It had been a question that had been reverberating around Horton’s mind ever since Dr Clayton had broken the news to him. ‘Absolutely no idea, unless he was heavily insured and hadn’t changed his will, leaving everything to his ex-wife. She and a new boyfriend could have done it, although I’m not sure why they would torment the poor man first.’
‘Because they’re evil bastards.’
Horton had certainly met a few of them in his time.
With his mouth full, Uckfield said, ‘Could it be the daughter and her boyfriend, hoping she’d inherit?’
‘A poky, rented flat in the roof of a Victorian house? Hardly.’ Horton said incredulously.
Uckfield sniffed. ‘Perhaps he’d won the pools or lottery.’
‘Then he would have
‘You don’t know that for certain.’
Horton narrowed his eyes.
‘OK, so it’s not the daughter,’ Uckfield acquiesced, disgruntled, and gulped back his coffee. ‘Why was he wearing a dress?’
‘No idea, apart from the theories we’ve already discussed.’ And Horton counted them off on his fingers. ‘One: he could have been a cross-dresser and a lover killed him; two: he could have been at a party and someone took exception to his hobby of dressing up in women’s clothes; three: the dress has some other significance, meaning it belonged to a woman Yately had at some time been involved with.’
‘And hurt or even killed, and Yately’s killer was set on revenge.’
Horton looked doubtful. ‘Somehow I can’t see Yately as a murderer.’
‘We barely know the man,’ Uckfield scoffed.
He was right.
Uckfield added, ‘Let’s hope the lab can get us something on the dress.’
‘I think we’d have more success with a fashion expert.’
‘Yeah, well you don’t seem to have had much success so far.’
‘I wasn’t investigating a murder.’
‘You should have been.’
He tensed. There was no need for Uckfield to keep rubbing his nose in it. ‘Well, DI Dennings will be back tomorrow and no doubt he’ll solve the case in five minutes flat,’ Horton quipped.
Uckfield grunted and polished off his sandwiches. After a moment, Horton said, ‘Are you still trying to get Dennings to transfer out of your team?’ Uckfield had mentioned it in the past along with the suggestion that the job might be his.
‘That’s up to him,’ Uckfield said, wiping his mouth with a large handkerchief.
‘Is it?’
‘Look, haven’t I got enough to worry about with a major crime on my plate, a paranoid ACC and a beady-eyed DCI trying to waggle her slim arse on to my team and eventually take my place?’
It took a moment for Horton to realize Uckfield was referring to Bliss. ‘You can’t seriously believe Bliss is a threat?’ he said, surprised. He’d also had no idea that Bliss had designs on the Major Crime Team. But there was still a DCI vacancy to fill, and maybe Bliss considered a Major Crime Team success would make her more visible in the promotion stakes.
‘Dean likes her. And we all know why.’ Uckfield sneered.
Horton raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘You think she’s having an affair with him?’
‘Wouldn’t be surprised. She wouldn’t be the first to drop her knickers to get to the top.’
That was a bit rich coming from a man who had slept around almost as many times as Rasputin. Horton didn’t say so, though. That might be pushing his luck.
Uckfield added, ‘She’s probably already working out how she can get the new chief into bed.’
Maybe she wouldn’t have to if Project Neptune was a success, thought Horton. But Bliss as DCI on the Major Crime Team was a terrifying prospect and meant he didn’t want to be anywhere near it.
Uckfield fell into a moody silence that was punctuated by a telephone call from Trueman, who confirmed that Yately wasn’t in debt and his GP said she hadn’t seen him for five years, and then only because he’d had a touch of arthritis in his right foot. Yately had been a postman for twenty-two years, working out of Newport. He had an exemplary record, was rarely off sick and thoroughly reliable. A friendly man, but quiet, was the opinion of the manager. No scandal and no womanizing. Yately had taken early retirement three years ago aged fifty-five.
‘And no mention that he liked to wear women’s clothes,’ added Uckfield grumpily.
As they were disembarking Horton’s phone rang. It was Walters with the news that someone from Wrayton Lettings was on his way over to Yately’s flat with a set of keys that would open the post box and a storage shed.
Walters added, ‘Mr Wrayton asked why we wanted the keys and I had to tell him because he was blabbing on about warrants and all that crap. He wasn’t best pleased.’
‘About us not informing him?’
‘No, about letting the flat to someone who managed to get himself killed. He said it lowers the tone of the area.’
Horton had been in the job long enough to believe that. Walters continued, ‘Oh and he said could we officially confirm that Mr Yately
‘The caring type, then.’
‘Yeah,’ Walters sighed.
They made good time to Ventnor and Horton was relieved to see there was no sign of the press. There was also no sign of the stout Sergeant Norris, or his uniformed officers, except for one posted outside the front of the house, who told them the others were conducting their house-to-house enquiries and that WPC Skinner was waiting for them upstairs.
‘Sounds promising,’ Uckfield muttered.
Horton noted that the doors to the other apartments were closed, which surprised him. He’d have thought the nosy neighbour syndrome would have brought them out in their droves, or at least make them peek out, but then it was mid afternoon and they could all be at work, either that or Norris’s officers were inside interviewing them.
They were about to head up the stairs when the officer outside hailed Horton. He found a spotty, slim young man of about twenty, dressed in a suit that looked about two sizes too big for him, with spiky gelled auburn hair, standing beside a small car emblazoned with the words, ‘Wrayton’s Lettings’.
‘You the detective that wants the keys?’ the young man said cheerfully.
Horton flashed his warrant card in response.
‘Awesome. What’s Mr Yately done? Drugs? Didn’t seem the type.’
‘Did you meet him?’ Horton asked, finding he rather liked the youth.
‘Yeah, showed him round the flat. Quiet type, shy, but then they’re the ones you’ve got to watch. Dark secrets.’
‘When did he move in?’
‘Eighteen months ago. It was my first letting.’
‘Has he ever been behind with his rent? Or complained about anything?’
‘Never.’
Horton signed for the keys and returned to the hall to find an impatient Uckfield waiting by the post boxes. Horton opened Yately’s to find the result disappointing.
‘Junk mail,’ said Uckfield with disgust, peering over Horton’s shoulder.
There was nothing worth bagging up. Horton told Uckfield about the storage shed and they headed for it, at the rear of the building. Inside they found a bicycle with a padlock and chain, a pair of much used walking boots, a modern walking stick, an empty rucksack and some wet weather clothing. Horton recalled that the weather had been dry on Thursday so no need for Yately to wear his wet weather clothing if he’d gone walking, and the fact that his walking boots and rucksack were here indicated that he hadn’t gone off hiking. They knew Yately didn’t own a car so had he walked to meet his killer or taken public transport, or had his killer come here to collect him? He said as much to Uckfield as they climbed the stairs to Yately’s flat.
