Now Horton was really puzzled. She wasn't making any sense. But before he could comment, she drew a deep breath and said, 'You see, I'm psychic.'
Horton gave a silent groan. She was clearly unhinged. Enough to have killed her brother? Probably. The police woman obviously thought so, judging by her expression. And if Thea Carlsson was going to stick to that as the reason for being here then he didn't hold out much hope of her convincing Birch she was innocent.
Eyeing him regretfully but unapologetically she said, 'I can see that you don't believe me. It doesn't matter.'
Then why did he feel a stab of guilt? It was as though he'd been tested and found wanting, he thought as he watched her climb into the police car.
He took the key from his pocket, recalling the sensation as their fingers had touched; something had passed between them. There had been some kind of silent pleading in her eyes. What had she been trying to tell him? What did she want him to do? He stared down at the key.
'She wants you to feed the bloody cat,' he said aloud, slipping the key back into the pocket of his cargos. And that was exactly what he was going to do.
TWO
The Carlssons' house was detached, double-fronted with sturdy stone bays up and down, and built most probably in the early part of the twentieth century. It stood in a road of similar proper ties in a quiet residential area above the town of West Cowes and the River Medina. Horton was relieved to see no sign of Birch or any police presence but he knew it was only a matter of time before they showed up. And maybe that would be sooner rather than later if Birch discovered that Thea had given him a key.
Where once the front garden had been there was now hard-standing for two cars, but only one was parked, a small Citroen. Thea's or her brother's? He peered inside. Nothing lying about on the seats. And no blood stains or maggots, he thought wryly, though the boot might reveal something. He tried it. It was locked. But if it had been used to transport Owen's body, and if Owen had been killed inside this house then surely Thea Carlsson wouldn't have given him a key. And, another thing, if this was Thea's car then why hadn't she driven it to the Duver? Perhaps she didn't drive, he thought, reaching for his mobile phone. He called Cantelli.
'Missing us already?' Cantelli joked.
'I need you to check a car registration number.'
'Andy, you're on holiday.'
Horton heard the exasperation in the sergeant's voice. 'Humour me.' He gave Cantelli the number and said, 'Call me back.' He could have checked it himself by using his laptop computer on the boat and logging on to the police computer with his password, but he couldn't wait that long.
He glanced around the deserted street before striding up the path to the house, and letting himself in. For several seconds he stood in the spacious hall testing the silence. It was total. He was alone. He hadn't expected anyone to be here, except a cat, and that didn't make an appearance.
The cord-carpeted stairs to the first floor were directly in front of him with closed doors to both his right and left. The old wooden floor boards in the hall had been stripped and primed to perfection. They led down a narrowish hall to a door at the back of the house but it was the one on his right that he pushed open. As he stepped into a spacious sitting room he wondered what Thea and her brother did for a living. Perhaps he'd find some indication here.
The room had been expanded by knocking the front and back rooms into one, giving it a light and airy feel. Beyond this he could see a conservatory and then the garden. It was tastefully and comfortably furnished with pale blue drapes at the windows and cream painted walls. There were a scattering of rugs on the stripped-wood floor and the paintings were modern seascapes.
He caught the faint smell of paint. He wasn't sure that was a good sign. That, and the fresh looking cream sofas, confirmed to him the room had recently been decorated and refurnished. It was also spotlessly clean with nothing out of place. He didn't yet know how long Owen Carlsson had been dead, but if he had been killed in here then Thea and her accomplice might have had time to clean and redecorate. And if Birch believed her to be the killer then Forensic would take this place apart to find evidence to prove it.
He crossed to the cabinet of books to the left of the chimney breast and tilted his head to read the spines. There were books on walking, birds, nature and the environment. His phone rang.
'The Citroen belongs to an Owen Carlsson,' Cantelli announced. 'He lives at 18 Grafton Street, Cowes.'
Where Horton was standing. 'Does he own the house?'
'I expect the mortgage company own it but he's listed as the owner-occupier, not a tenant. I've checked him out. There's no previous on him.'
Horton might have known that Cantelli would go one step further than he'd asked him to. So Thea simply lived here with her brother. She didn't have a financial share in the ownership of the house.
'Anything wrong?' Cantelli asked, when Horton didn't instantly reply.
Horton told him what had happened, excluding the bit about Thea being psychic.
'Blimey, can't take you anywhere. You're meant to be on holiday. Do you want me to see what I can find on them?'
Horton did but he said, 'Haven't you got anything else to do?'
'It's been fairly quiet lately.'
'Not saying I'm jinxed, are you?'
'Well, you do have a habit of running into trouble.'
Horton sniffed. Unfortunately Cantelli seemed to be right. 'Maybe this isn't trouble and is suicide.'
'You don't sound too sure. I'll check them out.'
Horton found Bengal's food trays in a modern kitchen which opened up into the conservatory. Again it was spotlessly clean and he found everything in its place as he opened cupboards and drawers. He dished out some food for the cat before returning to the hall, where he pushed open the door opposite the lounge and drew up surprised at the contrast with what he'd already seen. Books and box files were everywhere: on the floor, on shelves straddling a black iron Victorian fireplace, and piled on the ancient desk in the bay window. Horton made for the shelves where he found books on the depleting rainforests, weather systems, climatic change and the balance of the eco-systems. Whose office was this, Owen's or Thea's, he wondered? And was this interest in the environment a hobby or profession?
Then his eyes spanned the handwritten notes on the box files noting the names of projects: Estuarine, marine and coastal ecotoxicology in the south-west Solent; The determination of seabed reference conditions for potential offshore windfarm sites off the Isle of Wight and Hayling Bay; Sea temperatures and global warming and, judging by the name on the reports, this was clearly Owen Carlsson's profession and his office.
Horton picked out the file on Estuarine, marine and coastal ecotoxicology in the south-west Solent and glanced through the covering notes unable to make much sense of them. Stuffing the papers back, he extracted notes from a second folder. It was a study on the impact of onshore and offshore wind farms on and round the Isle of Wight. An environmental pressure group called REMAF had commissioned it, which stood, Horton saw, for Renewable Energy Means A Future. A shrill piercing tone shattered the silence, making him start. Scrabbling under some papers on the desk, Horton located the phone. The light was flashing on the answer machine, showing that three messages had already been left. He let the phone ring and listened as the answer machine clicked on, shuddering slightly as he heard the dead man's voice.
'Hi, this is Owen Carlsson. I'm out trying to save the planet. Leave a message and I'll get back to you when I've completed my mission. If I don't return your call you'll know I've failed, but you and no one else will be around to care very much by then anyway.'
Horton smiled. Clearly, Owen had had a sense of humour and had been passionate about his work. Then Horton remembered that rotting body and the smile died on his lips.
A male voice bellowed, 'Where the devil are you, Owen? I had to cancel the meeting with Laura. Call me — and I don't mean next week. I mean now.'
The last word was shouted b
efore the phone was slammed down. Horton punched in 1471 and jotted down the telephone number of the caller. It was a mobile number. He pressed the play button and found that the same man had left the other three messages since Monday, growing increasingly cross with each one, and not leaving his name. It was obviously someone well known to Owen. Who was this Laura he kept referring to? From the messages the meeting had been arranged for today, Wednesday.
He shoved the papers on wind farms back into the box file, wondering why Thea hadn't answered the telephone in her brother's absence, explaining that her brother was missing. Perhaps she'd been too upset, he thought, pulling open the desk drawers and rummaging around inside, thinking that maybe he should have put on his latex gloves. She must have heard the phone. Even if she had been out of the house on each occasion why hadn't she come in here and played the messages? Had Owen banned her from doing so? But why would he do that, unless she was one of those women who couldn't resist tidying up, like Catherine who was obsessed with maintaining his former marital home like a show home. Perhaps what he'd seen of this immaculately kept and tastefully decorated house was down to Thea, and her brother had drawn the line at any make-over in here.
There was nothing of interest in the desk. He wondered where Owen Carlsson kept his more personal documents: birth certificates, passport, examination and school certificates, old photographs. There was also no sign of a gun licence and neither was there anything that resembled a gun cabinet. Sergeant Norris would have checked out the ownership of the gun by now, but Horton found himself once again calling Cantelli.
He asked Cantelli to check the National Firearms Licensing Management System, and the police computer to see if either Owen or Thea Carlsson owned a gun.
Then he told Cantelli about the telephone message left on Owen Carlsson's machine and gave him the mobile number. 'Find out who is on the end of it and whatever else you can get on him, but don't tell him about Owen Carlsson. I don't want him alerted.'
'OK.'
Horton called to the cat as he climbed the stairs, remembering what he was meant to be there for, but Bengal didn't show. He checked out the bedrooms at the front of the house, finding that one of them was Owen Carlsson's while the other was a plainly decorated spare room. There was nothing in either of them to tell him why Owen Carlsson had been killed. And if he'd been hoping for love letters, pornography or even guns he was disappointed.
Staring around Owen Carlsson's immaculately tidy bedroom he was intrigued by the contrast here with the man's chaotic office below. It made him wonder who the real Owen Carlsson was — the tidy one or the rather more carefree one indicated by his office and that answer phone message. Was there an inner conflict in Owen Carlsson, a split personality perhaps that had somehow resulted in his death?
God, he was beginning to sound like a psychologist, a breed he didn't have much time for after his experiences of them as a child. It didn't take a degree or professional training to know why he had been so unruly. A police officer and his wife, who had been his last foster parents, had managed to interpret his moods and needs and channel his energy into making his life more constructive not any trick cyclist.
His attention was caught by the sound of a car pulling up, and hurrying to the window he saw a smartly dressed woman in her fifties enter the house to his right. It could be worth having a word with her. He checked the bathroom — nothing out of the ordinary unless there were blood stains invisible to the naked eye — before pushing open the door of the last room along the landing. Here he found the cat curled up on a dark blue duvet.
The huge tabby opened one eye and contemplated him warily as he moved around the bedroom. Judging by the female clothes and smattering of toiletries in the adjoining shower room this was clearly Thea Carlsson's bedroom, but he was struck by the fact that she had few possessions and even fewer clothes. There was also no laptop computer, no mobile phone and no personal letters. On the mantelpiece though were two framed photographs and Horton crossed to these. He found himself looking at what must surely be Owen Carlsson. Here were the same thin face, white-blond hair, pale blue eyes and wide mouth as his sister. They could almost have been twins except that — judging by this photograph — Owen had been some years older than Thea, who was standing next to him in cap and gown. Horton wondered what her subject had been; she could hardly have graduated in psychic mediumship. Where did she work? What did she do? He hoped Cantelli would enlighten him because there was nothing here to tell him.
He replaced the photograph and picked up the other one. It was of a man and woman, in their mid to late twenties, standing beside a motorbike, which Horton recognized instantly as a Triumph. He also knew immediately who the couple were. There was no mistaking the parents of Owen and Thea Carlsson. And judging by their clothes it looked as though the picture had been taken in the early 1970s. Where were they now, he wondered? Why hadn't Thea mentioned them? They would need to be told about their son's death. But then he recalled that Thea had said there was no one. They must be dead, he thought, replacing the picture, unable to stop himself thinking of his own parents.
He'd never known his father, and as far as he could remember his mother hadn't spoken of him. Was he alive, and if so was he even aware of Horton's existence? He doubted it. And there was no way of knowing or finding out, unless he located his mother. And that seemed highly unlikely. The past was better left where it was. If only it would stay there, he thought bitterly, turning his attention to the books in the low bookcase.
He found several on spiritual healing and psychic phenomena, which were obviously Thea's given her earlier declaration. He thought of Birch and Norris's reactions to her claims of being in touch with the dead and winced. Was she sticking to her story? He hoped not but what was the alternative? That she was a killer? There was a vulnerability about her that bothered him. And he didn't much like the vision of Birch's cynicism and derision as he questioned her.
Had she asked for a solicitor? He told himself that Birch's officers would have explained her rights, but he was concerned that her shock might make her say something which Birch would misinterpret or seize upon as evidence of her guilt — like that damn psychic thing. And if she hadn't been charged…
Telling himself he was an idiot, he rang the solicitor who was handling his divorce. Frances Greywell came on the line almost instantly. She didn't give him the chance to speak.
'I've heard nothing more from Catherine's solicitor about you seeing Emma. I'll chase them up.'
'I'm not calling about that. Do you know any good lawyers on the island who specialize in criminal law?'
'Why?' she asked, surprised. 'Are you-?'
'It's not for me,' he hastily interjected and quickly gave her an edited version of his discovery that morning, and details of Thea Carlsson.
'There's Michael Braxton. He's well thought of.'
'Call him and ask him to contact DCI Birch or Sergeant Norris at Newport station. If Thea hasn't got a solicitor, ask Braxton if he'd represent her. I want someone with her as soon as possible despite anything she says to the contrary.'
'Of course. I'll do it now,' she said crisply.
'Give him my mobile number and ask him to call me as soon as he's spoken to her and to DCI Birch.'
She rang off. Horton knew that she would have liked their relationship to be more than a professional one, but he didn't want to get involved with his solicitor, no matter how attractive she was. He had half an idea that it would backfire on him and that somehow Catherine would use the information to be even more difficult and obstructive than she was already being.
He picked up the book beside Thea's bed. The Lost Ghosts of the Isle of Wight. Poor buggers, he thought, opening it and reading the handwritten dedication: 'To darling Thea who has the gift, Helen.' What gift? Being physic? Who was Helen?
His phone rang, making him jump. He wasn't usually so edgy. The cat started too, shifted a paw and cast him an angry glance before deciding that he and his phone were no threat.
It was Cantelli again. 'Know much about ghosts?' Horton asked, putting the book back where he had found it.
'Why? You seen one?'
'Not yet. But give it time. Thea Carlsson claims to be psychic,' he found himself confiding.
'Well she's not employed as a medium. In fact she's not employed anywhere in the UK according to Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs. Or if she is then she's not paying tax and never has.'
Maybe she relied on Owen for money, thought Horton, and lived here as his dependant. But if so, why so few clothes and limited personal possessions? Unless Owen had kept her short. Was he some kind of control freak and she'd finally flipped?
'What about Owen Carlsson?' Horton stared down at the sloping roof of the conservatory and beyond that into a good-sized garden, which backed on to the gardens of another street. At the bottom of Owen's garden was a group of bare-branched trees and shrubs, and a small summerhouse.
Cantelli said, 'He's a self-employed environmental consultant, and, according to the Internet, has written tons of articles on the environment. He's had some pretty impressive national media coverage on global warming. And there's no record of either of them owning a gun. Want me to carry on digging?'
'With a spade.' Horton ignored the small voice inside him that told him to leave well alone and get on with his holiday. He could be wasting precious police time by getting Cantelli to do work that DCI Birch must surely be doing. But then perhaps Birch thought he was staring at Owen Carlsson's killer sitting opposite him in the interview room. And maybe he was.
'What do your psychic powers tell you about Owen Carlsson's death, Barney?'
'They say get the hell out of there and finish your holiday.'
Horton thought it good advice.
'But knowing you, you won't,' Cantelli continued, with a smile in his voice. 'You might like to know that Taylor and his scene of crime team are on their way over and Dr Clayton's doing the autopsy later today. She can't get over to the island until six.'
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