Blood on the Sand

by Pauline Rowson

  Horton's mind grappled with the possible answers to that question. It could mean there had been two of them: one driving the car, and the other watching the hotel – perhaps from the shadows of the narrow street almost opposite it, ready to relay to the driver when Arina Sutton stepped outside. Alternatively, the driver himself could have been inside the hotel watching Owen Carlsson and Arina Sutton. When he'd seen them finish their meal, he'd made his way to his car parked here, switched on the engine and waited until he saw her step outside. And if that was so then he wouldn't have confused Arina Sutton for Thea Carlsson.

  Horton began walking back to the Harley, mulling this over. It meant that either Arina was the target, probably killed as a warning to Owen Carlsson, or the killer thought he'd get Owen Carlsson and didn't much care if Arina also got killed in the process. By some quirk of fate Owen had been late joining Arina but the driver – once embarked on his mission – couldn't, or didn't want to stop. Yes, that was possible, and it fitted. And the killer had missed Carlsson once, so he had tried again and this time he had succeeded.

  Of course, that didn't account for how Thea had known where to find her brother's body, discounting the psychic bit. Horton reached for his mobile and called Cantelli. The briefing would be over by now and Horton was keen to get an update.

  'How's the stomach?' he asked when Cantelli came on the line.

  'Still in my throat. And I'm not sure it's going to stay there either.'

  'I can't persuade you to join me for a bacon buttie then?'

  Cantelli groaned.

  'Coffee?'

  'Yeah, I reckon I'll just about keep that down. Where are you?'

  Horton told him and added, 'But I'll be in the café in the Quay Arts Centre in Newport in thirty minutes.' He couldn't risk going to the police station in case someone was watching him. He didn't think they were, but it was best to be on the safe side. And he reckoned that Thea's attacker wouldn't know that Cantelli was a copper. 'Did you manage to track down Owen Carlsson's caller?'

  'Yes. Terry Knowles. I spun him the yarn that we believed his car had been stolen. He told me rather rudely that seeing as he didn't own a car he thought it highly unlikely. He lives in Winchester and runs an environmental consultancy based in Southampton. He's clean.'

  So, Owen could have been working with Knowles on an environmental project. Now they had to find out who this Laura was that Knowles had mentioned in his message. Horton doubted if Thea knew, but it might be worth asking her later. And if she didn't know they could go back to Knowles in an official capacity, and with the real reason for contacting him.

  Horton said, 'Has Dr Clayton reported back on the autopsy?'

  'She's just finished briefing Uckfield. He's in with DCI Birch.'

  'See if you can get her to join us in the café. I'd like to hear what she's discovered. Is Maitland at the scene of the fire?'

  'Yes, and Taylor.'

  'How's Thea?'

  'No permanent physical damage, but as for mental scars . . .'

  And Horton knew they would never heal.

  Cantelli said, 'Trueman's digging out background information on her and her brother. Uckfield said we'd leave interviewing her until she's in the safe house and then Somerfield can talk to her. She's with Thea at the hospital. The safe house is being organized now.'

  And Horton would feel much happier when she was there. 'See you in half an hour.' He rang off.

  As it was he made it in twenty minutes and didn't have long to wait before he saw the red headed, diminutive figure of Gaye Clayton, in jeans and a sailing jacket, enter the café. Behind her was Cantelli, looking rough. His dark eyes quickly scanned the café before alighting on Horton. There was a nod of recognition and a brief smile. No one followed them in and Horton knew that no one had come in after him. There were only a handful of people in the café, none of whom seemed the slightest bit interested in them.

  'It was murder,' Gaye said, after settling herself in the chair opposite Horton. There were dark shadows under her soft green eyes, and the faint, rather pleasant smell of soap about her, which was a darn sight better than her usual perfume – formaldehyde.

  Horton hadn't really doubted the verdict. Cantelli pulled up a seat next to him and yawned into his coffee.

  Looking over the rim of her espresso, Gaye continued. 'There are some highly unusual circumstances surrounding the victim's death, which I am sure you will find extremely interesting. Superintendent Uckfield did, though he wasn't quite sure what to make of them, but to someone with your intellect, Inspector, it will be child's play.'

  'Flattery will get you nowhere,' he said, smiling.

  'Pity.' Her return smile turned into a yawn, which she gallantly stifled.

  Horton leaned forward eagerly, wondering what was coming next. He already knew that this case was exceptional. From the moment he'd first seen Thea he'd had the impression or instinct, call it what you will, that there was something out of the ordinary about her and the murder of her brother. He couldn't explain it but he had the uncomfortable feeling that something had led him to this. It was stupid and irrational, and he knew that Uckfield and others, with the exception of Cantelli, would think he'd cracked up. Maybe he had and Thea's psychic claim had tipped him over the edge into paranoia or insanity. He'd been under considerable pressure since his return to duty in August, and what with the impending divorce and access to Emma . . . With irritation he pulled himself together; only facts would help solve this murder and bring this evil killer to justice, not airy-fairy feelings.

  'Fire away,' he said brusquely.

  She winced at his pun. 'When a weapon is held against the skin the bullet usually produces a round hole. Not so in our victim. This time it's irregular in shape, more like a letter D, which means that instead of travelling in a tight spiral the bullet wobbled as it struck the victim's skin. The cause of that could be a gun that has malfunctioned or the ammunition is defective––'

  'Ballistics are examining that and checking that the fragments Dr Clayton found in the body match the weapon you took from Thea Carlsson,' Cantelli interjected.

  'And it was a hell of a job picking them out, I can tell you,' she added with feeling, running a hand through her spiky auburn hair.

  Horton tried not to imagine those small, slender fingers probing the soft tissue of Carlsson's brains. He swallowed his coffee as she continued.

  'But that isn't the only reason for an atypical-shaped wound. If I put that with the fact that there were no soot or powder deposits either, then it is my opinion that the gun was fired from some distance, certainly over two or maybe three feet, which rules out suicide.'

  Horton said, 'Was he killed where the body was found?'

  'No. He'd been moved.'

  'Taylor couldn't find any evidence of it.'

  'He'd been moved,' Dr Clayton repeated firmly.

  Horton believed her. 'The killer covered his tracks very carefully––'

  'And left the weather to do the rest,' she finished.

  Horton thought back to Evelyn Mackie's evidence. 'As far as we know Owen Carlsson was last seen on Saturday morning on the chain ferry between West and East Cowes––'

  'The super's giving a press conference.' Cantelli glanced at his watch. 'About now. He's appealing for anyone who saw Owen. And we've got a description of Carlsson's rucksack and walking stick from DCI Birch's interview with Thea. Uckfield's got duplicates. He's showing them on TV.'

  And I bet DCI Birch is pissed off about that, thought Horton with some relish.

  'There's more, if you want to hear it,' Gaye said.

  Horton put her tetchiness down to fatigue. He guessed she'd had less sleep than him and that was precious little. 'Go on. Please.' He tried a smile but didn't get one in return this time.

  'The fact that the shape of the entrance wound is atypical combined with the absence of soot and powder, not to mention the fragmenting of the bullet inside the body and the impact on the internal injuries, suggests to me that the g
un was fired through a window or sheet of glass, which made it ricochet.'

  Horton stared at her tired elfin features. This he hadn't expected.

  'Are you sure?'

  She eyed him disdainfully. He shouldn't have asked. It was what Uckfield must have said. He'd obviously gone down in Dr Clayton's estimation, which wasn't a very pleasant thought.

  His mind went back to the scene. Was there anywhere near where Owen's body had been found that could have harboured a killer who had shot him as he walked past? There was a café – closed this time of year, a handful of very large houses – mostly divided up into holiday flats, some holiday caravans and beach huts, all facing the sea, again some distance away, and mostly empty. There was also the marina shop. If Owen had been killed as he'd walked past any of these, his body would then need to have been dragged over the nature reserve to the bunker where he'd been found. It was possible, he supposed, but that didn't answer the question why nobody had discovered him before yesterday, if he'd been killed on Saturday, and he didn't know that for sure. He was about to ask Gaye Clayton when she started talking again.

  'I've sent his clothes to the forensic lab and I also took radiographs; they might reveal tiny fragments of glass, although at the distance from which he was shot I'm not hopeful.' She swallowed the remainder of her coffee and pulled a face as though not liking the taste. 'I've been living off this stuff all night. Doctor's curse. Takes me back to the old days on A & E. I'll probably have a thumping head tomorrow.'

  Horton had difficulty seeing Gaye Clayton with living patients after having watched her cut into the flesh of dead people. 'How long had Carlsson been dead?' he asked.

  'Ah, an intelligent question! You're redeemed, Inspector. There was a great deal of rigour in the body and lividity was extensive and permanent. The flies had laid their eggs in the soft tissue and they'd hatched. Sorry, Sergeant, is this making you queasy?'

  Cantelli took a deep breath and said, 'After-effects of sea sickness.'

  Horton smiled grimly and tried not to see the carcase of Owen Carlsson, or think about that smell.

  'The eggs will usually hatch within eight to fourteen hours depending on the body temperature and the conditions outside. The maggots had gone through their first stage, which means that your victim had been dead two to three days, maybe four, but they hadn't reached the second stage so he certainly hadn't been dead as long as seven days.'

  Cantelli swallowed hard.

  Horton said, 'Which fits with his sister seeing him on Saturday morning and Mrs Mackie seeing him on the chain ferry later the same morning.'

  'He was probably killed either late Saturday or some time during Sunday. Early Monday morning, at the latest, and that's the best I can do,' said Dr Clayton, almost apologetically.

  Thea had said that she'd got no answer from her brother's mobile phone on Saturday evening, which suggested that Owen Carlsson was already dead. So where had he gone when he'd left the chain ferry in Cowes?

  'Did you find anything in Owen's pockets?'

  Gaye shook her head. 'Not even a handkerchief.'

  Cantelli said, 'His wallet must have been in the rucksack. Could robbery have been the motive?'

  'Has anyone used his debit or credit cards?'

  'Not yet. But he could have had cash on him.'

  'Villains don't usually go round shooting people on the Isle of Wight for cash,' Horton ventured. 'This is hardly an inner city.'

  'No, but it is possible,' Cantelli insisted. 'They could have been high on drugs, or drunk, saw Owen out walking, alone, and thought him an easy target.'

  Horton thought it unlikely. He reckoned this killer had known exactly where Owen Carlsson was every minute, probably every second of the day. And again he thought of Thea. What did she know that she wasn't saying?

  Cantelli continued. 'Let's say they shot him through a car window, saw him fall, screeched to a halt, jumped out and stole his money. Then they tossed his rucksack in a ditch or hedge and bundled the body into the boot of the car.'

  'I can tell you're feeling better; your creative juices are working well.'

  'Must be this coffee.'

  'Any views on that, Dr Clayton?' asked Horton.

  'If he was kept in a car, he wasn't there for long. I didn't find any traces of oil on his clothes or skin, but there were fibres that looked as though he'd been covered with something: a rug, blanket, or similar. His clothes were wet, and there are salt residues, but given that he was found so close to the sea that's hardly surprising. The lab will give you a more accurate analysis.'

  Cantelli resumed. 'The villains could have driven to the car park at the Duver, bundled Owen Carlsson out of the car late Tuesday night, carried him to the sand dune and then left him with the gun, which they wiped free of their prints, before pressing it into Carlsson's hand to make it look as though he'd shot himself.'

  Gaye interjected. 'His prints were on the gun, but there was no gun residue on his hands.'

  Horton looked thoughtful. 'I just can't see your average yobbo going to so much trouble. They'd have left the body where they shot him. And they certainly wouldn't have left their gun behind.'

  'OK, not yobbos and not drunks,' Cantelli conceded, evidently reluctant to give up on his theory. 'But someone who set out to kill Owen Carlsson and make it look like suicide.'

  But Dr Clayton was shaking her head. 'They failed.'

  'Perhaps they're not very bright.' Cantelli added. 'After all, they got the wrong person first time round when they ran into Arina Sutton.'

  'Ah, but that would mean Owen's death was planned and not a random attack. And was Arina the wrong person?' posed Horton.

  Gaye looked up, more alert than previously. 'Sutton?'

  'You know her?' Horton asked, curious, hearing a note of recognition in her voice.

  'I know a Professor Sir Christopher Sutton.' She gave a tired smile and half a shrug. 'But it's a common enough surname.'

  'Who is he?'

  'A neuropsychiatric consultant.'

  'A what?' asked Cantelli.

  Gaye smiled wearily. 'Neuropsychiatry is the study of mental disorders attributable to the nervous system. Sutton is a clever man and a very entertaining speaker, egocentric like a lot of consultants, but brilliant. He must be retired by now. I heard him talk years ago, at a seminar, when I was studying personality, profiling and criminology. He was about sixty then and a legend in his field.'

  Horton doubted if there was a connection, but he'd ask Trueman to check just to be sure. Not that it had any bearing on this case. Still, any information was better than none. Addressing Cantelli, Horton said, 'Did Thea Carlsson mention anything to Birch about Arina Sutton being killed in the same spot as her parents in 1990?'

  'If she did he didn't bring it up at the briefing this morning. He claims she said practically nothing before the solicitor showed up and afterwards just sat there looking forlorn. All she did say was that she went to the Duver because she had a feeling that was where she'd find her brother. Of course Birch doesn't believe her.'

  And neither does anyone else, thought Horton, studying Cantelli to see what he thought. Cantelli simply raised his dark eyebrows, as though to say 'who knows?'

  Gaye scraped back her chair with a yawn. 'Sounds like you've got quite a case on your hands, Inspector.'

  'I'm on holiday,' Horton replied, rising.

  'Looks like it,' she rejoined sarcastically. 'Well, I'm going home to catch up on my beauty sleep.'

  He should have answered, 'you don't need it', but he'd never been one for smooth talking. Not that Gaye Clayton expected it, but she was eyeing him rather curiously.

  'I'll give you a lift to the hovercraft,' volunteered Cantelli as they headed out of the café.

  Outside Horton paused and peered through the heavy stinging rain. There was no one loitering suspiciously. In this weather there wasn't anyone about at all.

  Turning to Cantelli he said, 'How did Thea get to Bembridge? She didn't use her brother's car.'
>
  'She phoned for a taxi to take her to St Helens and walked down to the Duver from there. The taxi driver has confirmed it.'

  'Is she still at the hospital?'

  'She was when I left the station.'