Friday 10.15 a.m.
Horton slept fitfully, with dreams of Anmore's and Owen's rotting bodies, punctuated by images of Thea Carlsson as he'd rescued her from the blazing house, but even then he guessed he'd managed to grab more shut-eye than Birch and Norris who were resentful and sullen throughout Uckfield's bad-tempered briefing.
On the journey to Laura Rosewood's home on the east coast of the island, Uckfield's mood, which was darker than a disused coal mine, didn't improve. He opened his mouth only to swear at any motorist or pedestrian who dared to get in his way, which seemed to be the island's entire population, and to comment that Ms Rosewood was bound to be a sandal-wearing, bead rattling Amazon with a moustache, or someone built like a shot-putter in the days of the Cold War and that this was all a bloody waste of time. Horton was inclined to agree with the latter sentiment, but reckoned on a younger version of Bella Westbury, all slacks and common sense. He was relieved when they swung into a wide gravel driveway which culminated in a futuristic house of glass and steel, perched on the cliffs of Luccombe. It was, thought Horton, totally out of keeping with the grey-stoned and colour-washed Victorian and Edwardian houses of the wooded area, and didn't look that environmentally friendly to him, which it should have been given the woman's position in the European Commission.
Laura Rosewood however was very friendly and not at all how either of them had imagined. As they followed her swaying hips clad in tight black trousers through a spacious hall Uckfield winked grotesquely at Horton. Clearly the attractive, slender, forty-something woman with short blonde hair and immaculate make-up had lightened Uckfield's mood considerably. Perhaps, thought Horton, they should install her in the station.
'It's such terrible news about Owen,' Laura Rosewood said, gesturing them into comfortable armchairs in an airy and expensively furnished room. Horton's eyes were immediately drawn to the magnificent view of a tumultuous grey-green English Channel beyond wide glass doors while Uckfield clearly had trouble taking his from Ms Rosewood's cleavage and the black bra beneath the dark-blue lacy top.
'We're hoping you can tell us what Owen was working on, Ms Rosewood,' Uckfield said solemnly.
'Of course. And it's Laura.' She flashed her perfect white teeth at him.
Uckfield's grin reminded Horton of a crocodile who'd just seen dinner in the form of a fisherman on the bank.
'When was the last time you saw Owen Carlsson, Laura?' Uckfield leered.
Horton tried not to wince. She was older than Uckfield's usual types but neither that nor the fact he was married would stop the big man from trying his hand.
'It was at Arina's funeral, a week ago Tuesday.'
'How did he seem?' asked Horton.
She swivelled her petrol-blue eyes to him. 'Upset, naturally. We all were. Are you any closer to finding out who killed Arina?'
Uckfield answered. 'Detective Inspector Birch is leading that investigation.'
This morning Horton had got his wish and Birch's officers were at Seaview conducting a house to-house, and trying to establish who had been in or around the hotel at the time of Arina's death. Another team were about to interview those in the houses near the barn where Anmore's body had been found. While Taylor's officers were going over the scene-of-crime with a comb so fine that not even a nit would get through. Cantelli had reported that the farmer couldn't confirm when the barn window had been broken. He said that Anmore must have boarded it up himself because he certainly hadn't done it. So not much joy there and neither had they found any witnesses to the fire.
'It's such a waste,' Laura Rosewood sighed. 'And now Owen's dead too. Is there any chance his death could have been suicide?'
'Would you have said he was capable of that?' asked Horton, knowing that it wasn't, but eager to hear her thoughts and get an insight on Owen's personality.
'No, he was a very positive, cheerful sort of man. At least he was on the occasions I met him, barring Arina's funeral of course. He was recommended by Terry Knowles for a project I'm involved with for the European Commission, which is why you're here, of course.' Her eyes swung back to Uckfield. 'Can I offer you some refreshment? Coffee?'
'Thanks,' Uckfield replied before Horton could refuse. He would have preferred information to caffeine but he was outranked.
'I'll ask Julie to make us some. Excuse me.'
They both rose as she left the room. Uckfield's eyes followed her greedily. 'Wouldn't say no to a bit of that.'
Horton didn't remind Uckfield that he was married. It would have been pointless. But it jogged Horton's memory that he hadn't yet called his solicitor regarding Emma being sent away to school. There had been the briefing and then the drive here. Once this was over, though, and he was alone, he'd call her.
'Nice place she's got; worth a few bob,' Uckfield added, prowling around the lounge and eyeing the exquisite glassware on specially designed shelves either side of an inset modern fireplace.
Horton agreed. There were also some expensive-looking modern paintings on the pale cream walls and the wide-screen plasma television and music system were both top of the range. Everything was neat, calming and spotless. The room barely looked lived in.
'Wonder what her old man does for a living,' Uckfield added, lifting and almost dropping a glass objet d'art which Horton thought had probably cost Laura Rosewood the equivalent of his annual salary.
'It could be her money.' He reckoned advisers to the European Commission were on a fair screw.
He crossed to the glass doors and stared at the great expanse of sea. In the sheeting rain he could just make out a container ship ploughing its steady way across the Channel. There was still no word on Thea. He had tried not to think that she could have killed Jonathan Anmore or that she might be already dead. It was useless to speculate. Uckfield said something to him but he had no idea what, and before he could ask him to repeat it footsteps sounded in the hall and the door swung open.
'Coffee won't be a moment,' Laura Rosewood announced, settling herself back in her seat. Uckfield resumed his. 'Now, you wanted to know what Owen was working on.' She fixed her eyes on Uckfield. 'Integrated Coastal Zone Management.'
'Come again?'
She smiled. 'It's complicated, but I'll try and make it as simple as possible.'
Horton took a seat to the right of Uckfield where he could see Laura Rosewood clearly. He removed his notebook from his pocket and began to make notes, something he rarely did, but knew he should. He had almost total recall but without Cantelli here, and with Uckfield bound to blame him if he missed anything which turned out to be vital, it was safer.
Laura said, 'Europe has a relatively long coastline in relation to its land area and there are a variety of different habitats, economic and social conditions surrounding it and impacting on it, but the greatest of these, and therefore the biggest threat to our coasts is us: humans. Many people have boats. Then there is fishing and other sea-based industries. As a consequence our coastal areas and habitats continue to deteriorate. The European Commission Environment Directorate is very concerned about this, as are various governments and environmental bodies. So the Directorate set up a programme to monitor this.
'The quality of coastal waters is a major cause for concern: oil slicks and algal blooms, buildings, urbanization, agricultural and industrial developments have considerably reduced the biological diversity and cultural distinctness of the landscapes in most parts of Europe. Recent research shows that climate change could involve a rise in sea level of several millimetres per year, and an increase in the frequency and intensity of coastal storms.'
There was one going on right now, thought Horton, as the rain hit the glass doors like a rapid round of machine-gun fire.
'Global warming,' he said, thinking about those files in Owen Carlsson's burnt-out study, and Bella Westbury had told him that Owen was an expert in oceans.
'Yes,' she replied, directing her gaze at him. 'And the pace of global warming is speeding up quicker than predicted.'
'We've all seen the film The Day After Tomorrow,' sneered Uckfield.
'You may be cynical, Superintendent, but the day after tomorrow is sooner than you think,' she clipped.
'Well, I'm more concerned with catching a murderer today rather than the day after tomorrow. So what's Owen Carlsson got to do with all this?'
Before she could answer, the door opened and a slight, mousey-haired woman in her early forties entered carrying a tray. On it was a coffee pot, white porcelain cups and a plate of chocolate biscuits. She placed it on a glass-topped table in front of Laura Rosewood, who nodded her thanks. The woman smiled shyly at Horton and slipped away without a murmur or introduction. The silent and obliging Julie, no doubt.
'Depending on where these storms occur,' Laura continued, pouring the coffee with slender, well-manicured fingers, 'the combined effects of these two phenomena will have serious repercussions, such as major floods, which are already happening in our own country. Milk, Superintendent?'
'And three sugars.'
'Not for me.' Horton watched as she handed Uckfield his coffee, their fingers touching briefly.
'Where does Owen Carlsson fit into this?' Horton repeated, not bothering to disguise his impatience. He didn't have time to sit around listening to a geography and meteorological lesson.
She swivelled to face him. 'Expected growth — in tourism in particular — will increase human pressure on the natural, rural and urban environments. Look at the pressure to develop along our own Solent coastline, and here on the Isle of Wight. And I have to hold my hands up and admit that I am partly to blame.' She smiled rather ruefully. 'I ran a property development company, with my late husband, Jack, for fifteen years.'
That explained this house, thought Horton cynically. Only a property developer would have got planning permission for it.
She said, 'I was fortunate enough to sell the company three years ago at the height of the property boom.'
'Lucky you,' muttered Uckfield with his mouth full of biscuit.
Horton could almost see him thinking 'no husband to complicate things — ideal'.
'Or perhaps I was shrewd enough to see the bubble was about to burst. I've been in property a long time. I started as a surveyor a million years ago,' she smiled.
'I can't believe that,' Uckfield grinned back. Horton just about stopped himself from rolling his eyes at Uckfield's grotesque attempt to be gallant. Laura Rosewood seemed to like it though. More fool her, thought Horton.
She said, 'After I'd sold the business I was at a loose end, not sure what to do next. I don't like being idle. Then Terry Knowles mentioned that the European Commission needed advisers and my background and experience seemed ideal.'
'Their gain, Laura. I'm sure-' charmed Uckfield.
'To get back to Owen Carlsson,' Horton cut in tetchily, thinking they were wasting time. Uckfield scowled at him.
'Of course,' she said briskly. 'The results of the project will include a set of policy recommendations to deal with coastal erosion in a sustainable way, and, dependent on the findings, recommend how we should best deal with the increase of coastal storms and global warming. The Isle of Wight is one key area of this project. It has, as you might be aware, some serious coastal erosion problems, even where this house is situated. Owen was engaged on mapping the coastal erosion hazards, as well as providing an analysis of our shoreline, and an analysis of the sea around us.'
'How far had he got?' asked Horton.
'He started six months ago. It's a three-year project and Owen was going to move around Europe's coastline yearly to undertake studies in other key locations. There are some who would like to stall this report, however, others who might wish it never sees the light of day, and some who want to influence the policy recommendations for their own good, if it gets that far.'
'Like who?' asked Horton, more interested now there was a hint of a motive for Carlsson's murder.
'The marina development companies, the leisure boating industry, the fishing industry, property developers, and that's just for starters. There could be a great deal of money at stake if, for example, Owen's findings were to recommend no more marinas or property developments along coastal areas. Or that sea pollution and coastal erosion mean legislative changes and restrictions must be introduced in the leisure boating industry.'
'Can you be more specific? Company names would help.'
'Sorry, Inspector, I can't because I don't know exactly. I called Reg, the Chief Constable, when I heard about Owen's death because I was concerned that someone was determined to prevent this project from progressing. I've obviously had to report it to Brussels. The project's been put on hold and Europol have been notified, though I gather they're not going to investigate until they hear back from you.'
Now Horton could see another factor that had contributed to Uckfield's foul temper. If Uckfield had to hand this case over to the European Police, it would be a severe career blow for him and would really piss him off.
Laura Rosewood continued. 'It's been decided to keep any possible connection between Owen's death and the environmental project quiet for the time being until you've had time, Superintendent, to investigate it further. Owen's death might have nothing to do with the project and we don't want the alarmist press whipping up the story. You know how they love to dish the dirt on anything to do with the Commission.'
To Horton it made some sense, but if Owen had been murdered to prevent this project from progressing they'd probably never discover his killer. The case would be too complex, with too many possible suspects and the killer would have been professional and covered his tracks superbly.
With a sinking heart he said, 'And is the data Owen already collated lost because of the fire?'
'What fire?' she asked, alarmed.
Obviously hadn't heard about it on the local news then, but Uckfield said she'd only returned from London late last night.
'Owen's house was burnt down on Wednesday evening,' answered Horton.
'My God! And his sister? She wasn't…?'
'No.' Horton didn't see any need to tell her about his or Thea's close encounter.
Uckfield said, 'But she is missing.'
Horton would have preferred to have kept that quiet. And he didn't like the undertone of Uckfield's statement.
Laura said, 'Perhaps she's returned to Luxembourg?'
Horton answered. 'How did you know she lived there?'
'I had a meeting with Owen on the twenty-second of December in Brussels to discuss the project and he mentioned he was spending Christmas with his sister who lives in Luxembourg. I think he would have preferred to be with Arina, especially as she was upset over losing her father. I knew Sir Christopher very well. He was a keen supporter of the environment but I guess Owen had promised his sister and didn't feel he could let her down.'
Horton wondered why Arina hadn't invited both Thea and Owen to Scanaford House; it was big enough to accommodate a football team. But maybe Arina had had other friends to stay. Or perhaps she'd already met Thea and hadn't liked her, or vice versa. He frowned as speculations spiralled freely and didn't much care for where they were taking him.
Laura looked thoughtful for a moment. 'Thea Carlsson didn't set fire to the house by any chance, did she?'
'Why do you say that?' asked Horton sharply.
She shrugged. 'Anger at her brother's death? Despair? Who knows what people are capable of when they're distraught. When Jack died I wanted to lash out at anyone and everything. It passes, but only to be replaced by other emotions equally destructive, like overwhelming sadness. Have you considered that Owen's sister might have been trying to kill herself by setting fire to the house and has now gone off somewhere to try again?'
They hadn't because Horton knew of the intruder, but he hadn't considered the possibility that Thea's grief over her brother's death might have led her to walk out of that hospital with the intention of committing suicide. For a brief and startling moment thoughts of his mother flashed into his mind. Could that have been her intention? No suicide note had been found in the flat, or at least had been given to him. His neighbour had told him recently that his mother had been dressed up and happy on the day of her disappearance. But could she have been mistaken? He'd never once considered her suicide as a possibility. There was no time to analyse it further but he cursed his stupidity for not thinking it a possibility where Thea was concerned. If she had intended killing herself then he guessed she was already dead. His heart felt heavy at the thought.
Laura rose, looking worried. 'Does Terry know about the fire?'
'Not unless someone's told him,' answered Uckfield.
And Horton knew they hadn't because no one could find him. He hadn't known that the Shetland Islands was so big, but at the briefing this morning he'd learnt from Trueman, that it comprised over a hundred islands, fifteen of them inhabited. That made it incredibly difficult to track Knowles down, especially when the man wasn't answering his mobile phone; maybe he couldn't get a signal.
Clearly agitated, Laura said, 'I hope to God that Owen emailed his report to Terry, or kept a back-up copy off the premises. I need to call Terry.'
She made as if to leave when Uckfield halted her. 'We can't get through on his mobile. Do you have another contact number for him?'
'I'll try his office; someone must know where he's staying.'
Horton said, 'We've already tried them. He only left them his mobile number because he was going to be moving about the islands.'
But Knowles had arrived there, Trueman had reported. He'd been on the eight forty-five flight to Glasgow from Southampton Airport on Wednesday morning and had checked in for the thirteen thirty flight from Glasgow to Sumburgh on the Shetland Islands. After that he had gone walkabout. Knowles' office had told Trueman that Knowles wasn't due to meet up with the people who had developed a new system to harness the wind for energy until Tuesday.
Horton said, 'Would Mr Knowles' secretary know if Owen had emailed his report to him before he went missing?'
'I'll get her to check his e-mails.'
'Before you do,' Horton quickly added, 'there are just a few more questions. We won't take up too much more of your time.'
She gave a brief tight smile but didn't resume her seat.
Horton said, 'Would Owen have sent his findings to the European Translation Centre?'
She looked hopeful. 'He might have done.'
And if Thea had been given Owen's findings to translate into Danish, Swedish or German, and her brother had been killed because of it, then so might she have been, he considered gloomily.
With a note of finality to her voice, Laura said, 'I'll check and let you know.'
But Uckfield was not to be hurried. He reached for the last chocolate biscuit. 'Do you know Jonathan Anmore?'
Laura Rosewood looked surprised at the question. 'I've seen him once or twice at Scanaford House. He's the gardener. Why?'
'He's dead.'
Her eyes widened. 'You mean he's been killed?' She looked at each of them in turn with a bewildered expression. 'But this is dreadful. How?'
'He was stabbed.'
Horton studied her as she assimilated this new information. Clearly she was shocked and puzzled by it. Her expression serious, she said, 'And you believe there is a connection between his death and Owen's. But if that's so then Owen's death can't have anything to do with the project.' Relief suddenly flooded her face. 'I'm sorry I can't be more helpful but I need to call Brussels.' This time she headed for the door with a purpose that not even Uckfield could ignore. He swallowed the remains of his coffee, rose and reached out a card to her.
'Call me personally as soon as you have any further information.'
And even if you don't, Horton interpreted Uckfield's gaze. She promised she would and judging by her expression Horton didn't think it would be a chore. But he hadn't quite finished yet. 'Do you know Bella Westbury?' he asked on the doorstep.
'Yes. She's very active on the environmental front, and she was Sir Christopher's housekeeper.'
'And Roy Danesbrook?' Horton thought he might as well ask. He expected Laura Rosewood to look blankly at him but she didn't. Instead a flicker of distaste crossed her face before she answered with a tight smile.
'He runs a charity called Wight Earth and Mind. Sir Christopher was its patron.'
'It's an environmental charity?' asked Horton, surprised. From his brief encounter with Danesbrook he wouldn't have marked him down as a friend of the earth type.
'I believe so, though you'll have to ask Mr Danesbrook about it.'
'You don't like him?' probed Horton, noting her curt tone.
'I don't know him, but let's say that what I have seen of the man, which isn't much, doesn't exactly endear me to him. Over the last year he seemed to worm his way into Sir Christopher's life. I couldn't really understand what Christopher saw in him and although that was his business I couldn't help thinking that Mr Danesbrook was taking advantage of an elderly, sick man.'
And that, thought Horton with an inner nod of satisfaction, was his sentiment exactly.