Blood on the Sand (16 page)

   'Shouldn't we tell the Super?'

   'Later.' Horton was already steaming out of the canteen. He wanted all the answers neatly tied up before going to Uckfield. This was more like it. At last they were getting somewhere. Their visit to Laura Rosewood had proved highly fruitful. This case was about good old-fashioned greed and not global environmental concerns.

   Cantelli had Danesbrook's address from the vehicle check he'd done earlier. Horton only hoped Danesbrook was at home, perhaps working out how to spend his inheritance.

   'There's more,' Cantelli said, on their way to Danesbrook's house in Ryde. 'Four days before Sir Christopher Sutton died he called his solicitor and said he wanted to change his will. Newlands had been due to see Sir Christopher on the day he died.'

   It fitted. 'Sutton had discovered that Danesbrook was a fraud and wanted to cut him out.'

   'We don't know yet that he is a fraud.'

   'Take my word for it; he is,' Horton said firmly. He'd known there was something shifty about the man from the moment he'd set eyes on him, and Laura Rosewood had thought the same. For a year she'd seen him sucking up to Sutton and now they knew why. Horton wondered if Sir Christopher's death hadn't been precipitated by Danesbrook.

   Cantelli said, 'Newlands had no idea what Sir Christopher was intending and he says Arina didn't know either, but she did say that her father was very agitated and seemed to go downhill rapidly in the last few days. And there's another thing that's rather curious: Newlands told me that Owen Carlsson visited him three days after Arina's death.'

   'To find out about Danesbrook?'

   'No. He didn't even ask about the wills. He wanted a list of all the people who had attended Sir Christopher's funeral.'

   Horton thought that rather odd too. 'And did Newlands give it to him?'

   'Yes, and I've got a copy.' Cantelli pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket as they waited at

a set of traffic lights.

   Horton scanned it. There were some eminent people on the list judging by the Sir this and Doctor and Professor that. He wondered if Dr Clayton knew any of them, which reminded him about Anmore's autopsy. Had she completed it yet? He'd check after they'd seen Danesbrook. He glanced further down the list and saw Jonathan Anmore's name, along with Bella Westbury, Laura Rosewood and Roy Danesbrook.

   Horton said. 'Ask Trueman to find out if Owen Carlsson contacted any of the people on this list, and when and why. Has Newlands given Danesbrook a key to Scanaford House?'

   'No.'

   'Good. Make sure it stays that way. His car's here,' Horton said, pleased, as Cantelli turned into the narrow street of tiny flat-fronted terraced houses just off the promenade in Ryde.

   Cantelli squeezed his hired car into a space halfway up the steep incline and zapped it shut. The rain had ceased and the sun was making brief appearances in a cloud scudding sky. Walking back down the hill, Horton took a glance inside the dark blue saloon. It revealed only a screwed-up newspaper and some parking tickets. He could detect nothing from the dent in the front passenger door but he'd get Forensic on to it.

   He pressed his finger on Danesbrook's bell and left it there. No one came. He swore softly.

   'He can't have gone far if his car's here,' suggested Cantelli.

   But that wasn't necessarily true, thought Horton, because Danesbrook might have caught the hovercraft or catamaran across to the mainland. Disappointed and frustrated he turned away and almost bumped into a lopsided elderly man with a bulbous, wart-ridden nose.

   'You looking for Roy?' the old man asked.

   'Do you know where we can find him?'

   'Not the bailiffs, are you?' He peered at them with watery eyes.

   'No.'

   'Then you must be police.'

   Horton smiled to himself. Had Danesbrook already earned himself a visit from the local police? Or maybe he and Cantelli just looked like coppers.

   'You'll find Roy in the bar of the Victoria Arms. Turn sharp right at the end of the road then along about two hundred yards. It's on the corner facing the kiddies play park and the seafront.'

   'Thanks.'

   'Don't tell him I sent you.' The old man put a key in the door of the neighbouring house and stepped inside.

   Horton got the impression he didn't much care for Danesbrook. That made two of them. Three if he counted Laura Rosewood. Horton was rather looking forward to this official interview with the ponytailed man in the cowboy boots, and there would be no scuttling away and evasiveness. No, Horton thought determinedly, this time he'd get the answers even if he had to shake them from him.

'
W
hy didn't you tell me you were the police?' Danesbrook demanded angrily, pushing away the half full plate of shepherd's pie after Cantelli had done the introductions and they'd seated themselves opposite him.

   Horton could see Danesbrook's mind trawling through their previous conversation in search of anything incriminating he might have said. Not bothering to disguise his distaste for the greasy haired man beside him, Horton said, 'A man with your experience should have spotted one.'

   Danesbrook bristled. 'You've been checking up on me. I only used violence for the sake of a cause.'

   'Is that why you used it on Arina Sutton and Owen Carlsson? For the sake of your charity?'

   'No!'

   Horton ought to haul him in, charge him and then badger him into making a confession, but that wasn't his way. But if this man had Thea then every minute could count. 'You're now a very rich man,' he said sneeringly.

   Danesbrook shifted nervously. 'I don't personally benefit.'

   'No?' Horton leaned forward and said in a soft low voice, 'You inherit a vast sum of money. I call that a very powerful motive for ramming your car into an innocent woman and killing her.'

   'I didn't!' Danesbrook's restless eyes scanned the bar as though seeking help but the barmaid was reading a newspaper and the only other customers – two elderly men – were playing dominoes. 'I had nothing to do with Arina's death. And I had no idea what was in her will or Sir Christopher's.'

   Horton pulled back, smirking. 'You expect us to believe that?'

   'It's the truth and if you're going to make false accusations then you can charge me, and I want my lawyer present.'

   'Know your rights, do you? But then you would, having been arrested and convicted for assault. Violence seems to be your style. Maybe you didn't mean to use excessive violence on Owen Carlsson but the gun went off, and he died.'

   'This is bloody ridiculous. I haven't shot anyone. And I didn't run over Arina Sutton.' Danesbrook leapt up.

   Horton shrugged. 'If that's the way you want it. Charge him, Sergeant, then get a car to take him to the station where he can wait for his solicitor to arrive. Of course by then we might be out, and it could be some time before we get to question him. It could even be tomorrow morning . . .'

   'All right, I get the message.' Danesbrook subsided into his seat. 'But I haven't killed anyone.'

   'So you keep saying,' Horton said wearily. The man was nervous, and Horton reckoned guilty with a capital G. 'Where were you on the night of the third of January?'

   'At home. And before you ask I was alone. You can check with my neighbours; one of them should remember seeing my car parked in the street.'

   'You could have used another car to run her down.'

   'Well I didn't. I mean I didn't use any car to run her down.'

   'How did you get that dent in the passenger door?'

   'A woman went into me in the supermarket car park.'

   'You have her name and address?'

   'Well, no. I told her not to bother.'

   'That was generous of you.'

   'I said the insurance could pay for it.'

   'And lose your no-claims bonus! When did this happen?'

   'I can't remember, a fortnight ago, something like that.' Danesbrook was sweating and the stench emanating from him was overpowering that of the smell of beer and food lingering in the pub.

   Horton didn't believe him. 'Where were you on Saturday, Sunday and Monday?' Horton heartily wished they had a more definite date for Owen's death.

   'I don't know. I can't remember.'

   'Suffering from amnesia, are you? It was less than a week ago!'

   Danesbrook licked his lips and fiddled with his ponytail. Horton felt like cutting the bloody thing off.

   'I was in here, having a drink, shopping, not doing anything special.'

   Horton saw fear in his skittering eyes. The man was definitely hiding something. But without that time of death it would be difficult to prove Danesbrook had been killing Owen Carlsson. At a sign from Horton, Cantelli took over.

   'What exactly is Wight Earth and Mind?'

   'It's a charity – well a project really.' Danesbrook wasn't sure whether to look relieved or scared at the question. 'It will help people suffering from mental illnesses by getting them involved in environmental projects. It was taking longer to set up than I thought.'

   Yes, thought Horton, Danesbrook was waiting for father and daughter to die to get his hands on the money. And he'd got tired of waiting.

   'Did you kill Sir Christopher?' he asked seductively gently. 'A pillow over his head to end his suffering? It would be understandable in the circumstances. His death and his daughter's could help many others.'

   But Danesbrook wasn't rising to the bait. 'No! He was a good man. I wouldn't have done a thing like that. He understood how I . . . He understood things.'

   'Like your mental breakdown while in prison.'

   Danesbrook sprang up and screeched, 'I will not be tormented.'

   The barmaid looked up and the two elderly men paused in their game of dominoes.

   'Sit down,' Horton said firmly.

   Danesbrook hovered for a moment then subsided. His shoulders slumped.
Here it comes
, thought Horton gleefully. Maybe they should caution him and tape this. But too late, Danesbrook was speaking.

   'I couldn't stand prison,' he said wearily. 'Tending the gardens and growing things helped me to recover. I told Sir Christopher this. He understood.'

   'So much so that he bought you a new car and left you a huge sum of money.'

   'I'm not the only one,' Danesbrook mumbled.

   'No, but you're the only one with a fake project. The other beneficiaries are hospitals and renowned institutions. And you're the only one who lives on the Isle of Wight.'

   Danesbrook licked his lips again. 'I can't help that.'

   Did Horton believe him? If he had killed Arina or been involved in her death then surely he would have thought of a better alibi for her time of death. It wouldn't take much to break him, a couple of nights in a cell most probably.

   'Did you kill Jonathan Anmore to stop him from squealing about killing Arina for you?

   Danesbrook's eyes widened in alarm and horror. 'You're mad.'

   'Did you tell Owen about your project?'

   Danesbrook blinked and wiped the sweat from his brow. 'No. I met him once, at a talk that . . . was about wind farms.'

   Horton knew that wasn't what Danesbrook had been about to say, but had quickly covered his tracks. 'Surely you would have bent his ear about your project?'

   'Well I didn't.'

   This seemed to be getting them nowhere. Irritated, Horton gave Cantelli a nod to continue.

   'How did you meet Sir Christopher?'

   Danesbrook twirled his ponytail with nicotine-stained fingers. 'He had a flat tyre on Brading Down. I offered to help him change it. We got talking. He invited me to Scanaford House; we exchanged ideas. Sir Christopher wanted his name to live on in a worthy cause. He'd seen how the combination of physical work, coupled with the power of nature, worked as a therapy. Things developed from there.'

   Horton widened his eyes. 'Jesus! Next you'll be telling us that the earth is flat and that aliens have landed in Utah.'

   'It's the bloody truth!'

   Danesbrook's indignant tone was genuine enough, but Horton knew it was a lie. The man was a bloody con-artist and possibly a killer.

   'Where were you on Wednesday night?' he snapped, referring to the night he and Thea had nearly been fried alive.

   'Here. You can check with Maggie.'

   Cantelli rose and crossed to the bar.

   Danesbrook looked relieved that he had a firm alibi for at least one of the nights Horton had asked about. But there was still Thursday night and Jonathan Anmore's death.

   'Where did you go yesterday after you left me at Scanaford House?'

   'Home.'

   'I thought you had a meeting to attend?'

   'I got the dates muddled up. I was at home all afternoon and evening. I cooked something and watched the telly. Some stupid soap was on. I didn't take much notice of it. I fell asleep. Can I go now?'

   'No you bloody can't. Not until we've checked your finances and searched your house.'

   'You'll need a warrant for that,' Danesbrook said cockily.

   'Then we'll get one while you wait in a cell.'

   'Hey––'

   'And before you say we can't do that either, I'll hold you on a charge of benefit fraud––'

   'I want a solicitor.'

   'Then you can call one when we get to the station. We'll also take your car in for forensic examination.'

   Danesbrook looked like a cornered rat and well he should, thought Horton; he was far from satisfied with the skunk's answers. Leaning forward he said, 'What have you done with Thea Carlsson?' He scrutinized Danesbrook for his reaction. Disappointingly he could see his surprise was genuine.