In Newport library, Horton logged on to the computer and trawled the Internet for references to Whitefields. Soon he was reading how the mental hospital had been built on farm land during the 1890s as the Isle of Wight's first County Asylum and officially opened on 13th July 1896 with the first patients transferred from the mainland a few days later. By the 1980s the hospital was outdated and ill-equipped for modern needs so it was gradually shut down until, as Gordon Elms had said, it had closed in 1986. After that it had lain derelict until Cawley Developments had purchased the land from the National Health Service Trust in 1990.
Horton read about the ghosts that were supposed to have haunted the hospital, which made him wonder why Elms had never mentioned them. And then he came across some other more unusual websites where people had posted their photographs of derelict buildings, including Whitefields before it had been demolished. As he viewed the sad pictures of the deserted ablutions rooms, broken-back doors hanging off their hinges, rotting balustrades and iron beds in tiny cells, he shivered. Words flitted through his mind. Ghosts… Sutton… Whitefields… photographs…
He sat back and stared at the screen. Sutton would have been long gone from Whitefields by 1990 when Helen might have shown up there to take her photographs, if he had worked there in the first place. Had Helen Carlsson stumbled on some old documentary evidence, if she'd been photographing the place? Given her interest in ghosts and photography maybe she had.
Judging by the pictures on the Internet it had certainly been a splendid building. But why would someone have killed her and her husband because of that? And who was this girl Thea had mentioned? Had Helen Carlsson met a girl in the derelict building who had told her about Sutton's work there? But no, the girl wouldn't have been a girl in 1990 if she'd known Sutton; she'd have been well into her sixties, unless she was a ghost… He smiled at the stupidity of that theory. This seemed to be getting him nowhere. He needed air and space. He needed to think. He stepped outside. His phone rang. He hoped it was Cantelli but it was Uckfield.
'Where the bloody hell are you?' But before Horton had a chance to answer, Uckfield went on, 'What's Birch doing to cock up my case?'
'No idea. I'm not working on it any more.'
Uckfield scoffed. 'That's never stopped you before.'
Horton told him what he'd discussed with Cantelli and his conversation with Charlie Anmore. He also told him his theory that Helen Carlsson might have been photographing the derelict Whitefields.
'And where does that get us?' Uckfield growled.
Precisely, thought Horton. But it had to mean something. He heaved a sigh of relief as Uckfield rang off and tried to get back to his thoughts about Helen and her photographs. What had cost her her life and the lives of the others?
Whichever way he looked at it he couldn't come up with a reason. There was nothing more he could do except return to the boat. It was too late now to ride the Harley back to Portsmouth via the ferry and then return to sail the boat across. He wondered if he would ever see Thea Carlsson again.
The wind was rising with every passing minute, howling through the masts, building itself up for storm force six or seven by the sound of it, maybe even stronger, which meant the Met Office had been wrong and the front they had predicted had rolled in quicker than anticipated. It also meant that if he didn't start soon he'd never get the boat back to the mainland. Even in the shelter of the harbour the waves, flecked with white horses, were bashing against the sea wall, the spray dancing in the air before splashing over the top.
There was still no word from Cantelli. He should head for home before it was too late, but he made no attempt to do so. Horton told himself not to be so stupid — he was due back in Portsmouth CID tomorrow — but he found himself locking up the boat and striking out across the abandoned golf course. The wind was tossing the grass and bending the branches of the shrubs and trees landwards so that they looked like thin old men with lumbago.
He stopped at the place where he had found Thea huddled over the body of her brother and tried to recall every detail. How did Owen's body get here? Anmore's van, of course. Together they'd hauled Owen out of the van and dumped it here. But no, recalling her expression and her shivering body when he'd found her, he refused to believe she could have done that.
He walked on up to the holiday centre, where Anmore with binocu lars must have been viewing the scene. Anmore must have seen him talking to Thea and watched him go to his boat which he had then searched. This was futile. Time to forget Thea Carlsson, forget this case and go home. His phone rang. It was Cantelli.
'Well?' he asked sharply, hoping.
'There's no record of Sutton having worked at Whitefields in 1959. I called the editor of the local rag, Sonia Belman, and asked her what she knew about Whitefields. She said there was quite a furore over demolishing the old house. Jack Cawley, the developer, was set on pulling it down. That way, he said, he could build more houses. And he got his wish. The NHS Trust was glad to get shot of it. The land was contaminated, some kind of chemical was found underground in places.'
'Chemical? What chemical?' Horton had read nothing on the Internet about that.
'I don't know.'
'Find out who handled the sale on behalf of the Trust.'
'Already have. It was a man called Noel Halliwell. And before you ask, you can't talk to him unless you enlist the help of Gordon Elms. He died not long after, in 1993. Suicide.'
'Why did he kill himself?'
'No idea. Sonia says that no note was found with the body. He hanged himself.'
Horton frowned in irritation. 'What about the developer, Jack Cawley?'
'He's also dead.'
So that was it. Another dead end, unless… 'Hold on — Jack?'
'Yes. It's a fairly common name.'
It was but Horton's mind quickly trawled through a previous conversation 'I ran a property development company, with my late husband, Jack, for fifteen years.'
Had this Jack Cawley been Laura Rosewood's husband? Did she know anything about the land being contaminated? If so then why should it matter? How could it have any connection with Sir Christopher Sutton? And how could it be connected to Helen Carlsson's death? Horton watched the seagulls dive over the area where Owen Carlsson had been found. He didn't know but he needed to find out.
TWENTY-FIVE
Laura Rosewood wasn't at home. Instead he found the silent Julie, her hired help. This time she spoke.
'Laura's on her way to Brussels. You've only just missed her. Can I help?'
Horton doubted it. Annoyed at missing Laura, and frustrated that he couldn't get the answers to the questions bugging him, he stepped inside the hall at Julie's invitation, and thought, what the hell, he might as well ask. 'Was Jack Cawley Ms Rosewood's husband?'
'Yes.'
'Why doesn't she use her married name?'
'I don't know. You'd have to ask her that. Not every businesswoman does.'
He guessed not.
'Why do you want to know?' she asked, eyeing him curiously and a little suspiciously.