Blood on the Sand (4 page)

   Evelyn Mackie's cultured tone broke through his thoughts. 'Owen was a lovely man, so polite and friendly.'

   That didn't mean he was kind to his sister and animals though. Bullies often put on a false façade to the outer world whilst tormenting their victims. But the man on that answer machine message hadn't sounded like a bully.

   Heaving a sad sigh Evelyn Mackie added, 'I can't believe he's dead. I only saw him on Saturday on the chain ferry crossing to East Cowes. He seemed fine then.'

   Horton's ears pricked up at that. Thea claimed to have last seen her brother leaving the house on Saturday morning. 'What time was this?'

   'It must have been just after ten. I was in my car heading for Fishbourne to collect a friend from the ten twenty-five car ferry from Portsmouth.'

   'Was Owen in his car?'

   'No, on foot. He was dressed for walking; boots, stick and a rucksack. I asked if he wanted a lift anywhere, but he said no. He didn't say where he was going.'

   Pity. Horton recalled that Owen had been wearing boots when he'd seen the body, but where were the rucksack and the walking stick?

   'Can you remember what he was wearing?'

   She thought for a moment. 'Dark-green corduroy trousers and a navy-blue waterproof jacket. Why?'

   'Just curious,' he said dismissively, but seeing that his comment didn't convince her, he expanded, 'Thea told me Owen had disappeared on Saturday so I was just checking if it had been when he went for that walk. It sounds like it to me.' Horton rose. 'Maybe I should tell Owen's neighbours on the other side.'

   'It's a second home,' she said scathingly. 'They only come over in August for Cowes Week and at Christmas.'

   Horton could tell she didn't like that either. And it did seem rather a waste of a house going empty for much of the year. He would like to have asked her more about Thea but that might have made her curious about him, and besides, if Thea had only just arrived then Mrs Mackie probably wouldn't know much anyway.

   Horton took his leave and headed for the chain ferry. But the ferryman couldn't remember seeing Owen Carlsson. 'All these walkers look alike to me, mate,' he said. Horton doubted the man would have remembered even if he'd shown him the photograph from Thea's mantelpiece.

   It had started to drizzle. There wasn't much more Horton could do. It would take resources and a media appeal to discover where Owen Carlsson had gone, and that was down to Birch, he thought gloomily.

   By the time he'd reached the marina the drizzle had turned to a cold penetrating rain, and a chill wind was barrelling off the sea. What had started as such a beautiful day had turned into a grim one in more ways than meteorologically. He was tempted to revisit the scene to see what Taylor and his team had discovered, but curbed his impatience. Taylor would be with him soon enough, and besides he was wet and cold.

   There was no sign of Sergeant Elkins or PC Ripley on the police launch moored five boats along from his yacht. Probably inside having a cuppa. Horton didn't blame them. It was Elkins' friend who had loaned him this yacht until April, after Horton's little yacht, which had been his home since Catherine had ejected him, had been set alight. Soon he would have to start looking for a boat of his own. He couldn't contemplate living in a dingy flat even though he'd been told by Frances Greywell that it would be viewed more favourably than a boat by the children's court judge.

   He reached for his key and froze. The hatch was open. Surely to God he'd locked it before leaving. OK, so he'd been in a hurry to get to Thea Carlsson's house before DCI Birch, but not that much of a rush to forget to lock up.

   His eyes narrowed. The padlock had been forced. Someone had broken in. In Bembridge this sort of crime, or in fact any type of crime, was highly unusual. In the space of six hours he'd managed to unearth two. Maybe Cantelli was right and he was jinxed.

   Stealthily he stepped on board, his ears straining for the slightest noise. The intruder could be below. But only the sounds of the water slapping against the hull, the rain drumming on the decks and the wind moaning through the halyards greeted him.

   He eased back the hatch. Nothing. Silently he crept down the steps into the cabin, then stiffened with fury as he registered the devastation around him. Every cupboard had been opened and the contents strewn over the floor and seats. But no maniac rushed out to assault him. He was alone. Whoever had done this was long gone.

   Swiftly he made his way to his cabin where his clothes were tossed on the bed, his holdall upended. Since the fire on board
Nutmeg
, he had learned not to keep anything of value on the boat. His passport and a copy of his birth certificate, along with the missing person's file on his mother, were now safely held at Framptons Solicitors. He carried with him credit and debit cards, a photograph of Emma and his warrant card. All his post he'd had redirected to the station. The only thing of any real value on the boat was his laptop computer, and that was still here, intact and in its bag, and as far as he could see the zip hadn't been tampered with.

   Why hadn't the intruder stolen it? It would have been valuable in its own right, and if someone had cracked his password allowing access to his emails and the police computers it would have been worth a bloody fortune. Did this suggest someone unfamiliar with technology? Or the opposite – someone who knew enough about computers to know that hacking in and finding the password would take time, expertise and blind guesswork and, by that time, Horton would have changed it anyway, so had left it behind.

   Whatever, this clearly wasn't the work of an opportunist thief, or someone high on drugs or drink looking for something to sell for a quick fix. This intruder, Horton reckoned, had been searching for some clue as to his identity. And he wouldn't have found it.

   He climbed back on deck and stared around in the slanting rain. The pontoon was hardly on the criminal's usual route, so why here, why now and why his boat? And why hadn't he stolen anything? There was only one answer: Owen Carlsson's murder.

'T
here are no prints, except yours,' Taylor mumbled nasally two hours later.

   Horton wasn't surprised. Even the most stupid of thieves watched enough television to know they should wear gloves. But that didn't always guarantee they couldn't be identified.

   'Can you get anything from the glove prints?'

   Taylor sniffed and shrugged an answer. It didn't inspire Horton with much hope. If the intruder had worn gloves then it meant he'd either had a pair on him to save his fingers from the cold – which didn't sound like your average toe-rag criminal – or he'd come equipped for breaking and entering, which if he had then surely he would have stolen the laptop computer. No, Taylor's findings confirmed Horton's initial thoughts: this intruder had come equipped with gloves because he had already dumped Owen Carlsson's body in that bunker earlier that morning after killing him, and had then hung around to see Carlsson's sister turn up to discover it. Which meant he either must have told Thea where to find it and all that stuff about her being psychic had been a lie, or he was Thea's accomplice in crime and her horror-stricken act had been staged for his or some other passer-by's benefit exactly as DCI Birch had suggested. The thought depressed Horton.

   'We might get something from these hairs,' Taylor said, holding up a tiny plastic bag, 'Unless they're yours?'

   'Mine aren't that long.' Horton ran a hand over his cropped fair head. And unless they belonged to the owner of this boat, or a friend of his, then they must belong to the intruder, because Horton certainly hadn't been entertaining on board this yacht. It was something, but it was useless if they didn't already have this person on the DNA database to match it against. And then, he thought, he could have brought the hair in himself on his clothing picked up from the bus or Evelyn Mackie's house . . .

   Taylor said, 'I've taken scrapings from various items that the intruder must have touched. That might give us something.'

   And, Horton thought hopefully, it might match with evidence found on Carlsson's body, which made him once again think of Thea Carlsson. Angry with himself for letting her get under his skin, he flicked on the kettle and said tersely, 'What did you find at the scene of crime? The other crime,' he added.

   'It's too early to say.'

   Horton had expected that. 'Coffee?'

   'Allergic.'

   Horton had yet to find something that Taylor wasn't allergic to. Work, he supposed. The man was mournful, nasal and mostly monosyllabic but he was efficient, dedicated, thorough and hard working. What more could a police officer ask?

   'There was stuff that could have been there for days, weeks even,' Taylor added. 'Cigar and cigarette butts, couple of condoms, used.'

   'Not much good if they haven't been,' muttered Horton. 'You didn't find the bullet then?'

   'No.'

   So it would be down to Dr Clayton to excavate it from Owen Carlsson's body.

   'Anything strike you as unusual?' Horton asked, making himself a coffee. Taylor had over twelve years' experience, a sharp eye and a good brain. Not much got past him.

   'There are no obvious signs that the body was transported there: no broken or trampled gorse bushes, no footprints, and no vehicle could get to that spot. But there was a lot of rain last night, and wind, so the sand has shifted and some of the gorse bushes have been uprooted; it's difficult to tell if that was because of the weather.'

   'But you don't think he was killed there?' Horton pressed.

   'We've got photographic images; we'll enhance them and they might give us a clearer picture.' Taylor slid out of his seat. 'I'll get everything examined and relay our findings to DCI Birch.'

   It was a gentle reminder to Horton that he wasn't in charge of this investigation. Feeling irritable and restless, he watched Taylor go, knowing he was right; this case had nothing to do with him. Tomorrow he'd make his statement at Newport police station, and return home to Southsea Marina on the next high tide. He'd forget all about Thea Carlsson and her dead brother.

   The trilling of his mobile sliced through his thoughts.

   'For Christ's sake, Andy, can't you go anywhere without causing trouble?' Superintendent Uckfield bellowed.

   '
I
didn't shoot him.'

   'Just don't ask me to go on holiday with you!'

   Perish the thought.

   'Well?' commanded Uckfield.

   'Well what?' How come Uckfield was suddenly interested? 'You'll have to talk to Detective Chief Inspector Birch.'

   'He reckons he's got the tart who did it.'

   'She's not a tart,' Horton said stiffly, and too quickly. He took a breath, not wanting Uckfield to read too much into his reaction, but it was too late.

   'Oh, like that, is it?'

   Hearing the sneer in Uckfield's voice, Horton cursed himself for over-reacting. But his response to Uckfield had told him he could no more walk away from this than streak naked through Portsmouth's busiest thoroughfare in the middle of market day. Forcing his voice to sound more casual, he said, 'Has Birch charged her?' He heard the deep throb of the police launch as it headed out of the marina.

   'Says it's only a matter of time.'

   'Motive?'

   'Claims brother and sister could have fallen out.'

   'Over what?'

   'He'll find out.'

   Or fabricate it, thought Horton uneasily. He didn't trust the emaciated Birch one inch. 'She was very distressed to find her brother's body.'

   'Could be guilt.'

   Horton gave him that, but he still wasn't convinced, despite his earlier thoughts. She hadn't looked guilt-ridden. But there was more to it than that. He told himself he wasn't attracted to her, and yet there was something that he couldn't explain, even to himself – a feeling, a bond? He didn't know exactly and was irritated at not being able to pinpoint it.

   Uckfield said, 'How come she found him?'

   Horton hesitated; he certainly wasn't going to tell Uckfield the psychic bit. The big man would laugh from here to John O'Groats and back again and then think the same as everyone else: that Thea was off her trolley or guilty as hell. So Birch hadn't told Uckfield about that. He wondered why. He must know by now; the woman police officer would have relayed that nugget of information even if Thea hadn't repeated her claim in the interview room. To distract Uckfield, Horton said, 'Owen Carlsson was seen on Saturday on the Cowes chain ferry.'

   'How the bloody hell do you know that?'

   'I've talked to his neighbour.'

   'Thought you were on holiday. Does Birch know?'

   'No idea.' Horton waited for the reprimand and was surprised when it didn't come. Instead Uckfield almost chuckled.

   'Tell me what you've got.'

   So Uckfield was another one who wasn't a member of Birch's fan club. Horton wondered who was; Sergeant Norris probably. He quickly briefed Uckfield about his visit to Owen Carlsson's house, but still said nothing about Thea and her psychic warning, or about the break-in on his yacht.

   'We're coming over,' Uckfield abruptly announced when Horton had finished.

   'The major crime team's been called in?' asked Horton with a mixture of surprise and relief. It meant that Birch must have doubts about Thea being the killer. Or more likely he couldn't prove it. That solicitor, Michael Braxton, must be doing a good job.

   Uckfield said, 'Strange as it might seem, murder, or suspected murder, counts as a major crime.'

   But Horton knew that wasn't the real reason. He could hear it in Uckfield's voice. And if Birch hadn't asked for assistance, who had?