Read Online A Killing Coast by Pauline Rowson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pauline Rowson
Ads: Link
inside it ill or dead, and a swift glance in the room to his left, which revealed a bedroom, and the room on the right, which led into the lounge with the kitchen off, confirmed to him that Yately wasn’t here, and was therefore probably in the mortuary. He turned back into the lobby and re-entered the bedroom.
It was shaped like an inverted ‘L’ with a window on the far side facing him. The room wasn’t very large, only about nine feet wide and about fifteen feet long. It was tidy with no evidence that it had been disturbed in any way. The single bed was made up with a navy-blue counterpane and opposite it was a low chest with several books on it, some about navy ships, others on local history. In front of the window was a telescope, but not like Victor Hazleton’s antique one or his ultra modern white contraption; this one was mounted on a tripod and it was the kind of telescope that Horton was more familiar with.
Without touching it he bent down, and closing one eye, peered through it. It seemed to be pointing at the small marina of Ventnor Haven, which he’d come into earlier that morning on the police launch. Yately probably used it to watch the passing ships. If Horton combined that with the subject matter of some of the books on the chest of drawers did it point to some kind of subversive activity? Hardly, he thought, smiling to himself at his imagination, before another thought struck him: had Yately been recruited to Project Neptune? But if he had Bliss would have recognized his name. But then she hadn’t stopped to ask him about the body, and he’d not had the chance to tell her. He thought it far more likely that while some people went in for trainspotting Yately had been into ship-spotting.
Straightening up, he supposed that Yately could have used the telescope for spying on people in the houses below. Perhaps Yately was a peeping Tom and that was the new hobby he’d hinted at to his daughter. But binoculars would have been more suitable for that activity and there didn’t seem to be any here. The door under the eaves led into a wardrobe. Inside were Yately’s clothes but no dresses. And rifling through the chest of drawers he found only male clothing.
Horton picked up the phone beside Yately’s bed and keyed in 1471 to get the number of the last caller. The call was timed at three minutes past two that day, when Hannah said she had last tried her father before reporting him missing at the police station, and the number checked with that of Hannah Yately’s mobile phone.
In the lounge, just as in the bedroom, there was restricted headroom because of the angle of the roof and Horton had to incline his head to avoid knocking it against the rafters as he crossed to the kitchenette to the right of an old, small wrought iron fireplace. The room was stuffy and felt claustrophobic. He wouldn’t like to be up here in summer. Give him the boat and the open sea any day, he thought, opening the fridge. There was milk and cheese in it, which were beginning to go off. This must have been one of the servant’s rooms years ago, he guessed, probably a large cupboard or perhaps another bedroom where the lowliest of servants had slept.
On the desk underneath the window in the lounge, Horton picked up a silver-framed photograph of Colin Yately with his daughter beside him. It was recent; taken about six months ago he’d say, on the promenade at Ventnor. Horton studied Yately’s smiling features, but just as in the interview room when Hannah had handed him a photograph of her father, he couldn’t equate it with what he’d seen on the slab in the mortuary. This time, though, he noted the receding light-brown hair, the lines around the mouth and the dark-brown eyes, which were like his daughter’s. Yately looked a fairly innocuous sort of man. It was easy to imagine him in the uniform of a postman. But not in a woman’s dress.
Slipping the photograph out of its frame, Horton placed it between the pages of
It was shaped like an inverted ‘L’ with a window on the far side facing him. The room wasn’t very large, only about nine feet wide and about fifteen feet long. It was tidy with no evidence that it had been disturbed in any way. The single bed was made up with a navy-blue counterpane and opposite it was a low chest with several books on it, some about navy ships, others on local history. In front of the window was a telescope, but not like Victor Hazleton’s antique one or his ultra modern white contraption; this one was mounted on a tripod and it was the kind of telescope that Horton was more familiar with.
Without touching it he bent down, and closing one eye, peered through it. It seemed to be pointing at the small marina of Ventnor Haven, which he’d come into earlier that morning on the police launch. Yately probably used it to watch the passing ships. If Horton combined that with the subject matter of some of the books on the chest of drawers did it point to some kind of subversive activity? Hardly, he thought, smiling to himself at his imagination, before another thought struck him: had Yately been recruited to Project Neptune? But if he had Bliss would have recognized his name. But then she hadn’t stopped to ask him about the body, and he’d not had the chance to tell her. He thought it far more likely that while some people went in for trainspotting Yately had been into ship-spotting.
Straightening up, he supposed that Yately could have used the telescope for spying on people in the houses below. Perhaps Yately was a peeping Tom and that was the new hobby he’d hinted at to his daughter. But binoculars would have been more suitable for that activity and there didn’t seem to be any here. The door under the eaves led into a wardrobe. Inside were Yately’s clothes but no dresses. And rifling through the chest of drawers he found only male clothing.
Horton picked up the phone beside Yately’s bed and keyed in 1471 to get the number of the last caller. The call was timed at three minutes past two that day, when Hannah said she had last tried her father before reporting him missing at the police station, and the number checked with that of Hannah Yately’s mobile phone.
In the lounge, just as in the bedroom, there was restricted headroom because of the angle of the roof and Horton had to incline his head to avoid knocking it against the rafters as he crossed to the kitchenette to the right of an old, small wrought iron fireplace. The room was stuffy and felt claustrophobic. He wouldn’t like to be up here in summer. Give him the boat and the open sea any day, he thought, opening the fridge. There was milk and cheese in it, which were beginning to go off. This must have been one of the servant’s rooms years ago, he guessed, probably a large cupboard or perhaps another bedroom where the lowliest of servants had slept.
On the desk underneath the window in the lounge, Horton picked up a silver-framed photograph of Colin Yately with his daughter beside him. It was recent; taken about six months ago he’d say, on the promenade at Ventnor. Horton studied Yately’s smiling features, but just as in the interview room when Hannah had handed him a photograph of her father, he couldn’t equate it with what he’d seen on the slab in the mortuary. This time, though, he noted the receding light-brown hair, the lines around the mouth and the dark-brown eyes, which were like his daughter’s. Yately looked a fairly innocuous sort of man. It was easy to imagine him in the uniform of a postman. But not in a woman’s dress.
Slipping the photograph out of its frame, Horton placed it between the pages of
Similar Books
