Blood on the Sand

by Pauline Rowson

  'Mummy says I've got to go away.'

  Horton gripped the phone. Catherine couldn't be moving abroad. She couldn't be taking Emma from him.

  He heard the tremor in his daughter's voice and as evenly as possible said, 'Where does Mummy say you're going?' Silently he prayed it wasn't true. He hurried towards the Harley, not wanting the others to come out and disturb him.

  'I don't want to go away to school.' She began to cry. It ripped at Horton's guts. He would have given the world not to be here now, on an island. He silently cursed. Uckfield could solve his own bloody cases. Then the image of Thea's smoke-blackened, fearful face flashed before him. He felt torn. And angry that he felt that way.

  'Don't cry, darling. It's all right. You don't have to go.'

  'But Mummy says I do and that I'll like it. I won't. I'll hate it,' she sobbed.

  Horton felt sick with anguish and tried to steel himself but his mind was full of visions of Emma abandoned. A child of eight. God, how the memories fled down the years and there he was, a boy of ten, standing alone in a barren, cold room, rejected, abandoned, confused and hurt. Cruel taunts ringing in his ears. 'Your mother doesn't love you.' The pain of the memory gripped him, making him feel sick. He'd see Catherine in hell before she subjected his daughter to the same terrible fate.

  It took every ounce of control for him to make sure he sounded normal when he said, 'Where's Mummy, Emma?'

  'With Uncle Edward. Angie's looking after me, but she's on the computer.'

  Uncle fucking Edward! So Catherine was still seeing that fat git. He'd like to punch him from here to kingdom come and back again. Taking a breath and forcing a smile into his voice he said, 'Don't worry, Emma. I'll talk to Mummy. I'll see that you don't have to go away to school.'

  'Promise?'

  'Of course. Now tell me what you've been doing all day.'

  Horton listened to her chatter, which became steadily more joyful as it went on, whilst he became more depressed at the realization of what he was missing. This was a life that Catherine had denied him – his daughter's. It was like being shown all the toys in a shop as a child knowing you could never have access to any of them. And that was the story of his life. He'd always been on the outside, except at work. There he was on the inside. And that, he thought, with growing despair, was all he had left.

  Finally his conversation with his daughter came to an abrupt close with, 'Angie's calling me. I'd better go. Bye, Daddy.' And she was gone.

  Horton quickly selected Catherine's mobile phone number. She'd know it was him. She'd recognize his number. Would she answer? He doubted it, but miraculously she did.

  'What is it, Andy? I'm busy,' she snapped.

  Before he could stop himself he was saying icily, 'Shagging Edward Shawford I expect.' Then realizing that she could just hang up on him he quickly added, 'Is that why you want to send Emma away to school?'

  'How do you know that? Who told you?'

  'It's true then. You know I won't allow it.'

  'It's got nothing to do with you.'

  'She's my bloody daughter,' Horton roared, stung by her callous words, fighting desperately to hold on to the control that was his usual master, but which now seemed in severe danger of deserting him. A young couple brushed by, eyeing him strangely. He stepped further back into the shadows of a shop doorway.

  'Don't swear at me!' Catherine hissed down the line.

  He took a breath and silently chanted his mantra. Don't let the buggers see you're hurting. Don't let them see you care. It didn't work, because he cared too deeply. All he could see was Emma, alone and frightened. And all he could feel were the bitter memories of a little boy, terrified and hurt, standing in that empty prison of a room.

  'Emma is not going to be abandoned,' he reiterated slowly and deliberately, as if each word weighed a ton and cost a million pounds. His hands were clenched, his insides contorted in a tight knot.

  'No one's abandoning her,' Catherine said scornfully.

  'So being shut up in a draughty old boarding school, deprived of her mother and her father, isn't abandoning your child?' he snapped.

  'You're living in the wrong century. Northover is not something out of a Dickens novel. It's an excellent school where all the best people's children go––'

  'So that's all she is to you, a status symbol!'

  'I'm not going to have this conversation with you, Andy, and especially now. Emma is in my care and I'll decide what's best for her.'

  In a flash Horton saw what game Catherine was playing. Coldly he said, 'You're doing this so that I can't see her, aren't you?'

  'Don't be ridiculous.'

  But he knew he was right by her false tone of indignation.

  'I'm her mother and I'll––'

  Horton punched his mobile off. He didn't want to hear any more. And he couldn't face returning to the pub to discuss the case. With a heavy heart he climbed on to the Harley and with no idea where he was going, letting his mood take him, he rode through the quiet streets of the island, occasionally stopping to look at the sea in the rain-sodden night.

  Eventually he found himself back at Bembridge Marina, amazed to see that it was over four hours since he'd left the pub. He felt mentally exhausted. He'd considered every possible alternative to how he could prevent Emma from being sent away to school from abducting her – foolish – to finding something against the school, a criminal activity – possible. He'd have all the staff checked, double-checked and triple-checked. Finally he'd turned his mind to how he could gain permanent custody of Emma, which included resigning, showing Catherine up to be a terrible mother, bribing the judge and coaching his daughter to say she wanted to live with him. His brain ached with it all.

  Angry and emotionally exhausted, he stripped off and stood under the hot shower long enough for his skin to wrinkle. Every nerve within him cried out for the chance to sink into drink-induced oblivion, something he hadn't done since April. He knew it wouldn't help matters, and that drunk or sober he wouldn't sleep.

  He made a coffee, and sought distraction from his mental turmoil in thinking about the case. It was then he remembered the obituary on the Carlssons. Fishing it out of the pocket of his trousers, he sat down with his coffee and read it through twice. The first time quickly, the second slowly, taking in every word and linking it in his mind with Thea and Owen Carlsson, looking for anything that might help him connect the cases, but he didn't find it.

  What he did learn, however, was that Helen had been the daughter of a Dorset butcher. Secondary school educated, she'd come up through her profession the hard way, forcing herself into what was then a male-dominated world – the business of being a newspaper photographer – putting herself into extreme and dangerous positions until her talent, and hard work, had finally been recognized.

  Lars, by contrast, had come from a wealthy Swedish family. He'd been educated privately and gained his degree in art and history from Cambridge before returning to Sweden and architecture as his chosen profession. The two had met in America in October 1967 when Helen had been photographing the massive protest in Oakland, California, against the Vietnam War. Lars had been staying there with friends who had enlisted him in their protests.

  Horton sat back thinking. What had happened to Helen Carlsson's photographs? Clearly they were worth a great deal of money. Had she made a will at the time of her death and bequeathed them to a close friend? Or had they been left to Owen or Thea? Perhaps they'd sold them. And what about Helen and Lars's personal papers: family photographs, mementos? Had they been in Owen's house and were now destroyed by the fire? Thea hadn't mentioned it. She hadn't even seemed upset that the book in which her mother had written a personal message had gone up in flames. She'd been more concerned about the bloody cat.

  A sound outside caught his attention. Someone was coming down the pontoon. It could be anyone, the harbour master perhaps. On the other hand, Horton realized, it could be his intruder returning, and this time with a more sinister intent.
/>   He rose. The footsteps grew nearer. They stopped. Holding his breath, Horton steeled himself for action. Then a voice hailed him – one he knew very well. Surprised, and letting out a sigh of relief, he slid back the hatch and stepped into the cockpit to find a very wet and bedraggled Cantelli standing on the pontoon. Cantelli's grim expression killed Horton's smile in an instant.

  'Thea. You've found her. She's dead.' An icy wind sucked the breath from him.

  'No. Not Thea.'

  Thank God. Relief washed over him. Then Cantelli's words registered. Someone was dead, and if not Thea, then who?

  'We've been trying to reach you,' Cantelli said, looking worried.

  'Who is it, Barney? Who's dead?' His tired brain struggled to think who it could be.

  'Jonathan Anmore.'

  It took Horton a moment to think who Cantelli was talking about before he recollected the athletic fair man he'd seen in the churchyard. Surprised, he said, 'The landscape gardener! What the devil has he got to do with this case?'

  That's what Uckfield would like to know.'

  And so would I, thought Horton. So would I.

  TEN

  'He's over there,' Uckfield announced, pointing to the far end of the barn.

  From where Horton was standing he couldn't see the body, only a small wooden yacht on a trailer and, surrounding it, a couple of petrol-driven lawn mowers and other gardening implements.

  On the six-mile journey across country to Dills Farm, Horton had trawled his memory recalling his brief conversation with Anmore in the churchyard, looking for some sign that the gardener would be their next victim, but only one thing stuck in his mind: Scanaford House. Makes you wonder if it's cursed. Everyone who comes into contact with it ends up dead. Except me and Bella. Perhaps he'd better put a watch on Bella Westbury, he thought, climbing into the scene suit. But ghosts didn't kill people, not unless Anmore had been frightened to death by one, and Horton thought that highly unlikely in the middle of a barn three miles from Scanaford House.

  He said, 'How come DCI Birch called you in?' There was nothing to connect Anmore with Owen Carlsson's murder.

  Uckfield pushed a toothpick in his mouth. 'He knew Anmore was the Suttons' gardener and because we're considering a possible link between Arina Sutton's death and Carlsson's he thought we should be here.'

  Horton had a suspicion that wasn't entirely the truth and judging by Cantelli's expression he agreed. Birch probably knew they'd all been drinking in the pub and Horton wouldn't put it past him to tip off the press about this murder in the hope that they'd arrive to find the officer-in-charge stinking of booze. Uckfield smelt like a brewery. Horton wondered how long he'd stayed drinking in the pub in Newport after he'd left. He caught Cantelli's eye and an unspoken signal passed between them. They'd need to get Uckfield away before the media showed up, though thankfully this being an island the national press wouldn't arrive until the morning, if at all. How to get him away without making him even more belligerent than usual was another matter.

  Horton told Uckfield what Bella Westbury had said about Anmore's amorous tendencies, adding, 'He could have been killed by a jealous lover or husband.'

  'Birch and Norris can follow that up. We'll examine any links between Carlsson and Anmore.'

  That made sense, and three deaths around Scanaford House – four if you counted Sir Christopher – was four too many for Horton's taste. 'Did the doctor give any indication as to how long he's been dead?'

  'Barely wanted to touch the poor sod, afraid he'd get that bloody paint all over him.'

  'What paint?'

  'You'll see. Made me wish Doc Price was here; drunk or not he'd have done a better job than the streak of piss they sent along. But he was good enough to tell us he is dead.'

  'Who found him?'

  'Anmore's old man discovered him at about ten twelve p.m.'

  Horton checked his watch, before slipping his arm into the white sleeve. It was just after midnight.

  Uckfield said, 'Charlie Anmore says his son didn't return home for his tea at six. He tried his mobile and got no answer. He knew his son couldn't be gardening in the dark but he thought he might have got held up with a client, or gone to the pub, so he didn't bother too much about it. When it got to ten and Jonathan still hadn't appeared, Charlie rang round a few of his son's mates, tried the local pub, without success, and finally came here. His son hires the barn from the farmer.'

  Uckfield's words had taken them to the body. Horton drew up with a start.

  'You never said he'd been stabbed in the back with a ruddy great pitchfork.'

  'Didn't want to spoil the surprise.'

  'Thanks,' muttered Horton, ignoring his churning gut as best he could and focussing his gaze on

  Anmore. He was lying face down, with his arms outstretched, and now Horton saw what Uckfield had meant about the paint. Anmore was covered in a russet-coloured liquid, which, if Horton wasn't mistaken, and judging by the discarded tin some two feet away, was anti-fouling paint for the boat's hull.

  Uckfield belched loudly. 'Charlie Anmore eased the body over to check it was Jonathan, got himself covered in paint, and then staggered out to summon help from the farmer, who thought Charlie was bleeding to death and nearly had a heart attack himself.'

  'Where's Mr Anmore now?'

  'PC Somerfield and one of Birch's officers took him home. Somerfield's still with him but the other officer has taken Anmore's clothes to the station for forensic examination tomorrow.'

  'Shame the old boy touched him.'

  'Yeah, but I doubt he killed his son, though you never can tell.'

  Horton knew that was a sad fact of life. He studied the body, his revulsion replaced by curiosity. The pattern of death certainly didn't fit with Owen Carlsson's or Arina Sutton's. In fact there seemed no pattern at all to any of the deaths except perhaps those of Helen and Lars Carlsson with that of Arina Sutton; both involved cars and both had been in the same location. But Anmore had been the Suttons' gardener.

  'Why the paint?' he asked, intrigued.

  Uckfield shrugged. 'Fit of temper after stabbing him? Or maybe Danesbrook did this. It looks like the work of a lunatic, though why he'd want to kill Anmore beats me unless he didn't like the azaleas he planted. Who knows what sets these people off ?'

  Was Roy Danesbrook involved, wondered Horton? He turned to Cantelli. 'Has anyone interviewed the farmer?'

  'Sergeant Norris spoke to him earlier. He says he heard Anmore's van drive up the track at about six thirty. He was watching the weather forecast on the television, which is how he knows the time. He didn't see the van though, and he can't see the barn from the house. He didn't hear any other car approaching the barn, but he did go out for a pint. Charlie Anmore came pounding on his door at about ten twenty. He called the police, left his wife to give Charlie a stiff drink and came up the barn to see for himself. He says he touched nothing.'

  'Did his wife hear or see anything?' asked Horton.

  Cantelli shook his head. 'She was at a Women's Institute meeting in Newchurch until nine and there was no one else in the house. DCI Birch's officers will start a house-to-house tomorrow, but there are only three houses in the immediate area so it won't take them long and they're a mile away. This is a pretty isolated spot.'

  Yes, and ideal for murder, thought Horton. The farmhouse was a mile up a muddy track, off a narrow country lane, and surrounded by woods. Taylor might get something from the track, but Horton guessed too many police vehicles had trundled up and down it. There was something that had caught his attention, however. Dr Clayton had said that Owen Carlsson had been shot through glass and here, on his right, was a boarded-up window.

  Pointing to it he asked, 'When was that broken?'

  Cantelli glanced at the window. 'The farmer might know. You thinking Owen could have been killed here?'

  'It's possible, and then transported to the Duver in Anmore's van.'

  Uckfield's phone rang and he hurried away, struggling to wriggle out of h
is scene suit as he went while reaching for his mobile phone.

  Horton turned away from the body and with Cantelli followed Uckfield at a slower pace.

  Cantelli said, 'There is another possibility, Andy.' He dashed an apologetic glance at Horton.

  Horton knew what he was thinking. He said, 'You believe Thea Carlsson could have done this.'

  'It's just an idea,' Cantelli shrugged. 'Perhaps it's like you said earlier. Owen recognized Anmore as the person who had killed Arina. Anmore could have been driving a car and not his van. Owen confronted him and Anmore killed him. But Owen had already told Thea about his suspicions and