EIGHTEEN

Friday

‘Is this all there is?’ Horton asked, incredulous, looking up from the few pieces of paper in front of him at the stout, sullen-faced woman standing the other side of the scratched wooden desk. The room reminded him of an interview room at the station, except at the station the paint wasn’t peeling from the walls. She looked like a prison warder standing there in her black skirt and jacket and crisp white shirt.

‘It’s all that’s in the file,’ she snapped.

Horton recognized an evasive answer when he heard it. He hadn’t expected much but he had certainly hoped for more than just three pages stating his movements from the council flat where he’d lived with his mother to the three children’s homes and two foster homes before ending up with police constable Bernard and his wife Eileen Lichfield, who had changed the course of his troubled youth for ever and for good. Where were the notes on his behaviour, his schooling, his health? Why was nothing recorded about the times he’d run away in an attempt to find his mother, only to be brought back by the police? And why was there no record of what had happened to his mother’s belongings?

‘Then there must be another file,’ he said sharply, rising. He saw no need to put himself at a disadvantage by continuing to sit while she stood.

‘Not according to this.’ She stabbed a fat finger at the paper in her hand. ‘249/615/1 Horton Andrew.’

He stretched out a hand. She seemed reluctant to pass the paper over, but he held her hostile gaze until, with a loud exhalation, she thrust it across. She was correct, but Horton had too many years’ experience of officialdom not to know that something that ended with the number one indicated there must be other numbers after it.

‘I want a copy of this, and everything that’s in the file, and before you say that’s not possible, I know it is. I’ll wait.’

She looked about to protest before turning and flouncing out with as much indignation as she could muster. He wondered why she was so hostile. Was it just her natural demeanour or had she heard he was a copper and for some reason disliked all coppers. Perhaps she’d got a speeding ticket that morning or had had a row with her husband. Perhaps she didn’t like the look of him. Or maybe she was simply in the wrong job because he would have thought that an abandoned child, now an adult, would have drawn some sympathy.

He crossed to the grimy salt-spattered window and stared across the busy road at the modern flats to his left and then at the small boats and the iron-clad warship HMS Warrior in the mud of Portsmouth Harbour to his right. His eyes ached and his head felt as though it was stuffed with cotton wool after another fitful night, tossing and turning over the murders of Yately and Hazleton, and when he wasn’t thinking about that and how he might have averted Hazleton’s death his thoughts had turned to contemplating what might be in his file. His early morning run along the seafront had done nothing to banish his anxiety over the latter and now that he was here it hardly seemed worth it. Curiosity, both a curse and a necessity for a police officer, had driven him. That and the fear of what he might find had made him determined to keep the appointment. It would have been easy to cancel it, to make excuses that he was too busy, particularly in light of the murder investigation, but he hated feeling afraid. He’d experienced fear too many times in his childhood and youth and knew its debilitating and humiliating effect. Because of that he’d vowed years ago to use fear as a servant not as a master. One thing was clear to him now: someone didn’t want him to see the files held on him. Why?

His mobile rang but he ignored it as he considered the question, and there was another. Not only why, but who didn’t want him having access to all the information that must have been written about him and, more crucially, written about his mother.

He gazed across the busy harbour, his mind racing. He knew that files on children in care had in the past been kept for a minimum period, which had usually been until the child reached adulthood. So why hadn’t the sullen-faced woman simply said that his files had been destroyed when he’d reached adult age? Why hadn’t the social services department told him the same, instead of granting him access? The answer came quickly: because there was nothing on record about them having been destroyed, and, if that was the case, did that mean it was just a clerical slip-up or that records about him existed somewhere? Did someone have them, but had overlooked the sheet of paper pertaining to 249/615/1 Horton Andrew? And could that someone be Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer of the Intelligence Directorate?

The door opened and he spun round to see the stout woman holding the photocopies with a frown of disapproval on her face, but this time he saw it without the prejudice of his past and it intrigued him. Again he considered her manner and wondered what she had been told about him. He hadn’t shown his ID or announced his profession, only given his name, but someone had prejudiced her against him, why? And what the devil had she been told? Sawyer had to be behind this. But if he was, then even more important and curious was how had Sawyer known that he’d request his files? Someone had alerted them, which meant his file must be flagged, either that or his mail was being intercepted, but he thought the latter unlikely. A cold shiver crept up his spine while his heart skipped a beat. Someone had left what meagre record there was on him deliberately, just to see if one day he’d come asking for it.

Tersely, he said, ‘I’ll contact you on Monday. Meanwhile, I suggest you search your archives.’

He swept out not waiting for her reply, knowing it would only be negative. She wasn’t going to search because there was nothing to find, but his visit here, and his command, or rather the threat that he’d be back, would trigger action from someone. All he had to do was wait and see what kind of action and by whom.

He checked his messages and found one from WPC Claire Skinner who was at Arthur Lisle’s house. Horton had rung DC Marsden early that morning and asked him to find out the title and author of the book he’d seen in Lisle’s dining room. She had both and was contacting the publisher to get the author’s address. She’d call him back with it.

Horton headed for the hospital where he found Adrian Stanley asleep and alone. He sat for a while with the elderly man, willing him to wake up. His mind wandered back to their conversation in the apartment overlooking the Solent on Monday morning. There didn’t seem any hint then of what Stanley might now be trying to tell him. Puzzled, Horton let his gaze travel around the small hospital room, his eyes alighting again on the photograph beside Stanley’s bed of him receiving his gallantry medal from the Queen alongside his wife. Horton frowned. Something had nagged at him the last time he’d been here but he couldn’t pinpoint what. Now, it suddenly came to him. He hadn’t seen that picture on Monday. He would have remembered it and commented on it. So why hadn’t it been on display in Stanley’s apartment? It must have been a proud moment for Stanley. Perhaps he’d kept it in his bedroom. Horton slipped out of the room and into the corridor, where he called Robin Stanley.

‘Has your father said anything more?’ he asked when Robin came on the line.

‘I’m afraid not, Inspector.’

It was what Horton had been expecting. He said, ‘The photograph of your father receiving his gallantry medal, where did he usually keep that?’

‘It’s strange you should mention it,’ Robin replied, causing Horton’s heart to quicken. ‘It’s always kept on the mantelpiece. Dad was very proud of it but when I collected some things for Dad for the hospital I found it buried underneath some tea towels in a drawer in the kitchen.’

Horton’s mind raced as he tried to grapple with the significance of this. ‘Perhaps it was broken and your father meant to fix it?’ he suggested, knowing that the picture beside Stanley’s hospital bed didn’t look damaged to him.

‘No. It was fine.’

So why would Stanley hide it? Surely there was only one answer: because he didn’t want Horton to see it. The breath caught in his throat. He thanked Robin Stanley and quickly returned to Adrian Stanley’s hospital room. Stanley was still asleep. Horton lifted the photograph and studied it carefully. It was just an ordinary picture of a proud man and woman and yet . . . Horton recalled Adrian Stanley’s struggle to speak, surely he remembered Stanley’s eyes travelling to this picture, or was that just his overactive imagination?

With his heart thumping against his ribcage, Horton turned the frame over and lifted off the back, but with searing disappointment found nothing; no hidden notes, no comments on the rear of the photograph, not even a date. Then why had Stanley hidden it? Did it have anything to do with the armed robbery that Stanley had helped to thwart? Had one of the criminals in that robbery been involved with Jennifer or known something about her disappearance? Horton knew he’d have to check. Although eager to do so, it would have to wait because his phone rang. Seeing it was WPC Skinner he stepped out of the hospital room and answered it as he headed from the ward. She’d not only got the author’s address but had spoken to him, and Ian Williams said he’d be very pleased to talk to Inspector Horton or any member of the police if it would help with their investigation.

‘He said that Colin Yately had visited him,’ Skinner relayed excitedly.

‘When?’

‘In October, February and three weeks ago. Yately wanted some help with some research he was doing for a book.’

It was as Horton had suspected but it could still mean nothing. He told Skinner that he’d be over to talk to Mr Williams in a few hours. He hurried back to the station to find Walters and Cantelli in CID. Cantelli he could trust, and after calling him into his office he told him what had happened at the social services office and at the hospital. Cantelli looked increasingly concerned but made no comment. Horton asked him to research the armed robbery that Adrian Stanley had thwarted, which had earned him his gallantry medal, and to find out everything he could about it and the whereabouts of the perpetrators.

Cantelli nodded solemnly. He didn’t ask if what he was doing was wise because it wouldn’t make any difference, he’d still do it. Instead, the sergeant said, ‘Why wouldn’t Stanley tell you this?’

‘Perhaps he thought it would reflect badly on her or badly on him because he hadn’t done his job properly.’ Horton ran a hand over his head. ‘I’ve got no idea, Barney, and it’s probably a waste of time, but that photograph means something and it has to be linked with that armed robbery.’

‘I’ll see what I can get. PC Johns has brought in the guest list for the charity reception on Glenn’s yacht tonight. It sounds a posh do. There are a lot of nobs on the list and one or two actors and footballers.’ Cantelli handed across the sheet of paper. Horton quickly scanned it finding his name at the bottom. There were no villains he knew. He asked Cantelli if he recognized any.

‘No, but I’ll get Walters to run a check on them. And you should know that Walters is moonlighting for Danby tonight. He’s just told me that he’s on security duty on Glenn’s yacht.’

‘Then God help us. Knowing Walters’ luck something’s bound to go wrong.’ And that reminded Horton about the blue van. He asked Cantelli to check with the Scientific Services department to see if the video unit had managed to enhance the registration number or anything else on the van to help give them some clue as to its owner. ‘Did Johns have any luck finding out if the RIB from Glenn’s yacht has been launched?’

‘It has. It was launched on Monday morning when Russell Glenn and Lloyd took it out for a trial. One of the engines wasn’t working properly so the mechanic was called in and it was given another test run on Tuesday.’

‘It wasn’t taken out at night?’

‘Not according to Johns, but he said he couldn’t push his luck by asking too many questions because Lloyd is as sharp as they come. As well as having muscles he’s also got brains, and he carries a lot of clout with the crew. Johns reckons it’s Lloyd and not Glenn who gives the orders to the skipper and second mate who then dole it out to the crew. Glenn spends a lot of time in his study.’

‘And Avril Glenn? What does Johns say about her?’

‘A real looker and lovely figure but then you know that already. She seems pleasant enough and friendly but not overly friendly. Johns says she seems to spend more of her time with “the bearded Vernon and that smooth bastard Keats than her husband”, I quote. And Danby deals direct with Lloyd.’ Cantelli hauled himself up. ‘I’ll see if Elkins has managed to pick up anything from Customs and the Border Agency.’

Horton headed for the major incident suite, making an effort to focus his thoughts on the investigation instead of mentally running through all the possible connections between Stanley’s armed robbery and his mother. Uckfield was in his office. First, Horton got an update from Trueman.

‘There’s not much, Andy. The fingerprints found on the telescope in Yately’s flat are too smeared and vague to match anyone’s, including Arthur Lisle’s. We’ve got a couple of smudged prints from Yately’s apartment, which don’t match his daughter or any of the residents. And there are some prints from Lisle’s house that don’t match with the personal items taken from there or his family and they don’t match with Hazleton’s or Yately’s. There have been a few reported sightings of Arthur Lisle on the Island, which Sergeant Norris and his team are checking out.’

Horton glanced across at Uckfield who was scowling at his computer. With a backward glance at a tired-looking Trueman, Horton swiftly crossed to the big man’s office, knocked briefly and entered.

‘I hope you’ve got something worthwhile to say, otherwise you can bugger off.’

The bags under Uckfield’s bloodshot eyes looked as though they should have been put out weeks ago and his craggy face was grey with fatigue. He waved Horton into the chair opposite.

‘That bastard Dean’s just waiting for me to cock up so that he can go running to head teacher to tell him what a useless prat I am. For Christ’s sake, why didn’t you seal off that flat and take the old man seriously?’

And I bet you’ve told Dean that it’s all down to me, thought Horton angrily. Well, Dean hadn’t come bellyaching around his door yet, and so far Bliss had failed to rub salt into his wounds; she was too preoccupied with her pet project and, Horton guessed, too wary to come down on him too hard in case DCS Sawyer was his new-found friend.

Ignoring Uckfield’s remark, Horton said, ‘I want to interview the author of a book on the history of the Isle of Wight coast that was in Lisle’s dining room.’

Uckfield rolled his eyes. ‘Can’t see where that’s going to get us.’

‘Neither can I at the moment,’ Horton retorted, ‘but Yately visited this author in October, February and three weeks ago, and as those notes have gone missing, along with Lisle and his laptop computer, and as Lisle apparently took the notes, it’s worth talking to the author . . .’ Horton stalled. There was something on the edge of his mind, something he’d just said that was significant, but try as he might he couldn’t grasp what it was. Irritatingly it refused to come.

Uckfield exhaled noisily and threw himself back in his seat. ‘Might as well waste more time,’ he said airily. ‘Like checking out that archive file.’

‘Cheer up. Oliver Vernon, the antiques expert, might have something significant to say about Hazleton’s valuables which could give us a lead.’

Uckfield snorted. Horton beat a hasty retreat before the Super could voice his opinions about that, and before he could ask what Cantelli was working on.

An hour and a half later Horton was pulling up outside Hazleton’s house, where a patrol car was sitting on the driveway. He nodded at the officer outside and found the other officer with Oliver Vernon in the lounge.

‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,’ Vernon said brightly, shaking Horton’s hand.

‘That good, eh?’

‘I’d say,’ he enthused, crossing to the mantelpiece. ‘Take this.’ He pointed to a black wooden glass-fronted box on the mantelpiece that contained a thermometer and had a gold clock with roman numerals mounted above it. ‘It’s an antique French Empire clock, and is absolutely beautiful, not to mention in pristine condition.’ He touched it almost sensuously. ‘It was made around 1820 and its seconds dial and thermometer make it unique. For a collector it could fetch up to five thousand pounds, maybe more. And look at this pair of Famille Rose vases either side of it. Exquisite. May I?’

Horton nodded. Vernon lifted one of the small vases and handled it delicately while inspecting it. It was just over a foot high. Horton saw that it was decorated with Chinese characters in a fenced garden amidst rocks, blossoming trees and floral sprays.

‘This is amazing,’ Vernon breathed. ‘I can hardly believe it. Early twentieth century, Chinese. Could fetch anything up to forty thousand pounds at auction.’

Horton was surprised, though he shouldn’t have been, recalling what Trueman had said about Hazleton’s accounts.

With a flushed face, Vernon continued, ‘Can these antiques be traced back to previous owners?’

‘We haven’t found any paperwork for them.’

Vernon raised his eyebrows. ‘Unusual, but not unknown. Do you suspect them to be stolen?’

‘Do you?’

Vernon gave a knowing smile. ‘I can’t remember seeing any of them listed as stolen, or hearing about it. In my business it pays to keep a track of these things.’

‘And what precisely is your business?’ asked Horton lightly, before quickly adding, ‘Oh, I know you’re an auctioneer but . . .’

‘I’m not actually. I’m an art historian.’

Horton contrived to look baffled, and as if this was new information to him, when Avril had already told him this and Walters had discovered that Vernon worked as a freelance valuer, researcher, lecturer and consultant. He wanted it to lead to them discussing Russell Glenn.

Vernon smiled and gently replaced the Chinese vase. ‘I research rare and valuable antiques, art treasures like this vase, jewellery and paintings for clients. When I find something, often after years of research, I offer to buy it on behalf of the client, if it’s available for sale, and even if it’s not I will try and persuade the owner to part with it, or rather my client gives me authorization to bid to a certain level, depending on how desperate he is to acquire it. Other times I will trace a lost antiquity without necessarily having a client and then I will match it with a client who will appreciate it.’

‘And is that what you do for Russell Glenn?’

‘Yes.’ Vernon’s eyes scanned the room. They fell on the painting of a sailing scene that looked like it had been executed at Cowes Week, which Horton had noted on his earlier visit. ‘I know what Russell wants and if I’m not mistaken . . .’ Vernon swiftly crossed the room and peered closely at the painting. Horton exchanged a glance with the uniformed officer, who knew better than to interject. Vernon gave a low whistle and spun back, his face flushed with excitement. ‘Russell would love to own this, if it’s genuine,’ he quickly added. ‘And I think it might be. He loves beautiful things, paintings in particular, but he also buys rare pieces of jewellery for Avril. This painting appears to be a Raoul Dufy, which is remarkable because it looks like “Regatta at Cowes”, and it can’t be because “Regatta at Cowes” is hanging in the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC.’ Vernon ran a hand through his hair.

‘Who’s Raoul Dufy?’ asked Horton as a thought struck him. Could tonight’s reception on board the superyacht have been designed for the purpose of Oliver Vernon buying, or rather overseeing the purchase, of an item of jewellery for Glenn? It couldn’t be a painting because that would be too conspicuous to bring on board; all the items were being viewed on screen in the on board cinema so whatever it was had to be small enough to be brought on to the yacht by one of the guests without being noticed, especially if that item had been obtained illegally to begin with. With growing excitement Horton thought that at last he might be getting to grips with the real purpose of Glenn’s stay in Portsmouth. The charity auction was just a smokescreen. Did that mean Avril was party to this exchange? Before he could reason that one out, Vernon was speaking.

‘Dufy was a French Fauvist painter. They were renowned for emphasizing bright colours and bold contours in their work, as you can see in this painting. Dufy died in 1953. He is very noted for scenes of open-air social events, like this one. It’s either a very good forgery or Dufy painted more than one picture of the “Regatta at Cowes” in 1934. And if it’s genuine it will fetch a fortune at auction. You are looking at a very fine collection here, and the glassware and porcelain I’ve already seen in the dining room is in incredibly good condition and valuable. This man clearly had an eye for beautiful things.’

Too fine an eye. How could an office manager have afforded to buy these kinds of things, wondered Horton? The simple answer was he couldn’t. These either had to have been stolen or they were Hazleton’s pay-off for smuggling. ‘Did you know Mr Hazleton?’

‘No. I only wish I had. Is there a next of kin?’ Vernon asked keenly.

Horton knew the way Vernon’s mind was running, get in early and offer to handle the sale.

‘We’re still trying to establish that. For the time being I’d appreciate it if you would handle this matter confidentially.’

‘Of course.’

‘Could you make an inventory of what’s in the house, giving an estimated value of each item?’

‘It will be my pleasure. I’ll begin right away.’

‘An officer will accompany you.’

‘To make sure I don’t steal anything?’ Vernon grinned. ‘It’s all right, I understand and I’d welcome an extra pair of hands and eyes.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Depending on what else I find in the house I might have to return tomorrow.’

‘That’s fine and I appreciate your help, Mr Vernon.’

‘Oliver, please. I hear you’re attending our little shindig tonight.’

‘Yes, but I don’t think I’ll be bidding for any of the items on a police inspector’s pay.’

‘You might get carried away in the excitement of the moment.’

‘If I do then I’ll have to ask you to re-auction it. Does that happen?’

‘Not in the circles I operate in.’

‘The rich and famous. And they have deep pockets, like Russell Glenn.’

‘Very deep. And, as I said, they like special pieces and they’re not too fussy about their provenance.’

‘How long have you acted for Glenn?’ Horton asked casually.

‘Five years.’

‘How did you get to build up this select band of clients? I’m curious that’s all,’ Horton quickly added, smiling; he didn’t want to make it sound like an interrogation.

‘Recommendation. And a reputation for being discreet. I do a good job for one client and the word soon gets around. I started off by discovering a very beautiful lost piece of . . . well, let’s just say something very valuable and treasured.’ Vernon fingered his short fair beard with his slender fingers. ‘I successfully negotiated its sale, no questions asked, nothing made public and just built my reputation from there. There’s nothing illegal about what I do, Inspector. I don’t steal anything and I don’t sell on stolen goods, not unless they were stolen three or more centuries ago and no one knows or can trace their rightful owner.’

‘And it’s all tax free.’

Vernon pulled a face. ‘That’s not my business.’

No, thought Horton. Tax evasion wasn’t Detective Chief Superintendent Sawyer’s usual remit either, but he could be working alongside other agencies to crack Russell Glenn for it. But Horton suspected that either Glenn was about to purchase some art or antique treasure and Sawyer was keen to get hold of it and those involved in the transaction, or Glenn had something to sell. And perhaps he’d been invited on board to verify that everything, as far as he could see, was above board. He thought of the guest list that Cantelli had shown him earlier and wondered what Walters would discover from checking the names on it. Who was the secret buyer or seller?

Vernon’s voice broke through his thoughts. ‘I recommend that you either move these valuables or make this house rock-solid secure. I won’t say anything but word has a habit of getting out.’

It hadn’t so far but Horton took the point. He said, ‘An officer will drop you back to the Hover terminal when you’re ready, and in time to make sure you’re not late for the auction tonight.’

He nodded at the officer to stay with Vernon and gave him instructions to take written notes. He didn’t want Vernon using a mobile device to record the items for fear it would get out on the Internet. Outside, Horton detailed the other officer to remain there and to be vigilant. Then he called Uckfield, who answered immediately. Horton relayed what Vernon had told him. ‘Better ask the National Gallery in Washington DC if their Raoul Dufy is still hanging there,’ Horton added jokingly. ‘Apart from that it looks as though Hazleton came across these items illegally, either having stolen them or they could have been his rewards for helping in a high-level smuggling operation.’

‘You’re not going to give up on that, are you?’ Uckfield cried in exasperation.

‘Like you’re not going to give up on the theory that Lisle killed Hazleton and Yately because his wife had an affair with them.’

‘At least it explains the dress. Hazleton couldn’t have stolen from the Jenkins estate, because Dennings says Jenkins left everything to two charities and they’ve confirmed they received it. His team’s still checking the rest of the names in that file.’

Horton rang off but Uckfield’s words nudged what had been chewing at the corner of his mind. Checking the rest of the names in that file. Files. His mind flashed to the files he’d seen that morning in the social services office, or rather hadn’t seen. And now he knew what Arthur Lisle had been checking for in that archive file. Of course the names on the front of the archive box tallied with the contents and the office manager’s database, because the file that Lisle had sought had never been put in the box to begin with. Horton smiled. It was so simple. Victor Hazleton had been the office manager in 1980. He had complete control over the archive files. If he had robbed someone’s estate what simpler way to cover it up than to keep the paperwork himself or destroy it so that nobody could check it? Only someone had finally discovered Hazleton’s little secret: Arthur Lisle.

But that didn’t explain how Hazleton had done it, or why he was dead instead of Arthur Lisle. Horton’s excitement subsided. He had felt that he was getting somewhere but he was still up that blind alley. He just hoped and prayed the local historian, Williams, might throw some light on to it.