Deadly Wake, page 3
'Who discovered him?'
'A woman. She'd motored into the bay on a small boat. It's inaccessible by any other means.'
'What took her there?'
'She's a geologist. She was fossil hunting.'
That coastline was renowned for fossils.
'She'd met the man once before and spoken to him,' Norris continued. 'He told her his name was Ben and that he lived alone.'
'Ben?'
'Yes, why?
Not Wyndham then. 'Go on.'
'The cabin door was open when she arrived, and there was no sign of Ben. She called out to him, entered and found him dead on the floor. There was nothing on the body or in the cabin to give us an identification. If she hadn't arrived when she did the poor man would still be lying there now. The officers who attended said there was no evidence of foul play,' Norris reiterated, slightly defensively.
'How did they get to the bay, it being inaccessible?'
'I called up the marine unit.'
Good, that meant Sergeant Elkins would have been on the scene. Horton could get the full picture from him.
'Why the interest, Inspector? Do you have new information?'
'Fingerprints have come up with a match, to a man called Wyndham Lomas.'
'A wanted criminal?'
'Not as far as I'm aware, just someone we were eager to trace,' Horton hedged, thinking he should cross his fingers when he lied, but it wasn't a lie. He had been keen to find Lomas because anyone on Lord Eames' land, and anyone connected with Eames, was of interest to him. 'I met him once, in October, on the island during an investigation. He told me he was a beachcomber artist.'
'Well there are wood sculptures at his cabin.'
That seemed to confirm it. 'I'll be over shortly to ID the body. I'll update you after that.'
Horton rang through to the marine unit. 'Are you still at the sailing club, Dai?'
'Yes, but there's not much more we can do here. We were just on our way to Horsea Marina to ask if anyone came through or went out of the lock in the early hours of the morning, save for the man who reported the fire.'
'Postpone that for now.' The chief wouldn't be pleased, but Horton would get round that if he ever found out. 'I need you to take me across to the island on the RIB.' The RIB would be much quicker than the ferry and could moor up on the River Medina at Newport, the island's capital where the hospital was based. It was also flat bottomed, which meant it would be able to get into Luccombe Bay. He told Elkins about the match of fingerprints with the body found in the cabin, and how he had met the man in October. He requested that Elkins pick him up from the secure berth at the international port in fifteen minutes.
Horton grabbed his sailing jacket and stopped long enough to brief Cantelli, giving him the same information he had Elkins. Then he made his way through the subway that ran under the motorway and across the busy port car parks to the secure berth where the RIB was waiting for him.
Two
'It's pretty basic,' Elkins said in answer to Horton's question about the log cabin as Ripley swung out into the harbour. Horton had given Ripley instructions to head there first. 'Clean though. No sign of a struggle or any damage. No paperwork, mobile phone, computer or anything that could tell us who he was. Looked like a heart attack to me but I'm no medic.'
'Well you're more or less right. Did you take the doctor to the bay to certify death?'
'No. We picked up two officers from Shanklin, and we agreed that it looked pretty straightforward. Ripley left us in the bay while he returned to Shanklin to fetch the undertakers. We then transported them, the body and the two officers back to Shanklin. The body was taken straight to the mortuary at Newport in the undertaker's private ambulance.'
'Did you talk to the woman who found him?'
'No. She'd already left the bay after discovering the body. I assume she's been into the police station to make a statement.'
'I assume so too,' although Norris hadn't said.
Horton postponed further questions. Firstly, because they weren't necessary when he would see Lomas' cabin for himself shortly, and secondly because, as they picked up speed in the Solent, the noise of the RIB's engine prohibited it.
The grime and fuel-filled air of the last two days in London slipped away from him as they crossed the busy Solent. There were several yachts and a few motorboats enjoying the spring weather. A cruise ship was heading towards the port, and a large container ship loomed on the horizon. Within minutes the RIB was rounding the chalk cliffs of Culver, on the island, heading past the coastal town of Sandown and beyond that Shanklin with its short promenade, nestling beneath the town perched high on the cliffs. After rounding the headland, Ripley slowed the RIB and the sheltered bay of Luccombe came into view. Lying under the cliffs was a wooden hut which looked little more than a large shed.
'I'm surprised it hasn't been buried by a landslip,' Horton said, eyeing the trees and shrubs above it, some of which had already slipped and fallen on to the beach, both to the left and right of the cabin.
'Give it time, and it will,' Elkins replied as Ripley drew closer to the shore.
'I see what you mean about it being basic. ' As they drew closer Horton could see a small window to the right of the door and a rickety veranda.
'Wait until you see inside.'
Ripley nudged the boat on to the sandy shore and silenced the engine. Horton jumped off for'ard and, with Elkins, they pulled the police RIB higher on to the shore out of reach of the incoming tide and about ten yards away from the cabin. The upper line of seaweed told Horton that high water never reached the cabin. Unless there was a fierce easterly wind and exceptional high tides, then it might just grace the veranda. Heading for the cabin, Horton nodded at a well-maintained and immaculately varnished wooden boat on a raised shingle bank. 'Does that belong to the dead man?'
Elkins answered, 'No idea. Probably.'
'And those, I take it, are Ben's handiwork?' Horton drew up in front of the cabin where there was a sturdy hand-carved wooden bench and two wood sculptures. One was of a seagull about to take flight, the other a watchful owl, both beautifully executed. To the right of the door was a pile of driftwood. Lomas had indeed turned his flotsam and jetsam into art. Who had he sold to? How did he sell them? Horton guessed he must have used the boat to transport them to his customers because there was no other way he could have done so unless there was a path up to the top of the cliff. Norris had said the bay was inaccessible. Yes, by road but perhaps not on foot. Even if there were a footpath, Lomas couldn't have hauled his masterpieces up there.
'He was obviously a talented artist.'
'If you like that sort of thing.'
'And you don't? You're a philistine, Dai.'
Elkins shrugged his big shoulders with a smile.
The exterior of the cabin had been repaired in places and quite expertly. Perhaps Lomas aka Ben had done that, being handy with his tools and wood. The door was unlocked, as Elkins had said. Horton stepped inside.
'This certainly is pared down living,' he announced, eyeing the faded blue, soiled, sagging two-seater sofa and paraffin heater. There was a green canvas camp bed resting against the far wall, clearly old, as was the navy-blue sleeping bag on it. Over that was an orange blanket. The pillow was covered with a faded and slightly stained striped cotton pillowcase. The dusty wooden floor was devoid of any carpets or rugs. Yet, despite its humble bleakness, the cabin had a comfortable lived-in feel, and the smell of wood reminded Horton of traditional wooden boats, the kind he loved but had little spare time to care for. There was an attraction about this kind of living, he thought, cut off from the world and all its sordid problems, but to be without contact with Emma, his nine year old daughter, would be too hard for him to bear. As it was, Catherine, his estranged wife, was determined to keep him away from her as much as possible.
On a wooden table underneath the window was a large white mug, a glass, and a half empty whisky bottle. Had alcohol been found in Lomas' blood stream? Possibly.
'Anything changed since you were last here on Friday, Dai?'
'No.'
Ripley also shook his head.
'Tell me what you found.'
Elkins answered, 'The deceased was lying face down on the floor beside his bed. His arms were outstretched, slightly at an angle, not crumpled up. I'd say he got up, collapsed and died.'
'What was he wearing?'
'Shorts, a T-shirt and sandals. We didn't find any pyjamas, only those clothes over there.' Elkins nodded to a wicker chair on which Horton could see a pair of worn and faded khaki shorts, two T-shirts, a couple of darned woollen jumpers and a few pairs of socks and pants. Lomas had been wearing shorts, a T-shirt and sandals when Horton had met him.
He said, 'He couldn't have slept in his sandals, so he either fell ill after putting them on when he woke up, or he died before he got into bed. Anything found in his pockets?'
'A penknife, harmonica and steel comb.'
Horton crossed to the table by the window and regarded the mug. He felt a reluctance to pick it up, even though he wouldn't be spoiling a crime scene. Perhaps it was ingrained training. The brown sludge in the bottom of the mug indicated that it had at one time contained coffee or possibly a strong brew of tea. The whisky glass looked clean. On the table was an oil lamp and four unusual looking knives.
'The tools of his trade,' Ripley said, peering at them. 'Not that I know anything about wood carving, but that's what they look like to me.'
Horton agreed. They all had matching light-wood shaped handles and the name Flexcut on them. They appeared well used. The blades looked sharp, although he didn't test them, and they were of varying widths and lengths, obviously used for different purposes in the woodcarving business. Beside them was a curved shaped implement with a hook. There was no evidence of Lomas aka Ben having conducted his wood carving inside the log cabin. Perhaps he tidied up after he'd been working or carved his sculptures outside.
In an alcove to the left of the heater was a tiny kitchenette. There was no fridge or sink. A Calor gas stove, the type used in camping, was perched on a small table on top of which was a well-used kettle while beside it was a medium sized saucepan and frying pan. Next to the table was a rickety cupboard with faded checked curtains instead of doors. Horton pushed them aside to find two shelves. The top one held two clean blue and white willow-patterned plates, two blue mugs and some cutlery, along with a couple of tins of food, two jars, one jam, one marmalade both, by the labels, made locally. The lower shelf contained Ben's shaving and washing gear; flannel, soap, razor blades, shaving brush and shaving foam, the cheap variety.
Elkins said, 'The toilet's a portable sea one at the rear of the cabin. God knows how he disposed of its contents. He could have ditched it in the sea, illegal of course, but who's around to check? No idea how long he'd been living here, but the local police might have more information on him by now. Perhaps one of his customers has come forward.'
'Sergeant Norris didn't mention anything when I spoke to him earlier.' Horton gazed around. 'He wouldn't have needed to make much money living this way. Let's take a look at the boat, obviously his mode of transport.'
Had Lomas used this boat to motor around to that inlet adjoining Eames' property in October? Horton hadn't seen or heard a boat, but then it could have been hidden on the shore in amongst the trees and bushes. And Lomas could have used oars; there were two inside the boat. It was well cared for, but two things in particular interested him.
'Notice anything unusual about it?' he asked.
It was Ripley who answered, 'The keel's been planed, either to make it easier to get into this bay or to make the boat go faster. And it's got a powerful outboard engine. With that it could get up to a good speed. Fifteen horse power I'd say. And, up on the plane, it could do about twenty knots.'
'So why the need for such speed when everything about Ben indicates a leisurely, slow paced lifestyle?'
'Maybe he delivered to customers on the other side of the island, or even over on the mainland,' Ripley ventured.
Maybe. Horton had seen all he needed to here. He instructed Ripley to make for Newport and moor up in the River Medina. From there Horton walked the short distance to the hospital, while Elkins and Ripley remained with the RIB. After showing his ID, Horton followed the mortician through to the chilly mortuary with its familiar nauseating smell which he tried to block out. He prepared himself to meet the mask of death of a man he had briefly met but, as the large refrigerated drawer slid open, Horton stared down at the dead man with grey stubble and collar-length grey hair, puzzled.
'Are you sure this is the man found dead in his cabin in Luccombe Bay?' he asked.
'Positive, Inspector. It's not who you were expecting?'
It certainly wasn't. This was not Wyndham Lomas, the beachcomber.
Three
'I'd like to see his clothes and belongings.'
'Of course.'
The mortuary attendant slid the body back into the deep freeze and Horton followed him to a bench on which were two plastic bags. In one were the dead man's clothes as Elkins had described – khaki shorts, a navy-blue short-sleeved T-shirt, underpants, and a pair of brown leather sandals. The latter were the same style and type Horton had seen on the suntanned feet of Lomas. He extracted them.
'They're quality leather. Handmade, I'd say,' the mortuary attendant said.
Horton agreed. They had also seen considerable wear. The leather was pitted and cracked, but clean. The rubber sole had been repaired, probably many times. The inside was so worn as to leave indentations of the toes, and the maker's name and size had rubbed away. Fastened at the side with an old fashioned buckle, they sported wide criss-cross leather straps across the front of the foot, were open-toed with a closed heel.
'Jesus Sandals we used to call them back in the nineteen sixties and seventies when they were fashionable,' the mortuary attendant added as Horton replaced them in the bag. 'Which is when I'd hazard a guess those were made.'
'He's hung on to them for a long time.'
'Quality like that lasts.'
Horton turned his attention to the items in the small bag, which were the contents of Ben's pockets, as Elkins had described. Here was the penknife, but it wasn't the usual kind. Firstly, it was incredibly old, with the bone handle worn and the name on it faded, but he could make out what looked like 'Oar Carver'. Secondly, when he flicked it open it revealed two blades on either side of the handle. Both looked to be exceedingly sharp. It could well be an offensive weapon used to wound and kill but given the faded name on it and what he had seen in the cabin, he judged this to be one of Ben's woodcarving implements.
He turned his attention to the harmonica. Again, he thought it was antique, although he was no expert. There was a name on it, more legible, 'Marine Band.' The comb was an ordinary steel one.
'What was the time of death?'
The mortuary attendant picked up the file on the table and flicked through some papers. 'Sometime on Thursday 28 March. Difficult to say when exactly. His body was discovered the following day. He was brought here at two thirty-two p.m. on 29 March. He'd been dead for at least twenty four hours.' 'Were you the person who took his prints?' 'Yes. I sent them over to the police station as requested.' 'And this was when?' 'Friday about four p.m. It was one of the first things I did, after undressing him. In fact, I took two sets, one before I washed him and another afterwards, before the post-mortem. I put the prints in a sealed envelope and despatched them by our internal post to the police station. I also scanned his prints into the computer and emailed them to the fingerprint bureau with a copy sent to Sergeant Norris's email address.'
'Any distinguishing marks on the body?'
'There was some scarring on his back, possibly the result of an accident, which had stripped away the skin, or it could have been caused by scalding, but that was all.'
Horton asked for a copy of the autopsy report and waited while the mortician printed it off. Outside the mortuary, he read through it. It was fairly basic, which was to be expected because there hadn't been any need for a full forensic postmortem, there not being any indication of foul play. The pathologist estimated that Ben had been in his early sixties. There were several moles on his body and some damage to the epidermis on his arms, legs, neck and face, some giving indications of melanoma; arthritis in his joints and some mild lung damage. The scarring on his back was old and the report confirmed what the mortician had just told him.
Horton tucked the report into the pocket of his sailing jacket and headed for the police station, trying to fathom out how Ben's fingerprints could have got on the business card that Lomas had given him. The internal post could have been tampered with, he supposed. The fingerprint file which had been sent to the police station could have been replaced with one containing the prints of the man he had met, Wyndham Lomas, but they would also have to match with the prints the mortuary attendant had emailed over to the bureau and to Norris. And why would anyone tamper with the files? They wouldn't of course. Could Ben be an identical twin of Wyndham Lomas? There were similarities in looks, age and build. Did identical twins have the same fingerprints? He was sure they didn't, but he rang through to Jane to check. It was as he thought, the prints of identical twins were similar but there were distinct differences, so that quashed that idea. He told Jane that after viewing the body, it wasn't the man he had been expecting.
