Blood on the Sand (30 page)

   'Aye, so am I, son. I doubt you'll get who did it anyway.' He waved Horton into a seat in the small living room which smelt of sorrow and whisky.

   Horton felt saddened that Charlie had so little faith in the police. He said nothing about DCI Birch believing he knew who the killer was. He began. 'When Bella Westbury came to visit you what did you talk about?'

   'This and that, how the island's changed since Jonathan was a boy, that sort of thing.'

   Horton felt disappointed. So it was Jonathan's childhood days in the seventies that Somerfield had meant by 'the old days'.

   'She didn't ask you about 1990 when you were the gardener at Scanaford House?' probed Horton.

   Charlie looked surprised. 'No. I was never a gardener there. That was Jonty's client.'

   So that was it. Horton's final attempt at trying to find the reason for Owen's death had fallen flat. He'd listen politely for a while then make his way home. There was nothing more he could do and, though he felt frustrated, he saw that he had no option.

   Charlie continued. 'Bella and I talked about all the building that's going on. They call it progress but it doesn't look much like it to me.'

   Horton nodded sympathetically while steeling himself for a diatribe on the planning authorities. Then he wondered why Bella Westbury would want to talk about building. But of course she was on the environmental bandwagon . . . only she wasn't. That was all a sham. Part of her cover. So if she wanted to talk to Charlie about building, he damn well wanted to as well.

   'Any building works in particular?' he asked politely.

   'Just here and there, though we did chat about the site of the old mental hospital. I said I wouldn't fancy living there myself, too many ghosts.'

   And there was that word again – ghosts – only this time coupled with another word that made him think of Danesbrook and his charity, and Sir Christopher Sutton and his specialism: mental hospital . . . neuropsychiatry. Horton felt a quickening in his pulse.

   'Ghosts?' he prompted.

   'Aye. Poor souls. Beautiful grounds though,' Charlie said wistfully. 'I was a gardener at the old asylum in the 1950s and 1960s.'

   Horton was even more interested now. He nodded encouragement at Charlie, who didn't need

much; Horton could tell his mind was back in the past in probably happier times.

   'Most of the patients were harmless. You'd see some of them in the gardens with a nurse. Others were locked away in the main house. We had our own lodge in the gardens, me and Dickie Jones along with Harry Makepeace; he were the boss. We kept our tools there, and made our tea and ate our dinner. They're both dead now.'

   'And you chatted about this to Bella?'

   'Oh, yes. She was very interested. Probably only being polite.'

   
I doubt it
, thought Horton. And he knew why Bella had been so interested. Calmly, though his pulse raced with excitement, he said, 'Did you know any of the doctors there?'

   Charlie eyed him as if he were mad. 'Gawd, no! They wouldn't talk to the likes of us or us to them. Things were very different in those days, not like now where everyone says we're all on one level, but we aren't. Maybe it was different for Jonty.' A cloud crossed his face. 'I left Whitefields in 1969, worked for the council as a gardener for fifteen years and then started my own little business in 1984 before Jonty took it over.'

   But Horton had stopped listening after Charlie had said 'Whitefields'. A dark, intimidating painting of a big house flashed before his eyes and Gordon Elms' words sprang to mind.
They had a
summer fête in the grounds. Whitefields it was called. They pulled it down in 1986 and built new houses on it.
And Gordon Elms and his mother had visited there in 1981, the year after Sir Christopher's wife had died. Gordon had bought the painting because it reminded him of his mother being happy. And Horton would stake his last penny that Sir Christopher Sutton had worked at Whitefields at some stage in his career as a neuropsychiatric consultant. He'd need to check with Trueman, but Horton was convinced it hadn't shown up on Sutton's employment records. Of course, Sutton could have spent a short spell there, which didn't warrant recording, but Horton didn't think so. His money was on 1959.

   'Was there ever any hint of anything not quite right happening at Whitefields?'

   'Like what?'

   Horton had no idea, but something the Intelligence Service didn't want exposed. He shrugged.

   Charlie said, 'I wouldn't know if there was. I just worked in the gardens. Funny you should mention that though because Bella asked me if Jonty and I had ever heard rumours about the place. I said only that it were supposed to have been haunted.'

   That clinched it for Horton. Sutton had been there all right, and Horton wouldn't mind betting doing something with those poor inmates that the government and medical council desperately wanted to keep quiet, such as experimenting with new and potentially dangerous drugs. If he recalled correctly, and from what Trueman had said earlier, this was at the height of the Cold War, when anything was possible. And, if he was right, Bella and her paymasters, whoever they were, would be very eager to keep any such confession from Sutton's dying lips, and from the public gaze. Eager enough to kill for? He reckoned so.

   Charlie said, 'It was pulled down in 1991 and Cawley's began building all those houses on the land a year later––'

   'Hold on,' Horton said. 'I thought the houses had been built on it in 1986.' Surely that was what Gordon Elms had said.

   But Charlie was shaking his head. 'No. It was closed in 1986 but they didn't get round to pulling it down until 1991, and building on it a year later. The big house was rather grand, but it weren't listed. There were a lot of people who wanted to save it, but that didn't count for much in the end. Who would want to live in a flat converted from an insane asylum? Can't say I blame them, all those ghosts.'

   Which brought Horton right back to Helen Carlsson. Could Helen have visited Whitefields because of the stories about ghosts? It was possible given the fact that Bohman had told him she had 'the gift'.

   Horton talked to Charlie a little longer out of politeness, but was impatient to get away. When he did, ten minutes later, he immediately called Cantelli.

   'Can you talk?'

   'I'm in the canteen.'

   'How's Uckfield?' Horton asked.

   'Fuming and supposedly resting in his hotel bedroom where I left him last night. He's been on the telephone to Trueman half a dozen times this morning and me about the same.'

   'What's Birch doing?'

   'Still trying to find a past connection between Thea and Jonathan Anmore. He's matching their employment and medical histories, looking for a link. Nothing so far but he's not that concerned as he claims they must have met up when Thea was over here at New Year. Trueman spoke to the nurse, Vanessa Tupper, in Tenerife this morning. It's not good news, Andy. The call Thea received in the hospital was from Jonathan Anmore.'

   Horton swore softly.

   'It looks as though she could have gone to meet him in Yarmouth. Birch thinks she returned with him to his barn where she killed him, and then made off on foot. She doesn't drive, remember.'

   'Bloody convenient that Gordon Elms happened to be driving to Yarmouth then,' Horton said cynically.

   'Birch reckons she must have overheard Elms saying he was collecting Mr Westleigh from Yarmouth and that was why she said she'd meet Anmore there.'

   'He's got an answer for everything,' Horton quipped.

   'There's something else, Andy.'

   Horton braced himself for more bad news. His heart felt like lead.

   'DCI Birch is so certain Thea killed her brother and Anmore that we're not looking for anyone else. He's making a press statement later this morning. I'm taking Uckfield home later this afternoon, very much against his will, may I add, along with Somerfield and Trueman. Chief's orders. Marsden's staying behind to help Birch. Sorry, Andy. The evidence is beginning to look overwhelming.'

   It was and Horton didn't like it one bit. Birch might be winding down the case but Horton still had a few hours left to follow up the lead Charlie Anmore had given him. And he was damn well going to.

   'There's something I need you to do for me, Barney, and without Birch shoving his oar in.' Horton quickly told him about his interview with Charlie Anmore. 'Check Sir Christopher's employment record, see if you can find any note of him ever having worked at Whitefields. Call Dr Nelson and ask him about the place. Did Sutton ever mention it? If Nelson's involved with Bella, and whoever she's working for, then you might have the funny buggers come down on you after speaking to him. Ask Dr Clayton if she can find out anything through her contacts. I'm heading for the library.' It would be quicker than returning to his boat and using his laptop, and he would also have access to other information like press cuttings or reference books that might give him some idea what all this meant.

   In Newport library, Horton logged on to the computer and trawled the Internet for references to Whitefields. Soon he was reading how the mental hospital had been built on farm land during the 1890s as the Isle of Wight's first County Asylum and officially opened on 13th July 1896 with the first patients transferred from the mainland a few days later. By the 1980s the hospital was outdated and ill-equipped for modern needs so it was gradually shut down until, as Gordon Elms had said, it had closed in 1986. After that it had lain derelict until Cawley Developments had purchased the land from the National Health Service Trust in 1990.

   Horton read about the ghosts that were supposed to have haunted the hospital, which made him wonder why Elms had never mentioned them. And then he came across some other more unusual websites where people had posted their photographs of derelict buildings, including Whitefields before it had been demolished. As he viewed the sad pictures of the deserted ablutions rooms, broken-back doors hanging off their hinges, rotting balustrades and iron beds in tiny cells, he shivered. Words flitted through his mind. Ghosts . . . Sutton . . . Whitefields . . . photographs . . .

   He sat back and stared at the screen. Sutton would have been long gone from Whitefields by 1990 when Helen might have shown up there to take her photographs,
if
he had worked there in the first place. Had Helen Carlsson stumbled on some old documentary evidence,
if
she'd been photographing the place? Given her interest in ghosts and photography maybe she had.

   Judging by the pictures on the Internet it had certainly been a splendid building. But why would someone have killed her and her husband because of that? And who was this girl Thea had mentioned? Had Helen Carlsson met a girl in the derelict building who had told her about Sutton's work there? But no, the girl wouldn't have been a girl in 1990 if she'd known Sutton; she'd have been well into her sixties, unless she was a ghost . . . He smiled at the stupidity of that theory. This seemed to be getting him nowhere. He needed air and space. He needed to think. He stepped outside. His phone rang. He hoped it was Cantelli but it was Uckfield.

   'Where the bloody hell are you?' But before Horton had a chance to answer, Uckfield went on, 'What's Birch doing to cock up my case?'

   'No idea. I'm not working on it any more.'

   Uckfield scoffed. 'That's never stopped you before.'

   Horton told him what he'd discussed with Cantelli and his conversation with Charlie Anmore. He also told him his theory that Helen Carlsson might have been photographing the derelict Whitefields.

   'And where does that get us?' Uckfield growled.

   Precisely, thought Horton. But it had to mean something. He heaved a sigh of relief as Uckfield rang off and tried to get back to his thoughts about Helen and her photographs. What had cost her her life and the lives of the others?

   Whichever way he looked at it he couldn't come up with a reason. There was nothing more he could do except return to the boat. It was too late now to ride the Harley back to Portsmouth via the ferry and then return to sail the boat across. He wondered if he would ever see Thea Carlsson again.

   The wind was rising with every passing minute, howling through the masts, building itself up for storm force six or seven by the sound of it, maybe even stronger, which meant the Met Office had been wrong and the front they had predicted had rolled in quicker than anticipated. It also meant that if he didn't start soon he'd never get the boat back to the mainland. Even in the shelter of the harbour the waves, flecked with white horses, were bashing against the sea wall, the spray dancing in the air before splashing over the top.

   There was still no word from Cantelli. He should head for home before it was too late, but he made no attempt to do so. Horton told himself not to be so stupid – he was due back in Portsmouth CID tomorrow – but he found himself locking up the boat and striking out across the abandoned golf course. The wind was tossing the grass and bending the branches of the shrubs and trees landwards so that they looked like thin old men with lumbago.

   He stopped at the place where he had found Thea huddled over the body of her brother and tried to recall every detail. How did Owen's body get here? Anmore's van, of course. Together they'd hauled Owen out of the van and dumped it here. But no, recalling her expression and her shivering body when he'd found her, he refused to believe she could have done that.

   He walked on up to the holiday centre, where Anmore with binocu lars must have been viewing the scene. Anmore must have seen him talking to Thea and watched him go to his boat which he had then searched. This was futile. Time to forget Thea Carlsson, forget this case and go home. His phone rang. It was Cantelli.