Cantelli took the paper cup from her. 'And the anti-fouling paint?'
'Interesting. From my examination – and it was a messy one – it was poured over him, starting from the back of the head and then down to the ankles. You might have noticed that there was less on his ankles and none, except splashes, on his outstretched arms.'
Horton had. As he took his coffee from her she said, 'Come through to this cupboard they call an office.'
She waved Horton into a seat opposite the kind of desk he thought you only ever saw in furniture stores or advertisements: pristine clean and devoid of all paperwork. On it though was a laptop computer – Gaye's he guessed – and a telephone. Her own office in Portsmouth was probably groaning under the strain of paper, as his must be by now. He'd be back there on Wednesday unless this investigation dragged on. He was hopeful that later today, with some pressure applied, Danesbrook might confess to his part in the murders and give them the name of his accomplice.
Cantelli squeezed himself into the cubbyhole and leant against a filing cabinet to Horton's right. Slipping his chewing gum into a piece of paper and popping it in his pocket, he asked, 'Why pour the paint over him?'
It was a question that Horton had been asking himself. Somehow that didn't fit with Danesbrook, though it could his partner-in-crime, he supposed.
Gaye slumped into the swivel chair opposite Horton. He saw the dark smudges under her eyes. 'Some kind of gesture, I guess?' she said. 'Anger, jealousy. Perhaps after stabbing him, the killer picked up the first thing to hand. If your victim had been married I might have said it was a jealous wife who resented playing second fiddle to the boat.'
Cantelli glanced at Horton. 'Does that mean we're back to considering the jealous husband or boyfriend of one of Anmore's clients out for revenge? Or could Danesbrook have got jealous?'
'You mean he's gay? You're the second person to suggest that.' Horton considered it briefly. 'I wouldn't have said he was, though who knows.'
'Danesbrook?' queried Gaye.
'Someone we've pulled in for questioning – and you were right about Arina Sutton, she was the daughter of Sir Christopher Sutton, your neuropsychiatric consultant. He's dead. Cancer,' Horton quickly added.
She heaved a sad sigh which turned into a yawn before sipping her coffee.
Horton again considered the paint and his and Uckfield's earlier conversation with Laura Rosewood. He had another theory. Admittedly it was a bit off beam but he might as well toss it in with everything else.
To Gaye he said, 'We've been told that Owen Carlsson could have been killed because he was working on an environmental project which involved not only mapping the coastal erosion hazards, but analysing the state of the sea around the Isle of Wight.'
Gaye eyed him keenly. 'You mean the anti-fouling paint was used as a kind of protest statement because it isn't environmentally friendly – well, not entirely,' she said, grasping his point at once. He should have known she would.
'What's wrong with it?' asked Cantelli.
'Shall I explain?' Gaye Clayton said eagerly.
'Be my guest.'
'Anti-fouling marine paint contains a biocide or poison held in the coating, which when on a boat's hull, leaches slowly from the paint straight into the marine environment. It's used to prevent larvae, barnacles, mussels and seaweed spores attaching themselves to a boat's hull, which would slow a boat down.'
She glanced at Horton who took up the explanation. 'Anti-fouling paint can have a harmful effect not just on the organisms trying to foul the hull, but on marine life. And that was Owen Carlsson's speciality.' He recalled reading somewhere how toxins from the paint can settle in the sea affecting a host of tiny creatures which made up the marine food chain. 'Owen Carlsson was studying the sea around the island for a European project. Maybe he discovered that a manufacturer of anti-fouling paint was using a new and more potentially harmful variety or one that hadn't been fully tested.'
'But why kill Anmore? He wasn't conducting a study,' said Cantelli, clearly baffled. He wasn't the only one.
Horton said, 'Perhaps Owen had uncovered fresh evidence that showed beyond all doubt this new paint was a major hazard to marine life, which if exposed would be a serious threat to sales, internationally. He's killed to silence him and then his house flashed up to destroy the evidence, but Anmore witnesses Owen's death, or is involved in it, or perhaps Owen told him when they got to talking about boats.'
Cantelli was looking at him as if he'd just read him a Brothers Grimm fairy tale. Horton shrugged and shaped a grin. 'Yeah, it's a bit weak.'
SOCO would already have bagged up the tin of paint and Horton made a mental note to have it analysed but along with the theory that Owen had possibly been involved with a property development company or marina who wanted his findings stopped, it wasn't really a very strong motive. Danesbrook's greed was far more plausible.
Cantelli's phone rang. He ducked out of the office to answer it as Horton addressed Dr Clayton. 'What was the time of death?'
'Between six and eight p.m. last night.'
When Danesbrook had no alibi, thought Horton more cheerfully.
Gaye said, 'The victim didn't put up a struggle. I found a contusion on the back of the head. He was struck with some force, but the blow didn't kill him. He had a pretty thick skull. It would certainly have rendered him unconscious though. Studying the position of the body and my findings from the autopsy, I'd say he was kneeling down when he was struck.'
Mulling this over, Horton said, 'The body was found at the far end of the barn, so the killer would have walked the length of it. Anmore would have heard him coming. There was no other way in, which means that Anmore must either have known his killer and didn't see him as a threat, or our killer was already in the barn waiting for Anmore to arrive.'
Cantelli returned. 'That was Trueman. He says SOCO haven't found any additional tyre tracks around the barn other than Anmore's van, his father's car and our own vehicles.'
Horton considered this for a moment. 'Danesbrook could have parked his car further away and walked to the barn.' Though he couldn't see Danesbrook walking far in his pointed cowboy boots.
Gaye said, 'Perhaps the killer came in Anmore's van with him.'
And that didn't sound like Danesbrook's style either. And if he wasn't guilty then there was the other possibility which Cantelli had already voiced to him earlier: Thea Carlsson.
Reluctantly Horton now considered this. Had she been taken to the barn against her will and then killed Anmore? Or had she gone voluntarily and killed him? She could have thrown the anti fouling paint over Anmore as a defiant gesture because Anmore had killed her brother. After doing so she'd left on foot. But why not come to the police? There were two possible answers to that question: because she was afraid of what she'd done or she, with Anmore, had killed her brother using Anmore's gun. Damn, that didn't sound good.
'Could a woman have killed him?' he asked Dr Clayton, hoping she'd say no.
'Yes.'
Shit. 'Must have been a fairly strong woman.'
'Not necessarily.'
Double shit.
Gaye said, 'The victim was struck with something flat and wide, a spade I think. Taylor found one and had it bagged up. There was no blood on it visible to me but something could show up under the microscope. I'd say your killer came up behind the victim; he might even have been talking to him while he walked across the barn. The victim turns back to his boat, or to look at something on the floor, the killer picks up the spade, whacks the victim on the back of the head, he falls forward then the killer picks up the pitchfork and plunges it into the victim's back.'
Cantelli shuddered. 'Must be a cold-blooded bugger to do that.'
'Or a very angry one,' Gaye added, disappointing Horton further. He guessed that Thea might be capable of such an act if she believed that Anmore had killed her brother. And, let's face it, he hardly knew the woman. He'd met her twice and they hadn't exactly had time for in-depth discussion. But h
e didn't want it to be her. He wanted it to be bloody shifty-eyed Danesbrook with his greasy ponytail.
Gaye said, 'There's something else you might wish to consider. Your killer knew where to place that pitchfork for maximum effect in penetrating the pulmonary artery, which means he could have some medical knowledge, or maybe he was just lucky and your victim unlucky.'
Horton brightened up at that. As far as he was aware Thea Carlsson didn't have any medical knowledge, though they would have to check. And neither did Danesbrook, he thought disappointingly, but Dr Clayton's words reminded Horton about that list of names Cantelli had given him.
'Do you know any of these people?' he asked, handing her the sheet of paper that Cantelli had copied.
Raising a quizzical eyebrow she studied it. 'I've heard of Joshua Viking, a very clever and talented neurosurgeon in his day. And Francis Grant, a radiologist, or rather he was, they must both be retired by now. Why the question?'
Horton told her.
She looked at him, amazed. 'You think one of these people could have killed Owen Carlsson?'
'I didn't say that but there must be a reason why he wanted this list.'
Before she could answer, his phone rang. It was Trueman. He excused himself and headed out of the mortuary into a windy, damp day which was rapidly darkening.
'We've found someone on that list who Owen Carlsson contacted.'
Great. 'Who?' Horton asked excited.
'Dr Edward Nelson. He's a retired GP, lives in Lymington.'
Even better, thought Horton, a man with medical knowledge.
Trueman added, 'Owen visited Dr Nelson on the ninth of January, six days after Arina Sutton died. I didn't press Nelson on the phone as to why Owen called on him. I thought I'd save that for you. I also didn't mention Owen Carlsson's death, but Dr Nelson asked me if that was why I was calling – he said he'd heard about it on the local news.'
'Then why didn't he come forward?'
'Because he didn't think Owen's visit to him had anything to do with his death.'
And it might not, thought Horton.
Trueman said, 'We've still got a couple of names to contact, but I reckoned you'd want to know about Nelson.'
Horton glanced at his watch. It was just after three. 'Call him back and tell him I'm on my way to see him, Dave.'
'I've already told him that.'
Horton should have known.
He got Dr Nelson's address and had just rung off when Cantelli emerged. Quickly bringing him up to speed on their way back to the station, Horton asked Cantelli to see if Danesbrook had confessed under Uckfield's questioning and to let him know immediately if he had. Then collecting his Harley he made for Yarmouth and the car ferry to Lymington.
FIFTEEN
Friday 17.10
'My wife's at her art class and won't be back for a couple of hours,' Nelson said in a soothing voice, which Horton thought must have reassured his more nervous patients. He was a thin stooping man with sleeked-back silver hair, a prominent nose, kindly and intelligent hawk-like eyes under bushy silver eyebrows. 'Do you mind talking in the kitchen?'
Horton would have talked in the garden shed if he thought he was going to hear something that might help him go forward with this tortuous case. He shook off his boots in the highly polished hall of the thatched house with mullioned windows that could have posed as an advertisement for Olde England. A grandfather clock ticked sonorously, and he half expected Miss Marple to appear from the sitting room as he followed Nelson into a kitchen, which oozed enough charm to make an estate agent wet his pants with excitement.
Nelson offered Horton a coffee. He shouldn't have accepted because his caffeine level was getting dangerously high, but he reckoned it was going to be another long night. Cantelli had rung through while he was on the ferry to say that Danesbrook's solicitor had arrived and that he and Uckfield were about to interview Danesbrook after Uckfield's abortive attempt earlier to extract something from him. All he'd got were grunts. Birch's team had drawn a blank with any possible witnesses to Arina Sutton's fatality and the house-to-house near the barn where Anmore had been killed had come up with zilch.
'I was very sorry to hear about Mr Carlsson's death,' Nelson said, placing the kettle on a Rayburn built into an ancient brick fireplace and gesturing Horton into a seat at the big oak table straddling the centre of the kitchen.
Outside the wind was whipping itself into a fury and the rain was beating against the window. Thankfully the cottage didn't spurn modern comforts, and the central heating and thick curtains kept the drafts at bay. It was the type of kitchen Horton had imagined so often as a child, with a loving mother at the table, baking, and a father reading his newspaper. It was a childhood fantasy that still caused an ache inside him, exacerbated by the fact that it was the kind of home he'd like to have shared with Emma and Catherine – although in truth Catherine would have run a mile from this. Her taste was minimalistic and ultra modern, and, Horton thought, rather soulless, but he would have settled for a warehouse apartment or a shack in the Welsh hills if he could have saved his marriage and been with his daughter.
He brought his mind back to the job in hand as Dr Nelson continued. 'Mr Carlsson seemed a very pleasant young man, though I suppose I could be wrong, hence your visit.'
'We're still trying to piece together the last days of his life and the reason for his death,' Horton explained, avoiding being drawn on Owen's personality, though – he thought wryly – they knew little about it anyway. He shrugged off his leather jacket, adding, 'And sadly there's been another death, which we believe might be connected, a Jonathan Anmore. Did you know him, sir?'
Nelson paused in the act of spooning coffee into two blue and white willow-patterned china cups complete with saucers. 'He's been murdered?'
'Yes.' Horton didn't see any need to tiptoe around Nelson. He held his gaze and saw curiosity and bewilderment. Then Nelson shook his head sadly.
'I met him at Christopher's funeral. He seemed such an amiable man.'
'Did you speak to him, sir?' Horton asked hopefully.
'Not much. After the committal we walked back to Scanaford House together. He told me he was Christopher's gardener; we discussed the weather, some plants, nothing more. He didn't come inside for the wake. I left him talking to Arina. She was very upset, understandably so. And now you say he's also dead.' Nelson placed the coffee in front of Horton. 'And you think his death and Owen Carlsson's might be connected with Christopher's or Arina's, although I don't see how.' Nelson took the chair opposite Horton.
'How well did you know Owen, sir?' Horton asked, avoiding answering the question that Nelson had posed.
'I didn't know him at all, Inspector. I saw him walking into the church beside Arina at the funeral and then obviously with her at the graveside. He seemed to provide her with some comfort. She introduced me to him at the wake, but he didn't stay long.'
'How did she introduce him?'
Nelson frowned as if remembering. 'She just said his name and that he was a close friend.'
'And then he turned up here after Arina's death, why?'
'I must say I was surprised myself. He said he wanted to talk about Arina. He wanted to know anything I could tell him about her, and her mother and father. I think he was grieving for her and didn't know who else to turn to. He must have remembered that Arina introduced me as her father's oldest friend. Owen probably thought that meant I had seen Arina grow up. I hadn't though. I told him that Christopher and I had trained together at Guy's Hospital, London. But that I went into general practice and Christopher into neurology. We always kept in touch and used to meet up in London occasionally for dinner and a few drinks.'
'What sort of man was Sir Christopher?' Horton asked, interested, not having the faintest idea where his questions might lead him. The words 'time' and 'wasting' sprang to mind.
'Clever. Ambitious. Amusing. I liked Christopher very much but our friendship was always best served at a distance. He was a bit too ambitious an
d too overbearing for my tastes. I would say we were opposites, which was why the chemistry worked in small doses. Christopher had to be in charge. He was a very dominant man but with a unique eye for detail that doesn't always fit with that type of personality. It was what made him a brilliant researcher though, and at the same time a risk-taker, a rare quality. But he'd never have made it as a GP, no bedside manner and not very tolerant.'
In Horton's opinion that didn't stop many from becoming GPs.
Nelson added. 'However, what Christopher lacked in social skills with his patients he more than made up for by his skill as a consultant, and he was a pioneer in neuropsychiatry.'
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