A Killing Coast

Nodding at the phone on a small table to the right of a sofa, Uckfield said, ‘The last call he made was to you and I can’t find any letters, or correspondence.’

Horton surveyed the spacious lounge with its old-fashioned and rather faded furniture, before turning to study the porcelain figures of dancers and clowns on the mantelpiece of a stone fireplace spoilt by a modern electric fire. Along with them were a vase and an unusual-looking clock. As Taylor entered, Horton said, ‘What’s your opinion of these, Phil?’

‘Valuable. Antique.’

Horton’s view too. There were also more impressive paintings, one a little abstract and striking. It was a sailing scene that could have been anywhere along the coast but he fancied it was of Cowes Week in August early last century. There were no family photographs.

‘Any idea what Hazleton did for a living?’ Uckfield asked.

‘Antique dealer?’ suggested Horton. He wondered if WPC Claire Skinner would know. She hadn’t mentioned it when they had been here before.

Uckfield said, ‘Is there a study?’

‘No, but there’s an observatory.’

Taylor forestalled Uckfield as he headed for the door. ‘It would be better if you’d wait for us to finish, sir.’

Uckfield looked as though he was about to contradict him, then he grunted. ‘OK, let’s talk to the cleaner, or rather we could if we knew her address,’ he added, glowering at Horton.

But Horton was saved from answering by Beth Tremain. ‘This might help, sir.’ She handed Horton a piece of paper. ‘It was pinned on a notice board in the kitchen.’ And clearly a reminder to Hazleton of his staff’s contact details. But had he needed it? Horton wasn’t so sure. He recalled Hazleton’s dismissive attitude to WPC Skinner and Sergeant Elkins and thought he understood. The cleaner and gardener’s details, as far as Hazleton was concerned, didn’t merit the trouble of remembering.

As they headed for the Walker’s residence, Horton wondered what Vivien Walker’s reaction was going to be when she heard her boss had been brutally murdered.

ELEVEN

‘It’s those illegal immigrants, they killed him,’ she snapped.

They’d found her in front of the television, with a box of chocolates and a cup of tea at her side, watching a TV game show that Horton had heard people talking about at the station but had never seen because he didn’t have a television set on the boat.

‘You’ve seen them?’ asked Uckfield, surprised.

‘No, but Mr Hazleton saw that light. It must have something to do with that. Who else could want to kill him?’

Norman Walker threw Horton an apologetic glance. Horton again got the feeling he’d had when first meeting Vivien Walker on Monday that she’d been involved with the police somewhere along the line. He noted that Norman looked more upset at Victor Hazleton’s death than his wife. Perhaps she was just made that way.

‘Do you know who Mr Hazleton’s next of kin is?’ he asked, perching his backside on the edge of a chair. Uckfield took the chair opposite. It was a stuffy little room crammed with knick-knacks and photographs that seemed to clash with the flock wallpaper and patterned carpet.

‘There isn’t anyone. Mr Hazleton wasn’t married,’ she answered warily.

‘No nephews or nieces?’

‘Not that I’ve heard of and no one ever visited him.’

‘How long have you worked for him?’

‘Fifteen years.’

‘That’s a long time.’

‘So what if it is?’

Horton stifled a sigh. It was definitely one of those interviews. ‘How about you, Mr Walker?’

His wife answered for him. ‘Eight years.’

‘And what are your duties?’ Horton tried politeness, then wondered why he’d bothered; clearly it was wasted on this woman.

‘I don’t see that’s any of your business.’

OK, so that’s how it is. Leaning forward, he said harshly, ‘It is my business when a man has been found brutally murdered. And I’m beginning to wonder exactly why you are so hostile. And why you haven’t shown the slightest sign of distress at his death after being in his employment for fifteen years.’

The flush deepened. ‘You think we had something to do with it?’ she cried.

‘Did you?’ he asked coolly.

‘No, we flaming well didn’t and if you’re going to talk like-’ Mrs Walker sprang up indignantly.

‘Sit down,’ Horton said firmly and held her hostile stare. ‘Sit down, Mrs Walker.’

After a moment she exhaled and sat down heavily. Horton said, ‘Now shall we start again, and this time I’d appreciate a little more cooperation.’ Horton shifted his gaze to Norman Walker who nodded sheepishly, while his wife pressed her lips together and eyed him through slits.

‘What were your duties?’

She sniffed and said, ‘I cleaned the house, did his shopping and cooked for him on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays. On Sundays I cook a roast dinner and do him up a plate and Norman takes it over.’

‘Did you clean the observatory?’

‘Only when he was in it and then he wouldn’t let me touch his telescopes, afraid I’d damage them, though I’ve not so much as broken a cup or one of his fancy figurines since I worked there. He collects them and china. He was always coming back with something he’d picked up at some market or antique shop.’

‘Have you ever seen any photographs of Mr Hazleton’s family?’

She shook her head.

Uckfield spoke. ‘When did you last see Mr Hazleton?’

‘Monday, when he was there.’ She nodded at Horton.

‘What time did you leave?’

‘Same time as always; two o’clock. Mr Hazleton was up in his observatory when I called out goodbye.’

Uckfield picked at his fingernails. ‘On Monday did he say he was going to meet anyone on Tuesday?’

‘No.’

‘Did he have any telephone calls while you were there?’

‘No.’

‘How did he seem when you left him?’

‘Annoyed with him,’ she jerked her head at Horton, ‘for not believing him. I suppose you do now it’s too late.’

Horton held her accusatory stare. But he knew that even if he had believed Hazleton he wouldn’t have prevented his death. To Norman Walker he said, ‘What are your duties for Mr Hazleton?’

‘He does-’

‘I’d rather hear it from Mr Walker,’ Horton interrupted firmly.

She pursed her lips together and gave him another hateful look but he’d had worse.

Norman Walker said, ‘I do the gardening and anything that needs fixing in the house. I left with Vivien on Monday afternoon. She doesn’t drive.’

Horton made no comment about Hazleton’s house being within walking distance. He said, ‘We’ll need you to look over the house and tell us if you think anything is missing.’ It seemed unlikely because there was no evidence of a break in, but Hazleton’s killer could have used the keys and taken something from the house before putting the keys back in the dead man’s pocket.