Blood on the Sand (8 page)

   Horton had difficulty seeing Gaye Clayton with living patients after having watched her cut into the flesh of dead people. 'How long had Carlsson been dead?' he asked.

   'Ah, an intelligent question! You're redeemed, Inspector. There was a great deal of rigour in the body and lividity was extensive and permanent. The flies had laid their eggs in the soft tissue and they'd hatched. Sorry, Sergeant, is this making you queasy?'

   Cantelli took a deep breath and said, 'After-effects of sea sickness.'

   Horton smiled grimly and tried not to see the carcase of Owen Carlsson, or think about that smell.

   'The eggs will usually hatch within eight to fourteen hours depending on the body temperature and the conditions outside. The maggots had gone through their first stage, which means that your victim had been dead two to three days, maybe four, but they hadn't reached the second stage so he certainly hadn't been dead as long as seven days.'

   Cantelli swallowed hard.

   Horton said, 'Which fits with his sister seeing him on Saturday morning and Mrs Mackie seeing him on the chain ferry later the same morning.'

   'He was probably killed either late Saturday or some time during Sunday. Early Monday morning, at the latest, and that's the best I can do,' said Dr Clayton, almost apologetically.

   Thea had said that she'd got no answer from her brother's mobile phone on Saturday evening, which suggested that Owen Carlsson was already dead. So where had he gone when he'd left the chain ferry in Cowes?

   'Did you find anything in Owen's pockets?'

   Gaye shook her head. 'Not even a handkerchief.'

   Cantelli said, 'His wallet must have been in the rucksack. Could robbery have been the motive?'

   'Has anyone used his debit or credit cards?'

   'Not yet. But he could have had cash on him.'

   'Villains don't usually go round shooting people on the Isle of Wight for cash,' Horton ventured. 'This is hardly an inner city.'

   'No, but it is possible,' Cantelli insisted. 'They could have been high on drugs, or drunk, saw Owen out walking, alone, and thought him an easy target.'

   Horton thought it unlikely. He reckoned this killer had known exactly where Owen Carlsson was every minute, probably every second of the day. And again he thought of Thea. What did she know that she wasn't saying?

   Cantelli continued. 'Let's say they shot him through a car window, saw him fall, screeched to a halt, jumped out and stole his money. Then they tossed his rucksack in a ditch or hedge and bundled the body into the boot of the car.'

   'I can tell you're feeling better; your creative juices are working well.'

   'Must be this coffee.'

   'Any views on that, Dr Clayton?' asked Horton.

   'If he was kept in a car, he wasn't there for long. I didn't find any traces of oil on his clothes or skin, but there were fibres that looked as though he'd been covered with something: a rug, blanket, or similar. His clothes were wet, and there are salt residues, but given that he was found so close to the sea that's hardly surprising. The lab will give you a more accurate analysis.'

   Cantelli resumed. 'The villains could have driven to the car park at the Duver, bundled Owen Carlsson out of the car late Tuesday night, carried him to the sand dune and then left him with the gun, which they wiped free of their prints, before pressing it into Carlsson's hand to make it look as though he'd shot himself.'

Gaye interjected. 'His prints were on the gun, but there was no gun residue on his hands.'

   Horton looked thoughtful. 'I just can't see your average yobbo going to so much trouble. They'd have left the body where they shot him. And they certainly wouldn't have left their gun behind.'

   'OK, not yobbos and not drunks,' Cantelli conceded, evidently reluctant to give up on his theory. 'But someone who set out to kill Owen Carlsson and make it look like suicide.'

   But Dr Clayton was shaking her head. 'They failed.'

   'Perhaps they're not very bright.' Cantelli added. 'After all, they got the wrong person first time round when they ran into Arina Sutton.'

   'Ah, but that would mean Owen's death was planned and not a random attack. And was Arina the wrong person?' posed Horton.

   Gaye looked up, more alert than previously. 'Sutton?'

   'You know her?' Horton asked, curious, hearing a note of recognition in her voice.

   'I know a Professor Sir Christopher Sutton.' She gave a tired smile and half a shrug. 'But it's a common enough surname.'

   'Who is he?'

   'A neuropsychiatric consultant.'

   'A what?' asked Cantelli.

   Gaye smiled wearily. 'Neuropsychiatry is the study of mental disorders attributable to the nervous system. Sutton is a clever man and a very entertaining speaker, egocentric like a lot of consultants, but brilliant. He must be retired by now. I heard him talk years ago, at a seminar, when I was studying personality, profiling and criminology. He was about sixty then and a legend in his field.'

   Horton doubted if there was a connection, but he'd ask Trueman to check just to be sure. Not that it had any bearing on this case. Still, any information was better than none. Addressing Cantelli, Horton said, 'Did Thea Carlsson mention anything to Birch about Arina Sutton being killed in the same spot as her parents in 1990?'

   'If she did he didn't bring it up at the briefing this morning. He claims she said practically nothing before the solicitor showed up and afterwards just sat there looking forlorn. All she did say was that she went to the Duver because she had a feeling that was where she'd find her brother. Of course Birch doesn't believe her.'

   
And neither does anyone else
, thought Horton, studying Cantelli to see what he thought. Cantelli simply raised his dark eyebrows, as though to say 'who knows?'

   Gaye scraped back her chair with a yawn. 'Sounds like you've got quite a case on your hands, Inspector.'

   'I'm on holiday,' Horton replied, rising.

   'Looks like it,' she rejoined sarcastically. 'Well, I'm going home to catch up on my beauty sleep.'

   He should have answered, 'you don't need it', but he'd never been one for smooth talking. Not that Gaye Clayton expected it, but she was eyeing him rather curiously.

   'I'll give you a lift to the hovercraft,' volunteered Cantelli as they headed out of the café.

   Outside Horton paused and peered through the heavy stinging rain. There was no one loitering suspiciously. In this weather there wasn't anyone about at all.

   Turning to Cantelli he said, 'How did Thea get to Bembridge? She didn't use her brother's car.'

   'She phoned for a taxi to take her to St Helens and walked down to the Duver from there. The taxi driver has confirmed it.'

   'Is she still at the hospital?'

   'She was when I left the station.'

   'I'll pay her a visit. If someone's watching her it'll reinforce the belief that I'm a friend.'

   Cantelli's phone rang. Sheltering in the doorway of the café, he answered it as Horton escorted Dr Clayton towards Cantelli's car parked opposite the Harley.

   'I hear you had a close call last night,' Gaye said, ramming her hands in the pockets of her sailing jacket and seemingly impervious to the rain lashing into her face.

   'Could have been worse.' His chest was still raw, but it would get better.

   She halted and stared up at him with an expression of concern. 'Be careful, Andy.'

   'Why the warning?' he asked with false lightness as alarm pricked his spine.

   'Perhaps I'm just tired, but I don't like this case. There's the smell of evil around it.'

   Horton grew even more concerned though he tried not to show it. She'd echoed his sentiments exactly. 'I didn't think scientists had premonitions,' he teased.

   'Well, this one does and she's just had it. I haven't met Thea Carlsson, only her dead brother, but this is a clever killing by a clever killer. And, despite Cantelli's theories, it is not yobbos. Your killer never for a moment thought it would be construed as suicide, but he's done his best to make it difficult for us to ascertain time and place of death. Anyway, I've said my piece. I just don't want you ending up on my dissecting table – no matter how much I'd like to see you without your clothes.' She smiled to lessen the impact of her words but Horton shuddered at the thought of being laid out on the mortuary slab.

   'That was Somerfield,' Cantelli said, hurrying towards them. Horton saw instantly that something was wrong. 'Thea's gone.'

   'How? When?' Horton rapped.

   'About half an hour ago. She said she wanted a shower before she left the hospital for the safe house. The WVRS volunteer had brought her some clothes. Well, she could hardly walk out in a hospital gown and Somerfield couldn't go in the shower with her,' Cantelli said defensively.

   'Why not? She's a bloody woman too,' Horton snapped. Shit! This was the last thing he'd expected.

   'She's not gone back to the burnt-out house,' Cantelli said, the rain pouring off his face, his dark eyes anxious. 'I suppose she could have returned to where she found her brother's body.'

   Horton cursed. 'Check the hospital staff for any sightings of her,

Barney. I'll head for the Duver.' 'Andy,' Gaye called out after him. 'Remember what I said.' He would, but it wouldn't make any difference.

H
e reached the car park at the Duver in record time, and miraculously without getting a speeding ticket, or killing himself. There wasn't a car in sight. The rain was sheeting down. The biting wind cut into his flesh and shook the gorse with the fury of an outraged god. From beyond the beach huts came the thunderous pounding of waves crashing on to the shore. Not a day to be at sea, he thought, hurrying to the place where he'd discovered Thea leaning over her brother's body, without any real hope of finding her there. She wasn't. Only the flapping blue and white police tape greeted him.

   So where was she? Had she voluntarily left the hospital or had she been abducted? Christ, he didn't even want to consider the latter, but he had to. Her abductor could be the arsonist and his intruder
and
the person who had been watching him and Thea here yesterday.

   His eyes searched through the slicing rain for a hideout where this person could have watched the sorrowful scene being played out. There were plenty of places to hide: the numerous bushes, the caravan park to the north on the hill and the large houses on the gentle hill slopes to the west, which rose to the village of St Helens. Anyone with a pair of binoculars could have seen them.

   Frustrated and concerned, he returned to the boat and punched in Cantelli's number.

   'There's no sign of her,' Cantelli greeted him mournfully. 'We've put out an all-ports alert but we're keeping it from the media in case it puts her life in danger.'

   'I'll skin Somerfield alive,' snarled Horton.

   'It's not her fault, Andy,' Cantelli said gently, then added, 'But if it makes you feel any better Uckfield's already done that.'

   Horton took a breath and mentally got a grip on his emotions. For someone whose personal motto was 'control at all times and never show what you're feeling', he was failing miserably.

   Cantelli continued, 'There is one bit of news though; a nurse on A & E says she saw Thea climb into a car. She's definite about that because she was on duty when Thea Carlsson was brought in so she recognized her.'

   'What car? Description of the driver?' asked Horton eagerly.

   'She didn't get the registration or make, she was in a hurry and she didn't think much of it, but it was a dark-coloured saloon, a newish model. No description of the driver. Doesn't help us much, but the nurse says that Thea went willingly. No one was forcing her inside.'

   Horton wasn't sure he liked the sound of that, especially the bit about a dark-coloured saloon. But if it wasn't Arina Sutton's killer, was it a friend? Had she lied about not knowing anyone? Had she telephoned this person from the hospital and asked him to collect her? Did that mean she could be involved in the murder of her brother after all? No. He didn't want to believe it.

   Cantelli said, 'Uckfield's on his way to see you, Andy. Says he'll meet you at the nature reserve opposite Port St Helens. Do you know where he means?'

   Horton did. Uckfield could have picked a drier location, but there was logic in his choice. No one would be on the footpath that skirted Brading Marshes in this weather. And it was screened from the road by trees, shrubs and the lagoons.

   Locking the boat, Horton hurried across the harbour causeway to find Uckfield's silver BMW already parked in the small yard opposite the entrance to the reserve. He hadn't gone far into it before he spotted a short, square-set man wearing a long green waxed coat with a cap pushed low over his head peering through binoculars across the salt marshes. Horton smiled to himself. Despite the clothes and binoculars, this was not Uckfield's natural habitat. The big man stood out like a hooker at a high-class wedding. Uckfield had never been any good at covert operations.

   'Seen anything interesting?' Horton asked as he drew level.

   'Not a fucking dickie bird. Anyone follow you?' Uckfield lowered the binoculars.

   'No.'

   'Can't say I blame them in this shit-awful weather.'

   Uckfield was right. There was no hiding place from the relentless rain, which had already seeped through Horton's trousers to his skin. He refrained from sounding off about Somerfield's incompetence – it would achieve nothing – and instead asked what Trueman had dug up on Thea Carlsson. He was curious to know more about the girl who had got under his skin so much.