Eight

Maybe he was hallucinating. No, this ultra-modern and exquisitely decorated hall was real and so completely different from the exterior that it was like entering a parallel universe. He'd liked to have seen Barney's reaction to this. Elkins would have been as equally flummoxed. Why hadn't Chilcott told him what to expect? Surely he must have thought this contrast with the dilapidated exterior completely unusual? Did the solicitor have no imagination at all? Was the rest of the house like this, he wondered, eyeing the white painted walls hung with large, vividly coloured abstract paintings. Around the hall were dotted blue-grey contemporary armchairs and a sofa and, in the middle of it, a full sized snooker table.

His feet echoed on the light grey ceramic tiles as he moved towards the snooker table and played with the brightly coloured balls as he gazed around. All the doors that gave off the hall were open, save for one farther down on his right. There was a lingering odour of paint. It was as though no one had lived here. He wondered if the snooker table had ever been used. The cues hung tidily on the wall.

Why had Halliwell chosen to keep the exterior so dated and shabby? To deter would be thieves? No one would think there would be anything of value to steal here, judging by the exterior, and the thought of the Trehams robbery flitted across his mind. He had seen a photograph on the crime board of their expensive prestigious property behind gates equipped with security cameras. It was like saying to any would-be burglar casing the area, herein lie rich pickings.

He hadn't yet seen the rest of this house, but he expected it to be similar to the hall. Clearly Halliwell must have spent a fortune on this, because Horton didn't think this had been executed by a previous owner; it looked and smelt too new for that. If Halliwell had commissioned this refurbishment when he had purchased the property fifteen months ago, then Horton would have thought he'd have kept receipts and records of it. Maybe Marsden had been correct when he'd said that Halliwell might have kept invoices on a computer. But where was that?

He crossed to the room on his left and found an expansive drawing room which mirrored the hall both in contemporary design and opulence. The shutters were drawn but even through the dim light he could see that the flooring, fittings and furniture were of the highest quality and all new. He looked for a light switch but couldn't find one. Perhaps the lights were controlled wirelessly, possibly by voice command. There were more pictures on the walls, but unlike those in the hall they were traditional scenes of life. The room looked like something out of an interior design magazine of the type Catherine loved. Maybe she would get the chance to live in a house like this if she stayed with Jarvis. Horton was certain she would. Emma would get the kind of bedroom he could never provide, even if he decided to move from his boat to a flat or a house so that he could have her to stay overnight. One of Catherine's objections to granting him overnight stays was that his boat was totally unsuitable for a young girl to reside on board. It was too small and too cold. He'd told his solicitor, Ms Greywell that it did have two cabins, an efficient heating system, an inboard shower and toilet and, in the summer, it wasn't at all cold. But he could never compete with Peter Jarvis when it came to wealth and luxury, a thought that disturbed him. He was afraid Emma would prefer her wealthier potential stepfather to her real father.

He pushed the thought aside as he stepped into a smaller sitting room that fed off the drawing room. It was equally beautifully refurbished with more scenes-of-life paintings on the walls. The sitting room in turn gave on to the kitchen, which occupied the complete rear of the house. It was like something out of Cape Canaveral with a pared-back grey stone floor, chrome fittings, white cabinets and a grey slate worktop. A walk-in pantry was the size of most people's kitchens. This was in sharp contrast to the orangery which contained old wicker furniture, dust and decaying plants.

He returned to the hall, and crossed to the room opposite the drawing room. Inside was a grand piano, a stool and nothing else. Did that mean Halliwell had been an accomplished pianist? He couldn't have been famous otherwise there would have been obituaries in the newspapers about him and people at his funeral. But maybe there had been. Horton hadn't asked Chilcott about the funeral. It hadn't seemed relevant. He recalled though that Chilcott said he didn't know what Halliwell had done for a living.

He thought about Ben's old harmonica as he climbed the sweeping staircase covered with a brightly striped carpet of green, grey and blue with brass stair rods. Dust covered the brass stair rail. Ben's lifestyle, had been so totally different from this – a little camping stove for cooking and a plastic bowl for washing up and ablutions.

Here in the upper hall were more brightly coloured abstracts. He peered at the artist's name: Jethro Dinx. It wasn't one he recognized but then he wasn't an art expert, although he had spent some time working on the arts and antiques squad. He guessed that these paintings, like the others in the house, were valuable. Another thing that Chilcott hadn't told him.

There were six rooms upstairs. One was a large and elaborately decorated marble bathroom with a freestanding bath, walk in shower and double basins set in a marble unit, which revealed no items. There was a bedroom decorated in pale blue and cream, and off it, a spacious shower room, again exquisitely outfitted. He found no toiletries, clothes or shoes in any of the wardrobes. Chilcott must have cleared them out. Had he done that himself or engaged someone to do it?

He entered what was clearly Halliwell's study at the rear. The safe was in an alcove in the wall, and open. Again, as in keeping with the rest of the house, here was the same clean lines, quality furniture and tasteful decoration. There was a modern desk with nothing on it, a large executive leather chair, a contemporary sofa and, to the right of the shuttered French windows, a small table on which was a pair of binoculars. Horton opened one of the shuttered windows and, taking the binoculars, focused them in.

There were a few yachts and a ferry far out in the English Channel, but it wasn't those which caught Horton's attention. Through a clearing of the trees and low shrubs to his right, he could see Ben's cabin. So why hadn't Chilcott looked through these and seen the cabin? Horton could also see the landslip area.

Replacing them, he returned to the hall. There had to be a basement and right enough, opening the door beyond the staircase, he found stairs and, this time, a light switch. He expected to find nothing but dust and spiders. Once again, he was taken by surprise. The light oak stairs descended into an awe-inspiring cellar that was beyond anything he had ever seen.

Curved wooden shelving ran around the walls on both his right and left forming a U, with a ladder against one of them of the kind that you pushed around to reach books on the higher shelves. Here though, instead of books, were wine bottles lying on their side. A single elaborate bronze star-shaped light hung from a central pendant, and the room was also floodlit with uplighters. Beneath the two curved wine racks, almost opposite him, was a back-lit shelf that sloped downwards with slats, against which a few bottles lay. Below this were more partitioned sections containing wine bottles, interspersed with shelves, some of which held wooden cases. In the centre of the cellar was a two shelved unit displaying wine glasses and, beneath them, a closed in cupboard. Above it was a grill that discreetly contained an air conditioning unit which quietly hummed. Halliwell had obviously been something of a wine connoisseur. And this was also something that Chilcott hadn't mentioned. He must have called in a wine specialist to value all this because Horton, although no wine expert, knew that no one went to this much trouble or expense for a few bottles of plonk. The monks would have a merry time with this lot, he thought. Or perhaps they'd sell it off and add to their inheritance. When had this cellar been fitted out? It, like the rest of the house, looked and smelt new, and whoever designed and built it had been a specialist.

Horton locked up, his mind mulling over what he had seen, wondering if in the short time Halliwell had resided at the property, forty-five days, he had engaged a cleaner or a domestic agency to clean for him. Chilcott had said not, or more exactly that he hadn't found any paperwork to indicate otherwise. There was dust on the surfaces, but then Halliwell had been dead for almost nine weeks, so there was bound to be.

He wondered if the pattern would be repeated in the gatehouse. It wasn't. A drab, empty hall greeted him which mirrored the rest of the building. It was dated and dirty, hadn't been used for years, and was empty.

He made for Chilcott's offices which were closed when he arrived. He hadn't realized how late it was – just after five. He'd also missed a call from Gaye, which he quickly returned. She had finished the autopsy and was about to make for the ferry. Horton said he would meet her on board. He found her at the bow on the upper deck.

'I got you a coffee,' she said.

'Thanks.' He sat opposite her as the ferry began to slide out of its berth and the small cluster of houses around the tiny Fishbourne green and shore slipped past them on their left.

'Have you found out anything more about your mystery man?' she asked.

'Which one? There are three. Cedric Halliwell, Ben and the landslip corpse. I've discovered more on the first two.' He gave a quick résumé of what he had learned from the abbot and seen at Beachwood House.

'Perhaps Halliwell was just eccentric,' she said with a look of surprise.

'Ben, too, I would say. Living as he did in that cabin.'

'It's certainly an interesting case.'

Made more so, Horton thought, with that connection with the abbey. He'd made no mention of Brother Norman being Antony Dormand, or where Lomas fitted into this, if he did.

'Your turn,' he said.

'Your landslip corpse had broken his leg in two places twenty years ago at least. He's also had knee replacement surgery about fifteen years ago. I hope to be more precise after I've heard from the manufacturers. I've emailed them.'

'Don't tell me that a new knee comes with a number stamped on it?' Horton said half-jokingly.

'Yes, and the make,' came the surprising reply. 'I found evidence of metal in the remains and a product number etched on it. There is an x-ray identification service whereby orthopaedic surgeons can submit digital copies of x-rays of implants to help identify the products used in the absence of access to the patient's, or in our case the deceased's, medical records. If I can pinpoint the product, I might be able to track back and find the orthopaedic surgeon who carried out the operation, and where it was conducted.'

'That sounds like it could take forever.'

'Possibly, but there's always dental records, if you can find a dentist to identify them, and that might be just as time consuming, given he used a dentist in this country. But I managed to lift some fingerprints and have sent them over to the bureau, and I've extracted DNA so you can try for a match on the DNA database. If he's on it.'

'We got some hairs from Ben's cabin which could be his, so I'll request samples be taken from Ben's body in the mortuary to check his DNA, but they could possibly be the landslip corpse's, if he was ever there. What else did you get?' Horton asked eagerly, sipping his coffee.

'He was five feet eleven inches tall, a lean man and, as I said earlier, about mid-sixties. There are no marks on what was left of the skin, which in fact was fairly comprehensive on his back, thighs and calves. That indicates he was buried and wasn't disturbed until you came along. As to how he died, I can confirm he wasn't shot. But you're certainly looking at homicide. He was stabbed in the head.'

Horton gaped at her.

'Unusual yes,' she said, taking a sip of her tea. 'Many people think the skull is too tough to be penetrated by an instrument, but it's not. In this case your victim was stabbed in the left temporal region, as you saw, just above the ear. It's an area of the skull that is more susceptible to stab wounds.'

'Would the killer know that?'

'He or she might have been lucky, or perhaps it was the only area of the skull that immediately presented itself to the killer. The instrument used was small and round, about one inch where it impacted and tapering down as it penetrated further, about six inches in length. It could have caused an intracranial haemorrhage and death but, in this case, might not necessarily have killed him outright, because I also found perimortem cranial fractures, those caused around the time of death by a heavy blunt instrument, something smallish and round.'

'So someone stabbed him in the head, the victim fell –'

'Or was pushed to the ground.'

'And then he was battered with a round heavy instrument and buried.'

Horton left a brief silence as he considered this and drank his coffee. There had been no heavy instrument like that in Ben's cabin or in Beachwood House, but then if either Halliwell or Ben had killed the landslip corpse they'd have disposed of the murder weapon, or weapons in this case. And there was nothing to say that either man had been the killer.

'Anything more on time of death?'

'As I said before, it's difficult to be precise. You're looking at anything up to two months. There's not much more I can tell you, Andy, except he was fairly healthy for his age, no lung or kidney damage, no sign he was poisoned or drugged and no heart disease, unlike your other death, the man in the cabin.'

'And the owner of Beachwood House.'

'Want me to review the autopsy reports on both men?'

Horton said he did, although he didn't think they would spark anything new. They talked more about work. Gaye said she was off to the States in a month's time for a three month Home Office exchange working in Seattle.

Horton felt disappointed. 'I'll miss you. And I mean both professionally and personally.'

'Then come over and we'll do some sailing.'

He smiled. 'I might take you up on that.'

'I hope you do, Andy,' she said, eyeing him steadily. He felt a little uncomfortable under her gaze. 'You look as though you could do with a change of air and a rest.'

'Do I look that bad?' he joked.

'Just a little tired and worn down.' Then she smiled. 'Trust me, I'm a doctor.'

He returned the smile, though he felt uneasy. 'Well, I sincerely hope I don't become one of your patients.'

'There's a month before you go, plenty of time for us to have dinner together and go sailing here if you fancy it.'

'I do very much. Just give the command.'

He said he would after he knew which way the case was going to progress. He might not even be involved with it any further, in which case, if she was free at the weekend, they could sail over to the island then. But Gaye had another engagement. The weekend after that was a possibility. That tentatively agreed, they parted company as the ferry came into Portsmouth and the tannoy announced that passengers were to return to their vehicles. As he made for the station, he wondered if Gaye had wanted to ask him about his research into the fire at the Goldsmith Psychiatric Hospital which they'd discussed in January, and in which Zachary Benham had perished along with twenty-three other men. He felt he was holding out on her, and he didn't want to but years of hiding his feelings and keeping silent about his personal life and problems was a hard habit to break.

He reported back to Uckfield and requested that he continue to follow up Cedric Halliwell. 'I'd like to see if there are any prints we can lift from Beachwood House and the boat, and re-interview Chilcott, the solicitor. There are a pair of powerful binoculars in the house and you can see Ben's cabin from what was Halliwell's study. If Ben was living there before 1 February, when Halliwell died, then he must have known about him, and I can't believe that Chilcott didn't look through them when he was retrieving the paperwork from the safe, which according to him was scarce.'

Uckfield gave his permission, adding that he couldn't spare anyone to assist him. 'I've got my hands full with the Trehams robbery.'

'Nothing. There are no fingerprints, no footprints and no hairs in that study, except those of the dogs who didn't bark because they'd been drugged.'

'In their meat or drink probably. Victoria Treham wouldn't let us open up her darling Huskies – Botus and Kobi – to analyse their stomach contents. We did examine their shit though. I left that pleasure to the lab. Nothing. It was probably in a drink. There's nothing on the Treham's CCTV over the gates and grounds, not even a shadowy figure, so God alone knows how they got in. Probably materialized out of the mist like Brigadoon, only they weren't wearing kilts, which is about all Mrs Treham can tell us. The description she gave us is worse than useless – two men, tall, well built, Caucasian, she thinks. Not that she saw any flesh so they could have been all colours of the rainbow, and neither did she see their hair, if they had any. She saw only the slits of their eyes through their balaclavas. They spoke gruffly, no accent. And none of the stolen jewellery has surfaced on the internet or with any jewellers. Probably already got the stuff out of the country.'

'Could it have been an inside job?' posed Horton, sure this must have crossed Uckfield's mind. 'After all, the dogs didn't alert her before they were drugged, and we all know our Sherlock Holmes.'

'The dog that didn't bark in the night.'

'Oh that.' Uckfield waved it aside. 'No, Mrs Treham was genuinely distressed. I don't think she's faking it. Trueman's checked the Trehams' credit rating and financial situation, and they're loaded. Maurice Treham is a big shot investment banker in the City.'

As if that made him above suspicion, thought Horton.

'The hired help's alibi checks out, and she claims never to have seen the safe, which could be a lie. She could have passed the information on to someone, but she seems genuine enough. We're checking out contractors and visitors.' Uckfield shifted a buttock and winced. Retrieving a handkerchief from the pocket of his trousers, he wiped his brow.

Horton made no comment, but he could see that Uckfield was in pain and trying desperately not to show it. Uckfield gruffly dismissed him, and Horton returned to his office after a quick word with Trueman who told him that Halliwell had never paid UK tax or national insurance because he hadn't lived in the country. He'd also discovered there was no driver's licence in his name, or car registered to him. Horton asked him to check with the Land Registry for the extent of Halliwell's property.

The CID office was deserted. Both Cantelli and Walters had left for home. Horton rang Cantelli and broke the bad news that he was to accompany him to the island tomorrow and follow up the leads on Halliwell. Horton could have detailed Sergeant Norris on the island to assist him, but he'd much preferred to have Cantelli.