Uckfield exhaled. 'Bloody hell, you've got more theories than my wife's got shoes. All right. Let me know what you come up with.'
'And you let me know the moment you get anything on Thea Carlsson.'
Uckfield promised he would.
On that note, Horton returned to his boat, changed into his leathers, and set out for Arina Sutton's home: Scanaford House.
SEVEN
Thursday midday
It was old. Georgian, Horton reckoned, drawing to a halt in front of the brick and stone house that resembled a minor stately home. The tree-lined driveway must have been almost a mile long. Whatever Arina Sutton's background it was certainly one of wealth. The house had to be worth a million pounds plus, and it was a million miles away from the cramped flat in a council tower block that had once been his childhood home. He told himself he wasn't resentful, but who the hell was he kidding?
Climbing off the Harley, Horton removed his helmet, glad the rain had finally ceased, though the darkening sky threatened more. He pushed his finger on the brass bell beside a solid oak door and ran a critical eye over the facade. The place had a shut-up, forlorn feel to it and judging by the flaky paintwork and grass growing out of the drainpipes was in need of some tender loving care. He wondered who he was he going to upset by calling here and asking questions about Arina's death. A grieving mother or father? A sister or brother? Whoever they were, clearly they weren't at home.
There was no letter box for him to peer through, only a black-painted post box fixed to the outside wall. He flicked it open. Empty.
Disappointed, he made his way around the left-hand side of house where the lawn gave way to a lake about the size of the one on Southsea seafront, on which they hired out paddle boats. Beyond this was a small copse of elms and some other trees whose species he didn't know. The sweeping lawns and the lake made him feel like a bit-part actor in Brideshead Revisited. Perhaps Arina Sutton had married well before meeting Owen Carlsson and had got a whacking great divorce settlement, which was more than Catherine was going to get. Her pos ition as marketing director of her father's international marine company paid well, and 'daddy' would always see she was all right. Horton reckoned that although he'd have to give her the house or his pension, he was damned if he was going to give her both.
The gardens were deserted except for the odd crow and magpie. Irritated that his journey had been a waste of time, he continued to the back of the house, but got the same story — closed for business. The bereaved had obviously departed to seek comfort elsewhere.
His attention was arrested by the sound of a car pulling up. Great. Now he might get some answers. He hurried back to the front where, with a slight quickening of pulse, he saw a dark coloured saloon car before telling himself that half the country owned dark-coloured saloons. His eyes swivelled to the lean, grey-haired man wearing cowboy boots, a ponytail and leather flying jacket who was peering at Horton's Harley with suspicion rather than admiration. At the sound of Horton's footsteps he looked up with hostile eyes and a scowling countenance.
'Who are you?' he demanded aggressively.
Horton would like to have asked him the same question, but he said, 'I'm looking for a relative of Arina Sutton.'
Horton wondered if he was Arina's brother, or husband. At a push he supposed he could possibly be her father if he'd had her young, say at eighteen. Arina had been forty when she'd died and this man was somewhere in his late fifties. He didn't look the type to own this pile but then he could be a former rock star, or even a drug dealer for all Horton knew.
'There aren't any relatives,' the man said warily.
Clearly not related then. Maybe he thinks I'm a burglar, or worse, an estate agent. Horton didn't trust the skittering eyes and narrow mouth. And he wasn't sure he believed the bit about there being no relatives.
'Were you a friend of Arina's?' he probed, eyeing him steadily.
The man's eyes refused to meet Horton's. 'I knew her father, Sir Christopher Sutton. He died just before Christmas. Cancer.'
So no suspicious circumstances there, though ponytail oozed suspicion. Horton recalled what Dr Clayton had said. It had to be the same Sir Christopher. Time for introductions.
With a smile he stretched out his hand. 'Andy Horton.'
Ponytail eyed it as though it contained a grenade before sniffing and taking it briefly and damply. 'Roy Danesbrook.'
Resisting the urge to wipe his palm down the side of his trousers, Horton said, 'Isn't there anyone I can speak to about Arina?'
'Depends what you want to know.'
What you're doing here for a start, thought Horton, getting rather fed up with Danesbrook's evasiveness and recognizing the same defensive tone he'd heard many times in an interview room. Although he'd never met Sir Christopher he couldn't believe that such an eminent man could have been friends with so shifty a bastard. He wished he was here in his official capacity as a police officer, then he could have been as blunt as he wanted. But maybe he could be.
'I want to know why Owen Carlsson is dead,' he said briskly.
Danesbrook's eyes widened. His lips twitched nervously.
'I take it you knew Owen,' Horton pressed.
'Not really. I saw him at Arina's funeral. Did he kill himself?'
'Why should he do that?'
'I just thought…' Danesbrook shifted and fiddled with his ponytail.
'When was her funeral?' Horton asked, sharper this time.
'Tuesday before last. She's buried alongside her father. They're in the churchyard.' He jerked his head to his right. 'The last plot before the graveyard opens out into the new section. Sir Christopher is with his late wife and Arina next to them. Look, I've got to go.'
But you've only just got here. As if reading his mind Danesbrook said, 'I only came up to the house because I saw your bike from the road and wondered who you were.'
Oh yeah? Horton didn't believe that for a second. 'Did Owen say anything to you about Arina's death?'
'No, nothing. I'm late. Sorry, can't help you.'
He watched Danesbrook slither into the car, jerk it round and skid away, but not before he noticed a dent in the front passenger door. He reached for his phone and relayed Danesbrook's registration number to Cantelli, adding, 'Find out all you can about him, and who formally identified Arina's body. Ask Trueman to get some background information on Arina Sutton and her father, Sir Christopher, and find out who their solicitor is. Any news on Thea?'
'No. Sorry.'
Horton had hoped but not expected. He crossed to the church. Now that he was here he might as well take a look at the graves. He doubted they'd reveal anything, but no harm in hoping. He wondered why his news about Owen Carlsson's death had so rattled Danesbrook.
He pushed open the wrought-iron gate and eyed the church. Saxon, he reckoned. Not that he was an expert but he'd once had a girlfriend who was and she'd dragged him around the churches of southern England in the hope that she'd educate him. He'd gone in the hope that he'd get his wicked way with her, which he hadn't. The romance — though he could hardly call it that — had fizzled out somewhere in Dorset.
He found the graves without too much trouble. On Arina's there was a mound of earth and decaying flowers, and on her father's a wooden cross with his and his wife's name etched on it. Horton guessed the headstone had been removed to accommodate the death notices of husband and wife. He bent to read the inscriptions on the cards on Arina's grave, but the weather had made the writing illegible.