Her voice faltered. She stared into the distance, but not in the direction of her dead brother. Wherever she looked though, Horton guessed she was seeing the rotting corpse. He studied her angry, hurt and bewildered expression, knowing all too well how it felt to live with the pain and emptiness of someone 'missing'. Her mystery had been resolved, albeit tragically, within three days. He'd been living with the mystery of his missing mother for nearly thirty years. What had happened to her after she'd left their council flat that November day, he still didn't know. She'd mixed with some dubious characters, admittedly, one of whom he'd come across recently while working on a case, but that trail had gone cold.
Had she ended up like Owen Carlsson, he wondered, staring across the Duver. He didn't want to think so but knew it was possible. Suddenly and unexpectedly a distant memory nagged at a dark corner of his mind. There was something here that had prompted it but no matter how hard he tried, whatever it was it refused to step into the light. The sound of vehicles approaching brought him back to the present. Birch had got here quicker than he'd expected.
'When was the last time you saw Owen?' he asked, bringing his mind fully back to the case, only it wasn't
his
case.
It took her a while to answer. 'Saturday morning. Owen went out walking. When he didn't return by late afternoon I called him but got no answer. I tried most of Saturday night and Sunday. Then I went to the police. I tried again all day Monday and Tuesday but got nothing.' She shivered violently. Her eyes darted to the bunker.
'Did your brother have any financial worries?' Horton could hear people making tracks through the gorse and the low rumble of voices. Of course it might not be Birch.
'No.'
'Had he been unwell?'
'You mean depressed? A bit. You see his . . .' Her words trailed off. Horton looked up to see two uniformed officers heading towards them. Behind them was a lean man in his late forties wearing a long raincoat and a sour expression on his grim, unyielding face. He was accom panied by a short, corpulent balding man in a shabby jacket that didn't quite meet across his stomach.
Horton rose, and leaving Thea in the care of the woman police officer, crossed to Birch. He'd lost more of his hair since Horton had last seen him and what he still had was now grey, but his eyes were exactly as Horton recalled, hard and full of cynicism.
Birch curtly introduced the short, balding man as Detective Sergeant Norris. There was no smile of greeting. Working with Birch had obviously inoculated him against using those particular facial muscles.
'What are you doing on the island?' Birch demanded, as if Horton should have applied for a visa.
'Sailing. I'm on leave.'
Birch regarded him disbelievingly. That was his problem, thought Horton, as he led them to the corpse. The young uniformed officer retched at the sight of the rotting body before scuttling away. Horton didn't blame him, but Birch's expression never altered. If he blinked Horton must have missed it. He gave no sign of being moved by what he saw, and neither did Norris. Given that a violent death such as this happened on the Isle of Wight about as frequently as a total eclipse of the moon, this pair were remarkably indifferent. Too indifferent for Horton's taste.
Horton held out the gun. 'I took this off the woman; she's the dead man's sister. She claims it's not her brother's.'
'We'll check,' Norris said, taking it.
Horton quickly briefed them on what he'd learnt so far. Birch showed no recognition of the name, but Horton knew a missing person's enquiry, especially one that had only been reported three days ago, wouldn't have involved a DCI unless, of course, it had been a child.
When he finished, Birch said, 'She could have killed him earlier, then dumped his body here this morning. When she heard you crashing through the undergrowth she picked up the gun to cover her fingerprints and to make you think it was suicide.'
'So how did she get the body here?' asked Horton stubbornly. 'She doesn't look strong enough to have carried it from the car park.'
'She had an accomplice.'
Unfortunately Birch could be right. How else would she have known where to find her dead brother?
Crisply, Birch said, 'We'll deal with this now. You can make your statement later.' He turned away to give instructions to Norris.
Feeling irritated at the abrupt dismissal but determined not to show it, Horton returned to Thea Carlsson. He studied her forlorn, bedraggled figure still sitting hunched on the grass, with his sailing jacket swamping her; he simply couldn't see her as a killer though he knew he should keep an open mind. He'd been in the job long enough to know that even the most innocent-looking people were capable of mass cruelty and murder.
He said, 'Is there anyone I can contact for you? Any friends or relatives?'
'No. There's no one.' She regarded him for a moment then added, 'But there is something you can do for me. Would you feed my cat, Bengal?'
Horton swiftly hid his surprise at the unusual request. Not of the fact that she had a cat but that she trusted him to enter her house and feed it.
She took a key from the pocket of her jeans and stretched it out for him. As his fingers brushed hers, Horton felt a strange sense of connection. She held his gaze and he got the distinct impression she was speaking to him, though what she was saying he couldn't fathom.
Reluctant to relinquish her touch, but with the beady-eyed female police officer breathing down on them, Horton pocketed the key. The policewoman took Thea's arm and gently eased her up.
Now was probably his last chance to ask the question that was bugging him. 'How did you know where to look for Owen?'
'He told me where to come.'
Horton eyed her curiously. How was that possible when he was dead? And, despite her appearance, he simply couldn't believe she'd been keeping vigil over her dead brother's body for days. Someone would have found her. Had Owen Carlsson posted her a note on the Saturday of his disappearance which she'd only received this morning? But that would make her postal delivery incredibly early, which, Horton thought, was highly unlikely.
'It's difficult to explain,' she added, with a quick glance at the exas-perated-looking police officer who was obviously keen to get Thea Carlsson to the station. 'It's why I knew Owen was in trouble.' Again the nervous glance at the policewoman. 'I sensed danger. I knew that something had happened to Owen. I didn't know the exact spot. I've been walking around for hours.'
Now Horton was really puzzled. She wasn't making any sense. But before he could comment, she drew a deep breath and said, 'You see, I'm psychic.'
Horton gave a silent groan. She was clearly unhinged. Enough to have killed her brother? Probably. The police woman obviously thought so, judging by her expression. And if Thea Carlsson was going to stick to that as the reason for being here then he didn't hold out much hope of her convincing Birch she was innocent.
Eyeing him regretfully but unapologetically she said, 'I can see that you don't believe me. It doesn't matter.'
Then why did he feel a stab of guilt? It was as though he'd been tested and found wanting, he thought as he watched her climb into the police car.
He took the key from his pocket, recalling the sensation as their fingers had touched; something had passed between them. There had been some kind of silent pleading in her eyes. What had she been trying to tell him? What did she want him to do? He stared down at the key.
'She wants you to feed the bloody cat,' he said aloud, slipping the key back into the pocket of his cargos. And that was exactly what he was going to do.
TWO
T
he Carlssons' house was detached, double-fronted with sturdy stone bays up and down, and built most probably in the early part of the twentieth century. It stood in a road of similar proper ties in a quiet residential area above the town of West Cowes and the River Medina. Horton was relieved to see no sign of Birch or any police presence but he knew it was only a matter of time before they showed up. And maybe that would be sooner rather than later if Birch discovered that Thea had given him a key.
Where once the front garden had been there was now hard-standing for two cars, but only one was parked, a small Citroën. Thea's or her brother's? He peered inside. Nothing lying about on the seats. And no blood stains or maggots, he thought wryly, though the boot might reveal something. He tried it. It was locked. But if it had been used to transport Owen's body, and if Owen had been killed inside this house then surely Thea Carlsson wouldn't have given him a key. And, another thing, if this was Thea's car then why hadn't she driven it to the Duver? Perhaps she didn't drive, he thought, reaching for his mobile phone. He called Cantelli.
'Missing us already?' Cantelli joked.
'I need you to check a car registration number.'
'Andy, you're on holiday.'
Horton heard the exasperation in the sergeant's voice. 'Humour me.' He gave Cantelli the number and said, 'Call me back.' He could have checked it himself by using his laptop computer on the boat and logging on to the police computer with his password, but he couldn't wait that long.
He glanced around the deserted street before striding up the path to the house, and letting himself in. For several seconds he stood in the spacious hall testing the silence. It was total. He was alone. He hadn't expected anyone to be here, except a cat, and that didn't make an appearance.
The cord-carpeted stairs to the first floor were directly in front of him with closed doors to both his right and left. The old wooden floor boards in the hall had been stripped and primed to perfection. They led down a narrowish hall to a door at the back of the house but it was the one on his right that he pushed open. As he stepped into a spacious sitting room he wondered what Thea and her brother did for a living. Perhaps he'd find some indication here.
The room had been expanded by knocking the front and back rooms into one, giving it a light and airy feel. Beyond this he could see a conservatory and then the garden. It was tastefully and comfortably furnished with pale blue drapes at the windows and cream painted walls. There were a scattering of rugs on the stripped-wood floor and the paintings were modern seascapes.
He caught the faint smell of paint. He wasn't sure that was a good sign. That, and the fresh looking cream sofas, confirmed to him the room had recently been decorated and refurnished. It was also spotlessly clean with nothing out of place. He didn't yet know how long Owen Carlsson had been dead, but if he had been killed in here then Thea and her accomplice might have had time to clean and redecorate. And if Birch believed her to be the killer then Forensic would take this place apart to find evidence to prove it.
He crossed to the cabinet of books to the left of the chimney breast and tilted his head to read the spines. There were books on walking, birds, nature and the environment. His phone rang.
'The Citroën belongs to an Owen Carlsson,' Cantelli announced. 'He lives at 18 Grafton Street, Cowes.'
Where Horton was standing. 'Does he own the house?'
'I expect the mortgage company
own
it but he's listed as the owner-occupier, not a tenant. I've checked him out. There's no previous on him.'
Horton might have known that Cantelli would go one step further than he'd asked him to. So Thea simply lived here with her brother. She didn't have a financial share in the ownership of the
house.
'Anything wrong?' Cantelli asked, when Horton didn't instantly reply.
Horton told him what had happened, excluding the bit about Thea being psychic.
'Blimey, can't take you anywhere. You're meant to be on holiday. Do you want me to see what I can find on them?'
Horton did but he said, 'Haven't you got anything else to do?'
'It's been fairly quiet lately.'
'Not saying I'm jinxed, are you?'
'Well, you do have a habit of running into trouble.'
Horton sniffed. Unfortunately Cantelli seemed to be right. 'Maybe this isn't trouble and is suicide.'
'You don't sound too sure. I'll check them out.'
Horton found Bengal's food trays in a modern kitchen which opened up into the conservatory. Again it was spotlessly clean and he found everything in its place as he opened cupboards and drawers. He dished out some food for the cat before returning to the hall, where he pushed open the door opposite the lounge and drew up surprised at the contrast with what he'd already seen. Books and box files were everywhere: on the floor, on shelves straddling a black iron Victorian fireplace, and piled on the ancient desk in the bay window. Horton made for the shelves where he found books on the depleting rainforests, weather systems, climatic change and the balance of the eco-systems. Whose office was this, Owen's or Thea's, he wondered? And was this interest in the environment a hobby or profession?
Then his eyes spanned the handwritten notes on the box files noting the names of projects:
Estuarine, marine and coastal ecotoxicology in the south-west Solent; The determination of seabed reference conditions for potential offshore windfarm sites off the Isle of Wight and Hayling Bay; Sea temperatures and global
warming
and, judging by the name on the reports, this was clearly Owen Carlsson's profession and his office.
Horton picked out the file on
Estuarine, marine and coastal ecotoxicology in the south-west Solent
and glanced through the covering notes unable to make much sense of them. Stuffing the papers back, he extracted notes from a second folder. It was a study on the impact of onshore and offshore wind farms on and round the Isle of Wight. An environmental pressure group called REMAF had commissioned it, which stood, Horton saw, for Renewable Energy Means A Future. A shrill piercing tone shattered the silence, making him start. Scrabbling under some papers on the desk, Horton located the phone. The light was flashing on the answer machine, showing that three messages had already been left. He let the phone ring and listened as the answer machine clicked on, shuddering slightly as he heard the dead man's voice.