Two

'It's pretty basic,' Elkins said in answer to Horton's question about the log cabin as Ripley swung out into the harbour. Horton had given Ripley instructions to head there first. 'Clean though. No sign of a struggle or any damage. No paperwork, mobile phone, computer or anything that could tell us who he was. Looked like a heart attack to me but I'm no medic.'

'Well you're more or less right. Did you take the doctor to the bay to certify death?'

'No. We picked up two officers from Shanklin, and we agreed that it looked pretty straightforward. Ripley left us in the bay while he returned to Shanklin to fetch the undertakers. We then transported them, the body and the two officers back to Shanklin. The body was taken straight to the mortuary at Newport in the undertaker's private ambulance.'

'Did you talk to the woman who found him?'

'No. She'd already left the bay after discovering the body. I assume she's been into the police station to make a statement.'

'I assume so too,' although Norris hadn't said.

Horton postponed further questions. Firstly, because they weren't necessary when he would see Lomas' cabin for himself shortly, and secondly because, as they picked up speed in the Solent, the noise of the RIB's engine prohibited it.

The grime and fuel-filled air of the last two days in London slipped away from him as they crossed the busy Solent. There were several yachts and a few motorboats enjoying the spring weather. A cruise ship was heading towards the port, and a large container ship loomed on the horizon. Within minutes the RIB was rounding the chalk cliffs of Culver, on the island, heading past the coastal town of Sandown and beyond that Shanklin with its short promenade, nestling beneath the town perched high on the cliffs. After rounding the headland, Ripley slowed the RIB and the sheltered bay of Luccombe came into view. Lying under the cliffs was a wooden hut which looked little more than a large shed.

'I'm surprised it hasn't been buried by a landslip,' Horton said, eyeing the trees and shrubs above it, some of which had already slipped and fallen on to the beach, both to the left and right of the cabin.

'Give it time, and it will,' Elkins replied as Ripley drew closer to the shore.

'I see what you mean about it being basic. ' As they drew closer Horton could see a small window to the right of the door and a rickety veranda.

'Wait until you see inside.'

Ripley nudged the boat on to the sandy shore and silenced the engine. Horton jumped off for'ard and, with Elkins, they pulled the police RIB higher on to the shore out of reach of the incoming tide and about ten yards away from the cabin. The upper line of seaweed told Horton that high water never reached the cabin. Unless there was a fierce easterly wind and exceptional high tides, then it might just grace the veranda. Heading for the cabin, Horton nodded at a well-maintained and immaculately varnished wooden boat on a raised shingle bank. 'Does that belong to the dead man?'

Elkins answered, 'No idea. Probably.'

'And those, I take it, are Ben's handiwork?' Horton drew up in front of the cabin where there was a sturdy hand-carved wooden bench and two wood sculptures. One was of a seagull about to take flight, the other a watchful owl, both beautifully executed. To the right of the door was a pile of driftwood. Lomas had indeed turned his flotsam and jetsam into art. Who had he sold to? How did he sell them? Horton guessed he must have used the boat to transport them to his customers because there was no other way he could have done so unless there was a path up to the top of the cliff. Norris had said the bay was inaccessible. Yes, by road but perhaps not on foot. Even if there were a footpath, Lomas couldn't have hauled his masterpieces up there.

'He was obviously a talented artist.'

'If you like that sort of thing.'

'And you don't? You're a philistine, Dai.'

Elkins shrugged his big shoulders with a smile.

The exterior of the cabin had been repaired in places and quite expertly. Perhaps Lomas aka Ben had done that, being handy with his tools and wood. The door was unlocked, as Elkins had said. Horton stepped inside.

'This certainly is pared down living,' he announced, eyeing the faded blue, soiled, sagging two-seater sofa and paraffin heater. There was a green canvas camp bed resting against the far wall, clearly old, as was the navy-blue sleeping bag on it. Over that was an orange blanket. The pillow was covered with a faded and slightly stained striped cotton pillowcase. The dusty wooden floor was devoid of any carpets or rugs. Yet, despite its humble bleakness, the cabin had a comfortable lived-in feel, and the smell of wood reminded Horton of traditional wooden boats, the kind he loved but had little spare time to care for. There was an attraction about this kind of living, he thought, cut off from the world and all its sordid problems, but to be without contact with Emma, his nine year old daughter, would be too hard for him to bear. As it was, Catherine, his estranged wife, was determined to keep him away from her as much as possible.

On a wooden table underneath the window was a large white mug, a glass, and a half empty whisky bottle. Had alcohol been found in Lomas' blood stream? Possibly.

'Anything changed since you were last here on Friday, Dai?'

Ripley also shook his head.

'Tell me what you found.'

Elkins answered, 'The deceased was lying face down on the floor beside his bed. His arms were outstretched, slightly at an angle, not crumpled up. I'd say he got up, collapsed and died.'

'What was he wearing?'

'Shorts, a T-shirt and sandals. We didn't find any pyjamas, only those clothes over there.' Elkins nodded to a wicker chair on which Horton could see a pair of worn and faded khaki shorts, two T-shirts, a couple of darned woollen jumpers and a few pairs of socks and pants. Lomas had been wearing shorts, a T-shirt and sandals when Horton had met him.

He said, 'He couldn't have slept in his sandals, so he either fell ill after putting them on when he woke up, or he died before he got into bed. Anything found in his pockets?'

'A penknife, harmonica and steel comb.'

Horton crossed to the table by the window and regarded the mug. He felt a reluctance to pick it up, even though he wouldn't be spoiling a crime scene. Perhaps it was ingrained training. The brown sludge in the bottom of the mug indicated that it had at one time contained coffee or possibly a strong brew of tea. The whisky glass looked clean. On the table was an oil lamp and four unusual looking knives.

'The tools of his trade,' Ripley said, peering at them. 'Not that I know anything about wood carving, but that's what they look like to me.'

Horton agreed. They all had matching light-wood shaped handles and the name Flexcut on them. They appeared well used. The blades looked sharp, although he didn't test them, and they were of varying widths and lengths, obviously used for different purposes in the woodcarving business. Beside them was a curved shaped implement with a hook. There was no evidence of Lomas aka Ben having conducted his wood carving inside the log cabin. Perhaps he tidied up after he'd been working or carved his sculptures outside.

In an alcove to the left of the heater was a tiny kitchenette. There was no fridge or sink. A Calor gas stove, the type used in camping, was perched on a small table on top of which was a well-used kettle while beside it was a medium sized saucepan and frying pan. Next to the table was a rickety cupboard with faded checked curtains instead of doors. Horton pushed them aside to find two shelves. The top one held two clean blue and white willow-patterned plates, two blue mugs and some cutlery, along with a couple of tins of food, two jars, one jam, one marmalade both, by the labels, made locally. The lower shelf contained Ben's shaving and washing gear; flannel, soap, razor blades, shaving brush and shaving foam, the cheap variety.

Elkins said, 'The toilet's a portable sea one at the rear of the cabin. God knows how he disposed of its contents. He could have ditched it in the sea, illegal of course, but who's around to check? No idea how long he'd been living here, but the local police might have more information on him by now. Perhaps one of his customers has come forward.'

'Sergeant Norris didn't mention anything when I spoke to him earlier.' Horton gazed around. 'He wouldn't have needed to make much money living this way. Let's take a look at the boat, obviously his mode of transport.'

Had Lomas used this boat to motor around to that inlet adjoining Eames' property in October? Horton hadn't seen or heard a boat, but then it could have been hidden on the shore in amongst the trees and bushes. And Lomas could have used oars; there were two inside the boat. It was well cared for, but two things in particular interested him.

'Notice anything unusual about it?' he asked.

It was Ripley who answered, 'The keel's been planed, either to make it easier to get into this bay or to make the boat go faster. And it's got a powerful outboard engine. With that it could get up to a good speed. Fifteen horse power I'd say. And, up on the plane, it could do about twenty knots.'

'So why the need for such speed when everything about Ben indicates a leisurely, slow paced lifestyle?'

'Maybe he delivered to customers on the other side of the island, or even over on the mainland,' Ripley ventured.

Maybe. Horton had seen all he needed to here. He instructed Ripley to make for Newport and moor up in the River Medina. From there Horton walked the short distance to the hospital, while Elkins and Ripley remained with the RIB. After showing his ID, Horton followed the mortician through to the chilly mortuary with its familiar nauseating smell which he tried to block out. He prepared himself to meet the mask of death of a man he had briefly met but, as the large refrigerated drawer slid open, Horton stared down at the dead man with grey stubble and collar-length grey hair, puzzled.