A Killing Coast

From what Hannah Yately had said Horton very much doubted it.

SEVEN

‘I know why you’re here.’ Margaret Yately gestured them into seats in the untidy cramped lounge of the narrow house in the narrow terraced street in Newport.

Horton pushed aside a blouse, skirt and a pile of cheap magazines before easing himself into a chair that was so worn he thought he was going to end up sitting on the floor. The room stank of cigarette smoke, stale perfume, fried food and alcohol. Horton pulled his body to the edge of the seat, as Uckfield, ignoring the clothes, plonked himself squarely on top of them, stretched out his short legs and eyed Margaret Yately coldly. In front of them, high on the wall above a dusty and grimy fireplace, were the flickering images of repeats of a detective drama on a large plasma screen television that wouldn’t have been out of place in a small cinema. The thought reminded Horton of Russell Glenn’s superyacht and the forthcoming charity auction, which he might now be in danger of missing, if he was to continue working on the case and if it was still unresolved by Friday.

Margaret Yately reached for a packet of cigarettes from the mantelpiece with nicotine-stained fingers and long fingernails that looked painful rather than attractive. Horton swiftly took in the tall woman. She was in her mid fifties with scraggy bleached blonde hair, fashionably dressed in tight jeans, tucked into calf-high boots, with a low-cut off-the-shoulder T-shirt displaying black bra straps and a tattoo of a butterfly on one shoulder and a cat on the other. All this was squeezed on to a figure with rolls of fat around the hips and midriff. The sand had run out of this hourglass long ago.

‘Hannah called me to tell me Colin was dead. She says he was murdered. I can’t think why. He had no money.’ Margaret Yately shook a cigarette from the packet and perched it on her pink-lipsticked mouth. Grabbing a cheap plastic lighter from the mantelpiece she flicked it on her cigarette and, still with it perched in her mouth, added, ‘It was his body I suppose, the police do sometimes get it wrong.’

‘When did you last see your husband, Mrs Yately?’ Horton asked crisply. There didn’t seem any point in wasting sympathy on her. He held her gaze.

‘Ex-husband,’ she said pointedly, jerking her head upwards to exhale. ‘Last year, October. He was in town, shopping. He begged me to have him back. I said no way. I gave up my youth for him; I wasn’t going to give up what I’d got left of my life.’

Horton didn’t believe the bit about Colin begging her to take him back. That was just her vanity speaking. Admittedly his views were coloured by what Hannah Yately had told him but he was more inclined to believe daughter than mother. He wasn’t sure he could believe her alleged last sighting of her husband either, though he couldn’t see that she had any reason to lie about that. There was no evidence in this room of another man being on the scene, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Or a few, come to that.

Uckfield said, ‘Did you know where he was living?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘Did you visit him there?’ asked Horton.

She widened her eyes, ‘You must be kidding! Why should I want to do that?’

‘Is this your marital home?’ asked Uckfield.

‘What’s that got to do with Colin’s death?’ she said defensively, glaring at him, then a malicious glint crossed her face. ‘Oh, I see, you think I’ve shacked up with a man and jealous of Colin he’s gone out and killed the poor sod. Well you’re wrong.’ She picked some tobacco from her yellow teeth. ‘The house was sold when Colin and I split up and we shared the proceeds. Not that there was much, him only being a postman. I rent this house and live alone, and Colin rented his flat.’

And Horton reckoned she spent most of her money on clothes, booze, fags and a good time. Not that that was any of his business, but he wasn’t going to pussyfoot around being gentle with her, because clearly she didn’t need it.

‘Did Colin have any life insurance?’

‘No idea.’

‘Did he have a will?’

‘How should I know?’

‘You were married to him.’

‘Were, yes. The only life insurance he had then was to cover the mortgage if he snuffed it before it was paid up. And he didn’t have a will then.’

‘Do you work?’ asked Uckfield.

Her head snapped round. She bristled. ‘Why do you want to know that?’ Neither Horton nor Uckfield answered, forcing her to add angrily, ‘Instead of badgering me with pointless questions you should be out there looking for his killer.’

‘We are,’ Uckfield said evenly.

She snatched a drag at her cigarette and irritably puffed out the smoke before answering with a scowl. ‘I work in a pub on the River Medina, waitressing and bar work. It gives me a social life. I could have done better but I had Hannah to bring up and working with a child is not always easy, especially when you’ve got no relatives to take care of it and no money to put it in a nursery. Colin used to finish work early, being a postman, unless he was doing overtime, so when he came home, I’d go to work; pub hours suited me. And I like the company. All right?’ She glared at them.

Horton said, ‘Can you give us the names of any of Colin’s friends?’

‘There weren’t any.’

Horton raised his eyebrows, forcing her to add, ‘He was always a loner. No conversation, quiet, dull, while I’m the opposite. We were never suited but we stuck together for Hannah, well you do when you’ve got kids.’

‘What were his hobbies, interests?’

‘He didn’t have any, not unless you mean doing crosswords and reading books.’ Which, by her tone, she clearly considered unworthy pastimes.

Horton recalled the books on the chest in Yately’s flat on naval ships and local history, which fitted with the notes and the telescope.

She made an elaborate show of consulting her watch.

‘Working tonight?’ Horton asked, studying the clock on the mantelpiece. It was three forty-five.

‘I phoned in, told them about Colin. They said not to come in.’

Horton could see she wished she had gone to work now. ‘Do you have any photographs of your former husband?’

‘Hannah says you’ve got one,’ she replied sulkily.

‘Yes, but it might be helpful to look through photograph albums.’ Horton was wondering if it might show them the dress Colin had been found wearing.

She scowled, clearly irritated. ‘Colin took most of them.’

‘Then you do have some.’

‘I don’t know how that can help you.’

‘Perhaps you could get them,’ Uckfield insisted.

‘I don’t know where they are,’ she exhaled in exasperation.

In dangerous silky tones Uckfield said, ‘If you could look them out and call us when you’ve found them that would be very helpful.’ He handed across his card.

Her brow furrowed, then she shrugged as if to say please yourself and snatched the card from him. Horton didn’t think they’d get any sight of her photograph albums. Uckfield’s phone rang and he ducked out of the lounge to answer it. A few seconds later Horton heard the outside door open. Clearly Uckfield didn’t want Margaret Yately earwigging the conversation. He said, ‘Did Colin own a laptop computer when you lived together?’ She eyed him as if he’d just asked if her ex-husband had indulged in naked limbo dancing.

‘He wouldn’t even have a mobile phone and I had to throw the television on the tip before he’d buy a new one.’