Blood on the Sand

He said, 'His body was found at St Helens Duver yesterday morning. He was shot.'

'Good God! He killed himself?'

Which was what Danesbrook had concluded. Horton supposed that was only a natural reaction. He shrugged. 'All I know is that he went missing on Saturday. You didn't see him by any chance?'

'No.' She sipped her tea, but she seemed preoccupied rather than upset.

'Did he say anything to you after Arina's death?'

'Like what?' Her head came up and she eyed him warily.

'Like who might have killed her?'

'Are you saying that he might have known who ran Arina down and was shot because of that?'

'It's just an idea.'

'And not a very realistic one. This is the Isle of Wight not Washington DC.' She rose and poured what was left of her tea down the sink before turning and brusquely saying, 'There's not much more I can tell you about Arina.'

Horton didn't agree but he could see that pressing her would only arouse her suspicions, which, judging by her frosty stare, were already at sub-zero temperatures. He thanked her for her time and the tea and made his way thoughtfully back to the Harley. She, like Danesbrook, had seemed very keen to get shot of him after he'd mentioned Owen Carlsson's death.

He had hoped for one small piece of information that could help him find Thea Carlsson. He hadn't got it. But he did know one thing. Scanaford House was worth a great deal of money, and money was a powerful motive for murder.

NINE

Thursday 6pm

' Arina Sutton must have left a considerable fortune,' Horton said some hours later in a pub not far from the station. Over his Diet Coke, he'd brought Uckfield, Cantelli and Trueman up to speed on his encounters with Danesbrook, Anmore and Bella Westbury. He added, 'We need to talk to the Suttons' solicitor: Newlands.'

'That's also Owen Carlsson's solicitor,' Cantelli said. 'He telephoned this afternoon after hearing about Carlsson's death on the local radio. Says Thea Carlsson hasn't been in touch with him but that Owen made a will. He saved me a call because he formally identified Arina Sutton's body along with Owen Carlsson. I've made an appointment to see him tomorrow.'

'Good. Ask him about both Sir Christopher's and Arina's wills.'

Cantelli nodded. 'I've checked out your man, Danesbrook; he's got form.'

Horton wasn't surprised. 'Drugs?'

'No. Affray and assault. He was arrested in 1996 during the Newbury by-pass campaign for assaulting a security officer.'

Horton recalled the by-pass protest vividly. The road contractors had suffered numerous delays and setbacks. Clearance had been hampered by well-organized activists employing highly effective disruption tactics. They'd built tunnels and tree houses and used themselves as human shields to prevent security men and diggers from moving in and ripping up the countryside. It became known as the 'Third Battle of Newbury' — the other two had occurred in the seventeenth-century English Civil War. There had been a number of arrests and the Thames Valley Police had to ask the government to help towards the enormous cost of policing the protest.

It was a year Horton would never forget for two reasons. Early in the New Year he'd confronted a youth robbing a sub-post office and got himself stabbed in the process, earning a commendation for bravery for managing to arrest the toe-rag. It was also the year he and Catherine had married. His memory conjured up the delicious moments when she used to call round to his flat after work… But that was the past and a treacherous place to be. Thankfully, Cantelli rescued him from it.

'Danesbrook was also arrested in 2000 during the fuel protests.'

'Bit of a rebel then. And violent.' Uckfield looked hopeful. He downed the remainder of his pint and started on a whisky.

Horton thought of Bella Westbury's rebellious past. 'What does he do now?' he asked.

'Draws the dole,' replied Cantelli. 'Or rather lives on benefits, like he seems to have done for most of his life.'

Horton raised his eyebrows. 'How come he drives a new car? Did they give it to him as a Christmas box for loyal service?'

Cantelli smiled. 'It's in his name and it's not stolen.'

Uckfield looked sceptical.

Cantelli said, 'He lives in Ryde, divorced, aged fifty-three.'

'He looks older.'

'Probably the life he's led.' Cantelli took a sip of his tomato juice and pulled a face.

'If you don't like it why do you drink it?' asked Horton.

'Charlotte says it's good for me, though she might not think the same about the crisps.'

Horton said, 'Glad to see you've got your appetite back after your sea voyage.'

'Don't remind me, the memory's only just fading.' Cantelli consulted his notebook. 'Danesbrook served eighteen months in prison, from 1996 to 1998. He had some kind of mental breakdown after six months and was transferred to a secure hospital where he stayed until he was released.'

Uckfield beamed. 'So a nutter too, this gets better.'

Cantelli continued. 'He was convicted again in 2000 but got a community sentence for the fuel protest affray. Everyone wanted that hushed up.'

'But he is violent,' insisted Uckfield.

'Was,' corrected Horton, then added, 'But his car is a dark saloon, and it's got a dent in the passenger door. It could be from the impact on Arina's body.'

Cantelli looked puzzled. 'Why would he want to kill her? I know I've not met him but I can't see the likes of him inheriting Scanaford House.'

And neither could Horton. He only had Danesbrook's word he had been a friend of Sir Christopher's.

Trueman piped up. 'He could have been paid to kill her.'

'If her death is deliberate,' Uckfield stressed. 'Birch thinks not.'

'All the more reason to think it was then,' muttered Horton. He thought of that skilful drive down to the sea ending in striking Arina with enough force to kill her. It also made him think of Owen Carlsson's parents' death in the same place. Turning to Trueman he said, 'Did you get anything on Helen and Lars Carlsson?'

Uckfield huffed but said nothing. Horton knew he didn't think it had anything to do with their current case.

Trueman put down his lager and said, 'Lars Carlsson was in the UK attending a conference. He was an architect in Sweden. He and his wife decided to combine business with pleasure and take a holiday on the Isle of Wight.'

'Does that mean they lived in Sweden?' asked Horton.

'Yes. Stockholm. Lars was highly respected, a modernist and something of a pioneer in architecture in Sweden in the 1980s-'

'Which means concrete and crap buildings that no one wants to live in,' carped Uckfield.

'Go on,' said Horton to Trueman.

'They rented a house in Yarmouth. Thea Carlsson was in Sweden at school but Owen Carlsson was at Southampton University at the time of their death. Helen Carlsson was a professional photographer, and an acclaimed one. She'd won awards for her photographs of Chernobyl and the fall of the Berlin Wall. I found an obituary on them both in The Times. Here.'

Horton was impressed. He took the copy of the newspaper cutting from Trueman and saw the same good-looking couple as in the photograph on the mantelpiece in Thea's bedroom, only this time they were in evening dress. The picture had obviously been taken at an awards ceremony, and again he saw the striking resemblance between Thea and her mother. He made to pass it to Uckfield.

'I've read it. Doesn't tell us much.'

'I'll read it later.' Horton thrust it in his pocket. 'What about the accident?'

Trueman continued. 'It was a wet and windy night, in March. Visibility was poor. The autopsy on Lars Carlsson, who was driving, showed that he hadn't been drinking. The car skidded off the road and crashed over the wall on to the rocks and stones on the beach. The Carlssons were wearing seat belts but the impact was so severe that their charred remains were embedded in the wreckage. The engine was still running, petrol leaked from the fuel tank causing it to ignite. It was the early hours of the morning. There was no one around. They didn't stand a chance.'