‘On a good day, when the light is right, you can see France, Inspector,’ Victor Hazleton declared, pointing at a telescope that Horton thought large enough to rival the one at Jodrell Bank. He wasn’t surprised Hazleton had seen lights at sea; with that thing he could probably see the Eiffel Tower.
Horton eyed the dapperly dressed little man, with his blue and yellow spotted cravat, his beige cardigan over camel-coloured slacks and his walnut face and wiry grey hair, wondering if he was senile. Admittedly his view was coloured by what WPC Claire Skinner had told him and Sergeant Elkins in the patrol car on their way here after meeting them at the small harbour of Ventnor Haven. Apparently Hazleton had a reputation for seeing smugglers and illegal immigrants at every flicker of a sea light. Over the years he’d made a hobby out of reporting these to the local police who had long since learnt to ignore him, but this time, because of Project Neptune, Hazleton’s report had landed on DCI Bliss’s desk. Did she know about Hazleton’s background? Surely the local police would have commented on it? But if she did know then why waste time and money by sending him here on a wild goose chase, thought Horton angrily. He calculated how quickly he could wrap this up and get back to CID.
‘I said you can see France, but not with this,’ Hazleton added, tapping the instrument he’d been peering through. ‘Know anything about telescopes, Inspector?’
Horton silently groaned. Even if he had declared he was the world’s greatest expert that wouldn’t stop Hazleton from spouting forth on the subject. Elkins fidgeted beside him and Skinner stared stoically out to sea. Horton resisted the impulse to glance at his watch.
‘This is a Meade sixteen-inch Lightbridge Deluxe.’ Hazleton patted the large telescope beside him. ‘It has an extremely high specification and makes target finding simplicity itself. From it I can view thousands of stars across the universe millions of light years away, the desolate terrain of the Moon and the surface detail of many planets. It’s an astronomy telescope,’ he said patronizingly, pausing to make sure his audience were hanging on his every word. Mistake. Horton didn’t have time for this. He interjected.
‘Which means you didn’t see the lights out to sea through it.’
‘No.’ Hazleton scowled, clearly annoyed at being trumped and interrupted. ‘For that I use this.’
He crossed to the right of the room and a range of low cupboards. Horton caught Elkins’ raised eyebrows and Claire Skinner’s apologetic glance before Hazleton swung round holding a slim wooden box. Carefully, and with tenderness, he opened it and extracted a sleek mahogany and brass antique telescope.
‘This is a nineteenth-century day and night telescope by George Dolland. Yes, you may well screw up your face, Sergeant, in an attempt to recall the name,’ he snapped at Elkins. ‘Because you probably know Dolland as the firm of opticians on every high street. It has a relatively large objective lens, and the power is low, which means it’s not really suitable for viewing the planets. But I can view galaxies and star-clusters, which is what I was doing on Wednesday night when I saw the light at sea.’
‘What time was this, sir?’ Horton asked. Hazleton flashed an irritated glance at the woman police officer, causing Horton to add, ‘WPC Skinner has relayed what you reported but I’d like to hear it from you.’
‘To check I’m not going gaga?’
Skinner’s fair face flushed and she averted her gaze. But Horton was busy trying to interpret Hazleton’s expression. He registered neither dislike nor disrespect for the young police woman. In fact he registered nothing; perhaps Skinner was of too low a rank to warrant any feelings in Hazleton, and the same went for Sergeant Elkins, because although Hazleton had shaken hands with Horton, he had made no attempt to proffer his hand to Elkins. Clearly, Hazleton was wealthy, if the size of the Victorian house and its location overlooking the English Channel was anything to judge by. Hazleton was also a snob.
‘It was ten thirty-one p.m. or twenty-two thirty-one if you prefer. It was approximately a mile out to sea. There was only one light — white — flashing erratically for a few minutes. The sea state wasn’t rough but it wasn’t exactly calm either, moderate I’d say, so the light could have been dipping with the waves, as a craft made its way through it. I know it wasn’t a regular shipping vessel because not only was it too close to the shore but the light was certainly wrong for it to be one of the ferries, cruise liners or container ships, which are usually lit up like a Christmas tree, and I would have seen them through the telescope. The same goes for a commercial fishing boat. In fact there wasn’t another ship in sight. I scanned the area for several minutes.’
‘What do you think it was?’ asked Horton, curbing his impatience and trying not to think of all the paperwork that would be mounting up on his desk, which Bliss would be screaming for the moment he returned, conveniently forgetting she had ordered him here.
‘A black or dark-coloured canoe,’ Hazleton answered promptly. ‘With a light on the for’ard and the canoeist dressed in black.’
This was beginning to sound more like a James Bond movie every minute, thought Horton, making sure to keep the irritation from his expression
Hazleton added, ‘I called the coastguards; they found nothing but then they wouldn’t. By the time they arrived it could easily have put in to any one of the coves along the coast or even reached Ventnor Haven.’
Horton swivelled his gaze to Skinner. She said, ‘I went down to the shore but couldn’t see anything and the houses are too spread out and the area too rural to make enquiries.’
And Horton guessed she had got a flea in her ear when she had suggested it. They simply didn’t have the manpower.
Caustically, Hazleton said, ‘If it’s terrorists or smugglers they’re hardly likely to broadcast what they were doing, or leave clues around for the police to find.’
‘What do you think they were smuggling, Mr Hazleton?’ asked Horton.
‘Arms, booze, drugs, cigarettes, people? Could be anything.’
In a canoe, thought Horton? The drugs and cigarettes were a possibility, although they wouldn’t have been able to stow much inside such a precarious vessel in the night in a moderate sea. But illegal immigrants were out of the question. And why would terrorists come ashore on the Isle of Wight in a canoe? Where would they have come from? Horton doubted they would have paddled all the way from France. Admittedly it was easier to gain access to Portsmouth via the Isle of Wight where they could slip across to the mainland on one of the ferries, which weren’t checked or stopped. It was a possibility but a very remote one.
Stiffly, Hazleton said, ‘I’m not senile, I know what I saw.’
‘Have you seen it again?’
‘I would have said if I had,’ Hazleton replied tartly.
Elkins said, ‘Have you seen any strangers about?’
Hazleton gave Elkins another of his withering looks. Horton thought he was rather good at them. ‘It’s April, Sergeant, and therefore officially the start of the holiday season. Of course there are strangers.’
It was time to end the interview. Horton stretched into the pocket of his sailing jacket and pulled out his second business card of the day. He wasn’t sure if he was going to regret this, but if it was the only way to pacify the little man so be it. He said, ‘If you see anything again, Mr Hazleton, call me.’
Hazleton took the card in his slim, liver-spotted hand with a smug smile and a glance at Skinner that said someone believes me.
They took their leave, earning a glare from Hazleton’s middle-aged, surly cleaning lady, who Claire Skinner had told him was Vivien Walker. Her husband, Norman, was the handyman and gardener. And he did a good job, thought Horton, eyeing the beautifully tended landscaped garden with its exotic and tropical-looking plants, leading down to the cliff top. Skinner had said that the couple lived off the premises and had never seen any lights at sea while they’d been working at Hazleton’s house, but claimed it didn’t mean there wasn’t one. ‘They’re very protective of the old man,’ Skinner had explained.
And perhaps that was why Vivien Walker had appeared so hostile towards them. Clearly she trusted no one, which wasn’t a bad thing when the elderly could be easy prey.
‘Do you believe him?’ Elkins asked, as they climbed into the police car, parked on the wide gravel driveway.
Reason told Horton that Hazleton’s tales should be taken with a pinch of sea salt. But there was a small part of him that said what if it was true? What if this was a case of the boy who cried wolf and he ignored it? It would be his balls on the line, not Bliss’s, if she had any, and he half suspected she did. She’d be sure to slope shoulders and see that he carried the can for anything that could be traced back to Hazleton, which was probably why she had sent him here, to cover her arse. But how could a small light at sea here, miles away from Portsmouth Harbour, be connected with the visit of the USS Boise? Surely the answer was it couldn’t be. OK, so the American submarine would pass through this stretch of water but it would be miles out to sea and manned with its own armed guards before the Royal Navy escorted it in. Perhaps he should check the shore, though God alone knew what that would reveal except sand, stones and sea. Before he could give instructions to Skinner his phone rang. It was Cantelli.
‘Andy, a woman’s body’s been recovered from the sea off Spit Bank Fort,’ he relayed with a touch of weariness in his voice. Horton knew why, and it wasn’t anything to do with being overworked, more the fact that someone was eventually going to have to break the bad news to relatives.
That decided it. No more investigating spurious lights at sea. He told Skinner to head back to the Haven. To Cantelli, he said, ‘Any idea who she is?’
‘No. There aren’t any reports of a woman overboard. I’ve checked for missing women along the south coast over the last week, although I don’t know how long the body’s been in the sea, and there have been three women reported missing: two teenagers, aged sixteen and seventeen, both from Brighton, and one woman, aged forty, from Bognor Regis. They’re bringing the body into the ferry port and I’m arranging for it to be taken to the mortuary. I’ll also alert Dr Clayton.’
Horton glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll meet you at the secure compound at the ferry port quayside, Barney, in about forty minutes.’
That was pushing it but if PC Ripley throttled back they might just make it. There was no point speculating who the woman was and how she had ended up in the sea but Horton wondered if they were looking at suicide or an accidental death. Elkins had heard nothing to give him any pointers either way.
As the sky darkened and the wind stiffened, Horton couldn’t help wondering if the same fate had befallen his mother, only her body had never been washed up. He scanned the green-blue choppy sea as the Portsmouth skyline drew closer. Had someone lured Jennifer on to a boat and then killed her and thrown her body overboard? But why? Or perhaps she’d met a boyfriend on his boat and there’d been an accident. The boyfriend had been too scared to report it and had kept silent about it all these years. Horton was convinced that Jennifer could not have committed suicide; the reports of her being in good spirits when she’d left the flat scotched that. But then another thought slapped him in the face. Perhaps Jennifer had been stood up or thrown over by someone she thought had loved her and, distraught, she’d decided to end it all. And leave him, alone? No, surely not. But what was the alternative? That she’d run off leaving her child to the mercy of children’s homes?
As the launch eased its way into the narrow entrance of Portsmouth Harbour, Horton was glad to put his mind back on the job. He caught sight of the round-shouldered, overweight and shambolic figure of DC Walters on the first deck of the superyacht. He was dwarfed by a man built like a brick outhouse, with a keen face and cropped fair hair. Russell Glenn, wondered Horton? If so, he looked more like a member of the Russian mafia than a successful businessman, though the two weren’t mutually exclusive. Elkins couldn’t enlighten him either. ‘We haven’t been introduced,’ he said facetiously.
And neither was he likely to be. A fact that didn’t worry Horton one bit, though he suspected others in the police hierarchy might be desperately trying to wrangle their way on board. He doubted though that someone like Glenn would handle his own security arrangements. Walters was probably talking to a member of the crew.
Horton felt the first lean spits of rain as the launch motored past the naval ships and eased its way towards the deserted quayside, not far from the gigantic berths of the commercial ferry port, where a continental ferry was belching out black smoke preparatory to sailing. The wiry dark-haired figure on the quayside looked up at the sound of the launch and a few minutes later Horton was replacing his sailing jacket for his leather one. He told Elkins that Cantelli would give him a lift back to Gosport Marina to collect his Harley and that they’d let him know what they discovered about the dead woman.
As Cantelli pointed the car in the direction of the hospital mortuary, he said solemnly, ‘From what I saw of her, Andy, she looks as though she’s been dead a few days.’
And Horton knew what that meant. He primed himself for the ordeal that lay ahead.
‘There was something odd about her though,’ Cantelli continued. ‘It was her dress. Kind of old-fashioned I’d say: long-sleeved, high-neck and down to her ankles, and she was wearing trainers.’
That could possibly rule out suicide because most suicides removed their shoes before wading into the water to drown. ‘Old or young?’
Cantelli pulled a face as he considered this then shook his head. ‘Couldn’t say.’
‘That bad, eh?’
‘Yep.’ There was a moment’s silence before Cantelli added, ‘The clothes don’t fit the descriptions of any of the three missing women but that doesn’t mean it isn’t one of them. They could have changed.’
‘Does Bliss know about it?’
‘I haven’t told her.’
Then he would, and he also needed to report back on his interview with Victor Hazleton, which he swiftly told Cantelli about before trying Bliss’s number. He got her voicemail. He didn’t think there was any urgency to leave a message or call her on her mobile. He’d try again after they had the preliminary report from Dr Clayton, and by then they might have an identification.
Horton’s stomach did its usual double somersault as the smell of the mortuary greeted them. Cantelli popped a fresh piece of gum in his mouth to try and distract him from it, but Horton knew nothing would, as he nodded at Tom, the mortuary attendant.
‘Just finished taking photographs of her,’ Tom said jerking his head at the fully clothed, filthy body on the slab. ‘I’ll fetch Dr Clayton.’
Horton took a breath and ran his eyes over the corpse. Cantelli was right, judging by the deterioration she’d clearly been dead for some time. There wasn’t a great deal left of the soft tissue of the face; the eyelids, nose, lips and ears had all been chewed by the marine life. What remained was filthy, and what was left of the hair was matted with dirt, seaweed and sea life. The clothes were, as Cantelli had described, rather unusual. The dress was covered in multicoloured small flowers and had a ruffle at the neck, long voluminous sleeves with ruffles on the wrists and a high waistband that fell just under the breast. There were no pockets that he could see, but he hoped there might be some identification on her. What was left of the hands was dark bluish-pink and there were no rings.
The door from the anteroom swung open and Horton looked up to see the petite figure of Gaye Clayton advancing toward them with a smile of greeting on her freckled face. Despite the circumstances Horton found himself smiling back.
‘Let’s see what you’ve got for us this time,’ she said cheerfully, running her practised eye over the corpse. ‘Well, I can certainly certify death. As to the time, I’ll be more precise when I conduct the autopsy, which I’ve scheduled for first thing tomorrow morning, but I’ll give you an estimate once we’ve undressed her.’
Horton watched her ease down the ruffle around the neck and caught a glimpse of a slightly quizzical expression as she studied the head and neck.
‘I can’t see any obvious signs of cause of death, no bullet or stab wounds, and no visible marks of strangulation, although there is trauma to the skull, but that could have been caused by the body coming into contact with an obstruction in the sea.’ She stepped back and nodded at Tom to begin undressing the body.
Horton tensed in anticipation and sensed Cantelli’s heightened interest beside him as Tom eased off the sodden trainers.
‘Size nine,’ he announced, turning them over. ‘Cheap, ordinary chain store make, marking too faint to read. Well worn, especially on the right foot, but size still visible on the sole.’ He dropped them into one of the evidence bags on the nearby trolley.
Surprised, Horton said, ‘Large feet for a woman. How tall would you say she was?’
‘Five foot ten, maybe eleven,’ answered Gaye. ‘We’ll measure the body, of course.’
Consulting his notebook, Cantelli said, ‘Karen Jenkins, the missing forty-year-old, is five three, and the teenagers are five four and five six. So we can positively rule out all three.’
So who was she? Had anyone missed her? Perhaps she had lived alone. Horton watched Tom’s big hands ease the dress up the purple, half-chewed flesh of the legs. He frowned in puzzlement as a pair of dark-coloured lightweight shorts came into view.
‘Unusual underwear for a woman,’ Cantelli said.
‘But not completely unknown,’ added Gaye.
Cantelli stopped chewing. ‘She’s wearing a T-shirt.’
‘So am I, Sergeant, under this get-up,’ Gaye replied, brightly, pointing at her mortuary garb.
‘Yeah, but there are T-shirts and T-shirts, and that one looks more like a-’
‘Vest,’ furnished Horton, thoughtfully. It was loose, round-necked and short-sleeved, not the sort of garment to compliment the intricate and old-fashioned dress that Tom was now holding. And there was something else peculiar about the body, but before Horton could express it, Tom said, ‘There’s a label inside but with only faint markings on it. There’s also a pocket in the side. It’s zipped up. There’s something in it.’
Horton’s pulse quickened as Tom eased the small zip down, thrust his big hand inside it and retrieved a small object. It was a plastic key fob minus the keys and inside the small plastic case, shaped like a Christmas tree, was a perfectly preserved picture of a young woman in her late teens or early twenties, with dark curly hair and a broad smile.
Cantelli studied it, puzzled. ‘Could that be a daughter or granddaughter who has died and, distraught, this woman took her own life?’
It was possible, Horton supposed, but it could also be a photograph of the corpse itself taken when younger. Tom put the key ring into a small evidence bag and handed it to Cantelli, then he folded the dress carefully into another evidence bag. Gaye stepped closer to the corpse.
‘Anything wrong?’ Horton asked as her brow furrowed.
‘Plenty, but please go on, Tom.’
Horton saw a knowing glance pass between them. He dashed a look at Cantelli and got raised eyebrows in return. With his heart beating fast Horton watched as the mortuary attendant eased the shorts carefully down the decaying legs. Cantelli gave a low whistle and Horton drew in a sharp breath. He could see exactly what was ‘wrong’ but it was Gaye who expressed it.
‘As I suspected, your she is a he,’ she said brightly, pointing to the genitals.
And a missing man wearing a dress certainly put a new slant on things, thought Horton. It was an opinion Cantelli ventured twenty minutes later as they headed towards Gosport Marina to collect Horton’s Harley. There were no further surprises from the body and no indication either from Dr Clayton of the cause of death. She estimated the man was aged between thirty-five and sixty and that he’d been dead four to five days, which took them back to last Wednesday or Thursday. There was nothing to indicate, at this stage, it was a suspicious death, and although Horton didn’t much care for the fact that the corpse had been wearing a dress there was no law against it.
‘A transvestite?’ Cantelli posed.
The dress wasn’t sexy but then Horton knew it didn’t need to be. ‘Don’t transvestites usually wear women’s underwear? Isn’t that what gives them the buzz, wearing something feminine and sexy close to the skin?’
‘If you say so. Maybe he didn’t have time to put it all on, go the whole hog.’
‘Possibly. But the dress, as you pointed out, Barney, is old-fashioned.’
‘Perhaps it was his mother’s. Depressed over her death he decided to end his life wearing her favourite dress. Or perhaps he liked dressing up, got drunk, went cavorting around the beach on a full moon and thought he’d seen Amphitrite beckon to him from the sea.’
‘Who?’ asked Horton, throwing Cantelli a surprised look.
‘Greek goddess, Queen of the Sea. I thought being a seafaring type you would know that,’ Cantelli grinned. ‘Marie’s got a thing about Greek mythology. Says it’s helping her to write her first fantasy novel.’
Marie, at twelve, was the third of Cantelli’s five children and had recently won a scholarship to a private school where she was blossoming. Horton hoped the same would apply to Emma.
Cantelli said, ‘Or perhaps he was at a fancy dress party and always carried that picture with him, so he put it in the pocket, got pilled up, wandered off and fell into the sea from a cliff.’
In this job, thought Horton, they’d all seen ten incredible things before breakfast so anything was possible. Should there have been keys on the key ring though, he wondered, staring through the rain-soaked windscreen as Cantelli headed past the old town quay at Fareham down towards Gosport. And if so, where were they? Or had he simply carried the fob because of the picture?
‘The girl’s name might be on the reverse of that photograph,’ Cantelli suggested, following Horton’s train of thought.
‘That would be nice.’ Horton didn’t think it would be that simple, though. ‘Send it over to Joliffe and ask if someone in the forensic lab can open it without damaging it. Get a photograph of it first though.’ He called Walters who took an age to answer. ‘I was beginning to think Russell Glenn must have offered you a job as a security officer on his superyacht,’ Horton grumbled.
‘He’s already got one, with muscles like Schwarzenegger.’
‘A broad-shouldered man with cropped hair.’
‘Yeah, how do you know that?’
‘I know a lot of things, Walters, like you’re eating your way through a packet of Hobnobs.’
Walters swallowed noisily. ‘That boat’s bloody huge, Guv. And it’s got this state of the art security system that would make the scum cry.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Infra sensors in every room-’
‘Cabin,’ corrected Horton.
‘Yeah, and a GPS locator and notification system, which can raise the alarm by all means known to mankind. It’s got an ignition immobilizer security alarm, as well as a marine security system alarm with a siren for every cabin, which is broadcast so loud that everyone will think the three minute warning’s gone off, or so Schwarzenegger claims.’
‘And his real name?’
‘Lloyd.’
‘First or surname?’
‘Dunno. Just said he was called Lloyd.’
Horton sighed. How Walters had got to be a DC was a mystery to them all. ‘Well let’s hope he never has to put it to the test; on my patch at least,’ Horton added, thinking that with the increase in pirate attacks on superyachts and commercial shipping in other less friendly waters Glenn probably needed all the security he could afford, and that was clearly a great deal.
Walters said that the press had been on asking for a statement about the body recovered from the sea. Cantelli could deal with it when he returned. He asked Walters to check for reports of missing men since Wednesday, then tried Bliss’s line with the same result as before, getting her voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message. He’d be back at the station soon.
Cantelli dropped him outside the marina office where Horton asked the manager if he or any of the staff knew anything about the muddy blue van parked there that morning. No one claimed even to have seen it, but when the manager checked the CCTV footage on Horton’s request there it was. It was difficult though to make out the registration number or any occupants, and no one alighted from it, which worried Horton. He headed back to the station with a copy of the footage after leaving instructions he was to be called if anyone saw the van in the marina. He wondered if the CCTV camera at the front of Adrian Stanley’s apartments might have picked up a sighting of it, but then he remembered that the camera was only focused on the gated entrance and front door and not on the promenade.
Bliss’s car was in its allotted spot and Horton hoped he’d be able to get to his office without her accosting him. He stopped off in the canteen realizing it had been some time since he’d last eaten and was paying for his sandwiches when Cantelli appeared.
‘A young woman’s just come in to report her father, Colin Yately, has been missing since Thursday. She heard about the body being found on the news, they didn’t give out the gender, and she’s concerned it could be him,’ he said excitedly.
‘And?’ Horton asked knowing there was more by Cantelli’s expression.
‘She’s the girl in the key fob.’