A Killing Coast

That confirmed what Hannah Yately had said. Now for the tricky bit. Rising, and extracting a photograph of the dress from his pocket, Horton said, ‘Do you recognize this dress?’

She stared at it, puzzled, and then at Horton. ‘No. Why?’

‘It’s not yours?’

‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in that,’ she declared. ‘It’s very old-fashioned.’

‘It might be something you wore years ago.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she scoffed, stubbing out her cigarette with vigour as her lips curled in a sneer. ‘What’s it got to do with Colin’s death?’

Horton was reluctant to tell her, not because he thought she’d be shocked or upset, but because he could already anticipate her ridicule and he thought she was the type to blab, maybe even tell the national media. He hoped the shame of once being married to someone found dead wearing a woman’s dress might stop her but he doubted it. He could see her playing the role of poor deceived wife. But Cantelli had given him the lead. He said, ‘We found it with your former husband.’

‘What was he doing with that?’

‘We wondered if you might tell us.’

‘No bloody idea.’

‘It wasn’t his mother’s dress?’

‘She’s been dead years and her stuff went to the charity shop.’

There was obviously nothing she could tell them about the dress. Recalling the notes on Yately’s desk, he said, ‘Did Colin ever express an interest in local history?’

‘He liked watching that history channel on television.’

That wasn’t the quite the same thing but it was a link nevertheless, and when you had nothing to go with a link was grabbed like a lifebelt. ‘What about an interest in Ventnor?’ he asked as Uckfield returned. Then Horton remembered something else he read, ‘Or the caves and chines on the Island.’

She eyed him as if he was two sheets to the wind. That was a ‘no’ then. He caught Uckfield’s glance, which said this was a waste of time, and he agreed. Horton politely thanked her for her help, wondering if she’d sense his sarcasm, but all he saw was relief in her bloodshot eyes. At the door he asked her if she had keys to her husband’s apartment.

‘Why would I want them?’ she answered, incredulous.

Horton expressed his sincere condolences at her loss despite the fact they were no longer married, which seemed to cause her no embarrassment. He told her that they’d liaise closely with her daughter.

‘Then she can tell me if you ever catch who killed Colin.’ And with that the door closed on them.

Horton climbed into the car, noticing a twitch of net curtain opposite.

Uckfield said, ‘That was Trueman on the phone. The landlord says he’s not been in Yately’s apartment and the second set of keys hasn’t left his office.’

So they could rule out the landlord and daughter.

Uckfield said, ‘Yately was well shot of her. Think she killed him?’

‘Why?’

‘Maybe she got fed up with him pestering her to take him back.’

‘If you believe that. It’s not much of a motive though.’

‘It could be enough for a new boyfriend.’

Horton considered that. ‘I think she was telling the truth when she said she didn’t have a key to his apartment but we should still check her out, chat to the staff at the pub where she works, and ask the neighbours if there’s a new man on the horizon.’

‘No need, looks as though he’s just arrived.’

A saloon car passed them and pulled up outside her house. Horton watched a man in his mid forties climb out. He was wearing a dark overcoat but as he turned on the doorstep Horton noticed the smart suit beneath it and the slightly furtive expression on his round face before he stepped inside. Something nudged at Horton’s memory, and with a shock he realized it was connected with his mother. What was it about the man he’d just seen that had triggered it? His size, his appearance? His manner? Or all three.

‘Married,’ declared Uckfield. ‘God knows what he sees in her.’

Was that it, Horton thought, as Uckfield turned the car back towards Ventnor. Had married men come calling on his mother? Not in the flat they hadn’t, except for one man, and Horton had discovered who he was, and he was now dead. But they’d lived in a little terraced house before they’d moved to the council flat and he remembered it clearly, sitting in a row of similar houses in a crowded area of Portsmouth. There had been men, and he now recalled raised voices on one occasion, and he’d been sent out to play. How old had he been? Seven or eight? Younger? He couldn’t say. He needed to check where they had lived. The census information would give him that.

‘I’ll ring in the car registration number,’ he said, reaching for his phone. Trueman would trace the owner and they’d ask him whether or not he knew Colin Yately and when he’d last seen him. He hadn’t looked as though he’d kill Yately out of jealousy or for money, but who could tell?

After he hung up, he told Uckfield what Margaret Yately had said about the dress.

‘Trueman’s sending it over to the university as soon as the lab has finished with it, which should be tomorrow. What was that stuff about caves and chines I heard you ask her?’

‘Just something I read in those notes.’

Uckfield’s phone rang. Horton leant over and put the call on speaker. It was Sergeant Norris and he sounded excited. ‘We’ve got a witness who saw a man entering and leaving Yately’s flat early this morning at about nine thirty-five. We’ve got a good description of him, about five-eleven, slim, grey-haired, in his early sixties, and what’s more we’ve got a name. The neighbour got the car registration and we’ve traced it to an Arthur Lisle. He lives in Bonchurch. He was carrying a briefcase.’

Uckfield bellowed, ‘Do nothing. We’ll be there in ten minutes.’

Ambitious, thought Horton, though by the way Uckfield was driving maybe not.

EIGHT

Norris dashed through the rain and slid his fat backside into the rear of Uckfield’s BMW, his trousers squeaking on the leather upholstery, his balding round florid face glistening from the rain and exertion. They were parked in a winding, tree-lined road of elegant Victorian terraced houses. The heavy rain and trees made it prematurely dark prompting lights to shine from several of the rooms, allowing a glimpse inside of subdued suburban life, but there was no light at Lisle’s house.

‘He’s clean, no previous,’ panted Norris. ‘He doesn’t seem to be in and his car isn’t here, although he could keep it in a garage somewhere. It’s a 1961 Morris Minor convertible, burgundy with a cream hood and cream leather interior. The man who saw Lisle — Grant Millbeck — lives in flat six, he was just off to work when he saw this man entering-’

‘With a key?’ Horton interjected.

‘Well he didn’t ring the front doorbell so he must have had one,’ Norris tossed caustically at Horton, before turning his attention back to Uckfield. ‘Then Millbeck saw the same man leaving and he was carrying a briefcase.’

‘Why did Millbeck hang around waiting for Lisle to come out?’ asked Horton suspiciously.

‘He didn’t. He’d forgotten his lunch box and went back to his apartment to collect it. He was just locking up when Lisle came down the stairs from apartment seven. Millbeck claims that Lisle didn’t seem or look nervous. He smiled and said “good morning”. Millbeck’s seen the Morris at the apartment block a couple of times, and admired it, and he remembered the registration number because it was unusual, MOG 61, so he wasn’t worried about Lisle being there.’

Horton addressed Uckfield, ‘Lisle could be the friend Yately gave his keys to. He probably removed the notes from the apartment with Yately’s prior permission. He doesn’t sound like our killer.’