‘The victim was alive when shot as opposed to being unconscious or already dead having been killed by another method,’ Gaye announced in her small office off the mortuary. Horton had taken the seat opposite Gaye, who had divested herself of her mortuary garb and was wearing her customary jeans and T-shirt, while Uckfield stood leaning against the filing cabinet. Gaye had ordered him to keep his distance, saying that on Friday she was travelling to Denmark to attend an international conference on forensic research and technology and would be tacking a week’s holiday on the end of it to visit friends in Europe; she didn’t want to be infected by his germs. Horton felt a stab of disappointment that she wouldn’t be around but then he’d probably be busy on this case.
‘Let me explain,’ she continued. ‘As a bullet perforates the skin it scrapes the epidermis, creating an abrasion around the bullet hole. Because the abrasions in the victim are reddish brown, that indicates he was alive when he was shot as opposed to being already dead, because then the abrasion would have been yellow, tan or greyish brown. The entrance wound is round with a margin of abrasion surrounding it of uniformed thickness, which means the bullet penetrated the skin nose on rather than at an angle.’
Her eyes rested on Horton and connected, causing his pulse to skip a couple of beats, and then swivelled to Uckfield.
‘As to range of fire, well, the shape of the entry wound, the stippling – a pattern of tiny abrasions in the skin around the wound – and my examination of the clothes, matching the tears in it to the entry and exit wounds, and the absence of soot on them indicate he was shot at intermediate range, between two feet and two and a half feet, possibly three feet.’
‘I’d call that close range.’ Uckfield sniffed noisily.
‘Not as close as the muzzle of the gun being placed against the skin or the clothes,’ Gaye answered. ‘He was shot face on while standing.’
She left a pause while they assimilated this. Horton visualized Freedman standing in front of his killer, perhaps looking down at the gun – shocked, terrified, or perhaps thinking it was a joke and feeling confident he could talk the killer out of his proposed action using his neuro-linguistic programming techniques. Then he pictured his expression turning to astonishment and horror as the gun was fired.
Gaye continued, ‘As a bullet moves through a body it crushes and shreds the tissue in its path while flinging outward the surrounding tissue, creating a temporary cavity which then collapses, contracts and disappears, and it is the crushed and shredded tissue and any marks against the bone that gives us the path of the bullet and possible clues as to what kind of bullet. However, in the case of handgun bullets, there is very little internal disturbance and this is the case here. To cause significant injuries to an organ a handgun bullet must strike that structure directly. This is different with a high-velocity rifle bullet. So I can confirm that he was killed with a handgun.’
‘What type of handgun?’ Uckfield impatiently demanded.
‘I’ll come on to that shortly. The exit wound again confirms he was shot while standing and not while lying on the ground or sitting. But the fact that there is an exit wound means there is no bullet in the body to retrieve.’
‘Great,’ Uckfield scoffed. Horton knew exactly what he was thinking: they couldn’t tell which weapon had been used, and that was a blow. The bullet hadn’t been retrieved from the scene either, but how could it when the area was covered with stones? They could hardly dig up the entire beach.
‘But I can tell you what we do have,’ Gaye continued, shifting position and sitting slightly forward across her desk, her green eyes shining. ‘We’ve taken internal X-rays to ascertain the type of ammunition and weapon used. It doesn’t give us a great deal but it does tell us that he wasn’t killed by a metal jacket bullet because there are traces of lead, and the pattern also indicates it was conical, so we’re looking for a weapon that can fire conical-shaped lead bullets. I contacted the ballistics expert who has the pictures of the stolen pistols DC Walters sent to him. Percussion revolvers like the ones stolen have been involved in homicides and in some suicides in the USA and here in the UK.’
Horton interjected, ‘Even antique ones.’
‘Yes. Percussion weapons appeared in the early nineteenth century and became obsolete with the introduction of metallic cartridges. Until recently they’ve mainly been of historical interest, collected by enthusiasts, but the ballistics expert confirmed my findings. In the last ten to fifteen years there has been an increased interest in them and in replicas. Most are manufactured abroad.’
Uckfield broke in, ‘You mean they’re making new guns based on these old designs?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do we know if the Clements’ stolen guns are genuine antiques?’ Uckfield fired at Horton.
He didn’t. ‘We haven’t asked to see any provenance.’
‘Then do so,’ he growled.
Horton saw Gaye’s eyebrows rise slightly. She continued, ‘Many of these guns are available as flintlock and percussion muskets, rifles, shotguns and percussion revolvers like the ones your man had in his collection, but I can’t say for certain that the victim was killed by one of the stolen guns. The ballistics expert might be able to give you more on that in due course.’
Horton wasn’t certain now that they were looking at insurance fraud. But as Gaye had said, Freedman could have been shot with a replica antique pistol.
She said, ‘In homicides the highest percentage of fatalities by gunshot wounds are caused by those to the head while a quarter are to the heart and aorta. In our victim, it’s the latter.’
Horton interjected. ‘So not a professional killer because he would have shot Freedman in the head?’
‘Not necessarily,’ she corrected him. ‘The killer might not have been the given the opportunity to do that so he went for the next best thing – the heart. The victim was not only alive when he was shot but he didn’t die immediately.’
Uckfield tossed her a horrified stare. ‘You mean he didn’t die where he was found?’
‘The victim can incur a fatal gun wound but still be capable of physical activity. In fact, he can run hundreds of yards before dying.’
‘Great,’ Uckfield cried before breaking into a coughing fit.
‘Would you like some water, Detective Superintendent?’
He waved an arm at her to decline.
Horton said, ‘Do you have any idea of how far he could have got after being shot?’
‘No. And I’m not saying the victim definitely did this but it’s a possibility that has to be considered.’
‘Even if he was shot in the heart?’ Uckfield croaked disbelievingly.
‘Yes, an individual can still function for a short time.’
‘Dean’s functioned for a long time without one,’ muttered Uckfield.
Gaye said, ‘It’s the oxygen supply to the brain that’s the critical factor in survival and time of death tests have proved that an individual can remain conscious and can function, he can run or walk for ten seconds, before collapsing.’
Uckfield addressed Horton. ‘We need to test that out.’
‘Hope that doesn’t mean you’re going to shoot anyone,’ Gaye said.
‘I could think of a few to nominate.’
Horton turned to Gaye. ‘How fit was Freedman?’
‘Not bad for a recovering alcoholic but even if he hadn’t been very fit the instinct for survival could have taken over and spurred him to almost superhuman activity in the hope he could seek help in time to save him.’
‘And the killer let him run or stagger about rather than firing again.’
‘The killer might not have had time to reload and fire the pistol or he might not have had the ammunition to do so. Or perhaps he thought it unnecessary because he knew that the victim would die.’
Gaye was right. Horton knew the killer would rather use the time to get away.
‘I don’t have access to his full medical records but Sergeant Trueman sent me over Freedman’s prison medical file. He underwent a full programme to help him recover from alcohol abuse and responded well. Fortunately he undertook it before his liver was irrevocably destroyed. And the liver can make a remarkable recovery if the disease hasn’t gone too far.’
‘Could he have killed himself?’ Horton asked.
Uckfield looked at him as though he’d lost the plot. Maybe he had but he still thought the question worth asking.
‘There is no gun residue on his hands, although the rain could have destroyed that, but if he had killed himself then he’d have pressed the gun against his clothes and it would have shown up. And usually, although not always, suicides chose the head or mouth.’
‘And there was no gun found with the body,’ added Uckfield pointedly.
‘Someone could have picked it up, thinking it was valuable.’
‘No, this is murder,’ Uckfield said firmly. Horton was inclined to agree, he just thought it worth exploring all possibilities, which was what Guilbert was doing with Evelyn Lyster’s death, although that was the other way around – it had been natural causes but it looked like suicide. Horton was beginning to wonder if in fact it was murder – something he knew must be crossing Guilbert’s mind. Could she have been given a drug before boarding the ferry? Maybe he should check out the CCTV footage from the port? But why kill her and why did someone kill Freedman? He asked if they had a next of kin in his prison file.
‘Not unless he changed it since being released from prison. His records state that he wished to leave his body to medical science. A local solicitor is named as his executor – Framptons.’
The legal firm that had handled Horton’s divorce.
Uckfield said that a member of his team was checking with the General Register Office to find out if Freedman had ever been married and if he had children.
Gaye said, ‘I’ll let you have my full report and ballistics will hopefully give you more on the bullet and the gun.’
Uckfield hauled himself away from the prop of the cabinet, blowing his nose. As he did so, Gaye rose and began to spray the air behind him. ‘Antiseptic spray,’ she explained to Horton. He thought they could do with some of that in the incident suite.
As they headed down the corridor to the exit, Horton said, ‘The Clements say they were in on Tuesday night when Freedman was shot but there’s no one to corroborate that. The guns were missing on Monday when they returned, uniform can confirm that, but we’ve only got Vivian Clements’ word that there were no other pistols in the house. But why report the robbery if one of them intended killing Freedman with an antique pistol? Clements could easily have done the deed or handed the gun to an accomplice and then put it back in his collection.’
‘Maybe he thought if he reported it stolen it would make him look as though he was in the clear, just like when someone reports his car stolen and it’s used in a raid, I know nothing about it, guv,’ he said mockingly and coughed.
Yes, Clements was arrogant enough to believe the police were stupid and, from what he’d seen, Constance Clements was too timid to contradict her husband, certainly in his presence.
‘Got any Panadol?’
‘Not on me.’
‘Stop at the nearest chemist.’
Horton did so. Uckfield returned with a large paper bag. It looked as though he’d bought every conceivable cold cure imaginable. He swallowed some painkillers and then put a strong throat lozenge in his mouth before lapsing into a silence punctuated by nose blowing, sniffing and coughing.
At the station, Horton made for the canteen, which thankfully had been spared recent police spending cuts. He bought a coffee, sandwiches, banana and a Kit Kat and returned to his office, wondering how long it would be before the axe fell on the canteen and they’d all end up buying food from a vending machine or a kebab takeaway down the road; the latter of which would please Walters, it being one of his favourite foods. He glanced into Bliss’s office on the way to CID and breathed a sigh of relief that she wasn’t there. She was still getting under Trueman’s feet in the incident suite.
Walters greeted him with the news that the Clements had never made an insurance claim. ‘And Trevor Lukein is not a thief.’
‘Your view is based on what?’
‘My gut.’ Walters patted his rounded stomach.
‘Oh, good, I’ll tell the Clements that. I’m sure they’ll be pleased,’ Horton said facetiously, opening his sandwiches.
‘But he doesn’t like them.’
‘Them?’
‘Well, him. He says Vivian Clements is a pompous little prat. Well, OK, he didn’t say that exactly, but that’s the gist of it.’
‘What did he say exactly?’
‘That Mr Clements is particular to the point of fussiness and stands over Lukein while he services the alarm to make sure he’s doing it properly. Clements doesn’t speak, just watches and breathes heavily. Lukein says he’s tried to engage him in conversation in the past, several times, but gave up when he got no response. In fact, Clements told Lukein, “You’re not here to talk about the weather or the state of the country, you’re here to do a job so get on with it”.’
Cantelli looked up. ‘Sounds about right from what we’ve seen of Vivian Clements.’
Walters nodded agreement. ‘He struck me as a jumped-up little—’
‘And what did Lukein have to say about Constance Clements?’ Horton interrupted, biting into his egg and cress.
‘Nice woman, apologizes for her old man. Looks embarrassed. Always offers him a cup of tea which Mr Clements disapproves of and which Lukein accepts just to get up Clements’ nose.’
‘Does Lukein go into the collection room?’
‘Yes. He has to check the sensors in there. He says he’s made some comments on the collection, you know, nice stuff and that sort of thing, but he only got a tart reply from Clements to do what he was paid to do. He remembers seeing the guns but as Clements wasn’t forthcoming he didn’t comment on them.’
‘How often does he service the alarms?’
‘Every six months. The last time was on the twenty-ninth of October as Clements claimed. But Hugh Treadware says Clements hasn’t paid for it yet. He isn’t a prompt payer. Treadware always has to chase but this time Clements is spinning it out even longer.’
‘Financial troubles?’ Horton mused.
Walters shrugged. ‘His credit rating’s OK. Perhaps he’s just mean.’
‘Check with the shipping line that they were actually on that cruise and returned on Monday. Contact the international port, ask them if they have any CCTV footage from Monday morning. If so, ask them to send it over.’
‘You looking for the Clements disembarking?’
‘No, I’m looking for Evelyn Lyster.’
‘Why?’
‘Because someone could have put a drug in her flask.’
‘They’re hardly likely to do it in the port.’
‘Just do it, Walters, and while you’re at it contact the taxi companies and find out if any of them picked her up from her apartment.’
‘What’s she look like?’
Cantelli interjected, ‘Guilbert’s sent over a photograph her son gave him. It was taken at his wedding last March. I’ve circulated it to the private airfields.’
Horton finished off his sandwich and crossed to Cantelli’s computer where he studied the picture. Evelyn Lyster was taller than the man beside her, who was obviously her husband, the late Dennis Lyster. He was thin, slightly hunched and looked older than his wife. Judging by the troubled look on his narrow features he was clearly ill at ease. Evelyn wasn’t exactly beaming herself but she appeared confident. She was dressed elegantly in a cream and black outfit with a wide-brimmed cream hat with black trimming. Gina Lyster, in a cream, knee-length modern wedding dress, was beaming at her husband, a tanned, muscular man with cropped dark hair and a rather solemn expression.
Horton addressed Walters. ‘Evelyn Lyster is the older woman and not the one in the wedding dress,’ he explained, because with Walters you never knew. He gave him a description of what she’d been wearing when her body had been found.
Cantelli said, ‘I briefed Inspector Guilbert about our visit to Evelyn Lyster’s flat. He says Condor ferries are checking to see if she booked on any of their sailings over the last couple of years and he’s got an officer liaising with the airlines. Elkins has also got her photograph and is checking out the marinas. Guilbert’s officers are doing the same in the marinas in Guernsey.’
While drinking his coffee, Horton briefed Cantelli and Walters about the autopsy results and what he and Uckfield had found at Freedman’s flat.
‘It was very like Evelyn Lyster’s apartment in that there were very few personal items in it and no photographs.’
‘Well, there are a few pictures on his website,’ Cantelli said, jerking his head at the computer screen. He’d called it up while Horton had been talking. Horton leaned over. He found himself studying a slender man with slightly overlong dark hair streaked with grey. He was casually but smartly dressed and smiling into camera, displaying a mouth of the cosmetically enhanced teeth that Dr Clayton had pointed out. The photograph had been professionally taken. Horton wondered by whom. He recognized the clothes as those he’d seen in his flat.
In another two photographs, Freedman was wearing a microphone head set and the picture had clearly been taken at one of his public seminars. There was another of him more serious, wearing a suit and looking into camera with bright, penetrating grey eyes and a strong-featured but ravaged face. Horton got the impression of a charismatic man full of nervous energy, with a zest for life tinged with something else that he couldn’t put his finger on. Was there a slightly sardonic air about him? A superiority with a hint of danger?
Cantelli said, ‘It says here that he’s been down as low as any man could get, and only prison and the discovery of neuro-linguistic programming and gaining his coaching qualifications took him out of the cesspit. He knows what it’s like to be at rock bottom, desperate and despairing, to suffer extreme stress, to feel a failure and by knowing this his mission in life is to help others.’
‘For a fee, and from what Uckfield told me about Freedman’s finances, quite a hefty one at that.’ But despite that, Horton thought all credit to the man. He’d pulled himself up from the gutter, overcome alcohol addiction and turned himself into a success, which had earned him a large income. That had been no mean feat. It took guts, determination and willpower, all of which Freedman had once lacked because he’d succumbed to drink, but then that was easy when your world felt as though it was collapsing around you. He should know. What had caused Freedman’s descent? Business pressures? Matrimonial problems?
He thought it time he briefed Bliss on the interview with the Clements. Uckfield would have told her about the results of the autopsy and what they’d found in Freedman’s flat.
The incident suite was a hive of activity. Uckfield was in his office, the door was open and even from a distance Horton could see he was red-eyed and red-nosed, coughing and sneezing into his handkerchief. Horton was surprised Trueman hadn’t set up a cordon around him.
‘I was thinking about it,’ he said solemnly. He reported that Marsden and Somerfield had gone into Freedman’s apartment block to interview the residents and he’d requested CCTV from the area. A team were also bagging up all the paperwork and Freedman’s computer. There had been a few reports from the public of sightings of Freedman which were being checked out. ‘But seeing as most of them come from out of the area they’re probably a waste of time.’ Trueman told him that Freedman was divorced and had no kids.
‘We’re trying to track down his former wife.’
‘Any joy with Freedman’s coat?’
‘Not so far. The Super’s going to release a picture of it to the media tomorrow. Or rather, DCI Bliss is.’
Horton crossed to her temporary office. What they had on the Clements’ robbery didn’t seem to please her but then very little did. Horton said nothing about his and his team’s enquiries into Evelyn Lyster’s death – that would please her even less. He told her that Walters was going to interview the cleaners tomorrow and that he was calling on Glyn Ashmead at Gravity.
On his return to CID, Walters reported that the shipping company had confirmed that Vivian and Constance Clements had been on the cruise to China which had left Portsmouth on 19 December and returned to the port at six a.m. on Monday, 13 January. The passengers had disembarked at eight forty-five. The robbery had been reported at nine twenty. Uniform had attended at nine thirty-five and called CID because it involved firearms. Walters reached the Clements’ house at nine fifty-five and had returned on Tuesday with the crime-scene officer. The cruise company also confirmed that Vivian Clements had been engaged as one of their guest lecturers.
Walters added, ‘The port also has CCTV footage for all of Monday morning. They’re emailing it over now and none of the taxi companies picked up a fare by the name of Evelyn Lyster or from that address, but I’ve sent round her photograph.’
Then perhaps a friend had driven her to the port. Horton didn’t think she would have caught a bus. She didn’t seem the type. He still needed to see the paperwork associated with the purchase of the Clements’ pistols but Cantelli would get that tomorrow. He detailed Walters to interview Valentines the cleaners in the morning. ‘And while you’re there, ask if they clean for Peter Freedman and Evelyn Lyster.’
He turned his attention to his paperwork and to answering his messages and emails. Elkins rang in to report that the Hayling Ferry crew hadn’t seen anyone hanging around at the top of the pontoon on Tuesday night and no one in the local marinas recognized Evelyn Lyster, but he’d left her photograph with them and would try the marinas on Hayling Island, Fareham and at Emsworth tomorrow and circulate it to those in Southampton and on the Isle of Wight.
It was just after seven thirty when Cantelli knocked and entered.
‘Just had Ables Taxis on the line. One of their drivers, Adrian Woolacombe, remembers picking up Evelyn Lyster at the Hard on Monday morning at eleven minutes past seven.’
Horton raised his eyebrows. ‘Then she didn’t come directly from her apartment.’
‘Looks that way. Woolacombe’s on duty all night at the Hard. Want me to interview him?’
‘No. I’ll do it.’ Horton had nothing to go home for. Cantelli had his family. He also had a sick mother staying with him. Horton sent him on his way, telling him to escape before he could be roped into the incident suite and the Freedman investigation. Walters looked hopeful but Horton told him to finish writing up his reports for the day before leaving. It was amazing how fast Walters could type when motivated in the correct way. Half an hour later, he saw from his office window that Uckfield’s car had gone. But Bliss and Dennings were still here. He hadn’t been summoned so he assumed he wasn’t needed and that everything that could be done was being done. Before Bliss could change her mind, he quickly made his escape and headed for the taxi rank on the waterfront and Adrian Woolacombe.