‘I’ve still no idea why he looks familiar to me,’ Cantelli said as they stared at the naked body on the mortuary slab. ‘Perhaps I’ve just seen too many like him,’ he added a little wearily.
There was that, thought Horton, trying to blot out the stench of the mortuary, which he always found difficult. He ran his practised eye over the corpse. He was lean and tall, about six foot one. He was also remarkably clean for a tramp and Horton knew that Tom, Gaye’s auburn-haired, burly mortuary attendant, hadn’t washed the body. Horton could see the wound on the right-hand side of the chest. It struck him, not for the first time, how something so remarkably small could have such devastating consequences.
Cantelli said, ‘It was just that first sight of him on the crime board … Something jarred with me for a second, then it was gone. Must be getting senile.’
‘Surely not,’ Gaye said brightly, marching in. Decked out in her green mortuary garb, Horton thought it made her look younger than her thirty-four years. ‘You’re only a few years older than Inspector Horton and he looks far from senile to me.’
‘Glad to see all that running and working out at the gym is paying off,’ Horton joked.
She held his stare and in her green eyes he wondered if there was an invitation to put his claims to the test.
Briskly, she continued, ‘I don’t think the victim’s clothes are going to help you much either. There was nothing in the pockets to provide an ID. They’re the usual chain-store ones, except for his coat, which is from Gieves and Hawkes, and of excellent quality, as one would expect from the Savile Row tailor patronized by royalty.’
‘Don’t tell me Prince Charles is a suspect,’ Horton teased.
‘Who knows? Maybe your victim moved in elevated circles.’ She nodded at Tom, who handed Horton the large evidence bag containing the grubby camel-coloured coat. ‘It’s a little on the large side but your victim could have purchased it before he lost weight, although, as it’s also too short for him it was probably given to him by the Salvation Army or another charitable organization. From my examination of his clothes I can tell you that he was shot while fully clothed rather than being shot naked and then dressed.’
‘It’s definite then that he was shot?’ asked Cantelli, chewing his gum.
‘One hundred per cent. Why? Do you have a suspect or someone in mind for it?’
‘No, but we have some stolen pistols,’ Cantelli answered. ‘Antique ones that we’ve been told can’t fire and for which there is no ammunition.’
Gaye raised her eyebrows as though to say a likely story. But she said, ‘I’ll know more about the type of weapon used once I’ve done the autopsy. For now, Tom’s recorded a detailed study of the bullet’s position in relation to the collar, seams and pockets of the coat and taken photographic evidence of all the clothes. They’ve also been examined radiographically for bullet fragments. There doesn’t appear to be any but I’ve sent the images over to the ballistics expert in case he can pick up anything from them. The forensic lab will obviously examine the clothes very carefully for evidence of soot or stippling which will help in determining the range at which he was shot but I should be able to give you more on that once I open him up and delve inside.’
Cantelli shuddered and chewed his gum a little faster.
Gaye continued, ‘But this is what we have so far.’
Horton listened eagerly.
‘The victim was dressed in heavy walking boots which have seen considerable wear. Size eleven. But the boots are not misshapen and his feet are in good condition, no bunions or callouses, his toenails clipped.’ She glanced at Horton to see if he was following her. He was, avidly. ‘His socks are grey wool, no holes and not darned, and fairly new. Trousers, cotton, waist forty-two inches, inside leg thirty inches, which again is too short for him and the waist too large. Dirty and worn around the seat and knees.’
‘Why the knees?’ Cantelli interjected.
‘Maybe he inherited them from someone who liked gardening. There was no belt in the waistband, possibly because it was being used to keep his overcoat fastened around his torso. The belt is leather, again well worn. His check shirt was frayed around the collar and cuffs, extra-large size, and the woollen jumper, also extra-large, was worn and faded.’ She paused. Horton could see there was more to come and his interest quickened. ‘But this is where it gets very interesting. Firstly, the outer garments were old, worn, patched and frayed but, with the exception of the coat and trousers, all clean.’
Horton exchanged a knowing look with Cantelli.
Gaye interpreted it. ‘Unusual, yes, if he was homeless and had been for some time. Of course, there is the possibility that he’d just been given the clothes.’
As Bliss had suggested.
‘His boxer shorts are from John Lewis. They are also clean, of good quality and are the correct fit. And if you take a close look at his hands,’ she lifted the left hand, ‘especially his nails, what do you see?’
Horton knew. He’d already pointed it out. ‘They’re clean.’
‘Yes, and what’s more, they’ve been manicured. Now, I don’t know about you but I’ve never met a vagrant who takes the trouble to keep his nails clean and manicured.’
Neither had Horton.
‘In addition, his teeth, although containing a lot of fillings, have been cosmetically enhanced and fairly recently, certainly within the last few years. There’s also no hint of stubble on his face. He seems to have been a very fastidious vagrant.’
Cantelli voiced what Horton was thinking. ‘He was dressed as a tramp but he wasn’t one.’
Gaye answered, ‘That’s what it looks like.’
Horton said, ‘It would explain why there weren’t any carrier bags of belongings with him, but not what he was doing in that location, although the obvious answer was to meet someone.’
Gaye continued, ‘From my initial examination I’d put his age as being mid-fifties. He’s been dead for between twelve to fourteen hours, so he was killed sometime between seven and nine last night.’
‘That early?’
‘Yes, why? Don’t tell me the police doctor said it was later. Who was it – Dr Sharman?’
Horton nodded.
‘I wish you’d called me last night.’
He held her eyes. He wished he had too but not to view a body.
‘And he told you the poor soul was dead. Anything else? No,’ she said pointedly.
Horton wondered what had occurred between them to cause the icy temperature but now was not the time to ask. If Dr Clayton was right, and she usually was, then it was possible that the victim or his killer, or both, could have travelled on the last Hayling Ferry to Portsmouth or someone on the ferry might have seen them.
She said, ‘Lividity is now well established and from its pattern the victim hasn’t been moved. There are no marks or scratches on his hands or forearms, which indicates he didn’t defend himself.’
‘Would he have had time?’ asked Cantelli.
‘Probably not. But it’s always worth checking in case he’d been in a fight before being shot. He hadn’t been. Or rather, there is no external evidence of that but I’ll obviously examine him for internal bruising. There are no tattoos, birthmarks or any other distinguishing marks, and no scars indicating assault or surgery. That’s it for now. I hope to have more in about four hours, maybe less, unless you’re staying for the floor show?’
‘Other things to do,’ Horton said hastily.
Outside in the corridor, he was about to discuss Dr Clayton’s findings with Cantelli when the sergeant’s phone rang.
‘It’s Charlotte. Mind if I take it, Andy?’
‘No need to ask.’
Horton walked on, leaving Cantelli to take his wife’s phone call. Outside the mortuary, Horton took a deep breath of the damp, cold January air and stared down at the city spread out before him in a dull grey haze which merged with the sea beyond to make the Isle of Wight almost invisible. He reached for his mobile phone and called Uckfield.
‘Great,’ was Uckfield’s predictably grumpy response after Horton had relayed what Gaye had told them. ‘So now we’ve got a vagrant who sounds more like a male model. I’ll get Marsden to contact the tailors. They might know who they sold that coat to and when.’
Horton doubted it unless the label contained some kind of code or the make had been discontinued at a certain time. Even then he doubted that it would lead them to the vagrant. The forensic analysis of it might tell them more. But he didn’t say. Uckfield wouldn’t thank him for it. And besides, Uckfield would know that.
Uckfield continued, ‘Trueman’s still trying to find someone in the rates office who can give us the houseboat owner’s details. You’d think he was asking for a catalogue of where every stone on that beach came from judging by the difficulty he’s having.’
‘Surely it’s easy enough to look up on a computer.’
‘It would be if he could find someone to do it. Marsden says the warden at the hostel doesn’t recognize the dead man, which isn’t surprising given what you’ve just said, so he and Somerfield are doing the rounds of the other places he might have hung out, but as he wasn’t homeless – just dressed up to appear homeless – that’ll be a waste of time.’
Horton said he’d give Elkins the earlier time of death and ask him to interview the Hayling ferry staff.
Uckfield said, ‘Could our victim have been an actor, getting into costume to get the feel of the part or some such crap? You know what these poncy actors are like.’
‘Not really. But if he was then why go out on such a dreadful night? And who would want to kill him?’ Uckfield’s suggestion had sparked another thought, though. ‘He could have been working undercover.’
‘Christ, you don’t mean he’s one of us!’
‘If he is then sooner or later someone will start shouting.’
‘Not if they don’t know he’s missing or dead.’ By Uckfield’s tone of voice Horton could tell he was worried.
‘Dr Clayton estimates the victim is in his mid-fifties. He might be too old for one of our lot to be undercover but he could be a private investigator or an insurance, benefit or tax fraud investigator. That would give someone a motive for killing him if whoever he was investigating wanted him silenced. Perhaps someone objected to his benefit being taken away.’
Uckfield sniffed loudly. Horton held the phone a short distance away.
‘It would help if we knew what kind of gun he was shot with,’ Uckfield grumbled. ‘Trueman’s pulling off a list of the usual scumbags who have had guns in the past and those caught bringing them in illegally and selling them but most of the villains are banged up, thank God. It could be a new kid on the block, though, or some nutter from outside, or someone who’s been watching too much of the Antiques Roadshow on the telly and thinks he’s found a niche market. See what these Clements have to say for themselves, and if they can’t explain why they had an arsenal in their house, bring them in.’
The line went dead. Cantelli joined him. ‘Sorry about that. Mum’s not been feeling well and Charlotte’s managed to persuade her to come and stay with us for a few days. It took some doing – she’s fiercely independent, even more so now dad’s gone. She doesn’t want to be a burden and all that sort of thing, not that she ever can be or will be to us.’
‘It’s nothing serious, I hope.’
‘I don’t think so. She’s got a heavy cold and is tired. She hasn’t been eating or drinking properly. Could lead to pneumonia if she’s not careful.’
And Charlotte would know about that, being a former nurse. Cantelli’s father, Toni, had died thirteen months ago and his death had left a big hole in the Cantelli family. Horton had admired and liked Toni Cantelli, who had been an Italian prisoner of war during the Second World War, had met and fallen in love with a land girl on the farm he’d been detailed to work on, married her and built up a successful business which had diversified from ice-cream selling to owning cafés, one of which was on the seafront run by Cantelli’s sister, Isabella.
‘Charlotte can keep an eye on mum and get the doctor out to check her over. You know what some people are like, especially mum’s generation – they don’t want to trouble the doctor.’ Cantelli zapped open the car. ‘What do you make of Dr Clayton’s information? Not sure this makes it easier or harder to identify our victim,’ he added, removing his chewing gum and pushing it into a piece of silver paper and in his pocket before starting the engine.
Horton agreed. ‘I’ve just broken the news to Uckfield. He’s going to see if we can trace the ownership of the coat but our victim could have picked it up anywhere.’
‘Like the rest of his outer garments. He might even have taken them from a charity bag left outside someone’s house ready to be collected. The best we can do is circulate the pictures to the media, put them on the Internet and hope someone recognizes him.’
Horton’s phone rang. It was Guilbert.
‘Rowan Lyster’s confirmed the body is that of his mother,’ Guilbert said.
There hadn’t really been any doubt. But the formalities had to be observed and it was always best to make sure. ‘How did he take it?’
‘Much calmer than I expected. He didn’t cry or express regret but he was clearly very agitated. When I explained about the inquest being held tomorrow he looked annoyed rather than distressed. He couldn’t understand why there had to be one but I told him that given the circumstances of his mother’s death it was standard procedure. No one’s come forward yet to say they recognize or know her, or to say that she was booked into a hotel. And we can’t trace her owning a property on the island. Her son is adamant she didn’t and certain that she didn’t have any connections here, and that bothers me. If her death is due to natural causes as the pathologist found then why travel without any luggage?’
Horton’s concerns exactly.
‘Rowan Lyster has given us permission to look over his mother’s apartment – rather reluctantly, I might add. He couldn’t see why it was necessary but I told him the coroner would ask and we didn’t want to delay matters. There might be something in there to tell us why she came to Guernsey. Could you send someone to meet Rowan’s wife, Gina, at the apartment? She has a key.’
‘I’ll go myself.’ He didn’t think Bliss or Uckfield would like that very much given that they were in the middle of a murder investigation but he had seen the body and was curious about Evelyn Lyster.
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’ Guilbert relayed Gina Lyster’s mobile number. Horton rang her, introduced himself and made arrangements to meet her outside the apartment at twelve thirty. That gave them enough time to interview the Clements. Next he rang Elkins and gave him the revised time of the vagrant’s death, explaining that he didn’t appear to be a vagrant, and asked him to interview the skipper of the Hayling ferry and get some details of their last passengers from both Portsmouth and Hayling. Not that the ferry company would be able to give them names and addresses – they simply issued a ticket to cross the small stretch of water – but they would be able to tell them how many people had been on that ferry and the skipper would be able to identify his regulars. They could probably be ruled out of the investigation but someone might have seen either the dead man or the killer hanging around. Elkins reported that the harbour master hadn’t noted any movement in the harbour last night, which wasn’t surprising given the weather, and Chris Howgate had said there had been no one at the lifeboat station and they hadn’t had any shouts.
Cantelli turned on to the seafront and headed east. There were a few people walking along the promenade and a French warship was making its way out of the harbour. There were a couple of yachts on the Solent but it was too chilly and too dull for all but the hardiest of sailors and strollers.
Just past the nine-hole golf course Cantelli indicated left and almost immediately left again. After a few hundred yards he turned right into a wide road of substantial detached Edwardian houses. The Clements’ was the second on the left.
‘Surely someone must have heard the alarm before it was disabled by the burglars,’ Horton said, studying the large three-storey house behind double wrought-iron gates and a brick paved driveway where a top-of-the-range Mercedes was parked.
‘Uniform have called on the neighbouring houses and put leaflets through the doors but so far no one claims to have heard or seen anything suspicious. It’s the kind of street where people keep themselves to themselves.’
And the kind of house that would set you back a small fortune, Horton thought, climbing out of the car and viewing the large double bay windows on the first and second floors, rooms in the eaves on the top floor that in the days when the house was built would have been for the servants, and a basement that would have harboured a kitchen where a cook would have slaved over a hot stove.
‘It’s a large house for only two people,’ he said, approaching the front door. He noted there was a grill on the basement window on his right. According to Walters, that was where the guns had been kept.
‘I could lose my five in it,’ Cantelli said winsomely, pressing his finger on a shiny brass bell. Horton heard it chiming through the house. ‘Walters says that Vivian and Constance Clements don’t have any children or lodgers.’
They also seemed reluctant to answer. Cantelli rang again, keeping his finger pressed on the bell and this time, after several seconds, the door was flung open and a grey-skinned, grey-haired, squat man in his early sixties glared at them. ‘How many times do I have to tell you people this is a no cold calling zone so—’
‘Police, Mr Clements,’ Cantelli hastily broke in, flashing his warrant card.
Clements didn’t look appeased or impressed. He squinted at it with bloodshot eyes, sniffed and said grudgingly, ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’