A Killing Coast

He brought his concentration back to the map and addressed Elkins. ‘I’d like to know in which direction this light Hazleton claims to have seen was travelling. It might have been returning from an operation from further east along the coast of the Island.’

‘You mean from around St Catherine’s Point. That would take some skill in a canoe or small boat in the dark with only one little light to guide it. He’d have to be a very experienced sailor or a foolish one to have done it.’

‘Or desperate,’ ventured Horton.

‘He’d still have to navigate around St Catherine’s Point and many a ship has floundered on that. And it would be difficult to put in to a rocky cove even on high water at night, and without a full moon.’

‘Smugglers have managed it before; they could do it again, especially if the rewards are great.’

Elkins acquiesced. ‘Where did this small craft come from though?’

‘A motor boat or fishing boat out to sea that Hazleton didn’t spot,’ suggested Horton.

‘Nothing’s shown up for that night?’

‘What about last night any time from eight p.m. to midnight?’

‘I’ve already checked and told Cantelli, but I’ll check again to see if any new reports have come in.’

Elkins climbed back on deck as Horton peered at the map and then at the sea chart. All he could see marked on the latter was Puckaster Cove and Saint Catherine’s Deep, a disused explosives dumping ground. He wondered if the small craft had come from the opposite direction out of Ventnor Haven. If he believed Hazleton’s story about the light last night then checking the tide timetables he saw that high tide had been at fourteen fifty-five with low water at nineteen twenty-nine, and because the small yacht haven dried out at low tide no craft could have come out of there but it could have been launched from somewhere else on the nearby coast. But the word smuggler had featured in Yately’s notes, he was sure he’d seen it. Yately had only been in the sea for a maximum of eighteen hours though, which was completely wrong for Hazleton’s first sighting of the light at sea, but not if Yately had been kept somewhere bound and gagged, alive, as Dr Clayton had said, until his killer could dispose of him in the sea. And that somewhere could have been in a cave or chine or in one of the remote bays.

Horton heard the radio crackle into life as he considered this and Elkins hurried down looking flushed.

‘Ripley’s just picked up a message from a fishing boat. A car’s been found in the sea at Chale Bay.’

‘What kind?’ Horton asked, as his head reeled with the news.

‘An old Morris.’

Jesus! It was Lisle’s car. ‘Make for it.’

Horton called Uckfield.

‘Yeah, we’ve just heard,’ Uckfield said, sounding out of breath. ‘I’m just boarding the ferry with Dennings. The warrant’s come through for Lisle’s house and I’m dropping Dennings off there to oversee the search. How the hell do you know about it?’

‘I’m on the police launch for another investigation. We’re heading for the car now.’

‘Sergeant Norris is on his way. I’ve given instructions for it to be towed out and the area to be sealed off. No one’s to touch it or go near it until I and SOCO get there.’

‘I’ll see to it.’

Horton called Cantelli.

‘I haven’t got much on Hazleton except he has no previous and he’s not in debt. And he doesn’t own a car.’

‘I’m not sure I’ll get time to interview him about his report now.’ Horton quickly told Cantelli about the discovery of Lisle’s car in the sea. ‘Give Hazleton a call and see what information you can get out of him. He’ll probably insist on talking to me. He’s a snob, but I’m sure you’ll be able to persuade him to open up. And, Barney, there should be an email from Mike Danby with a list of crew members on Glenn’s superyacht. Walters is running a check on Russell Glenn, Dominic Keats and Oliver Vernon, give him a hand with that and the crew members, if you have time.’

‘Anything I should know about?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

Cantelli didn’t press him. Did the discovery of Lisle’s car change his theory about smugglers and Yately stumbling on them, or about both men cross-dressing? It was too early to tell. But perhaps Lisle had killed Yately and then, unable to live with the guilt, had driven his precious old car into the sea to kill himself. Horton quickly consulted the map spread out in front of him for Chale Bay.

Climbing on deck, Horton peered through the stinging rain at the colour-washed Victorian and Edwardian houses above the small seaside town of Ventnor as they swayed and rolled with the swell of an angry sea. He looked for Yately’s apartment perched under the downs but couldn’t see it because of the mist and rain. He thought about those notes on Yately’s desk. Ventnor had once been a small fishing village. It still had a fishing industry, mainly shellfish, and the fishermen who had spotted the car might have come from here, or from the mainland. And sensibly they were heading back there now.

As the countryside opened up to his right Horton surveyed it with impatience. He was anxious to get to Lisle’s car but this had been the stretch of coast he had wanted to view. Much of it was rocky but there were one or two small bays with open fields behind them. He turned to Elkins. ‘Where’s Hazleton’s house in relation to those bays?’

‘About there,’ Elkins pointed to Horton’s left.

He saw a densely wooded area before the trees thinned out and he caught a glimpse of Hazleton’s observatory as the launch whipped past, swinging further out to sea and around St Catherine’s Point with its white landmark lighthouse. He’d sailed around the point many times, but not usually in such a rough sea, and this time he fancied he could hear the cries of the five little girls who had perished along with eighteen other crew and passengers of the Clarendon in 1836. But maybe it was the large flock of white gulls he could hear. He looked up to see the black tip of their wings before they vanished in the heavy grey blanket of sky.

Soon he was staring at the wet sooty black cliffs of the crumbling Blackgang Chine. Cultivated fields stretched out beyond the sandy beaches and cliffs. A large gash in the cliff with sheer sides told him they’d reached Whale Chine.

‘There it is,’ Elkins pointed ahead at the same time as Horton saw it. The maroon and tan Morris was half submerged in an incoming tide. He wiped the rain and sea spray from the glass on his watch. It was ten eighteen. Low tide had been just before eight, but because the weather was bad no one had seen it from the shore. It was also a more remote part of the island, particularly out of the main holiday season, and the weather would have deterred the dog walkers. It was surprising the crew of the fishing boat had spotted it at all. Ripley headed as close as he dared without becoming stuck on the sand. Horton asked Elkins to find someone with a RIB to take him on to the shore, and then he waited impatiently for it to arrive, wondering if they would find Arthur Lisle dead inside his precious car.

TEN

Uckfield rammed his hands into the pockets of his big camel-haired coat and hunched his neck into his collar against what had now become a chill drizzling rain sweeping off a grey dismal sea. It seemed to Horton more invasive than the angry rain that had already soaked through his clothes and frozen his bones, despite the sailing waterproofs. A farmer had loaned his tractor and a driver, who was finally hauling the car on to the shore. While Horton had waited for Uckfield to arrive he’d taken a call from Cantelli who’d said there was no answer from Hazleton. Horton told him to keep trying.

A quick survey of the area had shown Horton that Lisle could have driven off the road along the farm track and down on to the beach and into the sea. But then why wasn’t he in the driving seat, wondered Horton, studying the old Morris Minor, as Jim Clarke stepped forward and began photographing it. It was empty.

‘Lisle must have done a runner,’ growled Uckfield.

‘And ditch his beloved car?’ Horton replied, surprised. It seemed out of character but then he didn’t really know much about the man.