Blood on the Sand

by Pauline Rowson

  'Did you tell Owen Carlsson this?'

  'Yes. He seemed interested, but he didn't make any comment. I can see that I've disappointed you.'

  Horton didn't think he'd shown any reaction but obviously had. He sipped his coffee thinking he'd need to be careful with Nelson.

  Nelson gave a rueful smile. 'I've had years of reading patients' minds, Inspector. GPs are a bit like police officers; we learn to spot and interpret the smallest body language signals that show us discomfiture, embarrassment, worry, lies. And we're very adept at undertones. Owen Carlsson was anxious and upset. I thought it was because of Arina's death. Is her death now suspicious?'

  Horton knew there was no point in lying or being evasive. Nelson by his own admittance would clearly see through it. 'I'm beginning to suspect it was.'

  Nelson pursed his lips together as he considered this. After a moment he said, 'I can't think who would want to kill her.'

  Only Danesbrook, thought Horton, but he'd ask Nelson about him in a moment.

  'When was the last time you saw Sir Christopher?'

  'Just over a year ago. My wife and I were in London. Iris went Christmas shopping with her sister while I had lunch with Christopher.'

  'Did you arrange it or did he?'

  'He did, though I can't see why that is important to you. He used the opportunity to tell me he had been diagnosed with cancer. I suspect it was why he wanted to meet.'

  Horton drank his coffee wondering where next to go with his questioning. 'Did Owen ask if you or Sir Christopher knew or had ever heard of Helen and Lars Carlsson?'

  Nelson shook his head. 'No. Who are they?'

  'They were Owen's parents. Arina was killed in the same place as they were in 1990. Owen didn't mention that to you?'

  'No.' Nelson's expression was one of genuine bewilderment.

  'Did Owen ask you or did you discuss what was in Arina's will?'

  Nelson's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. 'No.' He leaned forward with a faint flush on his thin face, his eyes shining. 'Now I see what you're driving at, Inspector. You think she was killed for her money.'

  'We have to consider it,' conceded Horton. 'Have you heard of a charity called Wight Earth and Mind?'

  Nelson shook his head.

  'Or a Roy Danesbrook?'

  'No.'

  'You didn't talk to him at Sir Christopher's funeral?'

  'No.'

  Horton studied the elderly man's face to detect a lie. He saw none, only interest. He would have thought that Sir Christopher would have mentioned his most recent passion to his old friend, but then Horton recalled that Nelson hadn't seen or spoken to Sir Christopher for a year.

  Nelson said, 'Does this man Danesbrook inherit?' Then he held up his hands. 'It's not my business, I know. I'm just intrigued, and sorry I can't be more helpful. Owen didn't mention his parents, this charity or that man. He simply let me ramble on about Christopher and Arina although I could tell him very little about Arina or her mother, Nadia. I didn't really know either of them.'

  Horton felt disappointment wash over him. He'd had a wasted journey. Owen Carlsson had come here for no other reason than to seek comfort for his bereavement. And yet Horton couldn't quite believe that. There was something he was missing, but he didn't have a clue what it was.

  'Tell me about Nadia,' he asked, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he felt.

  'She was a fine lady from what I saw of her, which was only three times. She was Dutch and sadly lost all her family during the war. They were shot by the Nazis helping English airmen to escape. Young Nadia managed to hide and was helped to escape by one surviving airman who smuggled her back to England with him.'

  'Who was the airman?'

  'I've no idea. Arina was twelve when Nadia died in 1980. I remember that Christopher had bought Scanaford House a few years earlier after Nadia had fallen in love with the Isle of Wight. Who could blame her? It's a beautiful place, and Scanaford House is rather splendid. Christopher kept an apartment in London to be near the hospital and his work. Christopher told me that Arina was a lot like her mother, who was a highly respected artist. She was quietly spoken and clever, artistic too. She worked as an interior designer. I'm not sure how any of this helps you find the killer, Inspector, but it's what I told Owen.'

  'Why didn't you go to Arina's funeral?'

  'I'd like to have done, but I had a hospital appointment and you know how long it takes to get one of those.' He smiled, but Horton couldn't help thinking that a doctor, who clearly had money, could surely have paid to go private and by-pass the National Health Service.

  'Nothing serious,' Nelson said, and then as though once again reading Horton's mind added, 'I did think of cancelling it but . . . well, quite honestly I didn't feel like facing another funeral or seeing Scanaford House again, after being inside it so recently with Christopher's funeral. I feel badly about not going, especially now you've told me her death might have been deliberate, but . . . well I can't undo what I've done.'

  Horton left a short pause. 'Did Owen mention his sister, Thea?'

  'No. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful. It sounds as if you've got your work cut out, Inspector.'

  Horton scraped back his chair and pulled a card from his trouser pocket. 'If anything else springs to mind, sir, no matter how trivial it might seem, would you give me a call?'

  'Of course.' Nelson took the card, whilst Horton pulled on his leather jacket. At the door Nelson said, 'Good luck.'

  Horton thought he'd need more than luck to find out what the devil was going on with this case; he'd need divine inspiration. And clearly he wasn't going to get it or a confession from Roy Danesbrook, whom he saw leaving the station as he pulled in to the car park just over an hour later.

  Horton found a dejected team in the incident room.

  'I see Danesbrook's been released,' he said, throwing his jacket and helmet on the desk in front of Cantelli.

  'All we can charge him with is benefit fraud,' said Cantelli, looking as though he could do with a month's sleep.

  'He's lying and a complete arsehole,' Uckfield said. Horton was inclined to agree.

  'Doesn't make him a killer though,' replied Cantelli wearily.

  Uckfield snorted. 'I don't believe all that crap about chance meetings and changing tyres. He staked out Sir Christopher and then used him to wheedle his way into inheriting a ruddy great fortune. He has a perfect motive for killing Arina, and no alibi. And no alibi for Owen Carlsson or Anmore's deaths. But we can't prove he was involved in any of them.'

  Horton fetched a plastic beaker of water from the cooler. His throat was still sore from the fire and the buckets of coffee he'd drunk hadn't really helped to ease it.

  Uckfield glanced at his watch. 'I wanted to hold him but his smarmy solicitor objected.'

  Horton drained the beaker and said, 'Danesbrook's the best suspect we have––'

  'Unless we count the vanishing sister,' Uckfield said. 'I'll have to make her disappearance public. I'll put out a press statement tonight.' He scraped back his chair. 'I need a drink, and I don't mean water.'

  Horton crushed the white plastic cup and tossed it in the bin. Nodding at Cantelli and Trueman to follow him, Horton headed out of the station after Uckfield, along the road to a nearby pub, leaving Somerfield and Marsden to hold the fort. He didn't know if Birch or Norris saw them. Uckfield didn't seem bothered if they did, so Horton too shrugged it off.

  Once they were settled with their drinks, Trueman said, 'We've found the last customer to see Anmore Thursday afternoon. It was a Mrs Best who lives just outside Yarmouth. She says that Anmore was with her from just after two fifteen until three thirty. He seemed fine. She was very upset over his death.'

  'And the call he took when I was with him?' asked Horton.

  'Number withheld.'

  'Just our bloody luck.' Uckfield swallowed a mouthful of beer.

  Horton agreed.

  Trueman continued. 'Anmore is in debt to the tune of ten thousand pounds
. He's run up a lot of expenses on his credit cards and owes child maintenance for a year, but there's no recent payments going into his account to suggest he was blackmailing anyone. I've got officers trawling through his customer records, and a list of his contacts and friends, but so far no one seems to have a grudge against him. On the contrary he was very popular, especially with the ladies, though no one is admitting to having an affair with him––'

  'Yet,' added Uckfield.

  Trueman continued. 'Marsden also says there's no record of Anmore, Carlsson or Danesbrook belonging to a gun club on the island.'

  Horton said, 'What about any known contacts of Owen Carlsson?'

  'None have come forward on the island to say they were bosom pals. Seems he was a bit of a loner, though he had only been living here a year. And no sightings of him on the island from the Guv's press conference, though plenty in London, Liverpool and the Outer Hebrides.'

  Horton gave a weary smile. 'Any sign of the rucksack or walking stick?'

  'They weren't in the barn or anywhere near it.'

  Horton told them about his interview with Dr Nelson. 'There must be a reason why Owen

  visited Nelson but I'm damned if I can find it. I don't believe he went there solely to seek comfort.' Three deaths: Arina Sutton, Owen Carlsson and Jonathan Anmore. What on earth was the common factor if it wasn't Danesbrook? Maybe there wasn't one and each death had nothing to do with the other.

  Uckfield consulted his watch for about the fifth time in as many minutes. Perhaps he was expecting a call from his wife or the chief.

  Abruptly Horton said, 'When are the police searching Thea's Luxembourg apartment?'

  Trueman answered. 'Tomorrow morning. Inspector Strasser says the search warrant has come through. They've spoken to her employers and colleagues at the European Translation Centre where she's worked since October; no one knows why she left in a hurry, but the general view is that she seemed rather distracted on her return to work after the New Year.'

  Was that hindsight talking, wondered Horton, as Trueman continued.

  'She doesn't have any close friends that they can find who she might have confided in.'

  Horton felt a stab of anguish for her as he was haunted by a vision of the thin, frightened woman he'd pushed out of the window of that burning house.

  Trueman added, 'She spent Christmas with her brother in Luxembourg, as Ms Rosewood told us, but was here New Year with her brother, returning the day before Arina Sutton was killed.'

  Horton was surprised. Mrs Mackie hadn't mentioned that. He asked, 'Did they say what translations Thea Carlsson was working on?'

  'Strasser says he'll e-mail us a list as soon as it's ready, which should be Monday, but they were told that she had documents to translate from the European Medicine Agency, the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control, and the European Environment Agency.'

  'But not Owen's findings,' Uckfield added pointedly.

  Horton knew that Laura Rosewood had already confirmed that but he wondered if Thea could still have translated something that had made her rush home to her brother. Though what it could have been, and how it could have led to his death and Jonathan Anmore's, he didn't know. He guessed he was on the wrong track with that one. But there was still the person who had broken into his boat, who they hadn't yet found, and he said as much.

  'It's possible it could have been either Anmore or Danesbrook and if we can find a witness it might be enough to put a squeeze on the ponytailed little runt.'

  Uckfield grinned. 'That would make me a happy man. I'll get Marsden on to it – and talk of the devil, look what the wind's blown in.' Horton looked up as the pub door crashed open. He saw DC Marsden's flushed face and his heart skipped a beat.

  'You've found Thea Carlsson?' he asked, hardly daring to hope as Marsden joined them.

  'No sir. I've just taken a call from Sweden.'

  Horton felt torn between disappointment and relief. He gestured Marsden into a seat when Uckfield clearly wasn't going to.

  'It was from a Peter Bohman,' Marsden continued, breathlessly. 'He was Lars Carlsson's business partner in 1990. He said he'd only just heard of Owen Carlsson's death. He claims that Lars and Helen Carlsson were murdered and that Owen's death must have something to do with it.'

  Horton threw a quick glance at Uckfield.

  'Doesn't mean to say you were right,' Uckfield sniffed. 'This Bohman could be nuts.'

  'He didn't sound it,' Marsden said defensively.

  Barely containing his excitement, Horton said, 'What makes him believe they were murdered?'

  'Because Lars knew something was going to happen.'

  'Not bloody psychic, is he?' Uckfield scoffed.

  Horton stiffened as Cantelli shot him a glance.

  'Don't think so, sir,' Marsden replied. 'But Helen Carlsson might have been. Bohman says the British police never believed him when he told them Lars and Helen's death was no accident. Lars called Bohman two days before he was killed to say that Helen had had a premonition of danger.'

  Uckfield rolled his eyes. Horton kept schtum. But Marsden's words made him recall the book by

  Thea's bed on the lost ghosts of the Isle of Wight that Helen had inscribed. Danesbrook and other events had pushed it from his mind. And he also remembered what Jonathan Anmore had said about Scanaford House being haunted and cursed. Here was a link between the three cases, five if you counted Helen and Lars Carlssons' deaths – which was now looking more like murder – but Uckfield would have him sectioned if he told him this case was about ghosts. And Horton knew that no ghost had killed these people – that demanded a more earthly presence.

  What did Helen say was going to happen?' he asked Marsden. 'Bohman said that it might have been a presentiment about the accident or perhaps the break-in, but––'

  'Hold on. What break-in?' Horton asked, suddenly very alert.

  Marsden looked confused then crestfallen as he realized he'd overlooked a critical piece of new information. 'Apparently the day after Lars called Bohman to tell him about Helen's premonition, there was a break-in at the house they were renting in Yarmouth. Lars called Bohman again to tell him.'

  Horton turned to Uckfield. 'The break-in's not on the file.' But then why should it be? The file contained a road traffic incident, nothing more. And what was one burglary amongst many others, and so long ago? Nevertheless, Horton was getting an uncomfortable feeling about this.

  Trueman said, 'I'll track down the crime report.'

  Horton wanted to talk to Bohman himself. Scraping back his chair, he said, 'I'll call him.'

  Marsden looked disappointed but said nothing as they returned to the station.

  In the temporary incident suite, Horton called Bohman, introduced himself and apologized for the lateness of the call. He started by asking if there were any living relatives of the Carlssons, wondering if Thea might have been in touch with one of them, or even managed to get out of the country and was with them now. But Bohman disappointed him.

  'No. Helga, Lars's sister, is now dead. And, as far as I'm aware, Helen never had any relatives. At least none came to her funeral in Sweden.'

  'Have you heard from Owen or Thea recently?' Horton asked casually though his body was tense with anticipation.

  'Owen visited me the Christmas before last and told me about a project he was hoping to work on that would take him to the Isle of Wight—'

  Horton interjected, 'Did Owen mention his parents' death there? Or did he seem worried or curious about it?'

  'No. Owen was much like his father. He said it was the past, best to forget it. Owen was always focussed on the present.'

  'And Thea?'

  Bohman remained silent for a moment. Was he gathering his thoughts, wondered Horton, or was he steeling himself to say something Horton didn't think he was going to like?

  'Thea is more like her mother, though much more sensitive than Helen was,' Bohman finally answered. 'That could be because she had no mother to bring her up, onl
y Helga. Helga did her best but she was not very patient with children, having none herself. When Helen died, Thea needed love and understanding. Helga left her at boarding school. It was wrong.'

  Bohman's words brought Emma to mind, about to be abandoned in that damn boarding school. Horton guessed that with Helga it was out of sight, out of mind. He reckoned Catherine was thinking along the same lines. And Horton couldn't help feeling Thea's pain when he related it to his own abandonment.

  Bohman said, 'I didn't know anything was wrong until Helga called me to say Thea was in hospital.'

  Horton started. Had Thea tried to kill herself? Did that mean she'd tried again and recently? Would they find her body swinging from a tree in the woods? God, he hoped not.