Blood on the Sand (6 page)

   Horton's heart skipped several beats. He had to fight off the urge to take her in his arms and hold her, to soothe away her pain.

   'That's one of his nine lives used up,' he said, nodding his thanks to the firefighter, thinking he was using up his own at a fast rate of knots. His throat and chest hurt from smoke inhalation but not as badly as he'd once suffered. And this time, unlike his past brushes with fire, it hadn't been primarily aimed at him, but at Thea. Thank God he had responded to that sense of urgency, that gut feeling that something was wrong. He shuddered to think of the outcome if he hadn't. Anger surged through him. Holiday or not, he had to catch the bastard who had done this to her.

   Forcing himself to speak gently, despite the searing rage inside him, he said, 'Who attacked you, Thea?'

   'I don't know,' she answered after a moment's hesitation.

   She was lying. He could see it in her eyes, and the way she hastily glanced away. He decided not to press her, there would be time enough later. Bengal struggled free from her grasp and skittered down the garden path. An ambulance man appeared with a thermal blanket.

   'Bengal!' she cried, twisting round to watch the cat's vanishing tail.

   'He'll be OK,' Horton quickly reassured her. Tom cats could look after themselves, and, according to Mrs Mackie next door, Bengal had been doing just that for some time. Seeing Thea's obvious distress though, he added, 'I'll ask Mrs Mackie to feed him.' She wasn't a cat lover, but surely she couldn't refuse putting out a bowl of food in the circumstances?

   Thea's grateful smile turned into a cough as the ambulance man escorted her through the narrow side entrance into the street. Following them, Horton crossed to Evelyn Mackie who was hovering nearby, along with most of the neighbours, huddled under umbrellas. He managed to divert her from her verbal sympathetic onslaught on Thea and persuaded her to take pity on Bengal. To her credit Mrs Mackie agreed quickly. She also offered Thea a bed but Horton declined. If the killer was still watching Thea then it would put Mrs Mackie in danger. Not that he told her that. If his boat hadn't been broken into then he might have suggested Thea stay with him. At least he could have protected her then. But this killer had already seen he was close to Thea, and Horton couldn't take that chance.

   Anxiously he watched as she was wheeled into a curtained cubicle in A & E at St Mary's Hospital in Newport, and then, far from reassured she'd be all right, he walked to another cubicle where, with remarkable speed, a doctor, who looked as tired as Horton felt, checked him over, told him he was suffering from mild smoke inhalation and a blow to the head, which Horton already knew, and that if he experienced any effects of delayed concussion he was to return immediately. Discharged, and in the privacy of the relatives' room, just off the private room where Thea had been taken for the night on Horton's insistence, he called Uckfield.

   'What is it with you and fires?' Uckfield demanded with exasperation, after Horton had quickly explained what had happened.

   Horton winced as Uckfield's remark hit home – his ability to attract danger wasn't necessarily going to commend him to Catherine, or her lawyers, in respect of his demands for regular contact with his daughter.

   'They're keeping Thea Carlsson in for the night,' Horton said. 'Someone's tried to kill her once. They'll try again when they learn they've been unsuccessful.' He went cold at the thought of how close she and he had come to death. 'She needs a safe house until we find this bloody lunatic.'

   'We?' Uckfield said pointedly.

   Horton tensed. He had to be on this case, even if it meant Uckfield would go running back to Catherine to confirm that it was as she thought – he was incapable of keeping his promises to Emma because of his job.

   'I can postpone my holiday,' he said anxiously.

   'No. You're still on holiday,' Uckfield insisted, then before Horton could protest, added, 'That is as far as DCI Birch and his team are concerned. You're undercover.' Horton heaved a silent sigh of relief as Uckfield continued. 'Start asking questions, sniffing around, stirring things up. Whoever is doing this will think you're either a nosy bloody parker or a friend of Thea Carlsson, which means they might try and get at you.'

   Uckfield was right. It could be dangerous, but it could also be a short cut to finding their killer.

   Uckfield went on. 'Anyone know you're a copper?'

   'No. There was nothing on my boat to say I was.' Too late Horton realized what he had said. It had slipped out before he could stop himself. He ran a hand over his face, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline rush of facing danger had subsided, leaving him feeling that every bone in his body was about to crumble into osteoarthritis, and every muscle was aching beyond even the most arduous of workouts he could possibly imagine. Besides that his head was thumping and his throat was sore.

   'Your boat?' Uckfield picked up sharply.

   'It was broken into.'

   'Thanks for telling me. When?'

   It didn't matter now; all that did was he was on the case. He quickly told Uckfield about the break-in and his theory that the killer must have seen him with Thea Carlsson and wondered who he was.

   'Is there anything else you've forgotten to tell me?' Uckfield asked scathingly.

   Only the bit about Thea being psychic, but Horton wasn't about to divulge that to the biggest sceptic this side of the equator.

   'So who knows you're a cop?' Uckfield repeated.

   Horton pulled himself up even though he felt like collapsing in a heap and sleeping for a few months. But Uckfield's words made him recall the feeling he'd experienced earlier when he had decided not to reveal to Mrs Mackie that he was a police officer. Maybe there was something in this psychic stuff, after all. His mind raced to recall who knew he was a policeman and came up with the doctor attending Thea. He told Uckfield and added, 'I'll tell him to keep it quiet.'

   'Good. We're on the ferry. Cantelli's looking green and keeps running to the bog, so he'll be about as much use as a rubber spanner when we arrive. Maitland, the fire investigation officer, will be over first thing tomorrow to examine the house.'

   It was arson, that much was obvious, but Horton hoped that Maitland might be able to tell them exactly how the fire had started, which could give some clue as to the background of the offender, though he doubted this one would have been stupid or careless enough to leave any traces behind.

   'What about Taylor and SOCO?'

   'Elkins will ferry them into Cowes in the morning. Any more bloody incidents like this and it'll be easier and cheaper to put the buggers up in a hotel. I've scheduled a full briefing at Newport station for eight a.m. Either I or Cantelli will liaise with you after that,
if
he's stopped throwing up by then. And I'll get Birch to set up a twenty-four-hour watch on Thea Carlsson until we can get her moved. Then she'll be under continuous protection in the safe house.'

   Horton felt relieved. Glancing through the window of the relatives' room, he said, 'DCI Birch's just arrived with Sergeant Norris.' They were talking to a nurse. He was surprised they hadn't shown up sooner.

   'I'll call him. Now make like you're a distressed friend, which doesn't sound like a problem, and get the hell out of there.'

   The line went dead. A few seconds later Horton saw Birch reach for his phone. It had to be Uckfield calling him because Birch looked as though he'd swallowed a lemon with the pips still in it. He gestured at Norris to stop him heading for Thea's room. There was obviously some kind of disagreement between Uckfield and Birch judging by Birch's pinched expression before he rang off and consulted with Norris. As Horton stepped out of the relatives' room, Norris reached for his mobile with a glare at Horton that could have frozen the Solent.

   'Just what were you doing at that house, Inspector?' Birch demanded icily.

   'Visiting someone I was concerned about.'

   Birch narrowed his eyes, clearly not believing him, and stepped so close that they were almost touching noses. With an expression of such loathing that it made Horton shiver inside, though he took pains not to show it, Birch hissed, 'If you so much as put a toe out of line on my patch, I'll make you wish you'd never joined the police force.' Then swiftly turning, he marched towards Norris.

   'Nice to feel appreciated,' muttered Horton, heading back to A & E reception unperturbed by Birch's threats. The man was vindictive and spiteful but Horton could handle that. He'd met his type several times both in the criminal world and as colleagues, and had decided long ago that retaliation might be sweet but it wasn't worth the effort. It was better to bang the bastards up if they were criminals, or avoid them as much as possible if they were colleagues. That way you saved wasting a lot of energy. Avoiding Birch would be one of life's pleasures.

   Finding the doctor he'd spoken to earlier, Horton quickly explained the situation and asked him to say nothing to anyone about him being a policeman. The doctor nodded wearily. Horton guessed he might just as well have saved his breath. He appeared to have forgotten anyway.

   He stepped into a cold night with rain like stair-rods and climbed into a taxi that had just dropped off a fare outside the hospital. Giving the driver instructions to return to his boat he once again wished he had the Harley. He toyed with the idea of sailing back to Southsea Marina tomorrow to collect it and then return to the Isle of Wight by car ferry, but that would lose him a day's investigation and he couldn't afford that. Besides, he had to stick around to see if Owen Carlsson's killer got curious about him again. Glancing at his watch he was surprised to see it was only eight o'clock. It felt a hell of a lot later. Suddenly he knew what he had to do.

   'Take me to Ryde Pier and the FastCat to Portsmouth.'

   'But you said––'

   'The FastCat, and as quick as you can.' With luck and a following wind he'd make the twenty fifteen crossing. From Portsmouth he could get a taxi to Southsea Marina, collect the Harley and return on the car ferry to the Isle of Wight. He could have hired a car on the island, but he much preferred the Harley. On that he could think.

   It was ten minutes before midnight when he finally returned to Bembridge Marina. He'd grabbed a pizza in a restaurant in Oyster Quays while waiting for the ferry to the island, and had snatched half an hour's sleep on the crossing, but that had only served to make him feel more exhausted than when he'd set out. He'd ridden through the quiet streets of the Isle of Wight carefully, grateful for the sheeting rain and cold night to help keep him alert.

   His yacht was as he had left it, chaotic, but there were no further signs of an intruder. Tidying up would have to wait. He gulped down a tumbler of water hoping it would ease the rawness in his throat, then showered and lay down in the darkness listening to the soothing sound of the water slapping against the hull, and the rain drumming on the coach roof.

   His mind sped back over the day's events, trying to make some kind of sense of the information he'd gleaned, but there were too many gaps. Perhaps Uckfield would be able to fill some of them in tomorrow – or rather today, he thought, glancing at the luminous digital clock beside him. And at least he'd get the chance to talk to Thea and find out who had told her where to look for her brother's body, and who had tried to kill her.

   Had the killer lured her to the Duver with the intention of making it look as though she'd killed her brother, and had then intended to shoot her and make her death look like suicide? Horton's arrival on the scene had scuppered that plan so the killer had tried again by knocking Thea out and setting fire to the house. It was possible. And he reckoned she knew who that person was. But why not say? Why protect him? Could it be a boyfriend?

   His phone rang. He was surprised to hear Sergeant Trueman's voice.

   'Bloody hell, Dave, can't you sleep?'

   'Not unless the boss tells me to. Actually I'm just on my way to our hotel. Hope I didn't wake you.'

   'You didn't.'

   'Thought not. Owen Carlsson––'

   'Yes?' Horton sat up, all thoughts of sleep obliterated with those two words.

   'He was involved in an incident nineteen days ago. A woman he was with was killed in a hit-and run at Seaview. Carlsson was paying the bill at the Seaview Hotel, where he'd been dining with Arina Sutton, his companion. She said she wanted a breath of fresh air. It was eleven fifteen. When Carlsson stepped out of the hotel he saw a car speeding towards her. He called out, but it was too late; she was knocked flying. Died instantly. No witnesses, apart from Carlsson.'

   What a waste. Was this woman's death enough for Owen to have killed himself ? But it hadn't been suicide. Tonight's events had proved that.

   'Did we get the driver?'

   'I'm not sure what the Isle of Wight police have done to trace him.'

   Horton heard the underlying criticism in Trueman's voice. Why hadn't Birch or Norris mentioned this to him, Horton wondered? They should have recognized the victim's name when he'd given it to them at the scene of the crime, especially when putting it together with the fact that Thea had reported her brother missing. Was Birch holding out? That was highly probable given the man's dislike of him. But perhaps Birch considered the fact that the death of this woman and now her partner was pure coincidence. But Horton didn't trust coincidences one tiny little bit.

   'Did Carlsson get a registration number?'

   'According to the report he said it all happened too quickly and he was hardly thinking about that.'

   No, only police officers were trained that way.

   Trueman said, 'All Carlsson could say was that it was a dark-coloured saloon car.'