Dr Louise Adams greeted them warmly and offered them refreshment, ‘It’s from a machine, I’m afraid.’ They both refused. ‘I don’t blame you,’ she said smiling, pushing a hand through her long dark hair and waving them into seats in her small office, which was covered with pictures of fashion models, drawings and material samples. ‘The tea looks like bathwater and probably tastes like it too.’ She sat forward allowing Horton a glimpse of cleavage above the tightly fitting red dress. She was an amply proportioned woman in her mid forties and very attractive to look at, Horton thought. Clearly Cantelli agreed. In fact, Horton thought she reminded him of Charlotte Cantelli.
‘I’m so glad you asked me about the dress. It’s a fascinating find.’
In more ways than she meant, thought Horton. She’d been told it had been found in the sea but not how. Horton wondered if she’d made the leap between that and the news of the body being recovered from the Solent on Monday. They’d dropped Dr Clayton off at the hospital much to her chagrin; she said she would love to have heard what Dr Adams had to say but she was due in a meeting. Horton promised he’d update her. Outside the rain was spitting at the window in fitful bursts and the afternoon was drawing in as Louise Adams continued.
‘It’s in extremely good condition.’ Her lively eyes flashed with excitement as she smoothed her jewelled fingers over the evidence bag containing the dress. ‘I’m very honoured and thrilled to have been given the opportunity to examine it, thank you. Her dresses are such rare gems.’ Her dusky skin flushed with animation. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t said who. It’s a design by Thea Porter.’
Dr Clayton had got the first name correct. They both stared at Louise Adams blankly. She smiled. ‘You’ve never heard of her. But then you wouldn’t be expected to, but she was extremely well known in the 1960s and 1970s.’
Horton said, ‘Tell us about her.’
‘Gladly. She was such an amazing woman. Born in Jerusalem on December twenty-fourth, 1927, raised in Syria, studied at London University and Royal Holloway College, Egham, Surrey. She was small, with red hair, loyal, generous and some would say a little eccentric; others, including myself, would say she was extremely artistic, talented and inspirational. Her designs are wonderfully magical and mystical but she wasn’t a very good businesswoman. Her business went into liquidation in 1981, but she started again a year later. She had so much energy, you couldn’t keep her down.’ Louise Adams beamed at them and both men found themselves smiling back. Her enthusiasm was infectious, thought Horton.
She leant further across her desk allowing Horton an even greater glimpse of cleavage of which she seemed totally unaware.
‘Thea Porter started by importing kaftans to cut up and make into huge cushions, but quickly saw that in 1966 kaftans were fashionable so she began to make them to her own designs using furnishing fabrics and braid. She became very popular with the rich and famous. Her clothes were very sexy like she was. She designed dresses and blouses in chiffon and expensive soft fabrics.’
Horton interjected. ‘So whoever once owned these dresses would have had money?’
‘Oh, yes. Even to buy one now, second, third or fourth hand, would cost a small fortune, unless you were very lucky indeed to stumble across one in a charity shop or jumble sale. Her clothes are often auctioned by Christie’s. They’re very sought after, especially in America.’
Cantelli looked up from his notebook. ‘Were her clothes on sale in America in the 1960s?’
‘They were, in New York in 1968, and she had another shop in Paris from 1976 to 1979. She mixed with rich, famous and powerful people but she was never overawed by them. She was loved by her friends but she was too unique and individual to be loved by all the fashion press, though she had her fans.’
And was Abigail Lisle one of them? wondered Horton doubtfully. It didn’t sound like it.
Dr Adams sat back and continued. ‘As the sixties gave way to the seventies the mini-skirt, though still popular, gave way to a choice of other styles. Women could choose between mini- midi- or maxi-skirts and a multitude of styles and influences, very much like the fashions of today, I’m pleased to say. Back then there was the hippy style, nostalgia for the past, first for the twenties, then the thirties, forties and fifties and finally the Edwardian era, and that’s what this dress reflects. During the 1970s Thea began to design high-waisted midi- and maxi-dresses with voluminous sleeves in luxurious brocades, which you can see in this dress in the rich gold, red and black silk cord. Thea’s Edwardian look also featured vintage trimmings, and this dress has them on the high neck, and on the end of the sleeves as a ruffle.’
Horton said, ‘So this is definitely a design from the 1970s.’
‘Yes, about 1975 or 1976, I’d say. In 1994, Thea got a form of Alzheimer’s and died on the twenty-fourth of July, 2000.’
‘What sort of woman would have bought these clothes?’ asked Horton.
‘One who loved quality,’ was Dr Adams’ instant reply. ‘A very feminine woman who wasn’t afraid to show it. A confident woman; artistic, successful, wealthy, knowledgeable.’
And that didn’t sound like Abigail Lisle from what he’d heard from Rodney Chandler at Wallingford and Chandler, and it didn’t match with what Rachel Salter had said about her mother either. But perhaps Abigail Lisle had once been that woman, before her son and daughter had been born. How old had Abigail been in 1975? Twenty-five, twenty-six?
‘A young woman?’ asked Cantelli, following Horton’s train of thought.
Dr Adams considered her reply for a moment. ‘Older rather than younger, and by that I mean a woman between thirty and fifty, give or take a few years. A woman roughly a British size fourteen and five foot six, who could carry off these clothes.’
Dr Clayton’s estimate was spot on then. The age range as well as the height and size sounded wrong for the dress to belong to Abigail Lisle, though Horton wasn’t discounting it completely yet, not until he heard back from Trueman. If the dress hadn’t belonged to Abigail, and it certainly wasn’t Margaret Yately’s, then what had happened to this woman after 1976? And why had Colin Yately, a former postman, been found wearing it? Had he known this woman? Had Victor Hazleton known her? Although he was a humble clerk in the seventies, had he dated a wealthy, free-spirited and artistic woman? And had that woman a connection with Harold Jenkins, deceased?
‘How often would you say the dress has been worn?’
Horton knew that Trueman would have the full forensic report, which would hopefully give them that information and more about where the dress had been kept. Unless the submersion in the sea had destroyed the evidence, and that might have been exactly what the killer had intended.
‘It’s difficult to be certain,’ Dr Adams answered, ‘because the fabric is of such high quality and the stitching so superb. But there is no sign of wear, no fading, and the seams are as strong as if they’d just been sewn. I would say it’s not been worn very much at all.’
And was that because the owner had died shortly after buying it?
‘Can you tell us where it was bought?’
‘Not precisely, and I couldn’t swear on oath to it, but most probably in New York.’
‘So a woman who lived abroad or travelled?’
‘Or was there on holiday or business, either alone or with her husband. Unless it was purchased for her by someone and brought back to this country. But equally, Inspector, she could have bought it in London. I’m sorry to be so vague.’
‘No, you’ve been a great help. Would records of Thea Porter’s customers still exist?’
‘Unlikely but you could try the Victoria and Albert Museum. They might be able to help you.’
Horton thanked her. On the way back to the station he chewed over what he’d learnt and where that took them. Reading his thoughts, Cantelli said, ‘Just because she bought the dress in 1976 or thereabouts doesn’t mean to say that’s when she disappeared or died. She could have lived until this year. But if the dress belonged to the late Harold Jenkins and his estate, then surely it would have been sold or destroyed long ago.’
Horton agreed, and there was no connection they’d discovered yet between Yately and the late Harold Jenkins. There was nothing for it but solid background work, checks and double-checks. Horton said nothing of his idea about a missing woman, or one that had died in mysterious circumstances during the seventies. It didn’t seem relevant now because, as Cantelli had indicated, the woman could have lived a lot longer than that. Nevertheless, the idea had taken root in his mind and Horton knew that he would have to check.
In the major incident suite Horton relayed to Trueman and Uckfield what Dr Louise Adams had told them.
Grouchily, Uckfield said, ‘Marsden’s just called in to confirm that Abigail Lisle was five foot four and slim, a size ten dress, according to her daughter, but that doesn’t mean Lisle didn’t kill Yately or Hazleton and then himself, or that Abigail hadn’t had an affair with both men. The dress could still have belonged to her. It could have been her mother’s or a friend’s or a charity find, and she knew its value and treasured it. Lisle couldn’t bear to part with it on his wife’s death until he discovered her diaries, or maybe Yately’s diaries, when he was in his flat one day, and made Yately wear it and drown in it as some kind of sick ritualistic killing.’
Horton could see that Uckfield was not going to give up on his theory. Trueman confirmed that forensics had also said the dress had been barely worn, but they could get little else from it except salt water, sand and grit. They were still analysing Hazleton’s clothes. It was agreed that tomorrow Trueman would contact the V amp;A and Horton would accompany Oliver Vernon around Hazleton’s house. Trueman would also continue the checks on Victor Hazleton and Colin Yately. And Dennings’ team in the temporary incident suite at Ventnor would start checking Harold Jenkins and the other names in the archive file, though Uckfield left no doubt he thought it a waste of time. Horton could see the investigation was set to be a long haul and was clearly going to drag on beyond Saturday unless another body turned up, such as Arthur Lisle’s.
Cantelli went home. Walters had already left and there was no sign of Bliss. A disgruntled Uckfield prowled the major incident suite like a dyspeptic lion and Horton slipped back to his office while Uckfield took a call from Dennings. There Horton settled in front of his computer ignoring his paperwork and called up missing persons files for 1976. He had no idea what he was looking for but he started with the local area, it seemed as good a place as any, and the victims were local so perhaps the woman had been too.
There were two missing women for 1976, neither fitting the profile, none for 1977 and one for 1978, Jennifer Horton. There were also two missing men. In 1979 and 1980 there were three missing teenage girls and two boys, one aged fourteen, the other nineteen. Horton continued into 1981 and 1982 but nobody matched the profile or background that Dr Louise Adams had given him. This line of enquiry was clearly a dead end but he found himself returning to 1978. This time he checked out the profile of the two men who had gone missing the same year as his mother. One was aged forty-three, married with three children, who had worked in a factory on the Dundas Lane estate. It was known that he’d been suffering from depression. He had left for work one day and never returned. Horton spared a thought for the man’s wife and children who had lived with uncertainty for so long. The other man was single, aged thirty-one. He was a local accountant whose mother had reported him missing when he didn’t arrive home from work on 2 December 1978. It transpired that he had never arrived at work. There was no record of him having been depressed and no reason why he should disappear. Was the mother still alive? wondered Horton. How had she coped with the mystery of her missing son? Had it eaten her up over the years? He guessed so.
He stood up and stretched, again considering what Adrian Stanley had been trying to tell him. Mentally he replayed the meeting in that small hospital room and Stanley’s struggle to speak. But he still couldn’t make sense of it. Perhaps if he visited a second time Stanley might be better. That would have to wait until tomorrow. It was time to go home to the boat. There was nothing more he could do here. If the enquiries into the dress and those into the archive file led nowhere, and if Lisle didn’t turn up and there were no reported sightings of him or Yately, where did that leave them? What other avenues could they explore?
Horton stared out of the window as he considered this. There were still the missing notes. He recalled the book in Lisle’s house on the history of the Island. Had their research led them to discovering something valuable or something that someone was prepared to kill for?
He grabbed his jacket and helmet. Tomorrow he’d get the name of the author of that book on local history he’d seen on Lisle’s table and arrange to see him while he was on the Island. He had no idea where it would lead, probably nowhere, but when there was sod all else to go with it was worth a try. And tomorrow he’d hear what Oliver Vernon had to say, not only about Hazleton’s antiques and paintings but about Russell Glenn. He’d also have Glenn’s guest list, if PC Johns didn’t forget. Not that he thought any of the names would leap out at him as villains; in fact he was sure they wouldn’t. He didn’t know what he expected from seeing the list and neither was he sure what he’d gain from seeing what had been written about the little boy abandoned by his mother on a foggy and chilly November day in 1978, but in just over twelve hours he’d find out.