Blood on the Sand (12 page)

   '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 wasn'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.

   'Mummy says I've got to go away.'

   Horton gripped the phone. Catherine couldn't be moving abroad. She couldn't be taking Emma from him.

   He heard the tremor in his daughter's voice and as evenly as possible said, 'Where does Mummy say you're going?' Silently he prayed it wasn't true. He hurried towards the Harley, not wanting the others to come out and disturb him.

   'I don't want to go away to school.' She began to cry. It ripped at Horton's guts. He would have given the world not to be here now, on an island. He silently cursed. Uckfield could solve his own bloody cases. Then the image of Thea's smoke-blackened, fearful face flashed before him. He felt torn. And angry that he felt that way.

   'Don't cry, darling. It's all right. You don't have to go.'

   'But Mummy says I do and that I'll like it. I won't. I'll hate it,' she sobbed.

   Horton felt sick with anguish and tried to steel himself but his mind was full of visions of Emma abandoned. A child of eight. God, how the memories fled down the years and there he was, a boy of ten, standing alone in a barren, cold room, rejected, abandoned, confused and hurt. Cruel taunts ringing in his ears. '
Your mother doesn't love you
.' The pain of the memory gripped him, making him feel sick. He'd see Catherine in hell before she subjected his daughter to the same terrible fate.

   It took every ounce of control for him to make sure he sounded normal when he said, 'Where's Mummy, Emma?'

   'With Uncle Edward. Angie's looking after me, but she's on the computer.'

   
Uncle
fucking Edward! So Catherine was still seeing that fat git. He'd like to punch him from here to kingdom come and back again. Taking a breath and forcing a smile into his voice he said, 'Don't worry, Emma. I'll talk to Mummy. I'll see that you don't have to go away to school.'

   'Promise?'

   'Of course. Now tell me what you've been doing all day.'

   Horton listened to her chatter, which became steadily more joyful as it went on, whilst he became more depressed at the realization of what he was missing. This was a life that Catherine had denied him – his daughter's. It was like being shown all the toys in a shop as a child knowing you could never have access to any of them. And that was the story of his life. He'd always been on the outside, except at work. There he was on the inside. And that, he thought, with growing despair, was all he had left.

   Finally his conversation with his daughter came to an abrupt close with, 'Angie's calling me. I'd better go. Bye, Daddy.' And she was gone.

   Horton quickly selected Catherine's mobile phone number. She'd know it was him. She'd recognize his number. Would she answer? He doubted it, but miraculously she did.

   'What is it, Andy? I'm busy,' she snapped.

   Before he could stop himself he was saying icily, 'Shagging Edward Shawford I expect.' Then realizing that she could just hang up on him he quickly added, 'Is that why you want to send Emma away to school?'

   'How do you know that? Who told you?'

   'It's true then. You know I won't allow it.'

   'It's got nothing to do with you.'

   'She's my bloody daughter,' Horton roared, stung by her callous words, fighting desperately to hold on to the control that was his usual master, but which now seemed in severe danger of deserting him. A young couple brushed by, eyeing him strangely. He stepped further back into the shadows of a shop doorway.

   'Don't swear at me!' Catherine hissed down the line.

   He took a breath and silently chanted his mantra.
Don't let the buggers see you're hurting. Don't let
them see you care.
It didn't work, because he cared too deeply. All he could see was Emma, alone and frightened. And all he could feel were the bitter memories of a little boy, terrified and hurt, standing in that empty prison of a room.

   'Emma is not going to be abandoned,' he reiterated slowly and deliberately, as if each word weighed a ton and cost a million pounds. His hands were clenched, his insides contorted in a tight knot.

   'No one's abandoning her,' Catherine said scornfully.

   'So being shut up in a draughty old boarding school, deprived of her mother and her father, isn't abandoning your child?' he snapped.

   'You're living in the wrong century. Northover is not something out of a Dickens novel. It's an excellent school where all the best people's children go––'

   'So that's all she is to you, a status symbol!'

   'I'm not going to have this conversation with you, Andy, and especially now. Emma is in my care and I'll decide what's best for her.'

   In a flash Horton saw what game Catherine was playing. Coldly he said, 'You're doing this so that I can't see her, aren't you?'

   'Don't be ridiculous.'

   But he knew he was right by her false tone of indignation.

   'I'm her mother and I'll––'

   Horton punched his mobile off. He didn't want to hear any more. And he couldn't face returning to the pub to discuss the case. With a heavy heart he climbed on to the Harley and with no idea where he was going, letting his mood take him, he rode through the quiet streets of the island, occasionally stopping to look at the sea in the rain-sodden night.

   Eventually he found himself back at Bembridge Marina, amazed to see that it was over four hours since he'd left the pub. He felt mentally exhausted. He'd considered every possible alternative to how he could prevent Emma from being sent away to school from abducting her – foolish – to finding something against the school, a criminal activity – possible. He'd have all the staff checked, double-checked and triple-checked. Finally he'd turned his mind to how he could gain permanent custody of Emma, which included resigning, showing Catherine up to be a terrible mother, bribing the judge and coaching his daughter to say she wanted to live with him. His brain ached with it all.

   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
.

'
H
e'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.