Deadly Wake, page 4
'It's a perfect match on the prints we received, both the physical copies and those emailed,' she confirmed.
'Then there must have been two sets of prints on that card or make that three; mine, Wyndham Lomas's and Ben's. Lomas's got rubbed off in the process of me giving you the card to lift off the prints but the other man's remained.'
Jane agreed that must be the explanation. And if that was so, then where was Wyndham Lomas? Why hadn't he come forward to identify his friend? If Ben had been his friend. Horton had no evidence of that. Lomas had said he was an artist, but from what Horton had seen in that cabin, it was Ben who had been the artist. Perhaps they had both been artists and friends and, after October, Lomas had moved on to pastures new and had not kept in touch with Ben. Indeed, Ben would have been a difficult man to contact, not having a phone or a valid address.
Norris rose as Horton entered the untidy CID office with almost as many empty desks as Horton's own CID office in Portsmouth. Horton knew that wasn't on account of officers being out on enquiries. Desks were aplenty, people to sit behind them was an entirely different matter. Norris had put on a few pounds since Horton had last seen him in October. He confirmed that he had received an email containing the prints, and a hardcopy of the prints had been couriered to the bureau's offices at Netley on the mainland.
Horton then relayed the fact that the body in the mortuary was not the man he had been expecting to see, the one he had met in October, Lomas. The name meant nothing to Norris. Horton asked if an appeal for anyone who had known Ben to come forward had been made.
'Of course,' Norris said, slightly stiffly, taking the question as a slur on his ability. 'We were too late to get it into the County Press, it being a weekly newspaper. There'll be full details in this week's, which will be out tomorrow. Aside from that we sent details to the local radio stations who have broadcast it; we've circulated it on social media and to all the doctor's surgeries, citizens' advice bureaus and community centres this side of the island. No one's come forward so far. Officers are also asking around the shops and clubs in Shanklin and Sandown. Ben must have shopped somewhere, although that doesn't mean he talked to anyone let alone gave them chapter and verse of his life history.'
'Have you circulated it to the boatyards and marinas?'
Norris looked surprised for a moment, then uncomfortable.
Horton continued, 'Ben had a boat, he might have put in somewhere. You say that the bay is inaccessible?'
'Yes. There's a narrow lane which branches off from the main Shanklin to Ventnor road, just before the Devils Chimney, an old smugglers haunt.'
Horton knew it. He'd taken Emma there once. A narrow stone opening in the cliff with ancient stone steps and a decidedly creepy atmosphere.
'There are no properties down that lane, and the only house it leads to is Beachwood House. The lane stops at the footpath that stretches north to south from Luccombe Down to Ventnor. Directly opposite the lane is the entrance to Beachwood House, a large manor house and grounds that belonged to Cedric Halliwell. There was a footpath once, not far from the property, which led down to the bay just south of Beachwood House, but I'm going back five years, could be more. The cliffs there are notorious for landslips, so parts of the path kept disappearing. The council patched up the footpath for years with wooden steps and the like, but it got to the stage where it no longer made any sense to keep renewing it, so they closed it down. It's completely overgrown now. No one would know it had once existed.'
'Is the house empty? You said 'belonged.'
'Yes. Halliwell died in February. He was a recluse by all accounts.'
Another one, thought Horton, like Ben. He asked to be kept informed and hurried back to the RIB where he updated Elkins and Ripley.
'I'd like to see if there's a footpath from Ben's cabin up to Beachwood House, and as I haven't got any transport, aside from your boat, you can take me back to the bay and we can climb up from there.'
'We,' Elkins said, clearly aghast at the prospect.
'The exercise will do you good, Dai. If we find a path.'
'Then let's hope we don't.'
But Elkins was to be disappointed. The path, which was little more than a track, was behind the cabin. Elkins eyed the steep climb with horror and despair. 'Can't Ripley go? He's much younger and fitter than I am.'
'Which is why he's not going.'
'If I keel over with a heart attack, on your conscience be it.'
'I'll give you mouth to mouth.'
'I bet you say that to all the girls.'
Horton smiled and struck out ahead of Elkins, up the steep and twisting path through the sprouting ferns, bushes and brambles. The land to his right, seaward, had slipped in three places. One was a major landslide where trees and shrubs had been upended and had slid down the cliff exposing fresh light brown soil.
'For God's sake, Andy, be careful. We don't want to end up down there,' Elkins implored as the earth slipped beneath Horton's feet and scree slid down on to the shore.
'OK, I'll save you from a fate worse than death. I'll go on ahead and see where this ends up. Probably in nothing but a tangle of bushes and trees. If the cliff gives way you can come and dig me out.'
Elkins looked relieved, and then guilt ridden.
Horton said, 'Go back to the RIB. I'll join you shortly, and if I don't you can call the rescue team.'
After a moment's brief hesitation, Elkins turned back while Horton carefully continued upwards. The ground was sticky with mud from the heavy rain a week ago and his shoes were soon covered in it. Where a landslip had occurred it had cleared a view to the sea until the path twisted onwards and upwards. It had been used, that much was clear. There was still evidence of footprints, and the ends of the shrubs were broken back. The prints were difficult to make out, could be Ben's sandals, could be a boot or shoe, but it had to be Ben, because if not, who else?
The birds were chirping away and the trees and bushes a mass of buds and blossom. After a considerably steep climb, he came out on to a wide expanse of cultivated, untamed grass. Dotted around it were clumps of Rhododendron and other shrubs in what had once been a landscaped garden, but it was the house beyond it that drew Horton's attention and interest. Norris had been wrong, there was access to Ben's cabin from the landward side, albeit dangerous. This had to be Beachwood House, the late Cedric Halliwell's residence. It was a substantial, sprawling mock Tudor edifice built possibly around the nineteen thirties or perhaps much later. It was a large dwelling for one man because, according to Norris, Halliwell had been something of a recluse, so Horton assumed he had lived alone. Did Halliwell have any relatives? If so, they looked to be in line for a tidy inheritance. Maybe one of them had taken the path down to the bay.
As he made his way towards the house, he saw there were shutters on the top windows and most of the ground floor windows, except those of an orangery that abutted part of the rear and gave on to a stone terrace. Perhaps once there had been a family living here and laughter and shouts had rung out around the rooms or through the gardens, or perhaps he was just being fanciful, imagining a childhood he'd never been privileged to experience. Yes, he'd shared a large house with other children from the age of ten to fourteen, but they had been a succession of bleak, characterless, sterile children's homes.
He pushed away the memories and stood back to study the house. The exterior was badly in need of re-decorating and repair. Perhaps Halliwell had grown old here and hadn't had the energy or the inclination to get workmen in, or perhaps his resources had dried up. Or perhaps he just didn't care how he had lived and had been content for it to fall down around him as some people were. Had Cedric Halliwell known Ben? Norris said Halliwell had died in February. Horton wondered when Ben had taken up residence in that cabin.
There would be a magnificent view from the upper floor, across the Solent to the coastline of Hayling Island and Selsey, he thought. It was a view he wouldn't mind waking up to every morning. Instead, he had second best, waking up on board the small yacht he lived on in the marina. It had taken some adjusting to living in the confined space and alone after his marriage had broken up, but that was nothing compared with the desolation he had felt at the fact that Catherine had chosen to believe he could be capable of forcing himself on a woman he'd had under surveillance. An accusation for which he'd been suspended. He'd been exonerated but too late to save their marriage. Their divorce had come through last June.
He walked to the front of the property. The gravel driveway and surrounding gardens were in the same state of disrepair as the rear. Ahead was a gatehouse, also in a dilapidated state with shuttered windows and a rusting iron gate pushed back into overgrown shrubs. A pockmarked sign declared this was "Private Land" and that "Trespassers would be prosecuted". The footpath from Luccombe to Ventnor, which Norris had told him about, did indeed pass in front of the property and opposite, was the narrow lane which led to the main road. There was no one about.
Horton tried his mobile phone to tell Elkins he was all right, although he'd probably know that given that the sergeant was keeping his eyes skinned on the cliffside for any movement of earth. But he couldn't get a signal.
Time to return to the RIB. He'd like to know the extent of Cedric Halliwell's land. Did it incorporate the bay and Ben's cabin? Who was the executor of Halliwell's estate? Maybe he or she would know. It might give them a clue as to Ben's true identity. Not that it was Horton's problem. It wasn't his case, and Ben's death wasn't suspicious. He was just curious to know what the link with Wyndham Lomas had been because of the prints on that card, but he resigned himself to the fact that he'd probably never find out.
He followed the steep path downwards, taking care where he trod, but he'd only gone a short distance when the earth slipped beneath him. Instinctively he reached out. His fingers connected with the trunk of a young tree, but the lifeline came away in his hand and, crying out, he slithered and slid several paces down the side of the cliff. Cursing, he frantically grabbed at another young tree and just in time as the ground was violently swept from under him and he was suddenly face down eating earth, choking and spluttering, with vegetation and dirt showering down on him. Would the tree hold? Would his strength? Elkins might need that rescue party after all. The roaring earth filled his ears. He kept his eyes and mouth tightly shut. His arm was stretched to breaking point. He braced for the fall, knowing he would need to relax and go with the movement of the earth to avoid any broken bones. That might be the best that could happen. The branch gave way slightly. He slipped another foot. This was it.
Then, as suddenly as the landslip started, it ran out of energy and stopped. He could hardly believe it. Anxiously he waited, his breath coming in gasps, his heart thumping. Yes, all was still. It was safe to open his eyes. He breathed a huge sigh of relief and began to move gently and slowly for fear of kicking off another landslide. Still clinging to the young tree – he wasn't confident enough to let go yet – he twisted his body round prior to standing. Then involuntarily cried out for staring up at him was the hollowed sockets of a human skull.
Four
'I hope you haven't got me all the way over here for some silly sod of a walker who got too near the cliff edge and fell,' Detective Superintendent Uckfield grunted uncharitably as he clumsily clambered off the police RIB. Ripley had taken it back to Portsmouth while Elkins, looking mightily relieved that he hadn't made the trek to Beachwood House, had waited on the shore with Horton. During that time Horton had called Sergeant Norris, told him what he'd discovered and that the head of the Major Crime Team was on his way over. He asked Norris to find out who Cedric Halliwell's executor was. Uckfield had brought with him DC Jake Marsden from his team, and three scene-of-crime officers, including the photographer, Jim Clarke.
'Not unless he managed to bury himself,' Horton replied, because after recovering from his initial shock, he had seen clear signs that the corpse hadn't been the victim of a landslip but a murder. 'If he'd fallen, he'd have been at the bottom of the cliff not half way down it. And, judging by what I saw of the skull, he didn't get his injuries from hitting his head on a rock.'
'You could be wrong.'
'I could be, but a man found dead in this cabin five days ago, the owner of the house at the top of the cliff dead since February, and now a third –'
'A hat trick you'd say.'
'Suspicious is the word I'd use. It certainly needs looking into.'
'You're expecting me to climb up there?' Uckfield said horrified, squinting up at the cliffs.
'Why not? I did.'
'But you're not a detective superintendent.'
And never likely to be, thought Horton. He didn't want promotion, not anymore, maybe not even before. But Catherine had been keen to see him get on, so he'd obliged. Now it didn't matter what Catherine wanted. And neither am I overweight, Horton thought, eyeing Uckfield's corpulent figure which made even DC Walters and the sturdy Sergeant Elkins look slender. Horton said, 'From what I could see the body looks intact, but I didn't hang around to clear all the earth away for fear there might be another landslip.'
'Now you tell me.'
'Inspector Horton is right,' DC Marsden piped up. 'This whole area is unstable.'
'That's a great comfort,' Uckfield said sarcastically, setting out for the cabin, while Ripley swung the RIB back out into the bay. He was to collect the firefighters from nearby Shanklin. They, with their rescue equipment, would transport the body down the cliff.
'I'm a keen amateur geologist and fossil hunter,' Marsden brightly continued.
'Plenty of old fossils in the station,' muttered Uckfield.
Marsden made no comment. He valued his career too much for that. 'This cliff is mainly comprised of Lower Greensand. It's a loose, unconsolidated sandstone, like the rubble used in construction,' he explained to Uckfield's baffled glared. Horton hadn't known what it meant either, although he'd felt it on his face and had brushed it off his clothes. 'It contains sands of varying grain size with some amounts of siltstones, mudstones, containing smectites and limestones.'
'If you say so,' sniffed Uckfield.
Horton indicated the path and asked Elkins to remain behind for which the sergeant smiled his thanks. They'd only gone a few steps when Uckfield began to pant, while Clarke, the photographer, the slender Beth Tremaine and stooping Phil Taylor seemed to find the trek easy, although Taylor was muttering something about the trees and burgeoning bushes playing havoc with his hay fever. He sneezed to prove it. Uckfield tossed him an angry glare, fearful Taylor might bring down the earth in an avalanche on top of them.
Marsden, clearly just getting into his stride, both physically and verbally, continued to give them a geology lecture, 'The Lower Greensand Group was deposited during the Early Cretaceous Period, which lasted for approximately forty million years from 140 to 100 million years.'
'I think our remains are more recent than that,' said Horton, but how recent he couldn't say. There was hair left on the scalp and some traces of flesh. It would need the expertise of Dr Clayton to give them an indication of time of death.
'Lower Greensand is one of the most landslide-susceptible formations in the UK, so this could give at any moment.'
Uckfield looked nervous. 'Is it much further?'
'No,' Horton replied.
Marsden continued enthusiastically, 'When fresh and unexposed to air, the greensand is soft which makes it much easier to collect fossils. You can simply use a knife or trowel, and any fossils you do find will be in excellent condition.'
'Yeah, well the only fossil I'm interested in collecting now is the one Inspector Horton has dug up,' snapped Uckfield. He stumbled, and a slither of earth fell beneath his feet, causing him to mutter an oath. Horton reached out and steadied him.
'It's just down there,' he said, gesturing to where he'd left the corpse, hoping it was still there and exposed.
'And I'll be down there in a minute,' Uckfield growled. 'Let's get this over with. You lot stay here,' he commanded the crime scene team in a voice barely above a whisper, as though speaking loudly would cause an avalanche. Horton thought it good advice; the fewer of them trampling around here the better. He wondered if it would have been wiser to wait until the firefighters had arrived and applied safety harnesses to the crime scene officers. Too late now. He led the way around a virulent shrub and through some ferns until they came to a small clearing of earth. He could hear the sea below them, washing on to the shore, and where the shrubs had been upended and the cliff had given way in places, he could also see it through the gaps. The tide was going out.
