Blood on the Sand

by Pauline Rowson

  she came here to avenge her brother's death.'

  Groaningly weary, Horton knew he had to consider it as a possibility. 'How did she know where to find Anmore?'

  'Her brother could have told her before he died.'

  'Then why didn't she tell us?' cried Horton.

  'Maybe she wasn't sure until she let Anmore into the house and he tried to set fire to her.'

  'That still doesn't explain why she wouldn't say anything to us,' Horton said stubbornly. 'And I don't see her having the strength to plunge a pitchfork into Anmore's back.'

  'That might not be what killed him,' Cantelli persisted. 'She could have stuck it in him after he was already dead.'

  Horton knew Cantelli could be right. Nevertheless he had other ideas. 'Owen could have told Jonathan Anmore that he knew who had killed Arina and Jonathan thought he'd go in for a spot of blackmailing, especially after he heard that Owen Carlsson was dead. And the person he was blackmailing killed him.'

  He thought back to his earlier brief conversation with Anmore. Anmore hadn't seemed worried or nervous when he'd told him Owen Carlsson was dead and neither had he appeared shocked or even smug, just concerned. But both Roy Danesbrook and Bella Westbury had shown signs of unease.

  Stepping out of his scene suit Horton's eyes swivelled to Anmore's van. Perhaps they'd get some forensic evidence from it, he thought hopefully, before his gaze travelled beyond it to where DCI Birch and Uckfield were head to head in conversation.

  Following the direction of his gaze, Cantelli said, 'The Guv doesn't look very happy.'

  And neither did Birch, thought Horton, as Uckfield turned on his heel and stormed towards them leaving Birch to glower after him like a man who'd just had his tonsils removed without an anaesthetic.

  'There's no point in you being under cover,' Uckfield growled. 'Every bugger here knows you're a cop. And the time for pussy-footing around is over. I want some answers on these murders and I want them quick.'

  Horton wouldn't mind betting that the telephone call Uckfield had just received had been from the chief and judging by Uckfield's mood it hadn't been to utter words of praise and encouragement.

  Horton said, 'I'll talk to Charlie Anmore.'

  'Somerfield and Marsden can do that,' Uckfield said impatiently. 'I want you with me when I interview Laura Rosewood tomorrow. Be in at seven sharp.' Turning to Cantelli, Uckfield added, 'Let's leave this to the locals. DCI Birch can brief us tomorrow morning if his team find anything new. Meanwhile we need our beauty sleep. I want fresh eyes and brains. And I want results!' he boomed, storming off.

  With raised eyebrows Cantelli followed Uckfield. Horton's eyes flicked to Birch who was eyeing Uckfield malevolently. Tomorrow morning Birch and Norris would be bleary-eyed and drunk with sleep deprivation and about as much use as an umbrella in a typhoon but that wouldn't stop Uckfield pushing them so hard they wouldn't know what year it was, let alone what day. Birch had played the wrong card in snitching to the chief. A superintendent grassed up is a dangerous beast and they didn't come more beastly than Uckfield in a rage.

  Horton swung the Harley round and headed back to the boat, thinking that Uckfield might have ordered beauty sleep but obeying it would be another matter entirely.

  ELEVEN

  Friday 10.15 a.m.

  Horton slept fitfully, with dreams of Anmore's and Owen's rotting bodies, punctuated by images of Thea Carlsson as he'd rescued her from the blazing house, but even then he guessed he'd managed to grab more shut-eye than Birch and Norris who were resentful and sullen throughout Uckfield's bad-tempered briefing.

  On the journey to Laura Rosewood's home on the east coast of the island, Uckfield's mood, which was darker than a disused coal mine, didn't improve. He opened his mouth only to swear at any motorist or pedestrian who dared to get in his way, which seemed to be the island's entire population, and to comment that Ms Rosewood was bound to be a sandal-wearing, bead rattling Amazon with a moustache, or someone built like a shot-putter in the days of the Cold War and that this was all a bloody waste of time. Horton was inclined to agree with the latter sentiment, but reckoned on a younger version of Bella Westbury, all slacks and common sense. He was relieved when they swung into a wide gravel driveway which culminated in a futuristic house of glass and steel, perched on the cliffs of Luccombe. It was, thought Horton, totally out of keeping with the grey-stoned and colour-washed Victorian and Edwardian houses of the wooded area, and didn't look that environmentally friendly to him, which it should have been given the woman's position in the European Commission.

  Laura Rosewood however was very friendly and not at all how either of them had imagined. As they followed her swaying hips clad in tight black trousers through a spacious hall Uckfield winked grotesquely at Horton. Clearly the attractive, slender, forty-something woman with short blonde hair and immaculate make-up had lightened Uckfield's mood considerably. Perhaps, thought Horton, they should install her in the station.

  'It's such terrible news about Owen,' Laura Rosewood said, gesturing them into comfortable armchairs in an airy and expensively furnished room. Horton's eyes were immediately drawn to the magnificent view of a tumultuous grey-green English Channel beyond wide glass doors while Uckfield clearly had trouble taking his from Ms Rosewood's cleavage and the black bra beneath the dark-blue lacy top.

  'We're hoping you can tell us what Owen was working on, Ms Rosewood,' Uckfield said solemnly.

  'Of course. And it's Laura.' She flashed her perfect white teeth at him.

  Uckfield's grin reminded Horton of a crocodile who'd just seen dinner in the form of a fisherman on the bank.

  'When was the last time you saw Owen Carlsson, Laura?' Uckfield leered.

  Horton tried not to wince. She was older than Uckfield's usual types but neither that nor the fact he was married would stop the big man from trying his hand.

  'It was at Arina's funeral, a week ago Tuesday.'

  'How did he seem?' asked Horton.

  She swivelled her petrol-blue eyes to him. 'Upset, naturally. We all were. Are you any closer to finding out who killed Arina?'

  Uckfield answered. 'Detective Inspector Birch is leading that investigation.'

  This morning Horton had got his wish and Birch's officers were at Seaview conducting a house to-house, and trying to establish who had been in or around the hotel at the time of Arina's death. Another team were about to interview those in the houses near the barn where Anmore's body had been found. While Taylor's officers were going over the scene-of-crime with a comb so fine that not even a nit would get through. Cantelli had reported that the farmer couldn't confirm when the barn window had been broken. He said that Anmore must have boarded it up himself because he certainly hadn't done it. So not much joy there and neither had they found any witnesses to the fire.

  'It's such a waste,' Laura Rosewood sighed. 'And now Owen's dead too. Is there any chance his death could have been suicide?'

  'Would you have said he was capable of that?' asked Horton, knowing that it wasn't, but eager to hear her thoughts and get an insight on Owen's personality.

  'No, he was a very positive, cheerful sort of man. At least he was on the occasions I met him, barring Arina's funeral of course. He was recommended by Terry Knowles for a project I'm involved with for the European Commission, which is why you're here, of course.' Her eyes swung back to Uckfield. 'Can I offer you some refreshment? Coffee?'

  'Thanks,' Uckfield replied before Horton could refuse. He would have preferred information to caffeine but he was outranked.

  'I'll ask Julie to make us some. Excuse me.'

  They both rose as she left the room. Uckfield's eyes followed her greedily. 'Wouldn't say no to a bit of that.'

  Horton didn't remind Uckfield that he was married. It would have been pointless. But it jogged Horton's memory that he hadn't yet called his solicitor regarding Emma being sent away to school. There had been the briefing and then the drive here. Once this was over, though, and he was alone, he'd call her.<
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  'Nice place she's got; worth a few bob,' Uckfield added, prowling around the lounge and eyeing the exquisite glassware on specially designed shelves either side of an inset modern fireplace.

  Horton agreed. There were also some expensive-looking modern paintings on the pale cream walls and the wide-screen plasma television and music system were both top of the range. Everything was neat, calming and spotless. The room barely looked lived in.

  'Wonder what her old man does for a living,' Uckfield added, lifting and almost dropping a glass objet d'art which Horton thought had probably cost Laura Rosewood the equivalent of his annual salary.

  'It could be her money.' He reckoned advisers to the European Commission were on a fair screw.

  He crossed to the glass doors and stared at the great expanse of sea. In the sheeting rain he could just make out a container ship ploughing its steady way across the Channel. There was still no word on Thea. He had tried not to think that she could have killed Jonathan Anmore or that she might be already dead. It was useless to speculate. Uckfield said something to him but he had no idea what, and before he could ask him to repeat it footsteps sounded in the hall and the door swung open.

  'Coffee won't be a moment,' Laura Rosewood announced, settling herself back in her seat. Uckfield resumed his. 'Now, you wanted to know what Owen was working on.' She fixed her eyes on Uckfield. 'Integrated Coastal Zone Management.'

  'Come again?'

  She smiled. 'It's complicated, but I'll try and make it as simple as possible.'

  Horton took a seat to the right of Uckfield where he could see Laura Rosewood clearly. He removed his notebook from his pocket and began to make notes, something he rarely did, but knew he should. He had almost total recall but without Cantelli here, and with Uckfield bound to blame him if he missed anything which turned out to be vital, it was safer.

  Laura said, 'Europe has a relatively long coastline in relation to its land area and there are a variety of different habitats, economic and social conditions surrounding it and impacting on it, but the greatest of these, and therefore the biggest threat to our coasts is us: humans. Many people have boats. Then there is fishing and other sea-based industries. As a consequence our coastal areas and habitats continue to deteriorate. The European Commission Environment Directorate is very concerned about this, as are various governments and environmental bodies. So the Directorate set up a programme to monitor this.

  'The quality of coastal waters is a major cause for concern: oil slicks and algal blooms, buildings, urbanization, agricultural and industrial developments have considerably reduced the biological diversity and cultural distinctness of the landscapes in most parts of Europe. Recent research shows that climate change could involve a rise in sea level of several millimetres per year, and an increase in the frequency and intensity of coastal storms.'

  There was one going on right now, thought Horton, as the rain hit the glass doors like a rapid round of machine-gun fire.

  'Global warming,' he said, thinking about those files in Owen Carlsson's burnt-out study, and Bella Westbury had told him that Owen was an expert in oceans.

  'Yes,' she replied, directing her gaze at him. 'And the pace of global warming is speeding up quicker than predicted.'

  'We've all seen the film The Day After Tomorrow,' sneered Uckfield.

  'You may be cynical, Superintendent, but the day after tomorrow is sooner than you think,' she clipped.

  'Well, I'm more concerned with catching a murderer today rather than the day after tomorrow. So what's Owen Carlsson got to do with all this?'

  Before she could answer, the door opened and a slight, mousey-haired woman in her early forties entered carrying a tray. On it was a coffee pot, white porcelain cups and a plate of chocolate biscuits. She placed it on a glass-topped table in front of Laura Rosewood, who nodded her thanks. The woman smiled shyly at Horton and slipped away without a murmur or introduction. The silent and obliging Julie, no doubt.

  'Depending on where these storms occur,' Laura continued, pouring the coffee with slender, well-manicured fingers, 'the combined effects of these two phenomena will have serious repercussions, such as major floods, which are already happening in our own country. Milk, Superintendent?'

  'And three sugars.'

  'Not for me.' Horton watched as she handed Uckfield his coffee, their fingers touching briefly.

  'Where does Owen Carlsson fit into this?' Horton repeated, not bothering to disguise his impatience. He didn't have time to sit around listening to a geography and meteorological lesson.

  She swivelled to face him. 'Expected growth – in tourism in particular – will increase human pressure on the natural, rural and urban environments. Look at the pressure to develop along our own Solent coastline, and here on the Isle of Wight. And I have to hold my hands up and admit that I am partly to blame.' She smiled rather ruefully. 'I ran a property development company, with my late husband, Jack, for fifteen years.'

  That explained this house, thought Horton cynically. Only a property developer would have got planning permission for it.

  She said, 'I was fortunate enough to sell the company three years ago at the height of the property boom.'

  'Lucky you,' muttered Uckfield with his mouth full of biscuit.

  Horton could almost see him thinking 'no husband to complicate things – ideal'.

  'Or perhaps I was shrewd enough to see the bubble was about to burst. I've been in property a long time. I started as a surveyor a million years ago,' she smiled.

  'I can't believe that,' Uckfield grinned back. Horton just about stopped himself from rolling his eyes at Uckfield's grotesque attempt to be gallant. Laura Rosewood seemed to like it though. More fool her, thought Horton.

  She said, 'After I'd sold the business I was at a loose end, not sure what to do next. I don't like being idle. Then Terry Knowles mentioned that the European Commission needed advisers and my background and experience seemed ideal.'

  'Their gain, Laura. I'm sure––' charmed Uckfield.

  'To get back to Owen Carlsson,' Horton cut in tetchily, thinking they were wasting time. Uckfield scowled at him.

  'Of course,' she said briskly. 'The results of the project will include a set of policy recommendations to deal with coastal erosion in a sustainable way, and, dependent on the findings, recommend how we should best deal with the increase of coastal storms and global warming. The Isle of Wight is one key area of this project. It has, as you might be aware, some serious coastal erosion problems, even where this house is situated. Owen was engaged on mapping the coastal erosion hazards, as well as providing an analysis of our shoreline, and an analysis of the sea around us.'

  'How far had he got?' asked Horton.

  'He started six months ago. It's a three-year project and Owen was going to move around Europe's coastline yearly to undertake studies in other key locations. There are some who would like to stall this report, however, others who might wish it never sees the light of day, and some who want to influence the policy recommendations for their own good, if it gets that far.'

  'Like who?' asked Horton, more interested now there was a hint of a motive for Carlsson's murder.

  'The marina development companies, the leisure boating industry, the fishing industry, property developers, and that's just for starters. There could be a great deal of money at stake if, for example, Owen's findings were to recommend no more marinas or property developments along coastal areas. Or that sea pollution and coastal erosion mean legislative changes and restrictions must be introduced in the leisure boating industry.'

  'Can you be more specific? Company names would help.'

  'Sorry, Inspector, I can't because I don't know exactly. I called Reg, the Chief Constable, when I heard about Owen's death because I was concerned that someone was determined to prevent this project from progressing. I've obviously had to report it to Brussels. The project's been put on hold and Europol have been notified, though I gather they're not going to investigate until they
hear back from you.'

  Now Horton could see another factor that had contributed to Uckfield's foul temper. If Uckfield had to hand this case over to the European Police, it would be a severe career blow for him and would really piss him off.

  Laura Rosewood continued. 'It's been decided to keep any possible connection between Owen's death and the environmental project quiet for the time being until you've had time, Superintendent, to investigate it further. Owen's death might have nothing to do with the project and we don't want the alarmist press whipping up the story. You know how they love to dish the dirt on anything to do with the Commission.'

  To Horton it made some sense, but if Owen had been murdered to prevent this project from progressing they'd probably never discover his killer. The case would be too complex, with too many possible suspects and the killer would have been professional and covered his tracks superbly.