days ago he’d been interviewing him about a report he’d considered a figment of the old man’s imagination. He brought his attention back to Trueman.

  ‘Wrayton Lettings claim that no one has had a fourth set of keys cut to Yately’s flat. There is the master, and a spare set, which the landlord’s already told us hasn’t left the office, and one set was given to Yately. We know that Yately had two keys cut from the set to give to his daughter, so he could have had more cut and given a set to someone else.’

  Uckfield said, ‘Can’t see why he should. He doesn’t seem to have had any close friends and no other relatives. Unless he gave a set to his wife.’

  Unlikely, thought Horton, based on what they’d seen of her and Uckfield said the same, only putting it more coarsely. ‘If he did he must be a real glutton for punishment.’

  Trueman continued. ‘An officer has spoken to Margaret Yately’s employer, who you might be interested to know is Phillip Gunville, the owner of the car you saw outside her house on Tuesday evening.’

  ‘Consoling her in her hour of sorrow,’ muttered Horton.

  ‘He’s married with two school-age children. Claimed he was visiting her because he was concerned after hearing the news about her ex.’

  ‘Yeah, and we know how concerned,’ said Uckfield, working a toothpick round his mouth.