Blood on the Sand

by Pauline Rowson

  'Why not simply register and buy a gun here or use one at a gun club?' asked Cantelli, folding a fresh piece of chewing gum in his mouth.

  'Perhaps he didn't want to be bothered with the red tape?' suggested Trueman. 'Or he only wanted it for target practice in his barn.'

  'Should have bought himself an air rifle then,' Horton added sourly.

  Uckfield rose and immediately let out a howl of pain, clasping a hand to his back. They all stared at him, surprised.

  'You all right?' asked Horton, concerned.

  'Do I bloody look it?' Uckfield hissed through gritted teeth.

  'Perhaps you've pulled a muscle.'

  'Yeah, laughing at you clowns, who couldn't catch the clap in a brothel never mind a triple killer.' He flashed Horton a hostile look before trying to straighten up, decided it wasn't a wise move and made a vain attempt to hobble to the crime board.

  Horton threw Trueman a look. What's wrong with the Super? Trueman shrugged. No idea.

  Horton said, 'There could be another reason for Owen's death, which puts Bella and Danesbrook in the clear.'

  'Then for God's sake tell us,' Uckfield snapped. 'Or do we have to play twenty questions?'

  'Owen could have witnessed something when he was out gathering data for his survey.'

  'Like what?' asked Trueman.

  'He was on the coastline so it could be smuggling, boat stealing, or dumping waste in the sea or in a coastal stream.'

  Cantelli looked up. 'He could have found something which incriminated someone––'

  'Such as?' grunted Uckfield, screwing his face up with pain.

  'A body, a treasure trove, guns. Owen Carlsson could have seen Anmore bringing in guns. He confronted him and – bang.' Cantelli made a shooting movement with his two fingers.

  Horton addressed Trueman. 'When was the last time the boat was used?'

  'I'll check with the lab.' He lifted the phone.

  Horton continued. 'And check if Customs have ever stopped him.'

  Trueman nodded before speaking into the telephone.

  Uckfield, with his hand on his back and clearly in some discomfort, said, 'We need to find out where Owen Carlsson went in the days before he was killed––'

  'Before Arina was killed,' corrected Horton. 'Her death could still have been a warning for Owen to keep his mouth shut.'

  'Yeah, and as we haven't got his diary we're back to asking Joe Public to help, which is about as much good as a split condom. No one's come through with a single sighting of him since that woman saw him on the Cowes chain ferry. And there's still no sign of Thea Carlsson.'

  And that was worrying Horton. He hauled himself up with a glance at his watch. He wasn't going to find Thea by sitting around here discussing theories. Besides, he and Cantelli had an appointment. He nodded to Cantelli who unfurled himself from his chair.

  'Where are you going?' demanded Uckfield, surprised.

  'Ghost hunting.'

  'What?' Uckfield's bellow turned to a yelp of pain.

  'Gordon Elms is the author of a book that Helen Carlsson inscribed for her daughter and it's possible that Thea went to visit him.'

  'And where the devil will that get us?'

  Horton didn't know. Both Bella Westbury and Danesbrook had denied all knowledge of Thea's whereabouts but then they would if they'd killed her. 'You'd better see someone about your back,' he called out, not stopping to hear Uckfield's answer, which if true to his usual form would be a string of profanities.

  'The super's obviously been overdoing it,' Cantelli said, pointing the car in the direction of Gordon Elms' house. 'Looks like he's taken on more than he can handle with this Laura Rosewood. What's she like?'

  'Attractive, widowed and a friend of the Chief Constable's.'

  Cantelli flashed him a look. 'He's playing a bit close to home. I hope his wife never finds out.'

  Horton thought of Alison Uckfield and agreed. It wouldn't do Uckfield's career much good either.

  Cantelli said, 'Elms has got his own website and seems to be something of a celebrity in ghost hunting circles.' He handed Horton a piece of paper.

  Horton read aloud. '"The Isle of Wight is reputed to be the most haunted place in Britain. It is home to a medley of ghosts, spooks and spirits. Take a walk around Cowes with ghost hunter and popular author Gordon Elms, and discover the mysteries of the old town. Sign up for a tour of the many houses and hotels on this mystical magical island where ghosts still haunt the halls and corridors."' He looked up. 'Scanaford House?'

  'I can't see Sir Christopher Sutton opening his house to the weirdos of the world.'

  And neither could Horton. Nor could he see Arina Sutton doing the same – but Roy Danesbrook as the owner? That was another matter altogether. Cantelli was obviously following his train of thought.

  'Be a good money-spinner though. Especially for someone like Danesbrook. Spend a night in the haunted house and spot a spook.'

  'Does Danesbrook know Gordon Elms?'

  'He says not.' Cantelli yawned. 'I can't handle these late sessions like I used to. Must be getting old.'

  'If it's any consolation I'm feeling just as rough.'

  Cantelli dashed him a glance as if to check. 'Charlotte called this morning,' he added, pulling into the traffic.

  'Anything wrong?' Horton asked anxiously, sensing Cantelli's concerns.

  'She says Joe's missing the only male in the household, and with five women, three of them hormonal if you count Charlotte, I said who can blame him.' Cantelli smiled, but Horton could see he was worried.

  Joe and his six-year-old twin sister, Molly, were the youngest of Cantelli's brood. Ellen, the eldest at sixteen, had caused Cantelli some sleepless nights recently and he guessed her sisters, Sadie, who was fourteen, and Marie now twelve were probably fast catching up on the worry front. Horton wondered if he'd be around to see his own daughter through troubled times. He had to be, there was no question of that.

  'How are the girls?' he asked.

  'Ellen's more interested in boys than studying, so nothing new there. Sadie's dancing her feet off, loves all that ballroom and Latin American stuff, and Marie's blossoming now she's started at that new school.'

  Horton recalled that Marie had had the misfortune to be sent to one of the worst inner city schools in Portsmouth – the one he'd been condemned to spend some years at as a child – because all the places at the schools Cantelli and Charlotte had applied for had gone by the time the local education department had found their lost application papers.

  Cantelli said, 'She's only been there a fortnight and loves it. I can tell you, getting her into St Crispins, and her winning that scholarship, is the best thing that could have happened even if I did have to promise to return to the fold of Catholicism. I'd have converted to Buddhism if it took that to make her happy. And I would have sold my soul to the devil to pay for her school fees if she hadn't got a scholarship, clever girl. Just to see her face light up every time she talks about it is worth . . . Sorry.' Cantelli flicked Horton a glance. 'There's me wittering on when you must be worried sick about Emma. Any news on that front?'

  Horton found himself telling Cantelli about Emma's phone call and Catherine's plans to send Emma away to school.

  'Why don't you visit the school?' Cantelli urged. 'It wouldn't do any harm to see what it's like. You've every right to do that, even Catherine can't stop you. And if you find you don't like it, and there are reasonable grounds, then you've got something solid to fight against it.'

  Cantelli had a point. He should have thought of it himself but emotion and Emma's sobs had clouded his judgement. 'I'll call them.'

  'Yeah, and don't leave it too long. I know what you're like when on a case. That's not meant as a criticism,' he added hastily at Horton's dark look. 'Call that school as soon as we've finished with Gordon Elms – and talking of which, we're here.'

  Cantelli indicated off the main road into a side street of stone bay terraced houses much smaller than the ones two streets
away where Owen had lived. Convenient if you wanted to start a fire, Horton thought. But he had no reason to suspect Gordon Elms of anything let alone almost killing both him and Thea.

  'It's not very impressive for a world-renowned professional ghost hunter.'

  'Perhaps he's got a penthouse apartment on the south of France and this is his work base,' Cantelli joked.

  The door was answered promptly. If Horton had expected someone dressed like Merlin then he was gravely disappointed. Gordon Elms did, however, resemble a gnome. He was small with a little round pot belly protruding over a pair of camel corduroy trousers that came just an inch short of being the right length. Beneath them, Horton caught a glimpse of fluorescent pink socks above shabby white trainers. In his fifties, with greying hair and a little grey goatee, Elms waved them into a small sitting room and offered them refreshments, which they both refused.

  Horton noted there was no television. Above the fireplace was a sinister-looking painting of a large house, which he didn't recognize, though it bore a faint resemblance to Manderley before Mrs Danvers had set fire to it, according to the Alfred Hitchcock version. As he took the seat Elms gestured him into, Horton thought it rather a gloomy picture to hang in this room, it being executed primarily in shades of grey, while the room was decorated in red and gold, as if it had overdosed on Christmas and was reluctant to let go of the festive season. He noted the candles on the mantelpiece along with a couple of photographs of a younger version of Elms with an older woman, whose facial qualities and age paraded the fact that she must be Elms' mother.

  Cantelli opened the questioning. He showed Elms the photograph of Thea and asked if he had seen her recently. Clearly by Elms reaction he had.

  'Why yes! She came some days ago.'

  They'd been right then, thought Horton; this had been the address Thea had been looking up in the library.

  'When exactly?' pressed Cantelli.

  'It was a Thursday. I know that because I hold an evening class on Thursdays. I lecture on the paranormal at the community centre. I was preparing for it when she arrived. Yes, it was the fifteenth.'

  Two days later Owen Carlsson left his house and never returned.

  'She'd read my book,' Elms said proudly.

  Maybe he didn't get many admirers, thought Horton.

  Cantelli said, 'The Lost Ghosts of the Isle of Wight.'

  'Yes. She was very complimentary. Said it had been given to her as a present. I said that must have been at birth.' He smiled. 'I wrote it years ago and it's long been out of print though I am considering updating it and publishing it myself. Publishers these days only seem interested in you if you've been on the telly. And, as you can see, I don't even have a television set, and I wouldn't appear on one if you paid me. I'm not into cheap magic tricks. I'm a genuine ghost hunter and medium.'

  'I'm sure you are, Mr Elms,' soothed Cantelli. 'When did you write the book?'

  'Let me see. It was published in 1985, which means I wrote it in 1983, but I remember researching it for a year before that. In fact I began as soon as I moved here in 1982, a year after I first came here with my mother on holiday. I knew immediately this was the place for me, so when my mother died, I sold up and moved from London. Never regretted it either.'

  Cantelli nodded and jotted this down in his notebook.

  Horton said, 'Are you a full-time ghost hunter and medium?' If his voice held a note of scepticism, Elms didn't seem to notice it.

  'Yes. I took early retirement from the council where I worked in the planning department. Why do you want to know about the book and this woman?'

  Horton was tempted to say, 'Psychic powers deserting you?' But he held his tongue and instead asked, 'What did Thea Carlsson ask you?'

  'She said her mother had given her the book,' Elms continued, with a slight frown at not having his question answered. 'She showed it to me and asked if I recalled selling it to her mother.' He gave a little laugh. It sounded as if his underpants were too tight, thought Horton.

  'I told her I was a writer, not a bookseller, and that her mother could have bought it in any number of bookshops. She showed me a photograph of her mother, a blonde, good-looking woman, but I didn't recall her . . .'

  Suddenly Elms looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. Horton wondered why, but it was Cantelli who beat him to the question.

  'But you remembered something.'

  'I felt something.'

  Horton tried not to snort with derision. He was getting the impression that Elms was a bit of an actor, and the word 'ham' sprang to mind.

  Earnestly, Cantelli continued. 'Like what, sir?'

  Elms drew in his breath, closed his eyes, and steepled his hands in front of his chest. Cantelli flashed Horton a glance. Horton raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes in response. He'd almost had it with this little squirt, but Cantelli, with a nod of his head and a steadying hand, urged patience. Horton waited. After a moment Elms threw open his eyes.

  'Evil. I felt evil.'

  'In what way, sir?' asked Cantelli chirpily, drawing a slight narrowing of eyes from Elms.

  'In the danger kind of way,' he snapped. 'Is there any other kind of evil? You of all people should know it exists. You see it daily in your professional lives.'

  He had a point, thought Horton.

  Cantelli said solemnly, 'And evil seems to have befallen Miss Carlsson. Her brother was killed shortly after her visit here.'

  'Good grief!'

  'You didn't see, feel or smell that?' Horton sneered, drawing a flash of hostility from the little gnome.

  'The evil wasn't specific, and it wasn't directed at Miss Carlsson,' Elms replied tight-lipped. 'I would have warned her otherwise.'

  Horton considered this. Was Elms really psychic or had Thea told him about her mother's death and Elms was making this up as he went along? Horton wouldn't mind betting that was so. Behind Elms' angry eyes Horton saw his dislike of him, but then he was used to that.

  'Did you tell Thea Carlsson of this evil?'

  'Yes. She said she already knew about it. But I didn't pick up any vibes of her being a kindred spirit, so to speak.'

  If he believed Elms was a genuine medium or spiritualist, or whatever you called them, then maybe he hadn't detected the vibes because Thea wasn't in danger, and neither was she psychic, but had colluded in the killing of, or had killed, her brother. Dr Clayton's words returned to haunt him. This is a clever killing by a clever killer. But no, he refused to believe it of Thea. They'd got their killers – Westbury and Danesbrook – even though they couldn't prove it yet. Elms was the phoney.

  'Who was the evil directed at then?' he snarled, tired of the gnome and not wanting to waste any more time on him.

  'I'm not sure, but as Miss Carlsson handed me the book I felt it.'

  He wanted to say 'bollocks'. Maybe Cantelli felt this because he quickly interceded.

  'Did she ask you about ghosts mentioned in the book or any specific ghosts?'

  'No.'

  They hadn't yet seen a copy of the book and Horton now doubted that it mattered anyway. There was a brief silence in which Horton strained for any sounds in the house. All he could hear was the whirring of the central heating. What was Elms not telling them? Horton felt sure there must be something, or was that just desperation on his part? Probably.

  Elms asked, 'Who is her mother?'

  'Was.' corrected Horton. 'She died in 1990, along with her husband, in a car accident at Seaview.'

  Elms looked surprised but that could have been faked.

  'Tragic. But why was their daughter . . .?' Elms paused.

  Cantelli prompted him. 'You've thought of something?'

  'Just the accident you mentioned in Seaview. There was hit-and-run there about three weeks ago.'

  'Arina Sutton.'

  'That's right. Such a nice lady.'

  Horton resisted throwing a glance at Cantelli. Keeping the excitement from his voice he said, 'You knew her?'

  'Yes. Well, not exactly, bu
t I'd met her.'

  'When?' asked Cantelli casually, pencil poised.

  Elms thought for a moment. Horton wasn't sure if it was for show or he really was trying to remember. After a moment Elms said, 'It was just before Christmas. Would you like the exact date, Sergeant?'

  'Please.'

  Elms rose. 'I'll check my diary.'

  He left the room. Horton swiftly and silently crossed to the door to make sure Elms wasn't hovering outside. He saw him disappear into the back room. 'What do you think?' asked Cantelli.

  'He's a phoney but this link with Arina Sutton could be interesting.'