Angry and emotionally exhausted, he stripped off and stood under the hot shower long enough for his skin to wrinkle. Every nerve within him cried out for the chance to sink into drink-induced oblivion, something he hadn't done since April. He knew it wouldn't help matters, and that drunk or sober he wouldn't sleep.
He made a coffee, and sought distraction from his mental turmoil in thinking about the case. It was then he remembered the obituary on the Carlssons. Fishing it out of the pocket of his trousers, he sat down with his coffee and read it through twice. The first time quickly, the second slowly, taking in every word and linking it in his mind with Thea and Owen Carlsson, looking for anything that might help him connect the cases, but he didn't find it.
What he did learn, however, was that Helen had been the daughter of a Dorset butcher. Secondary school educated, she'd come up through her profession the hard way, forcing herself into what was then a male-dominated world — the business of being a newspaper photographer — putting herself into extreme and dangerous positions until her talent, and hard work, had finally been recognized.
Lars, by contrast, had come from a wealthy Swedish family. He'd been educated privately and gained his degree in art and history from Cambridge before returning to Sweden and architecture as his chosen profession. The two had met in America in October 1967 when Helen had been photographing the massive protest in Oakland, California, against the Vietnam War. Lars had been staying there with friends who had enlisted him in their protests.
Horton sat back thinking. What had happened to Helen Carlsson's photographs? Clearly they were worth a great deal of money. Had she made a will at the time of her death and bequeathed them to a close friend? Or had they been left to Owen or Thea? Perhaps they'd sold them. And what about Helen and Lars's personal papers: family photographs, mementos? Had they been in Owen's house and were now destroyed by the fire? Thea hadn't mentioned it. She hadn't even seemed upset that the book in which her mother had written a personal message had gone up in flames. She'd been more concerned about the bloody cat.
A sound outside caught his attention. Someone was coming down the pontoon. It could be anyone, the harbour master perhaps. On the other hand, Horton realized, it could be his intruder returning, and this time with a more sinister intent.
He rose. The footsteps grew nearer. They stopped. Holding his breath, Horton steeled himself for action. Then a voice hailed him — one he knew very well. Surprised, and letting out a sigh of relief, he slid back the hatch and stepped into the cockpit to find a very wet and bedraggled Cantelli standing on the pontoon. Cantelli's grim expression killed Horton's smile in an instant.
'Thea. You've found her. She's dead.' An icy wind sucked the breath from him.
'No. Not Thea.'
Thank God. Relief washed over him. Then Cantelli's words registered. Someone was dead, and if not Thea, then who?
'We've been trying to reach you,' Cantelli said, looking worried.
'Who is it, Barney? Who's dead?' His tired brain struggled to think who it could be.
'Jonathan Anmore.'
It took Horton a moment to think who Cantelli was talking about before he recollected the athletic fair man he'd seen in the churchyard. Surprised, he said, 'The landscape gardener! What the devil has he got to do with this case?'
That's what Uckfield would like to know.'
And so would I, thought Horton. So would I.
TEN
' He's over there,' Uckfield announced, pointing to the far end of the barn.
From where Horton was standing he couldn't see the body, only a small wooden yacht on a trailer and, surrounding it, a couple of petrol-driven lawn mowers and other gardening implements.
On the six-mile journey across country to Dills Farm, Horton had trawled his memory recalling his brief conversation with Anmore in the churchyard, looking for some sign that the gardener would be their next victim, but only one thing stuck in his mind: Scanaford House. Makes you wonder if it's cursed. Everyone who comes into contact with it ends up dead. Except me and Bella. Perhaps he'd better put a watch on Bella Westbury, he thought, climbing into the scene suit. But ghosts didn't kill people, not unless Anmore had been frightened to death by one, and Horton thought that highly unlikely in the middle of a barn three miles from Scanaford House.
He said, 'How come DCI Birch called you in?' There was nothing to connect Anmore with Owen Carlsson's murder.
Uckfield pushed a toothpick in his mouth. 'He knew Anmore was the Suttons' gardener and because we're considering a possible link between Arina Sutton's death and Carlsson's he thought we should be here.'
Horton had a suspicion that wasn't entirely the truth and judging by Cantelli's expression he agreed. Birch probably knew they'd all been drinking in the pub and Horton wouldn't put it past him to tip off the press about this murder in the hope that they'd arrive to find the officer-in-charge stinking of booze. Uckfield smelt like a brewery. Horton wondered how long he'd stayed drinking in the pub in Newport after he'd left. He caught Cantelli's eye and an unspoken signal passed between them. They'd need to get Uckfield away before the media showed up, though thankfully this being an island the national press wouldn't arrive until the morning, if at all. How to get him away without making him even more belligerent than usual was another matter.
Horton told Uckfield what Bella Westbury had said about Anmore's amorous tendencies, adding, 'He could have been killed by a jealous lover or husband.'
'Birch and Norris can follow that up. We'll examine any links between Carlsson and Anmore.'
That made sense, and three deaths around Scanaford House — four if you counted Sir Christopher — was four too many for Horton's taste. 'Did the doctor give any indication as to how long he's been dead?'
'Barely wanted to touch the poor sod, afraid he'd get that bloody paint all over him.'
'What paint?'
'You'll see. Made me wish Doc Price was here; drunk or not he'd have done a better job than the streak of piss they sent along. But he was good enough to tell us he is dead.'
'Who found him?'
'Anmore's old man discovered him at about ten twelve p.m.'
Horton checked his watch, before slipping his arm into the white sleeve. It was just after midnight.
Uckfield said, 'Charlie Anmore says his son didn't return home for his tea at six. He tried his mobile and got no answer. He knew his son couldn't be gardening in the dark but he thought he might have got held up with a client, or gone to the pub, so he didn't bother too much about it. When it got to ten and Jonathan still hadn't appeared, Charlie rang round a few of his son's mates, tried the local pub, without success, and finally came here. His son hires the barn from the farmer.'
Uckfield's words had taken them to the body. Horton drew up with a start.
'You never said he'd been stabbed in the back with a ruddy great pitchfork.'
'Didn't want to spoil the surprise.'
'Thanks,' muttered Horton, ignoring his churning gut as best he could and focussing his gaze on
Anmore. He was lying face down, with his arms outstretched, and now Horton saw what Uckfield had meant about the paint. Anmore was covered in a russet-coloured liquid, which, if Horton wasn't mistaken, and judging by the discarded tin some two feet away, was anti-fouling paint for the boat's hull.