said that that was precisely why he
FOURTEEN
‘I wonder if his first name is Raymond,’ Cantelli said, silencing the car and nodding in the direction of a sparkling brass plaque to the right of the sturdy royal-blue door of Wallingford and Chandler in Newport. Horton knew that Cantelli’s love of Raymond Chandler sprang from the film adaptations of the author’s legendary novels rather than the novels themselves.
‘His initial’s R. So it could be,’ Horton replied, climbing out and eyeing the three storey colour-washed Georgian house in front of him. It was spread over three floors, with two windows on the first floor and another two on the third. It looked much like the other elegant period properties in the quiet and respectable broad street, a stone’s throw from the quay. There was no blatant advertising here, not even a sniff of ambulance chasing. Wallingford and Chandler looked discreet, expensive and exclusive, which made him wonder why they’d handled Colin Yately’s divorce. This legal firm looked as though they were more used to dealing with bankers and businessmen, rather than postmen.
Cantelli made the introductions and showed his warrant card to the pretty blonde receptionist with the upper-class accent, immaculate make-up and beautiful dental work. As she rang through to Mr Chandler, Horton surveyed the room. It boasted a glittering crystal chandelier that looked as though it had come out of some grand opera house, probably had, he thought. There were soothing pale colours on the walls, elegant classical furniture, which they didn’t test out, interior design magazines of the expensive kind, and highly polished floorboards over which were spread rugs that hadn’t come from any discount warehouse. It could have been mistaken for an expensive consultant’s room. He wondered how it had looked in Victor Hazleton’s days. The same? Had Hazleton stamped his taste for antiques here, which had lived on after his reign, or had he acquired his passion for antiquities while working here?
Cantelli’s hushed voice interrupted Horton’s speculations. ‘So who do you think our Mr Chandler will look like: Alan Ladd, Humphrey Bogart or Dick Powell?’
Horton’s eyes scanned the walls, which boasted some remarkably good paintings of local beauty spots: the Needles, St Catherine’s Lighthouse, Whitecliff Bay, along with other spectacular coastal scenes, before alighting on the wall behind the pretty receptionist where there hung an array of tastefully framed photographs which seemed to document the history of the firm from the 1800s to the present day.
‘None of them if that’s him,’ Horton said, indicating the most recent pictures, where a dark-haired man with a high forehead, angular face and strong nose featured prominently. In a couple of them he was receiving awards and in others he was with groups of clients either golfing, fishing in a sizeable motor boat or at a gala reception.
‘Ray Milland,’ announced Cantelli firmly, following the direction of Horton’s gaze.
‘That could be Wallingford.’
But it wasn’t. Ray Milland, or rather his lookalike, Chandler, rose from behind a big antique desk situated in a spacious and elegantly furnished first floor room, tastefully decorated in the same soothing pale-yellow as the reception area, and with the same period features; even the floorboards had been stripped and varnished and overlaid with a beautiful red deep-pile antique rug, which again reminded Horton of Victor Hazleton’s house. He made a mental note to suggest to Uckfield calling in Oliver Vernon to value the items in Hazleton’s house, and at the same time he could pump him for more information about Glenn.
Chandler, smiling, stretched out a strong hand, which Horton took. He found it dry and warm, and, as Rodney Chandler introduced himself, Horton noted his eye contact was assured and friendly, and his dark suit of excellent quality. They’d been offered refreshments, which they had refused. Normally Cantelli would have sunk a mug of tea but Horton knew he was still wary to accept anything so soon after his forty minute sea voyage, which miraculously had been sick free, although Cantelli had begun to look a little green as they headed into the terminal at Fishbourne. Horton had taken coffee on the ferry. As they’d disembarked Trueman had rung to say that his checks on Norman and Vivien Walker had shown that Vivien Walker had been convicted of shoplifting twenty-eight years ago when she was twenty-four. First offence. Nothing since. Shoplifting was a long way from murder.
‘How can I help you?’ Chandler asked in a rich deep voice. He gestured them into the two antique leather library seats opposite.
Horton said, ‘We understand that Arthur Lisle and Victor Hazleton worked here.’
Chandler gave a gentle lift of an eyebrow as a demonstration of his surprise at the statement. Trueman hadn’t revealed that when he had called earlier to make the appointment.
‘They did. Why the interest, Inspector?’
Horton told him that Arthur Lisle was missing and that Hazleton’s body had been recovered from the sea in suspicious circumstances. Chandler made the obvious connection.
‘You can’t honestly suspect that Arthur has anything to do with Victor’s death!’ he declared, incredulous.
‘We’re concerned for Mr Lisle’s safety,’ Horton replied cagily.
Chandler continued to eye him with an air of astonishment. ‘You think Arthur could be mentally ill, that he’s had some kind of breakdown or brainstorm and killed Victor? No,’ he said firmly, shaking his head, ‘it’s impossible. He’s as sane as you and I. Surely there must be a mistake. How did Victor die?’
‘We’re waiting on the results of the autopsy.’
‘And just because Arthur is missing and they worked together you’ve assumed a connection and the wrong one, Inspector. Arthur could be on holiday.’
‘Not according to his daughter.’ Horton weighed up whether to tell Chandler that Hazleton’s body had been discovered in Lisle’s car. It would soon be public knowledge anyway and he wasn’t getting far with his enquiries here. He gave Chandler the details and watched his eyebrow go up and down in surprise and disbelief.
‘This is incredible, but I see why you said you were worried for Arthur’s safety. He too could be a victim. But of whom? Who could possibly want to kill either or both of them?’
Horton didn’t answer the question. Clearly Chandler wasn’t going to believe Lisle had killed Hazleton. He said, ‘When did Arthur Lisle retire?’
‘Three years ago. He took early retirement to care for Abigail, his wife. She had MS. Sadly she died eighteen months ago.’
That confirmed what the daughter had told them and what Trueman had unearthed.
‘Were they happily married?’
Chandler looked surprised at the question, then frowned. ‘Yes. Why do you want to know that?’
‘No hint of either of them having affairs?’
‘None. I can’t see where your questioning is leading, Inspector.’
Horton wasn’t going to elaborate. He said, ‘What was Mrs Lisle like?’
Again the eyebrow shot up but Chandler answered in a neutral tone. ‘A very pleasant, friendly woman. Quiet.’
‘Not the kind to cause her husband any problems then?’
‘No.’
‘Have you seen Arthur Lisle since he retired?’
‘No.’
‘And Mr Hazleton?’
‘No. Victor retired a year after I started working here as a junior lawyer in 1985.’ He swivelled around in his leather chair and gestured up at one of the photographs behind him. ‘Following in my father’s footsteps and my grandfather’s. He established the firm here in 1870.’ He turned back to face them. ‘And my son is carrying on the family tradition. He’s with a client at the moment; otherwise you could have met him. Maybe you’ll have time before you leave.’
Was that a hint for them to hurry up and go, wondered Horton. Perhaps Wallingford and Chandler wasn’t the
