A Killing Coast

‘Well we haven’t stolen anything,’ she snapped.

‘No one said you had,’ Horton replied somewhat wearily, before adding, ‘Did Mr Hazleton talk about his past: his loves, life, job, experiences?’

She swivelled her hard eyes on him. ‘He used to work for a firm of solicitors.’

Horton’s ears pricked up at that. He resisted a glance at Uckfield but knew he was thinking the same. Lisle had worked for a legal firm, but then many other people did too. It was probably just coincidence. ‘Doing what?’ he asked before Uckfield could.

‘He was a clerk,’ Norman answered, drawing a scowl from his wife.

‘Office manager,’ she corrected.

‘If you believe him; you know how Mr Hazleton liked to exaggerate.’

‘But not about that. Mrs Jarvis confirmed it.’

‘Jarvis?’ Horton quickly interjected in what looked like becoming a sparring match between husband and wife, and they could do without that.

‘She’s an elderly lady I also clean for. Wallingford and Chandler drew up her will years ago and she told me Mr Hazleton was in charge of all those solicitors and the office.’

Horton sensed Uckfield’s heightened interest at the name of the firm; it was the same one Arthur Lisle had worked for. Coincidence? He didn’t think so. Hazleton must have recognized Arthur Lisle when he saw him killing Yately. He asked how long Hazleton had worked for Wallingford and Chandler.

Mrs Walker answered. ‘Don’t know but he told me he retired in 1986.’

Hazleton must have been quite young to retire, Horton calculated, in his mid fifties, and that was a long time before Arthur Lisle had retired.

Uckfield said, ‘Do you know or have you ever heard Mr Hazleton mention a man called Arthur Lisle?’ She shook her head. Her husband did the same. Horton stretched across a photograph of Lisle but they both stared blankly at it. He then tried one of Yately but again got a negative response.

‘Did Mr Hazleton mention who was named in his will?’ Having worked for a legal firm Horton felt sure he must have made one.

They shook their heads but Horton couldn’t help noticing their sly glance. No doubt they were hoping the old man had been generous to them.

At a sign from Uckfield, Horton rose. ‘We’ll need you both to make a statement. And we’ll arrange a time for you to go to the house. Meanwhile, if you could give me the keys.’

‘We don’t have any. He wouldn’t give us one,’ Vivien Walker announced. Horton studied her closely wondering if it was the truth. Maybe it was.

At the door, Norman said, ‘How did he die?’

‘We can’t tell you that yet. There’ll be a post-mortem.’

‘Of course,’ he nodded and made to close the door when Horton turned.

‘Did Mr Hazleton own a mobile phone?’

‘No. Said he had no need for one.’

‘Can you tell me where you both were between seven and midnight last night?’

‘You can’t think we had anything to do with his death!’

Horton said nothing.

‘We were in the pub from seven until eleven. It was quiz night, I’m in the team, and then we came home to bed.’

‘Which pub?’

‘The Bugle.’

‘And at the weekend?’

‘Here.’

‘Do you own a boat?’

Horton might just as well have asked him if he owned a private jet; the answer was clearly no.

Uckfield already had the car door open when Horton said, ‘Does Mr Hazleton own any other properties, or a boat?’

Norman shook his head. ‘I never heard him mention anything.’

In the car, Uckfield said, ‘What was all that about owning a boat?’

‘I wondered if the Walkers could have killed both Lisle and Hazleton if Hazleton had left them something in a will.’

Uckfield snorted. ‘We know who killed Hazleton: Arthur Lisle.’

Horton still thought he’d get Trueman to run the Walkers through criminal records.

Uckfield said, ‘Hazleton could also have been shagging Abigail Lisle years ago and Lisle recently discovered it along with his missus’s affair with Yately. Maybe he read his late wife’s diaries.’

And that sounded highly plausible. Despite his vowed intentions to stop thinking about the past Horton’s thoughts veered back to his mother. Had she kept a diary? If so, nobody had mentioned it and no diary had been passed on to him. Therefore it was unlikely, unless that diary had contained something incriminating or implicated someone in her disappearance, and that made him wonder if their council flat had been searched either by the police or by someone else who could possibly have had a key or forced an entrance. There was nothing on the missing person’s file to indicate either. And Adrian Stanley, by his own admission, hadn’t even entered the flat. But Horton had seen his discomfort when he’d asked the question.

‘I need a drink.’ Uckfield’s voice crashed through his thoughts

‘The Bugle?’ Horton said, catching the Super’s drift.

‘Might as well kill two birds with one swallow and I’m bloody hungry.’

Over fish and chips, which Horton didn’t feel much like eating after viewing the body of Victor Hazleton, the landlord and landlady of The Bugle confirmed the presence of the Walkers in the bar the previous night until just after eleven o’clock and denied knowing Arthur Lisle and Colin Yately. They claimed they had never seen either man when Horton showed them photographs and neither had they seen Lisle’s Morris Minor.

Uckfield headed for Lisle’s house, where Dennings, who had phoned as they were finishing their meal, said they’d completed the search without finding any love letters or diaries.

‘There are some missing pictures in the albums though.’ Dennings indicated the gaps and eyed Horton moodily, clearly put out by his presence.

‘Where’s the daughter?’ Uckfield said, disappointed.

‘In the kitchen with her husband. I haven’t shown her the photograph of the dress Yately was wearing, but I told her about the car and Hazleton being found dead in it. She claims she’s never heard of Victor Hazleton, and neither has her husband. She thinks her father’s in the sea and wants to know if we’re searching for him.’

Horton had already mooted that to Uckfield in the pub and had got a short answer: ‘Have you any idea of how much a helicopter search would cost?’

A great deal, and then it was unlikely they’d find Lisle.

‘No suicide note, I suppose,’ Uckfield asked, hopefully.

Dennings shook his big shaven head. ‘I’ve got all the paperwork bagged up. We can double-check it but I know there isn’t one.’

Horton said, ‘Perhaps he posted it and it’ll arrive at his daughter’s house tomorrow.’

Uckfield raised his eyebrows. OK, so Horton didn’t believe that either. It was just an idea. ‘Not all suicides leave notes,’ he added, before following Uckfield into the kitchen. Dennings’ phone rang, forestalling him. With a scowl at Horton he answered it gruffly.

Rachel Salter sprang up from the table with hope and worry on her flushed face. ‘You’ve found him?’

Gently, Uckfield said, ‘There’s every possibility that your father wasn’t in the car.’

‘Then how did it get into the sea?’

‘He could have driven it there at low tide, abandoned it, and waded back to the shore.’

Paul Salter, a smallish muscular man in his early forties, said, ‘Then where is he?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out,’ Uckfield said, trying without success to squeeze the exasperation from his voice.

Quickly, Horton asked, ‘Have you any idea where he might have gone? To a friend’s, a relative or somewhere that was special to him, or to him and your mother.’