Cantelli indicated off the main road into a side street of stone bay terraced houses much smaller than the ones two streets away where Owen had lived. Convenient if you wanted to start a fire, Horton thought. But he had no reason to suspect Gordon Elms of anything let alone almost killing both him and Thea.
'It's not very impressive for a world-renowned professional ghost hunter.'
'Perhaps he's got a penthouse apartment on the south of France and this is his work base,' Cantelli joked.
The door was answered promptly. If Horton had expected someone dressed like Merlin then he was gravely disappointed. Gordon Elms did, however, resemble a gnome. He was small with a little round pot belly protruding over a pair of camel corduroy trousers that came just an inch short of being the right length. Beneath them, Horton caught a glimpse of fluorescent pink socks above shabby white trainers. In his fifties, with greying hair and a little grey goatee, Elms waved them into a small sitting room and offered them refreshments, which they both refused.
Horton noted there was no television. Above the fireplace was a sinister-looking painting of a large house, which he didn't recognize, though it bore a faint resemblance to
Manderley
before Mrs Danvers had set fire to it, according to the Alfred Hitchcock version. As he took the seat Elms gestured him into, Horton thought it rather a gloomy picture to hang in this room, it being executed primarily in shades of grey, while the room was decorated in red and gold, as if it had overdosed on Christmas and was reluctant to let go of the festive season. He noted the candles on the mantelpiece along with a couple of photographs of a younger version of Elms with an older woman, whose facial qualities and age paraded the fact that she must be Elms' mother.
Cantelli opened the questioning. He showed Elms the photograph of Thea and asked if he had seen her recently. Clearly by Elms reaction he had.
'Why yes! She came some days ago.'
They'd been right then, thought Horton; this had been the address Thea had been looking up in the library.
'When exactly?' pressed Cantelli.
'It was a Thursday. I know that because I hold an evening class on Thursdays. I lecture on the paranormal at the community centre. I was preparing for it when she arrived. Yes, it was the fifteenth.'
Two days later Owen Carlsson left his house and never returned.
'She'd read my book,' Elms said proudly.
Maybe he didn't get many admirers, thought Horton.
Cantelli said, '
The Lost Ghosts of the Isle of Wight
.'
'Yes. She was very complimentary. Said it had been given to her as a present. I said that must have been at birth.' He smiled. 'I wrote it years ago and it's long been out of print though I am considering updating it and publishing it myself. Publishers these days only seem interested in you if you've been on the telly. And, as you can see, I don't even have a television set, and I wouldn't appear on one if you paid me. I'm not into cheap magic tricks. I'm a genuine ghost hunter and medium.'
'I'm sure you are, Mr Elms,' soothed Cantelli. 'When did you write the book?'
'Let me see. It was published in 1985, which means I wrote it in 1983, but I remember researching it for a year before that. In fact I began as soon as I moved here in 1982, a year after I first came here with my mother on holiday. I knew immediately this was the place for me, so when my mother died, I sold up and moved from London. Never regretted it either.'
Cantelli nodded and jotted this down in his notebook.
Horton said, 'Are you a full-time ghost hunter and medium?' If his voice held a note of scepticism, Elms didn't seem to notice it.
'Yes. I took early retirement from the council where I worked in the planning department. Why do you want to know about the book and this woman?'
Horton was tempted to say, 'Psychic powers deserting you?' But he held his tongue and instead asked, 'What did Thea Carlsson ask you?'
'She said her mother had given her the book,' Elms continued, with a slight frown at not having his question answered. 'She showed it to me and asked if I recalled selling it to her mother.' He gave a little laugh. It sounded as if his underpants were too tight, thought Horton.
'I told her I was a writer, not a bookseller, and that her mother could have bought it in any number of bookshops. She showed me a photograph of her mother, a blonde, good-looking woman, but I didn't recall her . . .'
Suddenly Elms looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. Horton wondered why, but it was Cantelli who beat him to the question.
'But you remembered something.'
'I
felt
something.'
Horton tried not to snort with derision. He was getting the impression that Elms was a bit of an actor, and the word 'ham' sprang to mind.
Earnestly, Cantelli continued. 'Like what, sir?'
Elms drew in his breath, closed his eyes, and steepled his hands in front of his chest. Cantelli flashed Horton a glance. Horton raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes in response. He'd almost had it with this little squirt, but Cantelli, with a nod of his head and a steadying hand, urged patience. Horton waited. After a moment Elms threw open his eyes.
'Evil. I felt evil.'
'In what way, sir?' asked Cantelli chirpily, drawing a slight narrowing of eyes from Elms.
'In the danger kind of way,' he snapped. 'Is there any other kind of evil? You of all people should know it exists. You see it daily in your professional lives.'
He had a point, thought Horton.
Cantelli said solemnly, 'And evil seems to have befallen Miss Carlsson. Her brother was killed shortly after her visit here.'
'Good grief!'
'You didn't see, feel or smell that?' Horton sneered, drawing a flash of hostility from the little gnome.
'The evil wasn't specific, and it wasn't directed at Miss Carlsson,' Elms replied tight-lipped. 'I would have warned her otherwise.'
Horton considered this. Was Elms really psychic or had Thea told him about her mother's death and Elms was making this up as he went along? Horton wouldn't mind betting that was so. Behind Elms' angry eyes Horton saw his dislike of him, but then he was used to that.
'Did you tell Thea Carlsson of this evil?'
'Yes. She said she already knew about it. But I didn't pick up any vibes of her being a kindred spirit, so to speak.'
If he believed Elms was a genuine medium or spiritualist, or whatever you called them, then maybe he hadn't detected the vibes because Thea wasn't in danger, and neither was she psychic, but had colluded in the killing of, or had killed, her brother. Dr Clayton's words returned to haunt him.
This is a clever killing by a clever killer.
But no, he refused to believe it of Thea. They'd got their killers – Westbury and Danesbrook – even though they couldn't prove it yet. Elms was the phoney.
'Who was the evil directed at then?' he snarled, tired of the gnome and not wanting to waste any more time on him.
'I'm not sure, but as Miss Carlsson handed me the book I felt it.'
He wanted to say 'bollocks'. Maybe Cantelli
felt
this because he quickly interceded.
'Did she ask you about ghosts mentioned in the book or any specific ghosts?'
'No.'
They hadn't yet seen a copy of the book and Horton now doubted that it mattered anyway. There was a brief silence in which Horton strained for any sounds in the house. All he could hear was the whirring of the central heating. What was Elms not telling them? Horton felt sure there must be something, or was that just desperation on his part? Probably.
Elms asked, 'Who is her mother?'
'Was.' corrected Horton. 'She died in 1990, along with her husband, in a car accident at Seaview.'
Elms looked surprised but that could have been faked.
'Tragic. But why was their daughter . . .?' Elms paused.
Cantelli prompted him. 'You've thought of something?'
'Just the accident you mentioned in Seaview. There was hit-and-run there about three weeks ago.'
'Arina Sutton.'
'That's right. Such a nice lady.'
Horton resisted throwing a glance at Cantelli. Keeping the excitement from his voice he said, 'You knew her?'
'Yes. Well, not exactly, but I'd met her.'
'When?' asked Cantelli casually, pencil poised.
Elms thought for a moment. Horton wasn't sure if it was for show or he really was trying to remember. After a moment Elms said, 'It was just before Christmas. Would you like the exact date, Sergeant?'
'Please.'
Elms rose. 'I'll check my diary.'
He left the room. Horton swiftly and silently crossed to the door to make sure Elms wasn't hovering outside. He saw him disappear into the back room. 'What do you think?' asked Cantelli.
'He's a phoney but this link with Arina Sutton could be interesting.'
Horton could hear Elms moving about. 'Hope he's not hiding anything in there.' Like something of Thea's. But why would Elms want to kidnap and kill Thea? No, he was miles off beam with that one.
He said, 'Did you get a search warrant for Scanaford House?' He'd forgotten to ask earlier. 'Yes. It should be through this afternoon along with the warrants for Danesbrook's house and Bella Westbury's cottage.'
Horton doubted they'd find anything though. Bella was too wily for that. This case was really getting to him now. He was sick of it and he was desperate to find Thea Carlsson.
Elms entered with a frown and a diary. 'I went to Scanaford House on the sixth of December.'
'You had an appointment there with Ms Sutton?' Cantelli asked.
'Yes. I'm researching for a new book––'
'
Lost Ghosts of the Isle of Wight Part Two
,' posed Cantelli.
Elms smiled. 'Something like that.'
Horton scoffed, 'The father who murdered his daughter and threw her body in the lake.'
'You know about it?' Elms said, surprised.
'I thought everyone did. Why the interest now?' Horton saw Elms start slightly at the sharpness of his tone.
'I don't know what you mean by
now
,' he said haughtily.
Horton laughed derisively. 'Oh, I think you do.' He held Elms' stare, saw him flush and look away.
Picking at a corner of the diary and avoiding eye contact, Elms said, 'Sir Christopher Sutton would never let me in or near the house.'
And I don't blame him
, thought Horton. He wouldn't have let the likes of Elms within spitting distance of his boat.
Wriggling up his nose, Elms added, 'He said he didn't want it becoming a spectacle for all the . . . ghost hunters in the UK.'
And I bet he expressed his opinions more vehemently than that
, thought Horton, seeing Elms' discomfort. 'So, why the change of heart?'
'His daughter must have persuaded him, and besides Sir Christopher was dying of cancer.'
Cantelli said, 'You knew that?'
'Not until I arrived.'
'But what sparked you to telephone Miss Sutton after having been refused a visit for so long?' asked Cantelli, bewildered.
'I read an article in the local newspaper about the public meeting on the wind farms. There was a photograph of Sir Christopher Sutton with a group of people and one of them was his daughter, Arina. I didn't even know he had a daughter until then, so I thought I'd try her. She might be more sympathetic to my needs. I telephoned the house. She answered. I explained that all I wanted to do was to see the lake and the house and, if permitted, take some photographs for my new book. She agreed and we made arrangements for me to call round on the sixth of December. She told me her father was termin ally ill and wasn't to be disturbed, but he must have got wind of me being there because he came on to the terrace; or rather I should say staggered. Miss Sutton was pointing out the lake to me.'
Elms fell silent. Horton could see by Elms' expression that something had happened there and it had been rather unpleasant. He hoped it didn't have anything to do with ghosts. He prompted, 'And?'
Elms shifted. 'He went white, and I mean
white.
He couldn't speak. He just stared at me as if he'd––'
'Seen a ghost, sir?' suggested Cantelli.
'Well, yes, since you put it like that. He looked as though he was about to collapse when Miss Sutton rushed to his side and so did I. We got him into the house and on to the sofa. I left immediately. I could see that Miss Sutton was extremely worried and upset. And now the poor woman herself is dead.' He sighed, a little theatrically Horton thought.
He left a short pause before asking, 'Did Sir Christopher
say
anything?'
'No.'
'And Miss Sutton?'
'Just that she would call me. She didn't, of course, and then I read about her father's death.'
'You didn't attend their funerals.'
'I didn't want to intrude on the family's grief. And I didn't really know them.'
It was said genuinely enough but Horton wondered why he hadn't. It would have afforded him the perfect opportunity to nose around the gardens and the house, something he, by his own admission, had yearned to do.
'Did Miss Sutton call the housekeeper, Miss Bella Westbury, to help with Sir Christopher?'
'No.'
'Did you see her there?'
'Can't say I did. I didn't know he had a housekeeper, though I'm not surprised considering the size of the place. Do you know what will happen to it now? I wonder if the new owners would let me have a look around the place. Or perhaps I could call there before it's sold. That way I won't inconvenience anyone.'