At four fifteen Horton gave up, showered, shaved and climbed on his Harley. He made his way along the dark and damp seafront to the harbour where he parked in the nearby multi-storey car park, crossed to the railway station and headed down into the Wightlink ferry terminal. He bought a return ticket for the five fifteen to Ryde, wondering why the hell he was doing this. The ferry office had confirmed that no one by the name of Evelyn Lyster had bought a ticket by credit or debit card and so far none of the staff remembered selling her a ticket at the Portsmouth office, but maybe she’d done the same as she had at the international port – bought a single ticket across to the island using cash and a single one again using cash at the Ryde booking office. He’d ask them at Ryde ticket office.
He bought a coffee and watched the Fast Cat ferry ease its way in to the dock. He knew this wasn’t the way that Bliss policed. She’d simply lift the phone and ask an officer in Ryde to investigate. That was the correct use of resources, but hell, it was his time and money he was wasting and it had been him who had seen Evelyn Lyster’s body in that cabin. And him who had been following this through. He knew what questions to ask.
Within thirty minutes he was stepping off the ferry at the end of Ryde Pier waiting for the passengers to embark before questioning the terminal staff. At this time of the morning it was essentially one-way traffic as far as passengers were concerned. Most were travelling from the island to work on the mainland.
He showed Evelyn Lyster’s photograph to the terminal staff. No one remembered her but that didn’t matter because he’d already had confirmation from one of the crew at the Portsmouth end that she had been on the Fast Cat on Monday morning. He made his way up to the railway station but halted at the coffee shop, which was in the departure lounge. Evelyn Lyster had been carrying a cup flask. It had been empty. He recalled what Gina Lyster had said and the six cup flasks he’d seen in Evelyn Lyster’s kitchen cabinet. Because of Evelyn’s car accident as a result of not drinking enough and further lowering her blood pressure, she’d always made sure to have a flask made up with coffee to act as a stimulant. Perhaps she’d bought one here to pour into the flask which she’d drank on the Solent crossing. He crossed to the staff serving in the coffee shop.
‘Yes, I remember her – smart woman. It was early Monday morning,’ one of the women unexpectedly told him. ‘She didn’t buy a coffee but she had one of those drinking flasks with her. She took it out of her bag, looked up, saw me then put it back again. Probably thought I was going to tell her she couldn’t drink it in here.’
‘Did she speak to anyone?’
‘Not that I saw. After she put her flask back in her bag the ferry came in so she got up to leave.’
That didn’t get him any further. He called in at the ticket office and again showed Evelyn Lyster’s photograph. The clerk didn’t remember her. It had been busy and they were short-staffed. He’d had a headache. Horton headed through the station towards the pier exit on the far right, feeling out of sorts. He crossed to the water and stared at the black mass of swirling sea as it slapped up against the struts. This was where Dennis Lyster’s body had washed up.
The wind, though not as strong as it had been during the night, buffeted him. He was glad of the sea air, hoping it would clear his head and shake off the slough of despondency that he could feel sleeking over him. The pier was half a mile out to sea. There was no entertainment on it. It had been constructed purely as a means of enabling the wealthy of the nineteenth century to arrive on the island from the mainland on the steamer service without getting their feet wet on the sands because the tide went out for miles. Trams and trains had traversed it. Now only one small train consisting of former London underground railway carriages trundled up and down it twice an hour, along with cars and pedestrians. There were several cars parked behind him and taxis dropped off their fares for the ferry service to Portsmouth.
He gazed westwards along the coast to the wooded area of Fishbourne, where he could see the lights of the car ferry easing its way into its berth. Beyond it were more trees and a bay, above which was Osborne House, once the holiday home of Queen Victoria, but between Fishbourne and Osborne House was another imposing house hidden by the trees and not as stately as the former queen’s, belonging to Eames. Where was Eames now? Not there, not in January. Perhaps at his Wiltshire estate or abroad at one of his other properties. Perhaps he was sailing in the Caribbean or on a trade mission on behalf of businesses and the government. But wherever he was, Horton wouldn’t mind betting Eames had an update on his movements.
He looked up to see a taxi heading towards the pier head. He crossed to it and waited for it to discharge its fare. The taxi driver climbed out and lit up a cigarette. Horton didn’t expect a result that was any different from what he’d already had but Evelyn Lyster had got to this ferry terminal somehow. Maybe she’d caught the train from Shanklin or perhaps a friend had given her a lift. Or perhaps she’d caught a taxi as she had done in Portsmouth.
He showed his warrant card and then Evelyn Lyster’s photograph and was astounded when the taxi driver said, ‘Yeah, I recognize her. I dropped her and her friend here on Monday morning.’
‘Friend?’ Horton asked, startled and with a racing pulse. ‘She was with someone?’
‘Yeah, a tall man, collar-length brown hair, going grey, teeth like a film star, about mid-fifties.’
Horton’s head whirled. My God! Was it possible? There were a lot of tall men going grey in their mid-fifties but there was only one he’d recently come across who’d had expensive dental work. With a pounding heart, he rapidly scrolled through the photographs on his phone until he found the one he wanted.
‘Was this the man?’
‘Yeah, that’s him, who is he?’
A dead man, thought Horton. Peter Freedman.
He asked the taxi driver to take him to where he had picked up his fare. The address was on the north-western edge of Ryde and within ten minutes they were pulling up in front of a large pair of wrought-iron gates, behind which was an imposing Victorian house built in the warm grey stone of the Isle of Wight quarries. It was set in a small cul-de-sac of other substantial Victorian properties just off a leafy lane. The intercom showed that it had been divided into apartments and Horton’s knowledge of the area told him the property backed on to the Solent.
His head was teeming with questions since the surprising news, which he hadn’t yet passed on to Uckfield. He paid off the driver after ensuring he had all his contact details and scrutinized the intercom, but it listed only the apartment numbers and no names.
The driver had told him that the couple hadn’t spoken a word in the taxi and they hadn’t appeared close or in the middle of a row. The woman had ordered it on Sunday night for Monday morning at six thirty and had given the address, but not the flat number, and her name as Smith. After dropping her off at Ryde Pier Head the driver had then taken the male passenger to the hovercraft terminal to catch the hovercraft from Ryde to Southsea. Freedman had paid the taxi fare in cash. So why not travel across the Solent together? Why the false name? Had Freedman known that Evelyn Lyster was travelling on to Guernsey? What had he done the rest of Monday while Evelyn was on board the ferry? Had he been expecting to hear from her? If so, how did he feel when he didn’t? Or did he know she’d be dead before she arrived because he’d killed her? But how? It had to be poison – something in that flask she’d drunk and which had taken effect on board the Guernsey ferry. Guilbert’s toxicology experts must be able to find traces of it in her blood and forensics in the flask lining. But if Freedman had killed Evelyn Lyster then who the devil had killed him on Tuesday night? Was it the same person who had then killed Clements?
So many questions assailed him as he studied the house. Had they come from this property? he wondered, glancing around the area. Maybe they’d just asked to be picked up here. There were two large houses behind trees opposite the converted Victorian building. They’d had no need to think anyone had followed them here but they had been cautious enough to pay by cash and give false names. Why? Had they been lovers? Had the relationship been active when Dennis Lyster had been alive? Had Freedman killed Dennis Lyster in order to be with Evelyn? That had been ten months ago – time enough for them to reveal it now. So why the secrecy? Not because Rowan would object. No, there was something more.
He pressed the intercom for flat one. He’d work his way through each of the seven numbers, hoping he’d get an answer from one of them and praying that they weren’t all holiday apartments. He struck lucky on flat five when a disembodied man’s voice said rather querulously, ‘Yes?’
Horton introduced himself and held up his ID to the CCTV camera, which he’d seen to the right of the gates. He was buzzed through and met by a man in his mid-sixties who introduced himself as Edwin Godley. Horton showed him the photograph of Evelyn Lyster and asked if he had ever seen her.
‘Of course I have. She has the penthouse apartment,’ Godley promptly answered. Then added warily, ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong.’
‘How well do you know her?’ Horton asked, making sure the excitement coursing through him didn’t show on his face or in his voice.
‘We speak when she’s here, which is about two or three times a month. A very pleasant lady.’
‘How long have you known her?’
‘Since I bought the apartment eight years ago.’
‘She’s been here that long?’ Horton said, this time unable to conceal his surprise. Her son had denied any knowledge of why his mother should be on the Isle of Wight. Was that a lie?
‘She sold me the apartment, or rather, I should say her agents did.’
Horton looked at him, mystified.
Godley explained, ‘Mrs Brookes bought the building, had it renovated to a very high standard, kept the top floor for herself and sold off the other flats.’
‘Mrs Brookes?’
‘The woman in the photograph.’
‘You’re absolutely sure that it is the same woman?’
‘Positive. Is everything OK?’
‘Have you seen this man before?’ Horton showed him the photograph of Freedman but Godley shook his head.
‘No. I hope she’s all right and hasn’t met with an accident.’
‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful,’ Horton politely and evasively replied.
Godley looked taken aback by the fob off but shrugged an acceptance as Horton made his way across the tiled hallway and up the wide sweeping staircase. Godley was correct – everything here was tastefully decorated and maintained to a high standard. A property management company was obviously engaged to ensure the fabric of the building and the grounds were meticulously maintained.
He came out on the top landing which had an arched window to his right giving splendid views across the Solent to the lights of Portsmouth, which were gradually fading as a weak winter sun rose. In front of him was the door to her apartment. He didn’t have a key but he suspected one of those on her key ring would be to this flat. And those keys, along with her other personal effects, had been given to her son by Guilbert. Had Rowan Lyster queried what each key was for? Or had his grief and shock blunted his curiosity? But perhaps Mr Godley was mistaken and the woman who owned this apartment only looked like Evelyn Lyster. Horton quickly scotched that idea, though, when he put it together with the taxi driver’s evidence. He could get an officer over here to affect a forced entry or he could wait for someone to collect the keys from Rowan Lyster and send them over with an officer on the hovercraft. The latter would alert Rowan and delay entry, and the former could be considered excessive because he had no suspicion that a person lay dead or ill inside the apartment or that any crime had been committed inside it, but one had certainly been committed on someone who had in all probability been here, and that was the murder of Freedman.
He rang John Guilbert on his mobile phone, who expressed no surprise at the early call. Swiftly Horton told him what he had discovered and suggested that he look for a property on Guernsey registered in the name of Evelyn Brookes and a bank account in that name, although there was always the possibility she had used yet another identity. He didn’t know why but if he put that with her desire to pay by cash when travelling and the fact the man accompanying her on Monday morning was dead he strongly suspected a connection with some criminal activity.
‘I’ll instigate enquiries but the banks aren’t obliged to give us that information, even in a murder investigation,’ Guilbert said. ‘I’ll also ask for the toxicology tests to be given top priority, chase up the analysis of the flask and recirculate her picture with the new name to all the landlords and estate agents. Keep me posted.’
Horton said he would. Next he called Newport police station and requested assistance, hoping that DCI Birch wouldn’t get wind of it. He didn’t fancy the acid-tongued head of CID breathing down his neck. Hopefully he was still off sick.
Then he rang Gaye, apologizing for disturbing her so early. ‘There’s something I’d like you to do for me if you have time before you jet off to Denmark. There’s another autopsy report I need you to review, that of a Dennis Lyster. I want to know if anything was missed.’
‘Who performed it?’
‘A Dr Sealing ten months ago, in the mortuary on the Isle of Wight.’
‘I’ll access it my end and call you as soon as I can.’
Finally he rang Uckfield on his mobile phone and rapidly explained where he was and why.
‘How the blazes did you know they were connected?’ was Uckfield’s shocked response.
‘I didn’t. I was just curious as to why she got off one ferry and went straight on to another one.’ He didn’t have time to explain all his other queries regarding her death. ‘I’ll get Cantelli to check with the Isle of Wight ferries and the hovercraft for any details of when Evelyn Brookes and Peter Freedman travelled during the last year, but it sounds as though they both used cash to avoid being traced. We know that Guernsey is very advantageous for those who have capital to invest and don’t want to pay huge amounts of tax.’
‘Or any tax?’
Uckfield was referring to money laundering, which could be why this Victorian property had been purchased. It was Horton’s thought exactly. He told Uckfield he was going to affect an entry. He then rang Cantelli, who was at home, brought him up to speed and asked him to check with the ferry companies.
With growing impatience, Horton returned to the hall, left the front door open and headed up the drive to the gates as the patrol car drew up. He pressed the release switch and the gates swung open. With the two officers, PCs Tom Wilkinson and Sean Palmer, Horton returned to the top-floor apartment where, with one swift thud on the door, Evelyn Lyster’s apartment was opened. Horton stepped into a generous hall. To the right was a door that gave on to the living quarters while to the left were three doors that he guessed must be to the bedrooms and bathroom.
He detailed Wilkinson and Palmer to take the sleeping quarters, instructing them to look for papers, photographs, computers or any mobile phones. He stepped into the north-facing living quarters that gave on to the Solent. It was one long, very wide open-plan room exquisitely decorated and furnished, with a balcony that spanned the entire width and at the far western end widened out on to a large patio area with a black wicker table and chairs.
The sea looked a grey green in the morning light and he could see the ferries crossing. A fishing boat was heading out towards the English Channel but there were no leisure yachts yet in the dull and windy January morning. He wasn’t here to admire the view, though. He turned back to survey the apartment. It was spotlessly clean and contemporarily furnished, just as her Portsmouth penthouse had been. There was some good quality light oak furniture, large leather sofas, an expensive plasma television and music system, and some very tasteful and if he wasn’t mistaken expensive paintings on the walls. Again, just like her apartment in Portsmouth, there were no photographs, not even of her son.
He turned to the only low-level cupboard in the lounge area but there was little in it except some magazines and the remote control for the lighting and the television. The kitchen cupboards contained what he expected – crockery, kitchen implements, food but nothing perishable. There were four cup flasks and a wine fridge under a central kitchen unit which was well stocked. Both the dishwasher and washing machine were empty.
He crossed the hall and entered one of the two bedrooms, where a king-sized bed was made up. The room gave on to a shower room and a dressing room. Inside was a mixture of smart- and casual-wear hanging on rails, drawers on one side of the rails which revealed T-shirts, jumpers, cardigans and another set of drawers the other side of the hanging rails which contained underwear, stockings, socks and tights. Several pairs of shoes were also stacked to the right of the rails. Cantelli would have been impressed.
Wilkinson entered from the bathroom. ‘Nothing but a couple of towels, soap and hand cream.’ He jerked his head at the clothes. ‘Do you want me to go through the pockets?’
Horton said he did. ‘And her handbags.’
He entered the second smaller bedroom where Palmer had the wardrobe doors open to reveal some men’s clothing. No suits, just two pairs of trousers, a waterproof jacket, five shirts and some ties. Palmer was going through the pockets. The drawers were open, exposing some underwear, socks, two jumpers and a handful of T-shirts. They probably belonged to Freedman. He asked Palmer to note down the sizes. In the shower room were men’s toiletries.
Horton returned to the living area and gazed around. There was no phone and he hadn’t seen one in the bedrooms. He suspected then that she didn’t use a landline and there hadn’t been one in her Portsmouth flat. The taxi driver said she had called the office to book the taxi but Guilbert had gone through Evelyn Lyster’s call log and so had he on the Guernsey ferry and hadn’t found the taxi company’s number. She had obviously deleted it and any calls made to Freedman. Her phone records would show it up unless the phone was a pay-as-you-go one, which he was now beginning to suspect it was. Perhaps she had another mobile phone on a contract but for someone as cautious as Evelyn Lyster he was beginning to think not.
His mobile phone rang. He expected it to be Trueman or Uckfield but was surprised to see it was Gaye Clayton.
‘The autopsy on Dennis Lyster,’ she said.
‘That was quick.’
‘It didn’t take me long to spot the flaws. It’s complete as far as it goes.’
‘But?’
‘It doesn’t go far enough. The pathologist assumed death was caused by drowning and didn’t look for anything else. But then, maybe he didn’t need to. I don’t have the police files.’
And Horton was very keen to see those. Birch wouldn’t relish him requesting them and he certainly wouldn’t be happy if Horton found holes in the investigation. But tough. He wasn’t in the job to make officers like Birch happy. Horton crossed to the window as Gaye continued.
‘Remnants of clothing were found on the victim but I can’t find any note to say they were X-rayed before being removed or sent to the forensic lab. The body was photographed both with and without clothes. There was substantial damage to the head, which is not unusual because as the body lies face down in the water with the head hanging it can produce post-mortem head injuries which are difficult to distinguish between those inflicted when alive. And as the body was found washed up against the pier it was concluded that the damages to the head were caused by it being bashed against the underwater structures, but I’ve studied the X-rays and it’s also possible that the deceased was bludgeoned. I’m not saying he was, just that it should have been considered.’
Perhaps Birch did consider it, thought Horton, and ignored it.
Gaye went on: ‘The pathologist looked for fine white foam or froth in the airways and exuding from the mouth and nostrils which can determine if the victim was alive on submersion in water. It’s not always evident if the body has been in the water for some time. He notes that the deceased had been in the water for approximately five days. So again, I am assuming that the deceased was last reported being seen five days before his body was found. There is nothing in the report to say this and there should have been. Evidence of foam was found which shows he was alive when he went into the water, thereby adding to the verdict that he intended committing suicide by drowning but foam can also be caused by head injury, a drug overdose or a heart attack. There was an absence of water in the stomach which the pathologist claims was due to rapid death by drowning, thereby strengthening his probable cause of death, but it could also mean the subject was dead before submersion. Then we come to diatoms.’
Horton watched a motorboat crossing the Solent from Portsmouth and saw the hovercraft riding the waves to the mainland.
‘Diatoms were found in the deceased. They’re a class of microscopic algae of which about fifteen thousand species are known. Half live in fresh water, the other half in sea or brackish water. The hypothesis is that diatoms will not enter circulation and be deposited in organs such as bone marrow unless the decedent was alive in the water. Therefore the pathologist concluded that Dennis Lyster was alive when he entered the water. However, there is the issue of contamination. Diatoms can be found in the environment, for example in the building industry.’
Horton broke in: ‘Dennis Lyster was a civil engineer.’ Then he added, ‘But he’d been made redundant some time before his death.’
‘Diatoms can also enter circulation as contaminants of foods such as salads, watercress and shellfish so it’s not conclusive proof that finding them in the deceased is evidence that he was alive when submerged. And I can’t find any record of a sea sample being taken from where the body was found to match it against those diatoms found in the decedent’s system, unless that is on your files.’
Horton would check but he had a feeling he wouldn’t find it either.
Gaye said, ‘To my mind the evidence is insufficient to claim death was caused by drowning or that it was suicide and clearly the coroner thought the same, which is why he gave the verdict as undetermined death. But I’d happily review it again alongside the case file and discuss it further with you or Uckfield. Only you’ll have to be quick. I leave this afternoon at three.’
‘I’ll call you back later.’
He was about to ring Uckfield when PC Wilkinson appeared.
‘Nothing in any of the pockets, sir, or the handbags,’ he reported.
Horton asked him to call a locksmith and seal off the apartment, then headed down the stairs. He walked around to the rear of the building. The gardens were staggered with the upper part giving views across the Solent to Portsmouth five miles beyond. There were three steps which led down to the next tier and two more leading to a high brick wall bordering the shore. In it was a wooden gate. It was locked and no doubt the flats’ occupants had keys to it. One of those keys was on Evelyn Lyster’s key ring, perhaps. The gate gave on to the beach, which he knew from experience was inaccessible from both directions and therefore very private. Private enough for a man to be bludgeoned and then pushed into the water to end up wedged under one of the piles under the pier.
He rang Uckfield, who answered his mobile immediately. Horton quickly relayed what he’d found, ending with what Dr Clayton had said.
‘Do you have to go looking for more suspicious deaths?’ Uckfield cried with exasperation.
Horton told him about the garden leading on to the shore.
‘As if we haven’t got enough on our plates,’ grumbled Uckfield, nasally, still full of cold. ‘I’ll ring DCI Birch and get the files.’
Horton said he’d sealed off the flat. Fingerprints and DNA would be taken from it and matched with those taken from the bodies of Evelyn Lyster and Peter Freedman. And Uckfield said he would need to get a team into Evelyn Lyster’s Portsmouth flat to see if Freedman and possibly Vivian Clements’ prints were there. Horton said he’d get the keys from Rowan Lyster. He was curious to meet him. Trueman’s team would start to trace the property transaction on the Ryde house, Freedman’s flat and Evelyn’s Portsmouth apartment. They’d also interview the solicitors and estate agents who had handled the sales. This was turning into a massive investigation requiring a great deal of resources, a fact that would have ACC Dean on the verge of a nervous breakdown. His budget would be blown to pieces.
Horton made his way back inside and asked Wilkinson to drop him off at the Fast Cat ferry terminal. On the way over to Portsmouth he called Cantelli and asked him to meet him outside Rowan Lyster’s house, the address of which he got from Trueman on the crossing.
An hour later, Horton pulled up behind Cantelli’s car just a short distance away from Rowan Lyster’s small, modern semi-detached house. It wasn’t far from the seafront at the eastern end of Portsmouth, close to where Rowan Lyster’s business was situated and where Freedman had met his death.
Climbing out and heading towards it, Cantelli said, ‘There’s no record of Peter Freedman buying a ticket on the Fast Cat or hovercraft last weekend so I guess he paid cash. Same for Evelyn Lyster or Brookes, but they’ll get back to us as soon as they can check their records for the last year.’
‘I’m not sure they’ll find anything.’
‘Sounds like they both wanted to keep it low profile. Perhaps they didn’t want Dennis Lyster to find out about their affair and when he did he killed himself.’
‘If he killed himself.’ Horton gave him a quick summary of what Gaye had told him and his views that Dennis Lyster could have been killed on the shore on the island. ‘Evelyn Lyster and Freedman have had time since Dennis’s death to declare their relationship without drawing suspicion on themselves, which they haven’t done. That and the fact that Evelyn Lyster was using another name means there is more than an affair going on here and whatever it is, Barney, it looks pretty dodgy to me.’ He pressed his finger on the bell, adding, ‘And I don’t think her son knew a thing about it.’