Seventeen

Chilcott looked worried when Horton entered his office just after one o'clock the next day. He looked even more perturbed when Horton broke the news to him that it appeared the Halliwell who had made the will was most probably an imposter. Horton had come accompanied by Sergeant Norris and a warrant. Norris had met him outside the lawyer's office. Horton had travelled on the ferry with his Harley.

'But you're not a hundred percent sure?' Chilcott said, blinking hard.

'Not until we have fully investigated the situation.' Horton saw no reason to tell Chilcott about Michael Paignton and the scarred hand on the other Halliwell. Not yet anyway. 'We're also checking how he accumulated his wealth. If it was acquired illegally then–'

'You don't have to spell it out to me, Inspector, I am a lawyer,' Chilcott snapped and ran a hand over his gelled hair. 'I'll have to tell the abbot.'

That would save Horton a job but he needed to speak to Dom Daniel Briar anyway. He wanted to ask him if he had ever heard of a man called Michael Paignton. Maybe by the time he got to the abbey, Chilcott would have broken the news to the abbot that the abbey might no longer be the legal benefactor. 'Everything will have to be frozen including any further work on the estate by yourself.'

'I realize that,' Chilcott replied with acidity, obviously annoyed that his nice fat fee was going down the drain.

'And we need all the documentation you took from the house and boat, and all the correspondence between you and other parties. I have a warrant.'

Chilcott puffed out his cheeks. 'If you must,' he tetchily replied, adding, 'where is the real Cedric Halliwell then if he wasn't the man who died on that boat?'

'That's what we are trying to establish.'

'Is he that body that was found in the landslip?'

'It's one possibility.'

'And he was killed by this imposter?'

'Possibly,' Horton said. 'We'd also like to know what happened to Mr Halliwell's possessions.'

'I told you, I gave them to the charity shop.'

'Including the watch.'

Chilcott squirmed. His eyes flicked to Norris. Chilcott knew they had checked. Bluff it out or admit it? His forehead was perspiring.

'No. I kept that. The abbot was quite happy about it,' he declared with an air of defiance.

'You know that we will check with him.'

'Then check away,' Chilcott replied.

'And we'll discover that you told Dom Daniel Briar it was just a cheap watch. Whereas it was Tag Heuer worth about six thousand pounds.'

'Is it? One watch is much the same as another to me.'

'That's bullshit and you know it.'

'Maybe we will,' Horton said calmly, causing a flicker of alarm in the lawyer's eyes. Horton was convinced Chilcott had also helped himself to some of the wine in that cellar but proving that, as he and Cantelli had already discussed, could be difficult unless they found it in his house. Even then he could have claimed to have bought it and lost the receipts. And even if the wine was listed on the itinerary which Simply Cellars were sending over, that didn't mean that Halliwell hadn't drunk the missing wine after it had been transported to his cellar, or that the imposter, Paignton, hadn't drunk it.

Horton rose. 'Please give the Halliwell file to Sergeant Norris.'

Norris had instructions to keep hold of it at Newport Station until Horton could call to collect it. He left the solicitor looking exceedingly grumpy and made his way to the abbey. In the car park he tried Carina Musgrove's mobile number but again got her automated voicemail. He left a message saying who he was and asked her to call him. He said he wanted to go over the statement she had made on finding Ben's body. He reassured her that it was just routine and nothing to be concerned about.

He next rang the station. Walters reported that Cantelli had been called away by Bliss. He wasn't sure why. Walters said that no one in the UK had shipped a piano to Beachwood House, and he was still waiting to hear from the Cayman Islands and the Guernsey police if anyone there had carried out the specialist removal job.

'Surely there can't be many specialist piano removers in the Cayman Islands. Or Guernsey come to that. They're both small islands,' Horton said. 'Chase them up. No, hold on. Have you tried the UK companies who might have sold Halliwell that piano?'

'Then get on to them. Halliwell or Paignton might have bought it more recently.'

'Do you know how many there are?' Walters said warily.

'No, but it's a top-of-the-range instrument so start with all the upmarket sellers.'

In the abbey bookshop Horton asked if he could see the abbot. When Dom Daniel Briar joined him, he waved aside Horton's apology for troubling him again. Horton quickly broke the news that the abbey might not be a benefactor of Halliwell's will. He explained why and that all matters were suspended while they investigated.

'I'm disappointed, of course, but also puzzled or perhaps not. The impostor might have viewed the bequest to us as atonement for his sins.'

A thought that Cantelli had originally expressed. Horton had wondered if Paignton had come to the abbey on his release from prison in 1990 and it was because of that he had decided to leave a fortune that he may or may not have legally possessed to the abbey.

'What I'm going to tell you now, I do so in confidence, Father, because we need your help, if you can give it.'

'You have it and my assurance of confidentiality.'

'Thank you. The man who posed as Cedric Halliwell and made the will was, we believe, Michael Paignton.' Horton watched the abbot's expression carefully and saw only bemusement. 'Does the name mean anything to you?'

'No. I'm sorry it doesn't.'

'You never heard Brother Norman mention him?'

The abbot looked surprised. 'No.'

Horton could see the abbot quickly trying to put the disappearance of Brother Norman in October with a dead man found on his boat in February posing as Halliwell and couldn't. Horton didn't blame him.

Dom Daniel Briar said, 'I can ask if anyone heard Brother Norman mention Michael Paignton.'

'Thank you. I also wondered if you could check through your records to see if Michael Paignton ever stayed here in your guest house around 1990.'

'Of course. Anything we can do to help.'

Horton asked him if Chilcott had requested he keep the watch that Halliwell had been found wearing on the boat. By the abbot's expression, Horton could see that Chilcott hadn't even mentioned it. That didn't surprise him.

Horton thanked the abbot and left. He didn't raise his hopes of receiving new information from the abbey, and neither did he from the house he was about to call on. He was certain that his Lordship wouldn't be at home. There didn't seem a lot of point in going there but as before, when he had gone on a whim in October from the abbey, he thought he would once more. Not that he expected history to repeat itself and Lomas to appear on Eames' private beach, not unless he was in the house or around Eames' grounds and spotted him on the surveillance equipment. Someone else might witness his arrival, though, especially if he made a point of trespassing again through Eames' private woods and down to the beach. Eames himself might have an alert linked to his laptop, phone or computer. And one of Danby's operatives might pick up his movements and report it back to Danby.

He turned off the main road just beyond Wootton and headed down the tree lined lane marked 'Private'. He wondered how long the landslip corpse would have lain undisturbed but for him stumbling over him. That had been a fluke. But for him the abbey would have got their inheritance and Chilcott his nice fat lawyer's fee. If those prints on the card Lomas had given him hadn't been identified as Ben's, he'd never have come to the island in the first place. The hand of fate can sometimes play funny buggers with people.

He pulled over at the edge of a field by a gate with a 'Keep Out' sign on it. In the middle of the field was a small group of stone buildings. The last time he had been here in October he had ignored the sign and made for the buildings. They hadn't been inhabited. The grass heading to them and around them had been wild and overgrown. It was the same now but with one slight difference. Perhaps the recent wind and rain had beaten it down. Two of the buildings were adjoined in the shape of an L, and another close by with a furnace was detached from them. It was derelict. He'd searched it in October and had found only earth and dirt. The same would still apply.

He turned his scrutiny on the other two buildings. Only the smallest of them boasted a roof, windows and doors. He recalled the strong, weathered oak door which had been secured with a fairly new padlock. There had been no evidence of anyone living there and there didn't seem to be any signs of life now.

He continued on his way. After a short distance he drew up at the large wooden gates set in the high brick wall, with security cameras mounted on the pillars. Removing his helmet, he silenced the Harley and pressed the intercom. There was no answer, as he had expected. He was about to turn away when a female voice crackled and, with a start, despite its slight distortion, it was one he recognized. This he hadn't expected.

'Come in, Inspector.'

The gate swung open and he had no option but to head up the gravel driveway to the house where, waiting on the threshold, was Agent Harriet Eames, Lord Richard Eames' daughter who worked for Europol. Was she here on holiday or connected with her work at Europol? He couldn't think what case she might be working on but then he wasn't privy to every criminal activity which went on in Hampshire. Besides, it was her house and none of his business what she was doing here. She must have been surprised to see him, although she didn't show it, or any curiosity as to why a detective she had worked with on a couple of investigations last summer should suddenly appear on her doorstep.

She was as immaculately made up as ever, wearing a white shirt tucked into tight-fitting jeans. Her shoulder length blonde hair was loose but her bright blue eyes looked tired, and there was a strain around her mouth and eyes that hadn't been there the last time he had seen her in August. She was also paler than he remembered. Perhaps she had been unwell or working too hard. Or perhaps she had been engaged on a particularly demanding and harrowing investigation for Europol that had left its mark on her and she needed some time off work to recover from it.

She invited him in and eagerly he stepped inside a roomy, beautifully decorated modern hall, with exquisite and probably valuable paintings of yachts on the walls. Felice would love them. Eames might even have bought some of them from her gallery in Cowes. 'I wondered if your father was at home.'

'He's not. Can I help at all?' Harriet asked, looking concerned.

Could she? He doubted it. Certainly not in connection with her father's possible involvement in Jennifer's past, but she might pass on a message to her father that would get Eames curious and maybe even worried that Horton was getting close to the truth. Or was he?

He said, 'I'm working on an investigation which could link to a man I met on your private beach here in October.'

There was a flash of surprise and bewilderment before her expression cleared and she said, 'Would you tell me about it over coffee, sir? I can ask my father to contact you.'

He should tell her to call him Andy. He felt uncomfortable about that when he suspected her father of abduction and murder. Still that was hardly her fault. 'Thanks, and it's Andy.'

He followed her through the hall to a large kitchen at the rear of the house. His pulse beat a little faster, not just because he was inside Eames' house, but because Harriet always made him feel that way. The kitchen was practically the size of a football pitch. She crossed to a coffee machine that looked so complicated he thought you probably needed a degree in engineering or artificial intelligence to operate it. Either Harriet Eames had both or she had honed her skill by making more coffee than a barista.

His gaze strayed to the immaculate grounds where, in the wall at the far end, he saw the wooden gate which he knew from his visit in October fronted on to the shore and pontoon where Eames kept his yacht during the sailing season. The yacht hadn't been there in October when he had met the beachcomber, Lomas. Horton wondered if it was now.

'This is a lovely house,' he said.

'Yes, it is.' But she spoke distractedly. Perhaps because she was busy operating the coffee machine. Then she said, 'This man you met on the beach in October, who was he?'

'He told me his name was Wyndham Lomas and that he was a beachcomber artist, but I've been unable to trace him.' He could see that the name didn't mean anything to her. 'I thought at first he might be connected with the body of the private investigator which was found on the beach, but he wasn't. Then I wondered if he could have been a guest in your house and could have come through that gate.' He nodded at it set in the wall.

'My father didn't mention anyone staying here.' She handed him his coffee. 'And no one could have got in here without an alert sounding on Mr Danby's and my father's security monitors.'

She didn't invite him to sit, not because she wanted rid of him, it was as though she was afraid to. There was a sense of awkwardness about her that he thought highly unusual. She had always appeared extremely confident. Maybe he made her nervous.

He continued, 'Could he have been renting one of the outbuildings?'

'No, they're derelict. How does he figure in your investigation?' She picked up her own coffee mug and took a sip from it.

'He gave me a business card, but it didn't have any address on it. I had that card checked for fingerprints and there was no match until last Wednesday with an unidentified man in the mortuary. I came over to identify him, thinking I would find Lomas, but it was a completely different man. One we only know by the name of Ben who was found dead in his cabin in Luccombe Bay by a woman called Carina Musgrove who had arrived by boat.'

She studied him so hard that he felt uneasy and concerned, not for himself but for her. He could see that something troubled her deeply. After a moment she said, 'I heard about the body found in the landslip there. Do you think it is this man called Lomas?'

'No. I think he could be the real Cedric Halliwell, the owner of the house above the bay, whereas the man found dead on his boat on 1 February posing as Cedric Halliwell was called Michael Paignton, convicted of murder in 1970 and released in 1990. It's possible that your father knew Michael Paignton.' 'How?' she asked shocked, then puzzled. 'Because Paignton could have been a close friend of Lord Eames' brother, and your uncle, Gordon.'

She looked thoughtful. 'Which is why you're here. You thought my father might know these men. But if he did, what can he tell you about them?'

Horton shrugged. He sipped his coffee; it was excellent, and she remembered how he took it: black, strong, no sugar.

'Lomas was sturdy, about six feet with a close-cropped greying beard and short grey hair. Do you recall seeing anyone like that around here?'

'No. I wasn't here in October.'

'I'd also like to know if a man called George Caws visited your father in January? Your father's name was given to Caws by Wight Barn Wines who supply Lord Eames with wine for his cellar. They also supplied Cedric Halliwell. We can't trace Caws, but we'd very much like to.'

'He hasn't mentioned any of these men to me, but then that is probably because he doesn't know them. I will ask him to call you.'

There was a moment's silence before she added, 'How is Sergeant Cantelli?'

She smiled. 'Still living on your boat?'

'Yes.' He didn't know what to say to her, and it seemed she was as equally tongue tied. He always felt awkward when dealing with her. It wasn't her fault who her father was, or that he despised him. But he wished he didn't like her so much. Quickly, he drained his coffee and said he'd better be leaving. She looked slightly taken aback at his abrupt exit but not disappointed. In fact, she looked relieved.

On his way back to the ferry, he wondered what Eames would make of his conversation with his daughter. Would Eames worry that he was getting closer to the truth behind Jennifer's disappearance, or would Lomas and Paignton prove to be dead ends because Eames and the intelligence services would ensure they were, or because they had nothing to do with Jennifer? Either that or he might end up being the dead end. Surely they wouldn't go to such extremes?

Would Eames phone him? Perhaps he would delegate that task to his daughter, telling her he had never heard of Lomas, Paignton or George Caws.

Horton collected the bulky file of paperwork from Sergeant Norris at Newport. Norris said he had checked the contents against the index to make sure it was all there. Chilcott hadn't had time or opportunity to remove anything because Norris had stood over him and his secretary.

Horton boarded the five o'clock sailing and had reached the entrance to Portsmouth harbour when his phone rang. It was Cantelli.

'I've got something, Andy,' he said excitedly. 'I know who the landslip victim is and if I were a betting man, I'd put my pension on it. It's not the real Cedric Halliwell but a man called Jerry Carswell.'