Blood on the Sand (7 page)

   Which were two a penny. Then a thought struck Horton. Had Owen recognized the driver and been killed because of it? Or perhaps Owen was mixed up in something dangerous; he'd known the accid ent was intended for him – a warning for him to tow the line. Over what though? And how did that affect Thea? Were Thea and Owen both involved in something dangerous? Had Owen ignored this warning and so had to be eliminated? Perhaps the killer thought that Owen had confided in his sister, which was why she had to be killed. Or was he just reading too much into this? Probably.

   Rubbing his eyes, Horton said, 'Where did Arina Sutton live?'

   'Scanaford House, Arreton.'

   Horton knew the village. It was strung out along a busy road between the island's capital at Newport and the coastal resorts of Sandown and Shanklin.

   'There's something else,' Trueman added.

   Horton could hear by Trueman's tone it was significant.

   'Helen and Lars Carlsson, the parents of Owen and Thea, were killed in a road traffic incident in 1990.'

   The couple in the photograph with the Triumph motorcycle. Thea had told him there was no one. She hadn't lied. 'So?'

   'They died in almost exactly the same spot as Arina Sutton.'

   Horton felt a prickling sensation crawl up his spine. 'What happened?' he asked quietly.

   'Their car went out of control, careered over the sea wall on to the stones below and caught fire.'

   And a child and teenager were orphaned. 'Who was driving?'

   'Lars Carlsson. He hadn't been drinking.'

   'Suspicious?'

   'No.'

   Or rather it hadn't been. Not until now.

T
he narrow street in Seaview which led down to the sea was deserted. That wasn't surprising, thought Horton, given the time of day, the season and the fact that most of the houses were second homes owned primarily by the London set and frequented only in August.

   Horton drew the Harley to a halt by the low sea wall and gazed across a grey choppy Solent into a cloud-shrouded horizon. The shores of Portsmouth and Hayling Island were invisible. It was as though they were marooned here from the rest of the world. Throughout the night his thoughts had been haunted by Thea and the new mystery that Trueman had tossed into his lap – the deaths of Helen and Lars Carlsson in 1990. Did that have anything to do with the incident here nineteen days ago? Had the killer mistaken Arina Sutton for Thea Carlsson and been determined to murder the Carlsson children in exactly the same spot as where their parents had died, only it had gone wrong? But why the hell should he want to do that?

   He swivelled round to peer up the road where Arina Sutton had been killed. The first thing that struck him was the driver would need to have been very skilful, or lucky, to have sped down the road and slammed into poor Arina Sutton before taking the sharp bend to the left, without careering over the low sea wall and crashing on to the stones and rocks below, as the Carlssons had done. And another thing: how could the driver have got up so much speed in such a short distance to create an impact powerful enough to kill? OK, so the road was on an incline and pedestrians did die even if hit at low speed, but it was less likely.

   Leaving his Harley, Horton made his way up the centre of the quiet road until he was standing at the crossroads and staring back down it towards the sea. Then he turned and climbed the steep incline up the approaching road. It curved slightly to the right. Stopping after a few yards, he turned. Yes, he had a good view of anyone leaving the hotel, especially if Arina had stood in the middle of the road, perhaps taking the night air and waiting for Owen. With his engine already running, the killer had raced down the road, shot across the crossroads, taking a gamble that nothing would be coming – although Horton knew there wasn't much chance of that – and had slammed into her, maybe as she had turned on hearing the roar of the car. Perhaps she had tried to run, or dive, out of the way, but the driver had swerved into her. But if the engine had already been running to allow the driver to get up speed quickly, how had he known
when
to strike?

   Horton's mind grappled with the possible answers to that question. It could mean there had been two of them: one driving the car, and the other watching the hotel – perhaps from the shadows of the narrow street almost opposite it, ready to relay to the driver when Arina Sutton stepped outside. Alternatively, the driver himself could have been inside the hotel watching Owen Carlsson and Arina Sutton. When he'd seen them finish their meal, he'd made his way to his car parked here, switched on the engine and waited until he saw her step outside. And if that was so then he wouldn't have confused Arina Sutton for Thea Carlsson.

   Horton began walking back to the Harley, mulling this over. It meant that either Arina was the target, probably killed as a warning to Owen Carlsson, or the killer thought he'd get Owen Carlsson and didn't much care if Arina also got killed in the process. By some quirk of fate Owen had been late joining Arina but the driver – once embarked on his mission – couldn't, or didn't want to stop. Yes, that was possible, and it fitted. And the killer had missed Carlsson once, so he had tried again and this time he had succeeded.

   Of course, that didn't account for how Thea had known where to find her brother's body, discounting the psychic bit. Horton reached for his mobile and called Cantelli. The briefing would be over by now and Horton was keen to get an update.

   'How's the stomach?' he asked when Cantelli came on the line.

   'Still in my throat. And I'm not sure it's going to stay there either.'

   'I can't persuade you to join me for a bacon buttie then?'

   Cantelli groaned.

   'Coffee?'

   'Yeah, I reckon I'll just about keep that down. Where are you?'

   Horton told him and added, 'But I'll be in the café in the Quay Arts Centre in Newport in thirty minutes.' He couldn't risk going to the police station in case someone was watching him. He didn't think they were, but it was best to be on the safe side. And he reckoned that Thea's attacker wouldn't know that Cantelli was a copper. 'Did you manage to track down Owen Carlsson's caller?'

   'Yes. Terry Knowles. I spun him the yarn that we believed his car had been stolen. He told me rather rudely that seeing as he didn't own a car he thought it highly unlikely. He lives in Winchester and runs an environmental consultancy based in Southampton. He's clean.'

   So, Owen could have been working with Knowles on an environmental project. Now they had to find out who this Laura was that Knowles had mentioned in his message. Horton doubted if Thea knew, but it might be worth asking her later. And if she didn't know they could go back to Knowles in an official capacity, and with the real reason for contacting him.

   Horton said, 'Has Dr Clayton reported back on the autopsy?'

   'She's just finished briefing Uckfield. He's in with DCI Birch.'

   'See if you can get her to join us in the café. I'd like to hear what she's discovered. Is Maitland at the scene of the fire?'

   'Yes, and Taylor.'

   'How's Thea?'

   'No permanent physical damage, but as for mental scars . . .'

   And Horton knew they would never heal.

   Cantelli said, 'Trueman's digging out background information on her and her brother. Uckfield said we'd leave interviewing her until she's in the safe house and then Somerfield can talk to her. She's with Thea at the hospital. The safe house is being organized now.'

   And Horton would feel much happier when she was there. 'See you in half an hour.' He rang off.

   As it was he made it in twenty minutes and didn't have long to wait before he saw the red headed, diminutive figure of Gaye Clayton, in jeans and a sailing jacket, enter the café. Behind her was Cantelli, looking rough. His dark eyes quickly scanned the café before alighting on Horton. There was a nod of recognition and a brief smile. No one followed them in and Horton knew that no one had come in after him. There were only a handful of people in the café, none of whom seemed the slightest bit interested in them.

   'It was murder,' Gaye said, after settling herself in the chair opposite Horton. There were dark shadows under her soft green eyes, and the faint, rather pleasant smell of soap about her, which was a darn sight better than her usual perfume – formaldehyde.

   Horton hadn't really doubted the verdict. Cantelli pulled up a seat next to him and yawned into his coffee.

   Looking over the rim of her espresso, Gaye continued. 'There are some highly unusual circumstances surrounding the victim's death, which I am sure you will find extremely interesting. Superintendent Uckfield did, though he wasn't quite sure what to make of them, but to someone with your intellect, Inspector, it will be child's play.'

   'Flattery will get you nowhere,' he said, smiling.

   'Pity.' Her return smile turned into a yawn, which she gallantly stifled.

   Horton leaned forward eagerly, wondering what was coming next. He already knew that this case was exceptional. From the moment he'd first seen Thea he'd had the impression or instinct, call it what you will, that there was something out of the ordinary about her and the murder of her brother. He couldn't explain it but he had the uncomfortable feeling that something had led him to this. It was stupid and irrational, and he knew that Uckfield and others, with the exception of Cantelli, would think he'd cracked up. Maybe he had and Thea's psychic claim had tipped him over the edge into paranoia or insanity. He'd been under considerable pressure since his return to duty in August, and what with the impending divorce and access to Emma . . . With irritation he pulled himself together; only facts would help solve this murder and bring this evil killer to justice, not airy-fairy feelings.

   'Fire away,' he said brusquely.

   She winced at his pun. 'When a weapon is held against the skin the bullet usually produces a round hole. Not so in our victim. This time it's irregular in shape, more like a letter D, which means that instead of travelling in a tight spiral the bullet wobbled as it struck the victim's skin. The cause of that could be a gun that has malfunctioned or the ammunition is defective––'

   'Ballistics are examining that and checking that the fragments Dr Clayton found in the body match the weapon you took from Thea Carlsson,' Cantelli interjected.

   'And it was a hell of a job picking them out, I can tell you,' she added with feeling, running a hand through her spiky auburn hair.

   Horton tried not to imagine those small, slender fingers probing the soft tissue of Carlsson's brains. He swallowed his coffee as she continued.

   'But that isn't the only reason for an atypical-shaped wound. If I put that with the fact that there were no soot or powder deposits either, then it is my opinion that the gun was fired from some distance, certainly over two or maybe three feet, which rules out suicide.'

   Horton said, 'Was he killed where the body was found?'

   'No. He'd been moved.'

   'Taylor couldn't find any evidence of it.'

   'He'd been moved,' Dr Clayton repeated firmly.

   Horton believed her. 'The killer covered his tracks very carefully––'

   'And left the weather to do the rest,' she finished.

   Horton thought back to Evelyn Mackie's evidence. 'As far as we know Owen Carlsson was last seen on Saturday morning on the chain ferry between West and East Cowes––'

   'The super's giving a press conference.' Cantelli glanced at his watch. 'About now. He's appealing for anyone who saw Owen. And we've got a description of Carlsson's rucksack and walking stick from DCI Birch's interview with Thea. Uckfield's got duplicates. He's showing them on TV.'

   
And I bet DCI Birch is pissed off about that
, thought Horton with some relish.

   'There's more,
if
you want to hear it,' Gaye said.

   Horton put her tetchiness down to fatigue. He guessed she'd had less sleep than him and that was precious little. 'Go on. Please.' He tried a smile but didn't get one in return this time.

   'The fact that the shape of the entrance wound is atypical combined with the absence of soot and powder, not to mention the fragmenting of the bullet inside the body and the impact on the internal injuries, suggests to me that the gun was fired through a window or sheet of glass, which made it ricochet.'

   Horton stared at her tired elfin features. This he hadn't expected.

   'Are you sure?'

   She eyed him disdainfully. He shouldn't have asked. It was what Uckfield must have said. He'd obviously gone down in Dr Clayton's estimation, which wasn't a very pleasant thought.

   His mind went back to the scene. Was there anywhere near where Owen's body had been found that could have harboured a killer who had shot him as he walked past? There was a café – closed this time of year, a handful of very large houses – mostly divided up into holiday flats, some holiday caravans and beach huts, all facing the sea, again some distance away, and mostly empty. There was also the marina shop. If Owen had been killed as he'd walked past any of these, his body would then need to have been dragged over the nature reserve to the bunker where he'd been found. It was possible, he supposed, but that didn't answer the question why nobody had discovered him before yesterday,
if
he'd been killed on Saturday, and he didn't know that for sure. He was about to ask Gaye Clayton when she started talking again.

   'I've sent his clothes to the forensic lab and I also took radiographs; they might reveal tiny fragments of glass, although at the distance from which he was shot I'm not hopeful.' She swallowed the remainder of her coffee and pulled a face as though not liking the taste. 'I've been living off this stuff all night. Doctor's curse. Takes me back to the old days on A & E. I'll probably have a thumping head tomorrow.'