And what about Yately’s missing notes? He knew Uckfield’s thoughts on that subject: that they hadn’t solely been about the history of the island; Colin Yately had written something about his affair with the late Mrs Lisle, which was why Lisle had been keen to retrieve them. But not so keen as to go straight there after Yately’s disappearance.
They found Taylor and his crew outside the house. Clarke was photographing the stone-covered driveway which Taylor and Tremain were examining. It had finally stopped raining and a weak sun was descending towards a watery late afternoon.
‘No blood markings visible to the naked eye,’ Taylor volunteered as Horton and Uckfield climbed into scene suits. Horton thought it more a precaution than a necessity because he didn’t believe Hazleton had been killed in the house. Still they couldn’t take any chances. And he wanted no more slip-ups.
There was no sign of a forced entry and extracting the keys Taylor had taken from the dead man’s pockets, Horton inserted one in the lock. ‘Whoever killed Hazleton didn’t want anything from here; otherwise they’d have taken his house keys, or broken in.’
‘Lisle’s not a thief,’ said Uckfield abruptly.
The house was still and silent. Everything was exactly as Horton remembered, the big oak staircase, the antique rugs on the polished parquet floor. It was chilly, but there was some heat emanating from an electric storage heater that looked out of place in the old house.
Taylor and Tremain started in the hall, while Horton slipped into the room on the right and Uckfield the one on the left. Horton found himself in what was clearly a dining room with a large oak table in the centre on a huge deep-red rug. There was some impressive orange-coloured glassware and china figures on top of a bowed glass-fronted cabinet against the wall, inside which was a selection of blue and mauve china cups, saucers and tea plates that clearly were not intended for use. There were also some impressive watercolours of country scenes hanging on the plain walls above a dado rail and panelling beneath. He peered at the signature on the paintings but the names meant nothing to him. He wouldn’t mind getting an expert’s opinion out of curiosity, rather than because of any connection with the case, because, clearly, as Uckfield said, robbery was not why Victor Hazleton had been killed and shoved in the boot of a car. And there was no sign of a struggle in here. He thought of Oliver Vernon on Russell Glenn’s yacht. Perhaps he’d know a thing or two about these antiques; he was supposed to be an expert.
He joined Uckfield in the lounge, where he was immediately drawn to the French doors opposite. They gave on to the landscaped garden and a view of the English Channel that was shrouded in the mist. There was nothing to see except a wide expanse of grey sea, but on a fine day the view would be miles and miles of sparkling blue ocean.
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?’