'But coal isn't environmentally friendly,' chanced Horton. Despite his intentions to get her back on his track he recognized she'd given him a lead into discussing environmental matters, which could take him to Owen Carlsson.
'Of course it is,' she declared, slamming her mug down with such force that he was surprised it didn't break. 'There's new technology that makes it cleaner and there could be more and even better technology to help get it out of the ground without scarring the countryside and killing men, or having to go cap in hand to other nations. If the so-called brains and techno kids put their minds to it we could benefit big time. Christ! If they can invent mobile technology, nuclear weapons and God alone knows what, surely they can find a way of processing our rich natural resources into clean and efficient energy?'
Horton wondered what Sir Christopher and Arina Sutton had thought of Bella's views. Somehow he couldn't see her keeping them to herself while dusting the furniture or cooking the dinner.
'Instead they talk about wind farms,' she snorted. 'They wouldn't keep this kitchen in energy let alone the rest of the village or the island. You'd need thousands of the ugly monsters blighting the landscape and I for one don't want them ruining the beauty of the countryside. Besides it's all bollocks you know, this eco-friendly crap, designed to make the government look as though they're doing something to save the planet, when it's already too late.'
'Isn't that a rather pessimistic view?'
'Not if you read the global warming reports and hear Owen Carlsson talking. He was Arina's boyfriend. He'll tell you. He's studied the oceans. He knows just how bad things are, but people simply don't want to hear what he's saying.'
And was that why he was killed, Horton wondered, thinking back to his earlier discussion with Uckfield at the nature reserve, and Uckfield's meeting tomorrow with Laura Rosewood. Had Owen been saying too much? Was the controversial environmental project he'd been working on something to do with global warming? The reports Horton had glimpsed in Owen's study again sprang to mind. He wished he'd had time to read them.
Then he registered that Bella Westbury had talked about Owen in the present tense. So, another one who hadn't heard the local news. He'd tell her soon, but he wanted to fish a little longer.
'I read something about there being a local opposition group to the wind farms.'
'You bet there is! WAWF, Wight Against Wind Farms, both the onshore and offshore variety. Like I said, they won't make a blind bit of difference. Not while they keep aeroplanes in the sky. Did you know that after 9/11 when the USA grounded all flights for three days the temperature in America actually fell? If that isn't proof of the harm they do I don't know what is. And this pathetic, stupid government tell us to stop buying carrier bags and use energy-efficient light bulbs. I mean what the hell difference is that going make?'
Horton smiled. 'Not much, I guess. But isn't there another group called REMAF?' he recollected from Owen's office.
She eyed him curiously.
'I read about it in the local newspaper,' he quickly explained.
She seemed to accept this. 'Renewable Energy Means A Future. Owen had to conduct a report for them on the viability of the wind farms. I tried to get Owen to tell us the results at a meeting in October, but he wasn't having any of it. That's how he met Arina. It was love at first sight. Then to be killed by some idiot bastard with no brains between his ears who didn't even bother to stop. And just when she'd found happiness. If it hadn't been for me they'd have never met. I arranged for Owen to give a talk on the environment, and I cajoled Arina into coming with me.'
'I understand you were her housekeeper,' Horton asked casually, sipping his tea and trying not to pull a face. Not a great lover of the brew, this tasted like cats' piss.
'Sir Christopher's really. Arina was an interior designer but she shot home from London to help nurse her father when he became too ill to manage alone. Sir Christopher died on the thirteenth of December. Twenty-one days later Arina is killed by a lunatic driver. She didn't want to stay on at Scanaford House after her father's death. She never really liked the place.'
'Not because it's supposed to be haunted!'
She gave a laugh that reminded Horton of the laughing sailor in the glass booth on Clarence Pier in Southsea. 'Jonathan Anmore tells everyone that old tale.'
'It's not true?'
'Who knows? There was a murder there yonks ago, but if you give Jonathan half an ear he'll embellish it with so many ghosts you'd think they were holding a convention there.'
'Who inherits now Arina's dead?'
'No idea,' she answered sharply. She probably thought he'd come with the intention of making a claim on her estate. 'You'll have to ask Gerald Newland, the solicitor. He's in Newport.'
And Horton, or someone in the major crime team, would. He reckoned that neither Bella Westbury nor the gardener, Jonathan Anmore, had been named in the wills otherwise one of them would probably have said. Or perhaps Bella Westbury did know and wasn't about to confide in a stranger.
'How long have you worked there?' He could see by the slight narrowing of her eyes it was one question too far. She was getting suspicious about his purpose, but she answered him, albeit curtly.
'About a year.'
Horton was surprised. The way she'd been talking he'd assumed she was the old faithful family retainer. Who had Bella replaced? Was it relevant? He didn't really think so, and the way she was eyeing him he guessed he would be pushing his luck asking. It was time he broke the bad news.
He tried a bit of disarming honesty. 'I'm sorry if I'm being too nosy, but I'm trying to understand not only why Arina was killed, but why her boyfriend Owen Carlsson is also dead. But I guess you might have explained that already, with him and Arina being––'
'What do you mean dead?' she interrupted sharply. Her green eyes, as hard as emeralds now, peered at him with such intensity that he felt like a suspect in one of the interview rooms at the station.
'You've not seen the news or heard it on the radio?' he asked, surprised.
'I don't listen to that rubbish.'
He found that slightly puzzling for a woman who was keen on political fighting, and one who had obviously been in the news as well as making it over the years.
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.'
'It was an accident then?'
'Looks like it.'
Horton considered this for a moment before saying, 'So did Arina Sutton's killer know about the Carlssons being killed there?'
Uckfield scratched his neck. 'If he did then we're back to finding a motive for Owen Carlsson's death and Arina Sutton was killed accidentally.'
'But we still have to consider that she could have been murdered for her father's money.'
Cantelli interjected. 'We don't know yet that she did inherit it.'
'OK, but let's assume she did.' Horton addressed Uckfield. 'We should get a team into Seaview
and ask around for possible witnesses to her death. And we should conduct a house-to-house to see if we can get a better description of the car, and interview the staff in the hotel.'
'Not asking much, are you?' Uckfield sniped. He drained his glass. 'It was nineteen days ago! Most buggers can't remember what they were doing yesterday.'
'A photograph of Arina and Owen might jog some memories, and I mean a picture of them alive not on the bloody mortuary slab,' he added, quickly pre-empting Uckfield.
Cantelli said, 'I'll see if the solicitor can let me have a photograph of Arina, and I'll check if the newspaper archives have one of Owen Carlsson.'
Horton said, 'There must be one in Thea's apartment. What are we doing about that?'
Trueman answered. 'Luxembourg are waiting for a search warrant.'
And it seemed a long time coming, thought Horton. 'Why can't we just go in?'
'They want to do everything by the book.'
'Bloody book,' muttered Horton before his mobile rang. Glancing at the display he recognized his old home number and tensed. What did Catherine want now? Whatever it was he was
n't expecting good news. He thought about letting it ring then changed his mind.
'Yes?' he snarled.
'Daddy?'
Christ! His heart skipped several beats. The world froze for a second as the picture of his dark haired daughter sprang before him, causing a lump in his throat and a tightness in his chest. Quickly he rose and headed for the exit. Uckfield was the last person he wanted to be privy to this conversation.
'How are you, poppet?' he said, trying desperately to inject his voice with a lightness he didn't feel. This was the first time Emma had called him since he'd been forced to leave his home. Had something happened to Catherine? He was damned sure that Catherine wouldn't let Emma within a planet's distance of a phone to call him, and she'd never have given her his mobile number.
Blood on the Sand Page 9
