It was arson, that much was obvious, but Horton hoped that Maitland might be able to tell them exactly how the fire had started, which could give some clue as to the background of the offender, though he doubted this one would have been stupid or careless enough to leave any traces behind.
'What about Taylor and SOCO?'
'Elkins will ferry them into Cowes in the morning. Any more bloody incidents like this and it'll be easier and cheaper to put the buggers up in a hotel. I've scheduled a full briefing at Newport station for eight a.m. Either I or Cantelli will liaise with you after that, if he's stopped throwing up by then. And I'll get Birch to set up a twenty-four-hour watch on Thea Carlsson until we can get her moved. Then she'll be under continuous protection in the safe house.'
Horton felt relieved. Glancing through the window of the relatives' room, he said, 'DCI Birch's just arrived with Sergeant Norris.' They were talking to a nurse. He was surprised they hadn't shown up sooner.
'I'll call him. Now make like you're a distressed friend, which doesn't sound like a problem, and get the hell out of there.'
The line went dead. A few seconds later Horton saw Birch reach for his phone. It had to be Uckfield calling him because Birch looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon with the pips still in it. He gestured at Norris to stop him heading for Thea's room. There was obviously some kind of disagreement between Uckfield and Birch judging by Birch's pinched expression before he rang off and consulted with Norris. As Horton stepped out of the relatives' room, Norris reached for his mobile with a glare at Horton that could have frozen the Solent.
'Just what were you doing at that house, Inspector?' Birch demanded icily.
'Visiting someone I was concerned about.'
Birch narrowed his eyes, clearly not believing him, and stepped so close that they were almost touching noses. With an expression of such loathing that it made Horton shiver inside, though he took pains not to show it, Birch hissed, 'If you so much as put a toe out of line on my patch, I'll make you wish you'd never joined the police force.' Then swiftly turning, he marched towards Norris.
'Nice to feel appreciated,' muttered Horton, heading back to A amp; E reception unperturbed by Birch's threats. The man was vindictive and spiteful but Horton could handle that. He'd met his type several times both in the criminal world and as colleagues, and had decided long ago that retaliation might be sweet but it wasn't worth the effort. It was better to bang the bastards up if they were criminals, or avoid them as much as possible if they were colleagues. That way you saved wasting a lot of energy. Avoiding Birch would be one of life's pleasures.
Finding the doctor he'd spoken to earlier, Horton quickly explained the situation and asked him to say nothing to anyone about him being a policeman. The doctor nodded wearily. Horton guessed he might just as well have saved his breath. He appeared to have forgotten anyway.
He stepped into a cold night with rain like stair-rods and climbed into a taxi that had just dropped off a fare outside the hospital. Giving the driver instructions to return to his boat he once again wished he had the Harley. He toyed with the idea of sailing back to Southsea Marina tomorrow to collect it and then return to the Isle of Wight by car ferry, but that would lose him a day's investigation and he couldn't afford that. Besides, he had to stick around to see if Owen Carlsson's killer got curious about him again. Glancing at his watch he was surprised to see it was only eight o'clock. It felt a hell of a lot later. Suddenly he knew what he had to do.
'Take me to Ryde Pier and the FastCat to Portsmouth.'
'But you said-'
'The FastCat, and as quick as you can.' With luck and a following wind he'd make the twenty fifteen crossing. From Portsmouth he could get a taxi to Southsea Marina, collect the Harley and return on the car ferry to the Isle of Wight. He could have hired a car on the island, but he much preferred the Harley. On that he could think.
It was ten minutes before midnight when he finally returned to Bembridge Marina. He'd grabbed a pizza in a restaurant in Oyster Quays while waiting for the ferry to the island, and had snatched half an hour's sleep on the crossing, but that had only served to make him feel more exhausted than when he'd set out. He'd ridden through the quiet streets of the Isle of Wight carefully, grateful for the sheeting rain and cold night to help keep him alert.
His yacht was as he had left it, chaotic, but there were no further signs of an intruder. Tidying up would have to wait. He gulped down a tumbler of water hoping it would ease the rawness in his throat, then showered and lay down in the darkness listening to the soothing sound of the water slapping against the hull, and the rain drumming on the coach roof.
His mind sped back over the day's events, trying to make some kind of sense of the information he'd gleaned, but there were too many gaps. Perhaps Uckfield would be able to fill some of them in tomorrow — or rather today, he thought, glancing at the luminous digital clock beside him. And at least he'd get the chance to talk to Thea and find out who had told her where to look for her brother's body, and who had tried to kill her.
Had the killer lured her to the Duver with the intention of making it look as though she'd killed her brother, and had then intended to shoot her and make her death look like suicide? Horton's arrival on the scene had scuppered that plan so the killer had tried again by knocking Thea out and setting fire to the house. It was possible. And he reckoned she knew who that person was. But why not say? Why protect him? Could it be a boyfriend?
His phone rang. He was surprised to hear Sergeant Trueman's voice.
'Bloody hell, Dave, can't you sleep?'
'Not unless the boss tells me to. Actually I'm just on my way to our hotel. Hope I didn't wake you.'
'You didn't.'
'Thought not. Owen Carlsson-'
'Yes?' Horton sat up, all thoughts of sleep obliterated with those two words.
'He was involved in an incident nineteen days ago. A woman he was with was killed in a hit-and run at Seaview. Carlsson was paying the bill at the Seaview Hotel, where he'd been dining with Arina Sutton, his companion. She said she wanted a breath of fresh air. It was eleven fifteen. When Carlsson stepped out of the hotel he saw a car speeding towards her. He called out, but it was too late; she was knocked flying. Died instantly. No witnesses, apart from Carlsson.'
What a waste. Was this woman's death enough for Owen to have killed himself? But it hadn't been suicide. Tonight's events had proved that.
'Did we get the driver?'
'I'm not sure what the Isle of Wight police have done to trace him.'
Horton heard the underlying criticism in Trueman's voice. Why hadn't Birch or Norris mentioned this to him, Horton wondered? They should have recognized the victim's name when he'd given it to them at the scene of the crime, especially when putting it together with the fact that Thea had reported her brother missing. Was Birch holding out? That was highly probable given the man's dislike of him. But perhaps Birch considered the fact that the death of this woman and now her partner was pure coincidence. But Horton didn't trust coincidences one tiny little bit.
'Did Carlsson get a registration number?'
'According to the report he said it all happened too quickly and he was hardly thinking about that.'
No, only police officers were trained that way.
Trueman said, 'All Carlsson could say was that it was a dark-coloured saloon car.'
Which were two a penny. Then a thought struck Horton. Had Owen recognized the driver and been killed because of it? Or perhaps Owen was mixed up in something dangerous; he'd known the accid ent was intended for him — a warning for him to tow the line. Over what though? And how did that affect Thea? Were Thea and Owen both involved in something dangerous? Had Owen ignored this warning and so had to be eliminated? Perhaps the killer thought that Owen had confided in his sister, which was why she had to be killed. Or was he just reading too much into this? Probably.
Rubbing his eyes, Horton said, 'Where did Arina Sutton live?'
'Scanaford House
, Arreton.'
Horton knew the village. It was strung out along a busy road between the island's capital at Newport and the coastal resorts of Sandown and Shanklin.
'There's something else,' Trueman added.
Horton could hear by Trueman's tone it was significant.
'Helen and Lars Carlsson, the parents of Owen and Thea, were killed in a road traffic incident in 1990.'
The couple in the photograph with the Triumph motorcycle. Thea had told him there was no one. She hadn't lied. 'So?'
'They died in almost exactly the same spot as Arina Sutton.'
Horton felt a prickling sensation crawl up his spine. 'What happened?' he asked quietly.
'Their car went out of control, careered over the sea wall on to the stones below and caught fire.'
And a child and teenager were orphaned. 'Who was driving?'
'Lars Carlsson. He hadn't been drinking.'
'Suspicious?'
'No.'
Or rather it hadn't been. Not until now.
FIVE
Thursday 8.35a.m.
The narrow street in Seaview which led down to the sea was deserted. That wasn't surprising, thought Horton, given the time of day, the season and the fact that most of the houses were second homes owned primarily by the London set and frequented only in August.
Horton drew the Harley to a halt by the low sea wall and gazed across a grey choppy Solent into a cloud-shrouded horizon. The shores of Portsmouth and Hayling Island were invisible. It was as though they were marooned here from the rest of the world. Throughout the night his thoughts had been haunted by Thea and the new mystery that Trueman had tossed into his lap — the deaths of Helen and Lars Carlsson in 1990. Did that have anything to do with the incident here nineteen days ago? Had the killer mistaken Arina Sutton for Thea Carlsson and been determined to murder the Carlsson children in exactly the same spot as where their parents had died, only it had gone wrong? But why the hell should he want to do that?
He swivelled round to peer up the road where Arina Sutton had been killed. The first thing that struck him was the driver would need to have been very skilful, or lucky, to have sped down the road and slammed into poor Arina Sutton before taking the sharp bend to the left, without careering over the low sea wall and crashing on to the stones and rocks below, as the Carlssons had done. And another thing: how could the driver have got up so much speed in such a short distance to create an impact powerful enough to kill? OK, so the road was on an incline and pedestrians did die even if hit at low speed, but it was less likely.
Leaving his Harley, Horton made his way up the centre of the quiet road until he was standing at the crossroads and staring back down it towards the sea. Then he turned and climbed the steep incline up the approaching road. It curved slightly to the right. Stopping after a few yards, he turned. Yes, he had a good view of anyone leaving the hotel, especially if Arina had stood in the middle of the road, perhaps taking the night air and waiting for Owen. With his engine already running, the killer had raced down the road, shot across the crossroads, taking a gamble that nothing would be coming — although Horton knew there wasn't much chance of that — and had slammed into her, maybe as she had turned on hearing the roar of the car. Perhaps she had tried to run, or dive, out of the way, but the driver had swerved into her. But if the engine had already been running to allow the driver to get up speed quickly, how had he known when to strike?
Horton's mind grappled with the possible answers to that question. It could mean there had been two of them: one driving the car, and the other watching the hotel — perhaps from the shadows of the narrow street almost opposite it, ready to relay to the driver when Arina Sutton stepped outside. Alternatively, the driver himself could have been inside the hotel watching Owen Carlsson and Arina Sutton. When he'd seen them finish their meal, he'd made his way to his car parked here, switched on the engine and waited until he saw her step outside. And if that was so then he wouldn't have confused Arina Sutton for Thea Carlsson.
Horton began walking back to the Harley, mulling this over. It meant that either Arina was the target, probably killed as a warning to Owen Carlsson, or the killer thought he'd get Owen Carlsson and didn't much care if Arina also got killed in the process. By some quirk of fate Owen had been late joining Arina but the driver — once embarked on his mission — couldn't, or didn't want to stop. Yes, that was possible, and it fitted. And the killer had missed Carlsson once, so he had tried again and this time he had succeeded.
Of course, that didn't account for how Thea had known where to find her brother's body, discounting the psychic bit. Horton reached for his mobile and called Cantelli. The briefing would be over by now and Horton was keen to get an update.
'How's the stomach?' he asked when Cantelli came on the line.
'Still in my throat. And I'm not sure it's going to stay there either.'
'I can't persuade you to join me for a bacon buttie then?'
Cantelli groaned.
'Coffee?'
'Yeah, I reckon I'll just about keep that down. Where are you?'
Horton told him and added, 'But I'll be in the cafe in the Quay Arts Centre in Newport in thirty minutes.' He couldn't risk going to the police station in case someone was watching him. He didn't think they were, but it was best to be on the safe side. And he reckoned that Thea's attacker wouldn't know that Cantelli was a copper. 'Did you manage to track down Owen Carlsson's caller?'
'Yes. Terry Knowles. I spun him the yarn that we believed his car had been stolen. He told me rather rudely that seeing as he didn't own a car he thought it highly unlikely. He lives in Winchester and runs an environmental consultancy based in Southampton. He's clean.'
So, Owen could have been working with Knowles on an environmental project. Now they had to find out who this Laura was that Knowles had mentioned in his message. Horton doubted if Thea knew, but it might be worth asking her later. And if she didn't know they could go back to Knowles in an official capacity, and with the real reason for contacting him.
Horton said, 'Has Dr Clayton reported back on the autopsy?'
'She's just finished briefing Uckfield. He's in with DCI Birch.'
'See if you can get her to join us in the cafe. I'd like to hear what she's discovered. Is Maitland at the scene of the fire?'
'Yes, and Taylor.'
'How's Thea?'
'No permanent physical damage, but as for mental scars…'
And Horton knew they would never heal.
Cantelli said, 'Trueman's digging out background information on her and her brother. Uckfield said we'd leave interviewing her until she's in the safe house and then Somerfield can talk to her. She's with Thea at the hospital. The safe house is being organized now.'
And Horton would feel much happier when she was there. 'See you in half an hour.' He rang off.
As it was he made it in twenty minutes and didn't have long to wait before he saw the red headed, diminutive figure of Gaye Clayton, in jeans and a sailing jacket, enter the cafe. Behind her was Cantelli, looking rough. His dark eyes quickly scanned the cafe before alighting on Horton. There was a nod of recognition and a brief smile. No one followed them in and Horton knew that no one had come in after him. There were only a handful of people in the cafe, none of whom seemed the slightest bit interested in them.
'It was murder,' Gaye said, after settling herself in the chair opposite Horton. There were dark shadows under her soft green eyes, and the faint, rather pleasant smell of soap about her, which was a darn sight better than her usual perfume — formaldehyde.
Horton hadn't really doubted the verdict. Cantelli pulled up a seat next to him and yawned into his coffee.
Looking over the rim of her espresso, Gaye continued. 'There are some highly unusual circumstances surrounding the victim's death, which I am sure you will find extremely interesting. Superintendent Uckfield did, though he wasn't quite sure what to make of them, but to someone with your intellect, Inspector, it will be child's play.'
'Pity.' Her return smile turned into a yawn, which she gallantly stifled.
Horton leaned forward eagerly, wondering what was coming next. He already knew that this case was exceptional. From the moment he'd first seen Thea he'd had the impression or instinct, call it what you will, that there was something out of the ordinary about her and the murder of her brother. He couldn't explain it but he had the uncomfortable feeling that something had led him to this. It was stupid and irrational, and he knew that Uckfield and others, with the exception of Cantelli, would think he'd cracked up. Maybe he had and Thea's psychic claim had tipped him over the edge into paranoia or insanity. He'd been under considerable pressure since his return to duty in August, and what with the impending divorce and access to Emma
… With irritation he pulled himself together; only facts would help solve this murder and bring this evil killer to justice, not airy-fairy feelings.
'Fire away,' he said brusquely.
She winced at his pun. 'When a weapon is held against the skin the bullet usually produces a round hole. Not so in our victim. This time it's irregular in shape, more like a letter D, which means that instead of travelling in a tight spiral the bullet wobbled as it struck the victim's skin. The cause of that could be a gun that has malfunctioned or the ammunition is defective-'
'Ballistics are examining that and checking that the fragments Dr Clayton found in the body match the weapon you took from Thea Carlsson,' Cantelli interjected.
'And it was a hell of a job picking them out, I can tell you,' she added with feeling, running a hand through her spiky auburn hair.
Horton tried not to imagine those small, slender fingers probing the soft tissue of Carlsson's brains. He swallowed his coffee as she continued.
'But that isn't the only reason for an atypical-shaped wound. If I put that with the fact that there were no soot or powder deposits either, then it is my opinion that the gun was fired from some distance, certainly over two or maybe three feet, which rules out suicide.'
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