Blood on the Sand (21 page)

   'I was undercover,' he said, studying her closely, wanting to add, 'and I bet you know all about that from your career in British Army Intelligence', but he'd save that for later.

   'Does that mean there is more to Arina's death than a hit-and-run, or is it Owen's death that sent you undercover?' she said with sarcasm.

   'There's been another death––'

   'I know. I've just come from Charlie Anmore's.' She closed the door behind them but didn't invite them to sit. 'Being undercover didn't help much, did it, Inspector?' she added acerbically, tossing her large canvas bag on the floor. 'What do you want? I'm tired and I'd like to go to bed.'

   Horton could see the hostility in her green eyes. He wasn't sure if it was genuine or an act, but there was definitely something different about the tiny cottage. It took him a few moments to realize it was the cats. Where were they? If the kitchen door had been shut he might have thought them inside, but that was wide open. And all was silent. Not a single meow and no furry friends had come rushing to greet her, which he found rather strange. They couldn't all be out, surely?

   'We won't keep you long, Mrs Westbury. Do you mind if we sit down?'

   With ill grace she gestured them into the two comfortable and worn armchairs straddling the fireplace. Cantelli declined the invitation and waved Bella Westbury into the chair opposite Horton. He knew she would have preferred to stand to gain the advantage, but Cantelli was too wily to allow that. Once she'd sat the sergeant pulled up a straight hard-backed chair and positioned it between them.

   Horton asked, 'How well did you know Jonathan Anmore?'

   'We used to talk about gardens, plants, the state of the nation, his father, that sort of thing. He'd come in to Scanaford House for coffee on the days he was there.'

   'Which were?'

   'Tuesdays and Saturdays.'

   Cantelli looked up from his notebook. 'Did he mention any girlfriends?'

   'No, and before you ask Jonathan wasn't homosexual either.'

   Horton said, 'When did you last see him?'

   'At Arina's funeral.'

   'How did he seem to you then?'

   'Upset and angry.'

   In the short silence that followed, Horton could hear the wind howling around the cottage. The rain had started up again, beating against the window, making him even more surprised that not one cat had ambled in to settle in front of the fire.

   'Have you been back to Scanaford House since Arina's funeral?' he asked.

   'No. The solicitor took the keys.'

   'But you had the keys after Arina's death.'

   'Of course. Owen called me on Sunday morning to tell me about Arina's death. I couldn't believe it. I met him that afternoon at Scanaford House. He needed to talk to someone and so did I. We sat and had some tea. I called Mr Newlands, the solicitor, on Monday. He asked me to keep hold of my set of keys until after Arina's funeral and to organize the caterers for the wake. There was no one else to do it. Mr Newlands also asked me to sort through Arina's belongings. I packed up the clothes for the charity shop, and the personal items I boxed up and left for Mr Newlands.'

   She brushed a stray strand of her brown hair behind her ears and held Horton's gaze, almost defying him to tell her she was lying. What Horton didn't like was the freedom of access she'd been given to the house since Arina's death.

   'And what about Sir Christopher's things?' he asked.

   'Arina hadn't touched them even though I volunteered to help her. So I cleared those out too. His clothes went to the charity shop and, again, I left the personal items for Mr Newlands.'

   And he must still have those and Arina's. It was worth checking through them to see if there was anything that pointed to Arina's knowledge of Helen and Lars Carlsson. But if Bella Westbury had been involved in their deaths then she'd had ample time to remove anything incriminating from Scanaford House.

   'Did you know Helen Carlsson?' he asked, watching her carefully yet knowing that someone who had worked in Intelligence would be very good at disguising their real emotions and reactions.

   'No, although judging by the surname I take it she must be a relation of Owen's.'

   'His mother. She, and Owen's father, Lars, were killed in a car accident in March 1990.'

   She didn't look surprised and neither did she look worried. 'Very sad, but I can't see what that has to do with any of the recent deaths.' She rose and reached for the poker.

   'They died in almost the same the place as Arina was killed.'

   Holding the poker she turned to stare at him before her eyes wandered to Cantelli and back to Horton. 'And you think there's some connection between that and Arina's death and then Owen's. And Jonathan's, I suppose. Well I never heard Sir Christopher or Arina mention Helen and Lars Carlsson, and Owen never talked about them.' She opened the front of the stove and poked about inside it.

   'Where were you in March 1990?' Horton said coolly.

   She spun round with a wide-eyed look. 'I was in Wales, nursing my sick husband, who died in the August of that year.'

   Horton left a moment's silence, holding her angry gaze before saying, 'Were you surprised that neither Sir Christopher nor Arina left you anything in their wills?'

   'No. And before you ask I wasn't disappointed either because I didn't expect anything.'

   'Then you do know the contents of the will. You said before you didn't.'

   'Mr Newlands told me on Friday.'

   Horton could check that. 'And what about Roy Danesbrook: were you surprised when he was left what now amounts to a considerable sum?'

   'No, why should I be? It was Sir Christopher's wish. He was a very charitable man. Now, if you've finished . . .'

   Horton withdrew the photograph from his jacket. 'Is this you?'

   She replaced the poker and took the photograph. He watched her as she studied it. There was the merest flicker of anger before she said, 'How did you get hold of this?'

   She'd made no attempt to deny it was her because she knew they would check. He said, 'Helen Carlsson took it.'

   Bella Westbury's surprise seemed genuine. 'Well, I don't remember her, or the photograph being taken.'

   'I find that difficult to believe,' sneered Horton. 'A Prime Ministerial visit in troubled Northern Ireland and you on protective security duty, I hardly think you'd ignore a photographer. She could have been IRA.'

   'She was probably one of the official press corps. That bloody woman always wanted her face in the newspapers.'

   Horton knew she meant Margaret Thatcher.

   Bella added, 'Now I'd like to go to bed.'

   But Horton refused to budge. 'Why did you change sides?'

   'I don't know what you mean.'

   Oh, she did all right. 'Army Intelligence and then rebel. They hardly seem compatible,' he scoffed.

   She shrugged.

   'I wonder what your ex-mining colleagues and former Greenham Common buddies would think of you if they saw this picture. They might not be very happy about having a spy in their camp.'

   'You're nuts.'

   'Am I?' he said evenly, holding her steely gaze.

   She eyed him with a confidence that bordered on smugness. 'I came out of the army and I changed sides. I didn't like the way the establishment and big business were always telling people what to do, what they should think and what was good for them. I'd had it with politicians' bullshit whilst working on protective security.'

   It had the ring of truth about it, but he knew it was a lie. 'Where are your cats?'

   'What? I don't know,' she said with exasperation. 'Out.'

   'All five of them!' Horton said, surprised.

   'A couple of them are probably upstairs asleep. You don't want to question them too, do you? I

hardly think they'll be able to help. Now, if you don't mind . . .' She waltzed to the door and wrenched it open. A gust of damp chilly wind rushed in and rattled the wind chimes.

   Horton rose, slowly. At the door he faced Bella and said evenly, 'How well do you know Roy Danesbrook?'

   'I met him at Scanaford House a couple of times. Why?'

   'Thank you for your co-operation, Mrs Westbury. We'll need to talk to you again, so please don't leave the island without telling us.'

   The door slammed within an inch of his nose.

   Cantelli exhaled. 'Funny sort of woman,' he said as they crossed to the car. 'Couldn't quite put my finger on what was wrong about her, but if pushed I'd say there was no warmth, or maybe I mean depth, to her. She said all the right things and showed anger in all the right places, even when she almost chopped your nose off, but it was like she was going through the motions.'

   Horton climbed into the car and stared across at the house. A light had come on in the front bedroom. He watched as she pulled the curtains, pausing to look down on them.

   'She's leaving.'

   'How do you make that out?'

   'No cats. She had five when I was here before and there wasn't a meow to be heard.'

   'Perhaps they're all out chasing mice.'

   'Have you ever known a cat to be out in this weather when it's got a nice warm comfortable bed or chair to sleep on?'

   'I don't know much about cats.'

   'Well, take it from me,' replied Horton, thinking of Bengal, 'given the choice at least one of them would have been in that lounge in front of the stove.'

   'You reckon she's taken them to the RSPCA?'

   'Either that or she's given them to a neighbour or killed them. Would you say she was capable of killing them, Barney?'

   Cantelli peered at the house through the rain-spattered window. After a moment he said, 'Yes. I would.'

   Horton shivered an agreement. 'I don't like the fact she had access to Scanaford House between Arina Sutton's death and the funeral. She could have removed anything incriminating,
and
helped herself to anything she liked. Newlands shouldn't have allowed it.'

   'She could be leaving on the proceeds. There's no hint she left the armed forces under a cloud but perhaps she resigned before she was pushed and the army thought it best to hush things up.'

   'Get a warrant tomorrow for Scanaford House, or better still see if you can get the keys from Newlands. That'll be quicker, though I expect we're too late anyway.' And that seemed to be the motto for this case. Everything they did or thought about was just that little bit too late.

   'Do you want a warrant for here too?' Cantelli jerked his head at Bella's house.

   'Might as well, though I doubt it'll yield much. But I want her watched. Call Marsden, he can relieve us. As soon as he arrives we'll pay a visit to Roy Danesbrook. I have a feeling he might be closer to Bella Westbury than she claims.'

   'It's late, Andy. He might be asleep.'

   'Then we'll just have to wake him up.'

'
W
hat do you want now?' Danesbrook demanded irritably.

   He wasn't dressed for bed and Horton could hear the television blaring out in the back room. He pushed Danesbrook aside and marched down the narrow hall.

   'Hey, you can't do that,' Danesbrook bleated, running after him.

   'He just has,' Cantelli said wearily, closing the front door behind him.

   Horton surveyed the untidy and shabby room with distaste. It stank of fish and chips, cigarette smoke and body odour. He picked up the remote control and killed the television.

   'Who the hell do you think you are marching in here and messing about . . .?'

   Horton swung round, bringing the full force of his glare on Danesbrook.

   'I'm tired, I'm angry and I'm sick of your lies. So sit down and answer my questions.'

   Danesbrook sat. Cantelli took out his notebook and reached for his pencil from behind his ear. Horton could see him fighting off fatigue. He felt dead on his feet too. But he didn't have time to piss about being nice and waiting for 'office' hours, especially when he knew he was on the right track. The solution was within his grasp, he couldn't let go now. He would ride it until he got there; everything else was just wallpaper. And he knew that the thin man in front of him, in baggy jogging pants and an overlarge and grubby sweatshirt, was the key to the murders. How had an intelligent man like Sutton been taken in by this shyster? And why hadn't Arina Sutton seen through him? But then maybe she had. And it had cost her her life.

   He said, 'If you tell me one more lie, I will charge you for murder. Is that clear?' His head was pounding. He knew he was out of order, but the only way to get the information he wanted was to scare this little runt shitless.

   Danesbrook swallowed.

   Horton took that, and the pungent smell emanating from him, as acquiescence. 'How long have you known Bella Westbury?'

   'I––'

   'Think very carefully before you answer,' Horton said menacingly. 'And ignore any telephone calls she's made to you in the last twenty minutes telling you to keep your mouth shut. We know she's clearing out. She intends to leave you to carry the can. Oh, I see she didn't tell you that.'

   Danesbrook shuffled in his chair, considering it for a brief moment, then said with a resigned shrug, 'We met in 1996.'

   'At the Newbury by-pass protest.'

   Danesbrook nodded.

   Horton had been right. In order to trust Danesbrook, Sir Christopher must have had some kind of testimonial or reference and the only person who could have given that was Bella Westbury, the trusted housekeeper, herself a veteran protester.

   He said, 'She was a protester there too.'