A Killing Coast (16 page)

‘He worked in property conveyancing for a law firm called Wallingford and Chandler in Newport for thirty years. Retired three years ago.’

The same time as Yately, but that didn’t mean much. ‘And that’s it?’

‘Seems to be. There’s no record of Lisle having left the Island by ferry or hovercraft any time after Thursday or returning, so unless he paid cash he was here, possibly at home, though we haven’t got any neighbours yet who claim they saw him. I’ll give a press conference asking for sightings of him. And there’s nothing more on Victor Hazleton, yet.’

Horton thought of that impressive house filled with antique rugs and telescopes and an observatory to die for. To kill for? If he discounted Uckfield’s theory then who would inherit? If they had killed him then why put the body in Lisle’s car? And how did that connect with Lisle and Yately; one a solicitor, the other a postman? What had Hazleton done for a living? Had he made a will? Had Lisle drawn up that will and had Yately witnessed it and someone now wanted it never known because it would disinherit them? But no, there he went again, thinking like a bloody Agatha Christie novel and being too damn fanciful. But was his smuggling theory as outlandish?

And what about Yately’s missing notes? He knew Uckfield’s thoughts on that subject: that they hadn’t solely been about the history of the island; Colin Yately had written something about his affair with the late Mrs Lisle, which was why Lisle had been keen to retrieve them.
But not so keen as to go straight there after Yately’s disappearance.

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

‘
I
t’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.