Blood on the Sand (5 page)

   Uckfield said, 'We'll be there just before eight.'

   'Who's we?'

   'Marsden and Somerfield––'

   'DI Dennings?' Horton asked sharply. He didn't want the man who had taken his job in the major crime team plodding all over the place. Since appointing Dennings, Uckfield had realized his mistake and had been trying to ease him out, but unfortunately Dennings was sticking to Uckfield like treacle to a spoon, much to Uckfield's chagrin.

   Uckfield said, 'He's sick.'

   'Can't be with stress,' Horton quipped. 'He'd need to be overworked for that.'

   'Flu,' Uckfield replied curtly.

   'And the Port Special Branch post you're trying to persuade him to take?'

   'Still trying. There's that vacancy on my team, remember?'

   
Not yet there isn't
, thought Horton,
if Dennings refuses to go
. 'I'm on holiday,' he said, hoping Uckfield would ignore that. But he didn't.

   'Cantelli's coming with me.'

   Poor Cantelli. He got seasick just looking at water. And he didn't think Charlotte would be very pleased at having her husband dragged away from the bosom of his large family. He said, 'Then you'd better ask him what he's already got on Owen Carlsson.'

   'Jesus! Has everyone been investigating this case except me, who
should
be?'

   Horton said nothing, forcing Uckfield to continue. 'Trueman will co-ordinate the incident room at Newport station. Can't trust these islanders to do that properly.'

   Birch and Norris were going to love this, Horton thought gleefully.

   'And Somerfield might be able to get close to Thea Carlsson. You know, woman to woman kind of thing. Birch has had to release her. Seems she's got a pretty good lawyer and Birch had no real evidence to hold her, though he could have applied to do so, if he'd thought about it a bit longer. But thinking is not Birch's strong point.'

   Why the hell hadn't Uckfield told him this immediately? And why hadn't that damn solicitor told him when Horton had left clear instructions that he should do so? Had Thea told him not to? Maybe Frances Greywell hadn't relayed the message.

   Uckfield rang off. Horton thought about calling Cantelli then changed his mind. The sergeant was probably packing his bag and taking his sea sickness pills. Instead Horton called Braxton, after getting his number from Frances Greywell's office, only to be told that Mr Braxton was unavailable.

   'I bet he is,' Horton murmured, throwing his mobile phone down in disgust. He paced the cabin feeling uneasy. He flicked on the light hoping it would dispel his concerns about Thea, but it didn't. The image of her terrified expression haunted him. She simply couldn't be guilty. A chilling suspicion began to form in his mind. Was she being threatened? Had her brother been killed as a warning and she'd been told where to find his body? Was she in that house alone? She had to be unless Evelyn Mackie had seen her return and had called on her. Would Thea have let her in though? Given Thea's past record of keeping to herself he didn't think so.

   God, he wished he'd taken down Owen Carlsson's home telephone number; he could have called her. But again, he doubted if she would have answered it. Why would she have told the solicitor not to notify him that she'd been released? There was only one answer he could think of: because she didn't trust the solicitor. Correction, she didn't trust anybody. But she'd asked him to feed her cat! She'd given him a key. Why? He didn't know, only that he was certain that her life was in danger. He could
feel
it – and bollocks to Uckfield or anyone else who would laugh at him because of it.

   Before he knew it he was locking the boat and hurrying towards the marina shop in the rain soaked night, wishing he had his Harley-Davidson.

   Scouring the window he spotted a faded, dog-eared card advertising a local taxi company and without much hope rang the number. He was surprised when it was answered promptly by a cheerful voice which announced it would be with him in five minutes. That usually meant ten and on this island that would no doubt stretch into fifteen. By the time the headlights swept into the marina seventeen minutes later Horton was ready to throttle the bloody man, but he held his tongue and his temper long enough to give clipped instructions for Cowes.

   While he had waited for the taxi to arrive, he'd considered calling Birch and asking him to send a car to Thea's house. But he didn't. Why, he couldn't say, except that it had something to do with Thea not trusting anyone, which meant he couldn't either.

   He cut off the taxi driver's friendly chatter with a mixture of monosyllabic replies and stony silence. He soon got the message. Although the rush-hour traffic on the island was nowhere near as heavy as that on the mainland, tonight it seemed exceptionally busy. Horton cursed silently every time they stopped, which seemed like every five minutes. If he'd had the Harley he'd have been there by now.

   Finally they were heading into Cowes. But even then it wasn't plain sailing. Jesus, it would have been easier to get out and run! At last they turned the corner and pulled up outside Thea's house. It was in darkness. Had he rushed here like an idiot and Thea was with friends or relatives?
But she'd
said there was no one.
He rang the bell. No answer. He called through the letter box. Still no reply, and yet he felt sure she was inside. Could she have done something stupid like take her own life? He shuddered at the thought and, quickly extracting the key, opened the door.

   Now his sense of danger was stronger than ever. Everything was silent. Too silent. Perhaps she was next door. But he didn't
feel
it. This bloody psychic stuff was rubbing off on him. Yet he couldn't bring himself to call her name. Some sixth sense was telling him there was someone here. He could feel a presence, and he didn't think it was a spook.

   Silently and swiftly he covered the rooms on the ground floor. There was no one and no sign of Thea, though she had been here: a cup was on the drainer that hadn't been there this morning. A noise suddenly alerted him. His senses strained to place it and its location. It was the cat, Bengal. He was meowing and the sound was coming from upstairs.

   Taking the stairs two at a time with his heart pounding like a piston engine, he paused on the landing and listened. Silence. Then Bengal mewed again. He was in Thea's bedroom.

   Holding his breath, Horton thrust open the door hoping to slam anyone lurking behind it, but it only bounced back on him. The brief glimpse inside made his blood freeze. Swiftly he crossed the room where Thea was lying face down on the bed and pressed his fingers on her neck. There was a pulse, thank the Lord. But he barely had time to register this when a movement caught the corner of his eye. He dodged to his right at the same time as trying to turn, but he was too late. A violent blow caught him on the side of his head. He heard the crack before he felt the pain. Then the bed raced up to meet him. He sensed someone hovering, but the lights were fading fast. Muffled footsteps. Then nothing, only blackness.

S
omething was licking his face and screaming in his ears. He opened his eyes with a groan, which turned into a throat-clenching choke. A sharp pain stabbed his head so it took him a few seconds to connect his choking with the acrid smell of smoke. Bloody hell, the house was on fire!

   He pushed Bengal away and staggered up, trying to stop the room from spinning, and desperately struggling to remember what had happened. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious but it could only have been seconds, maybe a couple of minutes at the most. It was long enough to feel the heat through the floorboards. Time to get out and already his mind was rapidly calculating that using the stairs wasn't going to be an option – a view that was confirmed as he slammed the bedroom door shut, noting its thickness with a small glimmer of hope. A quick glance at Thea told him she was still unconscious or even dead by now. Then she groaned. Thank God! The heat was scorching and Bengal was on the window ledge, screaming like mad.

   Horton dashed into the en-suite shower room, which he realized, too late, was where Thea's assailant had been hiding, and tossed the towels under the shower, quickly soaking them. He rushed back to the bedroom door and stuffed one along the bottom of it, but he could do nothing about the fireplace and smoke was already beginning to drift in through it.

   With the other wet towels he crossed to Thea and shook her. The heat was growing more intense through the soles of his feet and he could hear the wood of the floors and stairs crackling. Bengal had jumped off the window ledge and had scurried under the bed.

   Horton shook Thea again and gently slapped her face, trying to shake her into full consciousness.

   'Wake up. We've got to get out of here,' he urged.

   'My head . . .' She coughed as the smoke began to permeate every narrow crack in the room. He handed her a soaking towel.

   'Wrap this around your mouth and nose. Come on, get up.' Roughly he hauled her up, holding the other wet towel to his face.

   She slouched against him but her eyes were open and he could see her quickly taking in the situation.

   'Bengal,' her muffled voice cried through the towel.

   'He's under the bed. There's no time. We have to get out. Now!' The fire was already on the landing. Soon it would be licking at their door. But Thea was on her stomach, reaching under the bed.

   Seeing there was nothing for it, Horton groaned and said, 'Help me shift the bed over,' otherwise they'd never get the ruddy cat and they'd all be fried alive. 'Get ready to grab him.'

   The cat started violently as the bed was shoved against the wall. Horton grabbed him by the collar as he tried to scamper out, obviously scared out of his wits. He wasn't the only one.

   He thrust Bengal at Thea, who swiftly wrapped the towel around him. She was coughing like mad. Horton picked up a chair and smashed the window, praising God it hadn't been double glazed. He could hear the siren of the fire engines, but he couldn't wait. It would be too late. Looking down, he saw that the fire had reached the kitchen, and had spread into the conservatory directly below them. He turned back and saw the flame coming through the door. The room was filling with thick black smoke and he could hardly breathe. Thea looked as though she was going to pass out and there was no sound or movement from the cat. They had no choice.

   'Out,' he commanded, quickly clearing the jagged glass from the window with the towel wrapped around his hands. 'Slide down the roof as quick as you can and jump on to the grass.'

   'I can't––'

   He scooped her up, momentarily surprised at just how thin she was, plonked her on the window ledge, grabbed Bengal and pushed Thea out. She coughed, then screamed. Out of control, she slid down the roof and seemed to fall or somersault over the edge. He had no idea how she had fallen, or if she was alive or injured. Any moment now the smoke would get him.

   He climbed on to the window ledge just as the roof below him collapsed inward with a great crash and billowing of smoke cutting off his escape route. The sirens were louder now; the firefighters must be outside, but he couldn't hang around to find out. With the lifeless Bengal under his arm, he saw the drainpipe to his right. It was wet and therefore probably slippery but that was the least of his problems. He'd need two hands to climb down it. Bengal was probably dead. He should leave him behind. But he couldn't. He knew Thea would never forgive him.

   With Bengal under his right arm, and sitting on the window ledge facing on to the garden, he reached across his body with his left hand for the drainpipe, grabbed it, praying that it would hold, and then eased the rest of his body over the sill whilst somehow managing to slide Bengal between his chest and the wall and wrap his other hand around the drainpipe. Scrambling, sliding, stumbling, he fell down the drainpipe until Bengal slipped from his body and Horton rolled on to the ground.

   He looked up to see three firefighters wearing breathing apparatus crash through the back gate. One, quickly seeing Horton, rushed towards him as the flames from the kitchen seemed to want to reach out and consume them. Horton grabbed Bengal and staggered up, marvelling that no bones were broken as the firefighter helped them both to safety.

   'There's no one in there,' Horton managed to cough and splutter. The firefighter nodded his grateful thanks, and rushed away to give instructions to his colleagues. Horton gazed wildly round for Thea. Then, with overwhelming relief, he found her squatting on the grass, staring blankly at the blazing spectacle of her brother's home.

   'Are you all right?' he asked. It was a stupid question – how could she be? But she was alive and so was he, which, looking at the blaze and feeling the intense heat of the fire, was a miracle.

   She nodded, dazed. No bones broken either. She'd had a lucky escape and so too had he. He wasn't sure about Bengal. Unwrapping the towel he stared down at the comatose tabby cat.

   'Bengal!' she croaked, her voice turning to a sob. 'Now I've got nothing.' Her words, and the anguish in them, wrenched at Horton's heart. Swiftly he crossed to one of the firefighters.

   'Have you got any compressed air to give the cat? He might still be alive. She's lost everything else. Her brother died this morning.'

   The firefighter hurried back to Thea with Horton. He put a mask over the cat's face and shot the compressed air into its nose and mouth. They waited. Was it too late? It seemed as if it had been an age since Bengal had lost consciousness and they'd climbed out of the window but in reality Horton guessed it was only a couple of minutes at the most. Then Bengal stirred.

   'Thank you. Oh, thank you!' Thea whispered, stroking the cat, her tearful eyes radiating out of her smoke-blackened face.