Blood on the Sand (13 page)

   Uckfield pushed a toothpick in his mouth. 'He knew Anmore was the Suttons' gardener and because we're considering a possible link between Arina Sutton's death and Carlsson's he thought we should be here.'

   Horton had a suspicion that wasn't entirely the truth and judging by Cantelli's expression he agreed. Birch probably knew they'd all been drinking in the pub and Horton wouldn't put it past him to tip off the press about this murder in the hope that they'd arrive to find the officer-in-charge stinking of booze. Uckfield smelt like a brewery. Horton wondered how long he'd stayed drinking in the pub in Newport after he'd left. He caught Cantelli's eye and an unspoken signal passed between them. They'd need to get Uckfield away before the media showed up, though thankfully this being an island the national press wouldn't arrive until the morning, if at all. How to get him away without making him even more belligerent than usual was another matter.

   Horton told Uckfield what Bella Westbury had said about Anmore's amorous tendencies, adding, 'He could have been killed by a jealous lover or husband.'

   'Birch and Norris can follow that up. We'll examine any links between Carlsson and Anmore.'

   That made sense, and three deaths around Scanaford House – four if you counted Sir Christopher – was four too many for Horton's taste. 'Did the doctor give any indication as to how long he's been dead?'

   'Barely wanted to touch the poor sod, afraid he'd get that bloody paint all over him.'

   'What paint?'

   'You'll see. Made me wish Doc Price was here; drunk or not he'd have done a better job than the streak of piss they sent along. But he
was
good enough to tell us he
is
dead.'

   'Who found him?'

   'Anmore's old man discovered him at about ten twelve p.m.'

   Horton checked his watch, before slipping his arm into the white sleeve. It was just after midnight.

   Uckfield said, 'Charlie Anmore says his son didn't return home for his tea at six. He tried his mobile and got no answer. He knew his son couldn't be gardening in the dark but he thought he might have got held up with a client, or gone to the pub, so he didn't bother too much about it. When it got to ten and Jonathan still hadn't appeared, Charlie rang round a few of his son's mates, tried the local pub, without success, and finally came here. His son hires the barn from the farmer.'

   Uckfield's words had taken them to the body. Horton drew up with a start.

   'You never said he'd been stabbed in the back with a ruddy great pitchfork.'

   'Didn't want to spoil the surprise.'

   'Thanks,' muttered Horton, ignoring his churning gut as best he could and focussing his gaze on

Anmore. He was lying face down, with his arms outstretched, and now Horton saw what Uckfield had meant about the paint. Anmore was covered in a russet-coloured liquid, which, if Horton wasn't mistaken, and judging by the discarded tin some two feet away, was anti-fouling paint for the boat's hull.

   Uckfield belched loudly. 'Charlie Anmore eased the body over to check it was Jonathan, got himself covered in paint, and then staggered out to summon help from the farmer, who thought Charlie was bleeding to death and nearly had a heart attack himself.'

   'Where's Mr Anmore now?'

   'PC Somerfield and one of Birch's officers took him home. Somerfield's still with him but the other officer has taken Anmore's clothes to the station for forensic examination tomorrow.'

   'Shame the old boy touched him.'

   'Yeah, but I doubt he killed his son, though you never can tell.'

   Horton knew that was a sad fact of life. He studied the body, his revulsion replaced by curiosity. The pattern of death certainly didn't fit with Owen Carlsson's or Arina Sutton's. In fact there seemed no pattern at all to any of the deaths except perhaps those of Helen and Lars Carlsson with that of Arina Sutton; both involved cars and both had been in the same location. But Anmore
had
been the Suttons' gardener.

   'Why the paint?' he asked, intrigued.

   Uckfield shrugged. 'Fit of temper after stabbing him? Or maybe Danesbrook did this. It looks like the work of a lunatic, though why he'd want to kill Anmore beats me unless he didn't like the azaleas he planted. Who knows what sets these people off ?'

   Was Roy Danesbrook involved, wondered Horton? He turned to Cantelli. 'Has anyone interviewed the farmer?'

   'Sergeant Norris spoke to him earlier. He says he heard Anmore's van drive up the track at about six thirty. He was watching the weather forecast on the television, which is how he knows the time. He didn't see the van though, and he can't see the barn from the house. He didn't hear any other car approaching the barn, but he did go out for a pint. Charlie Anmore came pounding on his door at about ten twenty. He called the police, left his wife to give Charlie a stiff drink and came up the barn to see for himself. He says he touched nothing.'

   'Did his wife hear or see anything?' asked Horton.

   Cantelli shook his head. 'She was at a Women's Institute meeting in Newchurch until nine and there was no one else in the house. DCI Birch's officers will start a house-to-house tomorrow, but there are only three houses in the immediate area so it won't take them long and they're a mile away. This is a pretty isolated spot.'

   
Yes, and ideal for murder
, thought Horton. The farmhouse was a mile up a muddy track, off a narrow country lane, and surrounded by woods. Taylor might get something from the track, but Horton guessed too many police vehicles had trundled up and down it. There was something that had caught his attention, however. Dr Clayton had said that Owen Carlsson had been shot through glass and here, on his right, was a boarded-up window.

   Pointing to it he asked, 'When was that broken?'

   Cantelli glanced at the window. 'The farmer might know. You thinking Owen could have been killed here?'

   'It's possible, and then transported to the Duver in Anmore's van.'

   Uckfield's phone rang and he hurried away, struggling to wriggle out of his scene suit as he went while reaching for his mobile phone.

   Horton turned away from the body and with Cantelli followed Uckfield at a slower pace.

   Cantelli said, 'There is another possibility, Andy.' He dashed an apologetic glance at Horton.

   Horton knew what he was thinking. He said, 'You believe Thea Carlsson could have done this.'

   'It's just an idea,' Cantelli shrugged. 'Perhaps it's like you said earlier. Owen recognized Anmore as the person who had killed Arina. Anmore could have been driving a car and not his van. Owen confronted him and Anmore killed him. But Owen had already told Thea about his suspicions and

she came here to avenge her brother's death.'

   Groaningly weary, Horton knew he had to consider it as a possibility. 'How did she know where to find Anmore?'

   'Her brother could have told her before he died.'

   'Then why didn't she tell us?' cried Horton.

   'Maybe she wasn't sure until she let Anmore into the house and he tried to set fire to her.'

   'That still doesn't explain why she wouldn't say anything to us,' Horton said stubbornly. 'And I don't see her having the strength to plunge a pitchfork into Anmore's back.'

   'That might not be what killed him,' Cantelli persisted. 'She could have stuck it in him after he was already dead.'

   Horton knew Cantelli could be right. Nevertheless he had other ideas. 'Owen could have told Jonathan Anmore that he knew who had killed Arina and Jonathan thought he'd go in for a spot of blackmailing, especially after he heard that Owen Carlsson was dead. And the person he was blackmailing killed him.'

   He thought back to his earlier brief conversation with Anmore. Anmore hadn't seemed worried or nervous when he'd told him Owen Carlsson was dead and neither had he appeared shocked or even smug, just concerned. But both Roy Danesbrook and Bella Westbury had shown signs of unease.

   Stepping out of his scene suit Horton's eyes swivelled to Anmore's van. Perhaps they'd get some forensic evidence from it, he thought hopefully, before his gaze travelled beyond it to where DCI Birch and Uckfield were head to head in conversation.

   Following the direction of his gaze, Cantelli said, 'The Guv doesn't look very happy.'

   And neither did Birch, thought Horton, as Uckfield turned on his heel and stormed towards them leaving Birch to glower after him like a man who'd just had his tonsils removed without an anaesthetic.

   'There's no point in you being under cover,' Uckfield growled. 'Every bugger here knows you're a cop. And the time for pussy-footing around is over. I want some answers on these murders and I want them quick.'

   Horton wouldn't mind betting that the telephone call Uckfield had just received had been from the chief and judging by Uckfield's mood it hadn't been to utter words of praise and encouragement.

   Horton said, 'I'll talk to Charlie Anmore.'

   'Somerfield and Marsden can do that,' Uckfield said impatiently. 'I want you with me when I interview Laura Rosewood tomorrow. Be in at seven sharp.' Turning to Cantelli, Uckfield added, 'Let's leave this to the locals. DCI Birch can brief us tomorrow morning if his team find anything new. Meanwhile we need our beauty sleep. I want fresh eyes and brains. And I want results!' he boomed, storming off.

   With raised eyebrows Cantelli followed Uckfield. Horton's eyes flicked to Birch who was eyeing Uckfield malevolently. Tomorrow morning Birch and Norris would be bleary-eyed and drunk with sleep deprivation and about as much use as an umbrella in a typhoon but that wouldn't stop Uckfield pushing them so hard they wouldn't know what year it was, let alone what day. Birch had played the wrong card in snitching to the chief. A superintendent grassed up is a dangerous beast and they didn't come more beastly than Uckfield in a rage.

   Horton swung the Harley round and headed back to the boat, thinking that Uckfield might have ordered beauty sleep but obeying it would be another matter entirely.

H
orton slept fitfully, with dreams of Anmore's and Owen's rotting bodies, punctuated by images of Thea Carlsson as he'd rescued her from the blazing house, but even then he guessed he'd managed to grab more shut-eye than Birch and Norris who were resentful and sullen throughout Uckfield's bad-tempered briefing.

   On the journey to Laura Rosewood's home on the east coast of the island, Uckfield's mood, which was darker than a disused coal mine, didn't improve. He opened his mouth only to swear at any motorist or pedestrian who dared to get in his way, which seemed to be the island's entire population, and to comment that Ms Rosewood was bound to be a sandal-wearing, bead rattling Amazon with a moustache, or someone built like a shot-putter in the days of the Cold War and that this was all a bloody waste of time. Horton was inclined to agree with the latter sentiment, but reckoned on a younger version of Bella Westbury, all slacks and common sense. He was relieved when they swung into a wide gravel driveway which culminated in a futuristic house of glass and steel, perched on the cliffs of Luccombe. It was, thought Horton, totally out of keeping with the grey-stoned and colour-washed Victorian and Edwardian houses of the wooded area, and didn't look that environmentally friendly to him, which it should have been given the woman's position in the European Commission.

   Laura Rosewood however was very friendly and not at all how either of them had imagined. As they followed her swaying hips clad in tight black trousers through a spacious hall Uckfield winked grotesquely at Horton. Clearly the attractive, slender, forty-something woman with short blonde hair and immaculate make-up had lightened Uckfield's mood considerably. Perhaps, thought Horton, they should install her in the station.

   'It's such terrible news about Owen,' Laura Rosewood said, gesturing them into comfortable armchairs in an airy and expensively furnished room. Horton's eyes were immediately drawn to the magnificent view of a tumultuous grey-green English Channel beyond wide glass doors while Uckfield clearly had trouble taking his from Ms Rosewood's cleavage and the black bra beneath the dark-blue lacy top.

   'We're hoping you can tell us what Owen was working on, Ms Rosewood,' Uckfield said solemnly.

   'Of course. And it's Laura.' She flashed her perfect white teeth at him.

   Uckfield's grin reminded Horton of a crocodile who'd just seen dinner in the form of a fisherman on the bank.

   'When was the last time you saw Owen Carlsson, Laura?' Uckfield leered.

   Horton tried not to wince. She was older than Uckfield's usual types but neither that nor the fact he was married would stop the big man from trying his hand.

   'It was at Arina's funeral, a week ago Tuesday.'

   'How did he seem?' asked Horton.

   She swivelled her petrol-blue eyes to him. 'Upset, naturally. We all were. Are you any closer to finding out who killed Arina?'

   Uckfield answered. 'Detective Inspector Birch is leading that investigation.'

   This morning Horton had got his wish and Birch's officers were at Seaview conducting a house to-house, and trying to establish who had been in or around the hotel at the time of Arina's death. Another team were about to interview those in the houses near the barn where Anmore's body had been found. While Taylor's officers were going over the scene-of-crime with a comb so fine that not even a nit would get through. Cantelli had reported that the farmer couldn't confirm when the barn window had been broken. He said that Anmore must have boarded it up himself because he certainly hadn't done it. So not much joy there and neither had they found any witnesses to the fire.

   'It's such a waste,' Laura Rosewood sighed. 'And now Owen's dead too. Is there any chance his death could have been suicide?'