Blood on the Sand (3 page)

   'Hi, this is Owen Carlsson. I'm out trying to save the planet. Leave a message and I'll get back to you when I've completed my mission. If I don't return your call you'll know I've failed, but you and no one else will be around to care very much by then anyway.'

   Horton smiled. Clearly, Owen had had a sense of humour and had been passionate about his work. Then Horton remembered that rotting body and the smile died on his lips.

   A male voice bellowed, 'Where the devil are you, Owen? I had to cancel the meeting with Laura. Call me – and I don't mean next week. I mean now.'

   The last word was shouted before the phone was slammed down. Horton punched in 1471 and jotted down the telephone number of the caller. It was a mobile number. He pressed the play button and found that the same man had left the other three messages since Monday, growing increasingly cross with each one, and not leaving his name. It was obviously someone well known to Owen. Who was this Laura he kept referring to? From the messages the meeting had been arranged for today, Wednesday.

   He shoved the papers on wind farms back into the box file, wondering why Thea hadn't answered the telephone in her brother's absence, explaining that her brother was missing. Perhaps she'd been too upset, he thought, pulling open the desk drawers and rummaging around inside, thinking that maybe he should have put on his latex gloves. She must have heard the phone. Even if she had been out of the house on each occasion why hadn't she come in here and played the messages? Had Owen banned her from doing so? But why would he do that, unless she was one of those women who couldn't resist tidying up, like Catherine who was obsessed with maintaining his former marital home like a show home. Perhaps what he'd seen of this immaculately kept and tastefully decorated house was down to Thea, and her brother had drawn the line at any make-over in here.

   There was nothing of interest in the desk. He wondered where Owen Carlsson kept his more personal documents: birth certificates, passport, examination and school certificates, old photographs. There was also no sign of a gun licence and neither was there anything that resembled a gun cabinet. Sergeant Norris would have checked out the ownership of the gun by now, but Horton found himself once again calling Cantelli.

   He asked Cantelli to check the National Firearms Licensing Management System, and the police computer to see if either Owen or Thea Carlsson owned a gun.

   Then he told Cantelli about the telephone message left on Owen Carlsson's machine and gave him the mobile number. 'Find out who is on the end of it and whatever else you can get on him, but don't tell him about Owen Carlsson. I don't want him alerted.'

   'OK.'

   Horton called to the cat as he climbed the stairs, remembering what he was meant to be there for, but Bengal didn't show. He checked out the bedrooms at the front of the house, finding that one of them was Owen Carlsson's while the other was a plainly decorated spare room. There was nothing in either of them to tell him why Owen Carlsson had been killed. And if he'd been hoping for love letters, pornography or even guns he was disappointed.

   Staring around Owen Carlsson's immaculately tidy bedroom he was intrigued by the contrast here with the man's chaotic office below. It made him wonder who the real Owen Carlsson was – the tidy one or the rather more carefree one indicated by his office and that answer phone message. Was there an inner conflict in Owen Carlsson, a split personality perhaps that had somehow resulted in his death?

   God, he was beginning to sound like a psychologist, a breed he didn't have much time for after his experiences of them as a child. It didn't take a degree or professional training to know why he had been so unruly. A police officer and his wife, who had been his last foster parents, had managed to interpret his moods and needs and channel his energy into making his life more constructive not any trick cyclist.

   His attention was caught by the sound of a car pulling up, and hurrying to the window he saw a smartly dressed woman in her fifties enter the house to his right. It could be worth having a word with her. He checked the bathroom – nothing out of the ordinary unless there were blood stains invisible to the naked eye – before pushing open the door of the last room along the landing. Here he found the cat curled up on a dark blue duvet.

   The huge tabby opened one eye and contemplated him warily as he moved around the bedroom. Judging by the female clothes and smattering of toiletries in the adjoining shower room this was clearly Thea Carlsson's bedroom, but he was struck by the fact that she had few possessions and even fewer clothes. There was also no laptop computer, no mobile phone and no personal letters. On the mantelpiece though were two framed photographs and Horton crossed to these. He found himself looking at what must surely be Owen Carlsson. Here were the same thin face, white-blond hair, pale blue eyes and wide mouth as his sister. They could almost have been twins except that – judging by this photograph – Owen had been some years older than Thea, who was standing next to him in cap and gown. Horton wondered what her subject had been; she could hardly have graduated in psychic mediumship. Where did she work? What did she do? He hoped Cantelli would enlighten him because there was nothing here to tell him.

   He replaced the photograph and picked up the other one. It was of a man and woman, in their mid to late twenties, standing beside a motorbike, which Horton recognized instantly as a Triumph. He also knew immediately who the couple were. There was no mistaking the parents of Owen and Thea Carlsson. And judging by their clothes it looked as though the picture had been taken in the early 1970s. Where were they now, he wondered? Why hadn't Thea mentioned them? They would need to be told about their son's death. But then he recalled that Thea had said there was no one. They must be dead, he thought, replacing the picture, unable to stop himself thinking of his own parents.

   He'd never known his father, and as far as he could remember his mother hadn't spoken of him. Was he alive, and if so was he even aware of Horton's existence? He doubted it. And there was no way of knowing or finding out, unless he located his mother. And that seemed highly unlikely. The past was better left where it was. If only it would stay there, he thought bitterly, turning his attention to the books in the low bookcase.

   He found several on spiritual healing and psychic phenomena, which were obviously Thea's given her earlier declaration. He thought of Birch and Norris's reactions to her claims of being in touch with the dead and winced. Was she sticking to her story? He hoped not but what was the alternative? That she was a killer? There was a vulnerability about her that bothered him. And he didn't much like the vision of Birch's cynicism and derision as he questioned her.

   Had she asked for a solicitor? He told himself that Birch's officers would have explained her rights, but he was concerned that her shock might make her say something which Birch would misinterpret or seize upon as evidence of her guilt – like that damn psychic thing. And if she hadn't been charged . . .

   Telling himself he was an idiot, he rang the solicitor who was handling his divorce. Frances Greywell came on the line almost instantly. She didn't give him the chance to speak.

   'I've heard nothing more from Catherine's solicitor about you seeing Emma. I'll chase them up.'

   'I'm not calling about that. Do you know any good lawyers on the island who specialize in criminal law?'

   'Why?' she asked, surprised. 'Are you––?'

   'It's not for me,' he hastily interjected and quickly gave her an edited version of his discovery that morning, and details of Thea Carlsson.

   'There's Michael Braxton. He's well thought of.'

   'Call him and ask him to contact DCI Birch or Sergeant Norris at Newport station. If Thea hasn't got a solicitor, ask Braxton if he'd represent her. I want someone with her as soon as possible despite anything she says to the contrary.'

   'Of course. I'll do it now,' she said crisply.

   'Give him my mobile number and ask him to call me as soon as he's spoken to her and to DCI Birch.'

   She rang off. Horton knew that she would have liked their relationship to be more than a professional one, but he didn't want to get involved with his solicitor, no matter how attractive she was. He had half an idea that it would backfire on him and that somehow Catherine would use the information to be even more difficult and obstructive than she was already being.

   He picked up the book beside Thea's bed.
The Lost Ghosts of the Isle of Wight
. Poor buggers, he thought, opening it and reading the handwritten dedication: 'To darling Thea who has the gift, Helen.' What gift? Being physic? Who was Helen?

   His phone rang, making him jump. He wasn't usually so edgy. The cat started too, shifted a paw and cast him an angry glance before deciding that he and his phone were no threat.

   It was Cantelli again. 'Know much about ghosts?' Horton asked, putting the book back where he had found it.

   'Why? You seen one?'

   'Not yet. But give it time. Thea Carlsson claims to be psychic,' he found himself confiding.

   'Well she's not employed as a medium. In fact she's not employed anywhere in the UK according to Her Majesty's Revenue and Customs. Or if she is then she's not paying tax and never has.'

   Maybe she relied on Owen for money, thought Horton, and lived here as his dependant. But if

so, why so few clothes and limited personal possessions? Unless Owen had kept her short. Was he some kind of control freak and she'd finally flipped?

   'What about Owen Carlsson?' Horton stared down at the sloping roof of the conservatory and beyond that into a good-sized garden, which backed on to the gardens of another street. At the bottom of Owen's garden was a group of bare-branched trees and shrubs, and a small summerhouse.

   Cantelli said, 'He's a self-employed environmental consultant, and, according to the Internet, has written tons of articles on the environment. He's had some pretty impressive national media coverage on global warming. And there's no record of either of them owning a gun. Want me to carry on digging?'

   'With a spade.' Horton ignored the small voice inside him that told him to leave well alone and get on with his holiday. He could be wasting precious police time by getting Cantelli to do work that DCI Birch must surely be doing. But then perhaps Birch thought he was staring at Owen Carlsson's killer sitting opposite him in the interview room. And maybe he was.

   'What do your psychic powers tell you about Owen Carlsson's death, Barney?'

   'They say get the hell out of there and finish your holiday.'

   Horton thought it good advice.

   'But knowing you, you won't,' Cantelli continued, with a smile in his voice. 'You might like to know that Taylor and his scene of crime team are on their way over and Dr Clayton's doing the autopsy later today. She can't get over to the island until six.'

   So Birch was treating it as suspicious and not suicide. Horton didn't see that he had any choice. 'What about Uckfield and the major crime team? Are they coming?'

   'Not as far as I know,' Cantelli answered.

   Which meant Birch was pretty confident he had the killer. Horton didn't much like the sound of that. He'd found nothing in this house to show why a sister had killed her brother, but then maybe Thea had motives that weren't on display. Who knew what past secrets lay between brother and sister, he thought, seeing again that maggot-infested body in the dunes.

   He said, 'Tell Taylor I'll see him when he's finished at the scene.' Sergeant Elkins of the marine unit would bring the police launch bearing the SOCO into Bembridge. Horton knew it was nothing to do with him, but he felt he couldn't simply walk away.

   He locked up and knocked next door. Introducing himself as a friend of Owen Carlsson he broke the sad news of Owen's death to the neighbour he'd seen earlier climb from her car, but he made no mention of how Owen had been killed or where.

   She showed him into a small over-furnished room and waved him into a seat before perching her slender backside on the chair opposite.

   'How awful for Owen's sister,' she said, after the usual expressions of horror and shock and introducing herself as Evelyn Mackie. 'Not that I really know her. She only arrived a week ago, Monday before last. Owen introduced Thea when they were in the garden that Friday. I was hanging out the washing when I saw them talking in what Owen called his natural garden. It's right at the bottom, bordering on to the houses over the back of us in William Street. My husband calls it a wilderness, but Owen said it was full of wild flowers and grasses and helped to encourage bees and insects. Since then I've not spoken to her. Shy, I suppose.'

   Horton got the impression that Evelyn Mackie either didn't like Thea or disapproved of her. She'd given him some new information though, and putting that with what Cantelli had said about no record of Thea paying taxes in the UK, Horton guessed that Thea must normally be resident abroad, or perhaps travelling. Certainly not living under her brother's tyrannical rule as he had hypothesized.

   Evelyn Mackie continued. 'Owen said his sister would be staying with him for a while. I've only heard her calling the cat since then. He arrived about the same time.'

   Clearly she didn't approve of the cat either.

   As if to confirm this she said rather disparagingly, 'He's a stray. Thea must have encouraged him, because Owen wasn't a great cat lover. Oh, not that he hated them or would harm them, but he told me once he didn't much care for the way they tormented their prey.'

   Bengal had found a comfortable billet then. 'Didn't Thea ask you about Owen's disappearance?' Horton asked, curious.

   'Had he disappeared? I didn't know.' She scowled, as though annoyed at missing out on a piece of gossip. But why hadn't Thea checked with Owen's neighbours for sightings of her brother? Perhaps Owen had told Thea that he didn't like his neighbour. Or perhaps, as Evelyn Mackie had said, Thea was shy. Did that also explain why she hadn't answered her brother's telephone calls and taken messages? Or maybe Owen didn't like her meddling. Perhaps then he
was
a bully and Thea had been terrified of him. He'd ordered her to come home and she didn't have the courage to refuse. Then once here, she'd cracked up and killed him. Or, maybe, she'd come home with a lover specifically to kill her brother. He didn't want to believe that either, but he knew that if these thoughts were running through
his
mind then they would be galloping through Birch's.