Lethal Waves Page 4

  ‘Shall I inform DCI Bliss or will you?’

  ‘You can. I’m going home.’

  Horton was tempted to call her now and disturb her beauty sleep as Uckfield had done his boss’s but decided against it, not because he thought Bliss needed all the beauty sleep she could get but he didn’t fancy having to listen to her firing questions at him so late in the day. And it had been a long one.

  He stayed until the body had been removed to the mortuary and SOCO had finished. There had been nothing under the dead man except stones, shells and some seaweed, the latter of which Taylor had bagged up. ‘Just in case,’ he’d said. Horton had taken another look at the victim. Under the sodden and blood-soaked coat he’d seen a frayed checked shirt collar and a V-neck green woollen jumper. The victim displayed no body piercings in his nose or ears. Horton hadn’t and wasn’t going to check the tongue and other parts of his anatomy. Gaye and her mortuary assistant could have that dubious pleasure. There was no jewellery on his fingers, which were stubby but clean. The nails hadn’t been bitten down either and they were also remarkably clean. No tattoos were visible. The fact that the victim’s hair wasn’t overlong or matted and he was clean-shaven, plus the condition of his hands meant he couldn’t have been on the road for very long. Horton tried to guess the victim’s age but it was impossible given the death mask and his lined face.

  The tent was dismantled, the arc lights switched off and packed away. Only the police tape remained in place in a wide circle around the houseboat and two uniformed officers arrived to take over from Seaton and Johnson, who would need to return to the station and dry out. Their replacements would spend the stormy night in their police vehicle, making sure nobody came stumbling along to disturb the area.

  It was just after one a.m. when Horton finally climbed into his bunk. His eyes were scratching his eyelids with weariness but his head was still spinning. He knew it would take some time to get to sleep. It had been a very long and fragmented day. So much seemed to have happened. He tried to let his mind go blank but it refused to cooperate, shifting as it did to the death of the tramp and then to Evelyn Lyster, back to his interview with Violet Ducale and then to thoughts of his mother. Eventually when he drifted into sleep Evelyn Lyster became the vagrant who turned into Andrew Ducale and then to Jennifer, and he woke with a start, shivering but feeling the sweat on his brow. Something in the dream had alarmed him, more so than last night. But just as he had that morning, he couldn’t recall what it was.

  He felt stiff. His muscles ached as though he’d run a marathon. He hoped he wasn’t going down with Uckfield’s wretched cold. His head felt heavy through a combination of lack of sleep and an overactive brain throughout the night. It felt as though he’d only slept for twenty minutes so he was surprised to see he’d managed five hours. He didn’t have time for a run, which annoyed him. He made some breakfast, showered, shaved and rang Dr Clayton’s mobile phone just after seven, preparing to leave a message, but she answered.

  ‘You’ve got a corpse,’ she said, her voice muffled. ‘You never ring me at this hour unless it’s connected with a body.’

  He never rang her at all, he thought, unless it was work. Was she hinting that she’d like to take him up on that long-postponed dinner engagement he’d promised her? He apologized for waking her.

  ‘You didn’t. I’m eating toast.’

  Swiftly he relayed what had happened, adding that Trueman would email over the photographs.

  She said she’d examine the body as soon as she arrived at work, which would be within the next hour. Horton then called Cantelli. He could hear Cantelli’s children laughing and chattering in the background. He brought Barney up to speed.

  ‘You think the victim was shot?’ Cantelli said thoughtfully.

  ‘Yes, why?’ Horton asked, picking up a hint of anxiety in Cantelli’s question.

  ‘I sent Walters to a burglary yesterday, a house just off the seafront behind the nine-hole golf course, a Mr and Mrs Clements. Antique pistols were stolen.’

  ‘Working pistols?’

  ‘Mr Clements claims not. He doesn’t have a firearms licence because they were classified as antiques. I’ve checked with the firearms licensing officer who says that’s correct but there’s no record of Clements consulting him about them, which he should have done.’

  The illegal possession of pistols and revolvers under the Firearms Act 1968 carried a minimum custodial sentence of five years. All handguns had been banned in the UK in 1996 after the Dunblane school massacre when a gunman had entered a primary school and killed sixteen children and one adult before turning the gun on himself.

  ‘Walters has organized a house-to-house. The neighbours might have seen or heard something. Bliss thinks the pistols could have been stolen by a criminal gang who have connections with underground armourers who can manufacture ammunition to make them fire, so she’s notified the National Crime Agency and asked me to circulate details of the weapons to other forces. I’ve also been liaising with the National Ballistics Intelligence Service. They’re checking out the MO of known villains and seeing if the stolen pistols match any others taken in robberies around the country. It doesn’t match any in Hampshire. There have been no gun thefts antique or otherwise that we’re aware of.’

  ‘And no shootings,’ added Horton, except for one a year ago, and that had been on the Isle of Wight and a rare occurrence. The killer had been apprehended but had drowned before being detained.

  Cantelli said, ‘I take it no weapon was found at the scene of the crime?’

  ‘None. It could have been taken away or tossed in the sea. The pattern of death doesn’t match the method of a gang though, Barney. Call Walters and tell him to be at the briefing. I’ll call Bliss.’

  He did so on his way up the pontoon to the car park. She answered promptly and listened without comment as he relayed the facts of the incident, finishing with the news that Cantelli was calling Walters and both they and he would be at the briefing. She rapidly made the connection between the theft of the antique pistols and the method of murder as Horton knew she would, asking him if he believed one of the stolen guns could have been used. He refrained from saying that he wasn’t medically qualified to comment but instead reminded her that he hadn’t been on duty so didn’t have all the details concerning the gun theft, to which she curtly replied, ‘Then you’d better get up to speed on it, Inspector.’

  He rang off, not bothering to reply. There was no point. He had time to take another look at the crime scene. The storm had blown itself out but the morning threatened to be overcast and the wind was still blustery and damp. There was little to see in the early morning gloom, only the bleary-eyed commuters alighting from the small passenger ferry at Portsmouth. It was essentially one-way human traffic, there being very little employment on Hayling Island and certainly not enough to attract a horde of commuters. Some of them seemed cheered to have their routine disturbed by the sight of the police car and flapping crime-scene tape. Horton saw a couple of people taking photographs on their mobile phones. It would be all over the Internet in seconds; it probably was already.

  PC Allen in the police vehicle had nothing to report. They’d remain there until relieved. Horton crossed to the houseboat. It was in a sorry state of repair, or rather disrepair. It stood in sharp contrast to its neighbour, Lionel Packman’s houseboat, which was in pristine condition. The external structure hadn’t been touched for years. The wood was rotten and a few strong pulls might cause sections of it to collapse. He was amazed it had withstood last night’s storm and those of previous years. At some stage someone had patched up parts of it by nailing planks of wood across the more rotten sections and the boarded-up windows. God alone knew what it must look like inside. It was probably one of the original houseboats that had been here since the 1930s when there had been many more of them intermingling with fishermen’s huts and railway carriages. They’d spread out all around Eastney Lake and across the other side to the Milton shore opposite. Du
ring heavy bombing in the Second World War, many people had flocked here from all over the city to take cover in whatever temporary structures they could find. There had been no plumbing or electricity and no insulation. It must have been bloody freezing in winter, he thought. Many had stayed after the war, having lost their homes in the bombing, until the council had finally re-housed them in 1960 – some in the high-rise tower block where he had lived briefly with his mother.

  Horton stared across the tidal lake. It was just over two hours to high water. The huts and houseboats had been cleared on all sides now except this one, and here only this handful survived. How had the victim got here? Had he walked? Probably. But again, Horton considered the possibility that he could have been brought by car or van, possibly already dead and his body dumped. Or perhaps he’d been brought by boat, although given the weather of the previous night Horton thought it highly unlikely. Despite that he rang Sergeant Dai Elkins of the marine unit and asked if he’d heard about the body found by the houseboats. Elkins had.

  ‘Get the details from Trueman and circulate them to the sailing and diving club. Ask if any of their members were in Ferry Road last night between eight and ten and if they saw anyone. Contact the Langstone Harbour master. Find out if he or any boat owners heard or saw anything unusual in the harbour last night during that time.’

  ‘In that weather! I doubt anyone was on or near their boat. And I wouldn’t have thought anyone, even a killer, would be suicidal or crazy enough to attempt to land on the shore or the pontoon,’ Elkins rather predictably replied.

  ‘Someone could have come across Eastney Lake from Milton. It would have been calmer that side of the harbour.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Elkins grudgingly admitted, ‘but it would still have been a nightmare journey. I’ll have a word with Chris Howgate, though. He’s one of the helmsman on the lifeboats. They didn’t have a shout last night but someone might have been at the station.’

  Horton knew Howgate. He ran the sailmakers adjacent to the marina.

  Horton climbed on his Harley and headed along Ferry Road towards the seafront. If the victim had walked to the houseboat then someone in the houses on Horton’s right might have seen him, although the weather would have kept many people indoors with their curtains drawn and blinds firmly pulled down against the elements. He certainly hadn’t seen or heard anything when he’d arrived at the marina. The wind and the clamour of the rigging had masked the sound of any cars approaching.

  At the junction, he considered what Cantelli had told him. Was the vagrant’s death linked to the Clements’ robbery? Their house was about two miles to the west, set back off the seafront. It sounded unlikely, because why steal a gun to shoot a tramp? It didn’t fit the usual pattern. A knifing or a beating, yes. But someone had shot him and, as Horton indicated right and headed for the station, that wasn’t the only thing disturbing him about the vagrant’s death.

  FOUR

  ‘He looks familiar but I can’t think why,’ Cantelli said, frowning at the photographs of the victim which Trueman was pinning up on the crime board. The incident suite was packed with people and humming with activity as computers and phones were being set up. In Uckfield’s office beyond the crime board, Horton could see the bulky, squat, shaven-headed DI Dennings and beside him the lean figure of DCI Bliss with her scraped back high ponytail. They were seated at Uckfield’s conference table.

  ‘Perhaps you arrested him,’ Trueman answered.

  ‘Maybe.’ But Cantelli sounded dubious and his dark eyebrows furrowed in thought.

  Horton studied the pictures. Did he know the victim? Had he seen him somewhere before? Was it that which was troubling him? Maybe, but there was more. He asked Trueman if he’d come across him. Trueman, like Cantelli, had an excellent memory for faces, especially criminal ones.

  ‘He’s a new one on me,’ Trueman answered, which meant neither man could have arrested him and Horton didn’t think he had either. Clarke’s pictures of the area were also on the board. There were those taken last night under the arc lights and some from this morning which he’d emailed over and Trueman had printed out. Again, Horton wondered why the victim had been there when there was little, if not anything, to attract him to that area. He guessed he could have been looking for somewhere to shelter from the storm but it was a long way off the beaten track. He said as much to Cantelli.

  ‘Perhaps the place held special memories for him.’

  Horton had said almost the same to Guilbert about Evelyn Lyster heading for Guernsey but that had been when he thought she might have committed suicide.

  Cantelli added, ‘Maybe he played at the houseboats as a kid or knew the owner.’

  ‘He didn’t pick a very nice night for a trip down memory lane.’ Horton saw Uckfield rise. ‘Looks as though we’re about to be briefed. Where’s Walters?’ His car had been in the car park but there had been no sign of him in CID when Horton had walked through it to dump his leathers in his office.

  ‘Where do you think? He said he had better fill up in case it got so hectic that he didn’t get the chance to eat again for the rest of the day.’

  ‘And knowing how lithe he is we wouldn’t want him to fade away. Talking of which, he’s made it by the skin of his teeth.’ Horton nodded to where Walters’ sixteen stone, flabby frame squeezed into the incident suite just as Uckfield’s door flew open and he strutted in like a senior medic with his entourage behind him.

  Bliss caught Horton’s eyes but he made sure to keep his expression neutral and hide his surprise because, for the first time in the thirteen months since she’d taken up her promotion and become the Head of CID, she was wearing something other than her customary knee-length black skirt and black suit jacket. The white shirt was still there but the black suit skirt had been replaced with a grey trouser suit. He wondered what momentous event had occurred to make her discard her habitual wardrobe.

  The room fell instantly silent. A red-eyed, cold-filled Uckfield scowled at everyone and asked Dennings to brief them, which he did, giving the bare bones of the case, most of which Trueman had inscribed on the board. Horton hadn’t yet written up his report, a fact that Bliss would probably reprimand him for despite the fact he hadn’t officially been on duty and it had been very late when he’d left the crime scene.

  ‘Does anyone recognize him?’ Uckfield demanded nasally when Dennings had finished. ‘If he’s been a vagrant in this city then one of us must have moved him on or arrested him for being drunk and disorderly at some stage.’

  Everyone looked blank.

  Horton now expressed the thoughts that had disturbed him last night at the scene and again a moment ago. ‘He’s not what you’d expect a vagrant to look like. OK, there’s the clothes and his face is heavily lined, especially around the eyes and mouth, as though he’s had it tough, but his skin isn’t dirty, he’s clean-shaven and there was no smell of alcohol on his breath or on his clothes. And I couldn’t see any dirt under his fingernails, either.’

  Bliss piped up. ‘Perhaps he hasn’t been on the road long enough to get the grime in his pores.’

  ‘Then his clothes would be in a better condition.’

  ‘Maybe they’re not his clothes,’ she rejoined. ‘He could have pawned them and got those he’s wearing in exchange. Or his original clothes could have been stolen by another tramp and he was left those to wear in their place.’

  That was possible. But it didn’t explain why they hadn’t found anything belonging to the dead man beside his body, no matter how meagre, except that he supposed the killer could have stolen them. But what would the vagrant have had that would have been worth stealing?

  Uckfield blew his nose. Several officers shifted a little further away from him. He addressed Trueman. ‘Do we know who owns the boathouse?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ve got to wait until the council offices open at nine.’

  ‘OK, so what have we got?’

  Trueman rose and addressed the room. ‘The last bus leav
es there at eight forty-nine p.m., which puts it close to the possible time of death. The driver, or one of the passengers, could have seen the victim walking to the rendezvous. The bus company has given me the driver’s name and contact details. She’s not on shift until one o’clock.’

  ‘Get someone over to her home,’ Uckfield ordered, pushing his handkerchief back in his pocket.

  Trueman continued, ‘The last ferry in winter is at seven p.m. from Portsmouth to Hayling and seven ten from Hayling to Portsmouth, so that probably rules out anyone seeing the victim or the killer, unless they met earlier or had met up there on a previous occasion. We’re checking with the ferry company and I’ll get officers down there tonight at the time of the last two crossings. They’ll show passengers pictures of the victim in case anyone saw him loitering. I’ll also get an officer to ask the owner of the mobile café by the lifeboat station if he’s seen the victim around.’

  Horton said that he’d detailed Sergeant Elkins to check with the sailing and diving club, the lifeboat crew and the harbour master. He added, ‘We should also check with the staff and students at the marine institute – they often work late and they’ve got CCTV, although the camera only points over the entrance to the building and not the road.’

  Trueman nodded. ‘We’ll have a team doing a house-to-house along the upper part of Ferry Road today in case anyone saw the victim walking towards the ferry.’

  Uckfield addressed DC Marsden. ‘Is the hostel missing one of its residents?’

  ‘No, all present and accounted for, sir. I could only give them a vague description of the dead man over the phone but the manager of Millane House doesn’t recognize him.’

  Millane House was a forty-five minute walk from where the victim had been found. Horton couldn’t see him having the money to take a bus, and even if he had he wouldn’t have squandered it on public transport. What little he’d had would have been needed to pay for food and drink and maybe alcohol. Equally, if the vagrant had been given a bed for the night at the hostel, Horton wouldn’t have thought he’d sacrifice it, not unless he’d been contacted after being allocated the bed, and even then it would have needed a very powerful motive to make him abandon it.