Horton gazed out of the ferry window at a calm, pale-blue sea, then back at his closest friend. ‘I will.’
Cantelli nodded solemnly before his dark-featured face broke into a grin. ‘Good. I don’t want to end up being left with Bliss bellowing in my ear every five seconds.’
‘Perish the thought,’ Horton said lightly, picking up on Cantelli’s mood. ‘Now let’s see if we can find out why two men are dead and one is missing, and, despite what Uckfield believes, I think there might be something in my theory about smuggling, especially after what Sawyer said, or rather didn’t say. Did Elkins get back to you with any news from the Customs and the Border Agency?’
‘He said there’s nothing major on, just the usual checks at sea: randomly stopping yachts and motor boats and boarding the occasional container and cargo ship. There’s no organized smuggling operation and certainly nothing to link with Victor Hazleton’s claims of smuggling.’
Horton considered this for a moment. ‘Have they been on board Glenn’s superyacht?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Why not? Just because he’s rich doesn’t mean he’s not crooked; on the contrary, he probably is.’
‘You’re just prejudiced,’ Cantelli said, smiling.
‘You bet I am, and bloody suspicious.’
‘I’ll ask Elkins to find out.’
‘But tell him not to make a big deal of it,’ Horton quickly cautioned. ‘I don’t want them charging in like he’s a Cuban drug baron.’
Cantelli frowned. ‘Do you really believe Glenn could be involved in bringing in drugs?’
‘It would be risky, but perhaps that’s what turns him on. The charity reception and auction could just be an excuse for putting in to port.’ He thought of the photographs in his pocket; perhaps Glenn’s mild manner had fooled Customs and many others down the years. ‘When’s PC Johns on duty?’
‘Now. He’s working on Glenn’s yacht tonight.’
‘Call him and ask him to do a bit of undercover work tonight; see if he can find out if the RIB’s been launched, and, if so, when and who went on it, but he’s to do it surreptitiously. Do you think he can handle that?’
Cantelli nodded.
‘And ask him to get a guest list for tomorrow night; that should be easy enough if he’s going to be working. Walters can check them out.’ Horton was very curious to see who the guests were.
Cantelli nodded and reached for his mobile phone. Horton was pleased to see that the activity and concern over his safety was helping to keep Cantelli’s seasickness at bay.
He stared out to sea, watching the Isle of Wight coastline draw closer. He now knew why Danby had met Lee; something was going down on Glenn’s yacht tomorrow night. It could be an armed robbery, but that would simply be a cover for what was really happening, and Horton guessed it was drugs. Perhaps Glenn had been involved in smuggling drugs while in the Merchant Navy and while working on the cruise liners. By 1985, when he emerged as the buyer of a chain of hotels, he’d made enough money to start his legitimate business empire, which could have been used, and still might be used, for money laundering. And if Glenn was dealing in drugs and if Glenn had known Jennifer, then had she too been involved? Horton didn’t want to think so, and he had no recollection of his mother being an addict, but if she had been mixed up in Glenn’s operation then she was most certainly dead. Could Glenn have killed her because she had threatened to expose him or posed a risk?
Again he considered whether Glenn was Zeus. But he was jumping ahead. The question was, did Avril know about her husband’s illegal activity? He wanted to think not, otherwise why invite him? But his cynical copper’s brain said that that was precisely why he had been invited: to provide a very good witness to say that nothing illegal could possibly have happened. Well, if Avril and Russell Glenn thought they could use him then they could bloody well think again. He turned his mind to the forthcoming interview with Wallingford and Chandler.
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.