' All we need to do now is prove that this Danesbrook has gone off his trolley again, and is running around killing anyone connected with the Suttons,' Uckfield said in the car.
We'll need more than that, thought Horton, and so will the CPS. He said, 'Owen's death could still have something to do with this project.'
'Yeah, and I'm Bugs Bunny. What she said was a load of old bollocks and the chief's got hold of the wrong end of the stick,' Uckfield continued. 'If you ask me the motive for Owen Carlsson's murder and Anmore's is much simpler, and closer to home, than some piffling European environmental project.'
Horton didn't think Laura Rosewood would go a bundle on the word 'piffling' but he agreed with Uckfield.
Picking a piece of biscuit from his teeth, while managing to change gear at the same time, Uckfield continued, 'I reckon Danesbrook had a thing for the old boy, Sir Christopher, and when he heard Arina Sutton plotting with her boyfriend, Owen, to kill off her old man — you know, easing his passing by putting a pillow over his head — Danesbrook flipped and killed them both.'
Horton didn't see Danesbrook as the caring kind, more the sucking-up type to gain some personal advantage. 'And what about killing Anmore?'
Uckfield shrugged. 'Maybe Danesbrook thought he was in on it too.'
Horton flashed Uckfield an incredulous look. 'Bit weak that, and it doesn't explain where Thea is or who set fire to her house.'
'You want sugar on it?'
No, just answers, thought Horton, falling silent as Uckfield drove more sedately back to the station. He didn't believe Uckfield's theory for one minute. OK, so he didn't know what Sir Christopher's sexual and personal tastes had been but he just couldn't see him falling for a weasel like Danesbrook. He wouldn't mind betting though that Danesbrook was involved somehow. And it was time to question him. It was also time to call his solicitor about Catherine proposing to send Emma away to school, but both would have to wait because Somerfield and Marsden were back from interviewing Charlie Anmore and Horton was keen to hear what they had to report.
Kate Somerfield said, 'The old man is pretty cut up as you'd imagine. Jonathan Anmore was his only child. He'd been divorced for ten years. He's got two boys who his wife won't let him see, out of spite, Charlie Anmore claims. He says she took Jonathan for every penny he had. Jonathan returned to the Isle of Wight from the mainland ten years ago and took over his father's gardening business. Yesterday Jonathan came home at one o'clock for his dinner.'
That fitted with Horton seeing him at Scanaford House just after midday. He asked Trueman if he'd managed to trace the call Anmore had taken on his mobile phone as he'd left him.
'Still working on it,' came the reply.
Marsden took up the reporting. 'Jonathan then went out again just after two. Charlie hadn't heard Jonathan mention Owen Carlsson but he did know Arina Sutton was a customer of his son's.'
Uckfield said, 'Any special friends or girlfriends, rumours about his love life, grudges against him?'
'No.'
Horton asked, 'Did Anmore have any connection with environmental groups?'
'No. He liked sailing-'
'Yes, we saw the boat,' Uckfield said sarcastically.
'And he liked shooting,' Marsden added with a note of triumph. 'According to his father, Jonathan was a crack shot when he was in the RAF. He served six years as a mechanic before leaving to study landscape gardening at college on the mainland where he met his wife. Charlie didn't know where Jonathan kept his gun or what type it was. He said he'd never seen it. We searched the house and there was no sign of a gun or a licence.'
Uckfield turned on Trueman. 'Any gun found in the barn?'
'No.'
Horton could see what Uckfield was thinking, that it could have been used on Owen Carlsson and then discarded.
Uckfield sprang up. 'Right. Marsden, go back to the gun clubs and see if Anmore was ever a member or guest. While you're at it ask if Roy Danesbrook is too. Somerfield, get on to the Child Support Agency, find out if Anmore's behind with his payments. Talk to his wife on the phone and get the true story on the divorce. And then start going through the things you bagged up from Anmore's room. I'm going to report to the chief.'
Horton stepped out of the station and, sheltering from the rain in the doorway, punched in Framptons' telephone number.
'Andy, are you back from holiday?' Frances Greywell said moments later.
'No. I've got caught up in this case on the Isle of Wight. Catherine wants to send Emma away to school. Emma doesn't want to go. She rang me. I don't want her to go.'
There was a short pause. 'I'll speak to her solicitor.'
He rang off with the impression that whatever Frances Greywell said to Catherine's solicitors he'd somehow still fail his daughter. Staring at the rain he understood how and why some men were forced to kidnap their children, hang off tall buildings, climb bridges and throw eggs at politicians in Parliament for the right to have a say in their children's lives. Divorce was shit. He felt like shit. Would it matter if he walked away from this case now and went to try and reason with Catherine? He'd get a bollocking, but that was nothing. He could cope with that. And yet he didn't move. Part of him said that Catherine was beyond reasoning with, and that he'd achieve nothing by confronting her, while the other part said he should at least try. Then there was Thea.
A car drew up. Cantelli climbed out. The decision had been made for him.
'How did it go with Carlsson's solicitor?' Horton asked, noting but not wanting to acknowledge his relief.
'I'll tell you over a cup of tea, a bacon sandwich and chips. I'm starving.'
Cheered by Cantelli's breezy manner, and with the sudden real ization that he was hungry too, Horton pushed aside his anxiety and melancholia and was soon tucking into a ham roll, chips and salad. Impatient to hear what Cantelli had learnt, he knew though that he'd have to wait until the sergeant's first bite into his bacon sandwich.
'Owen Carlsson left everything to Thea,' Cantelli said with his mouth full. 'At a rough estimate he's worth about eight hundred thousand pounds which includes the house. It didn't have a mortgage. Carlsson and his sister inherited a substantial sum on their parents' death. Thea's was in trust until she became twenty-one. Now she'll get her brother's share.'
'If she's still alive.' Horton didn't like to think that was a motive for murder although he could see that Cantelli had considered it, and so too would Uckfield when he heard Cantelli's news. He told Cantelli what Laura Rosewood had said about Thea possibly being suicidal.
Cantelli said, 'With her parents dead, her brother murdered, and the house and belongings gone up in smoke, I'd say she had good reason to be depressed. Did she strike you as being the type?'
'Is there a type?'
'I guess not.' Cantelli took a gulp of coffee. Horton knew Cantelli was recalling the dark days of Horton's suspension. After Catherine had chucked him out he'd come within minutes of throwing himself off his yacht. It had been Cantelli's friendship that had been partly responsible for helping him through it. When he'd stopped drinking, anger had taken the place of self-pity. It had driven him to clear his name, but by then it was too late to save his marriage.
Stabbing a chip, he said, 'So what else did you get?'
'Arina Sutton made her last will at the same time as her father, which was in September. The solicitor, Newlands, says they had no relatives so Arina was happy to bequeath her estate to the same charities as Sir Christopher had made bequests to. He left most of his estate to Arina with four major bequests and there was quite a tidy sum to leave. The estate is worth over four million.'
Horton gave a soft whistle. 'So who now gets their hands on that lot?'
Cantelli consulted his note book. 'The Institute of Neurology, The National Hospital Development Foundation, The Hammersmith Hospital, and a charity called Wight Earth and Mind.'
Horton froze with what remained of his ham roll in mid air. A slow smile spread across his face. Triumphantly he said, 'That's why the bastard was visiting Scanaford House. He'd come to eye up his inheritance.'
'Eh?'
Horton replaced the roll uneaten. 'Laura Rosewood's just told us that Roy Danesbrook runs a charity called Wight Earth and Mind with Sir Christopher as its patron, and now the shifty bugger inherits. He's got a damn good motive for killing Arina Sutton — money. Owen Carlsson must have recognized him, or worked it out, confronted him with it and Danesbrook had to kill him. No wonder he shot off so quickly when I mentioned Owen's death; the little bastard was guilty as hell.' But that didn't explain why Danesbrook hadn't reacted when Horton had first mentioned Owen's name. Then it clicked — of course! Danesbrook had an accomplice who must have killed Owen Carlsson without Danesbrook's knowledge. And that accomplice could have been Anmore who was in the churchyard waiting to rendezvous with Danesbrook, only Horton had scared him off. Then Danesbrook had gone to Anmore's barn and shoved a pitchfork into him, scared his part in Arina's death would come out. He said as much to Cantelli.
'Could Danesbrook be your arsonist?' asked Cantelli.
Horton thought for a moment. 'I'm not sure. I couldn't see who knocked me out.' And he didn't like to think that a weakling like Danesbrook could have got the better of him, though he'd had the element of surprise. Scraping back his chair, Horton said, 'But Danesbrook could have kidnapped and possibly killed Thea. Come on, Barney; time we had a word with him.'
'Shouldn't we tell the Super?'
'Later.' Horton was already steaming out of the canteen. He wanted all the answers neatly tied up before going to Uckfield. This was more like it. At last they were getting somewhere. Their visit to Laura Rosewood had proved highly fruitful. This case was about good old-fashioned greed and not global environmental concerns.
Cantelli had Danesbrook's address from the vehicle check he'd done earlier. Horton only hoped Danesbrook was at home, perhaps working out how to spend his inheritance.
'There's more,' Cantelli said, on their way to Danesbrook's house in Ryde. 'Four days before Sir Christopher Sutton died he called his solicitor and said he wanted to change his will. Newlands had been due to see Sir Christopher on the day he died.'
It fitted. 'Sutton had discovered that Danesbrook was a fraud and wanted to cut him out.'
'We don't know yet that he is a fraud.'
'Take my word for it; he is,' Horton said firmly. He'd known there was something shifty about the man from the moment he'd set eyes on him, and Laura Rosewood had thought the same. For a year she'd seen him sucking up to Sutton and now they knew why. Horton wondered if Sir Christopher's death hadn't been precipitated by Danesbrook.
Cantelli said, 'Newlands had no idea what Sir Christopher was intending and he says Arina didn't know either, but she did say that her father was very agitated and seemed to go downhill rapidly in the last few days. And there's another thing that's rather curious: Newlands told me that Owen Carlsson visited him three days after Arina's death.'
'To find out about Danesbrook?'
'No. He didn't even ask about the wills. He wanted a list of all the people who had attended Sir Christopher's funeral.'
Horton thought that rather odd too. 'And did Newlands give it to him?'
'Yes, and I've got a copy.' Cantelli pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket as they waited at a set of traffic lights.
Horton scanned it. There were some eminent people on the list judging by the Sir this and Doctor and Professor that. He wondered if Dr Clayton knew any of them, which reminded him about Anmore's autopsy. Had she completed it yet? He'd check after they'd seen Danesbrook. He glanced further down the list and saw Jonathan Anmore's name, along with Bella Westbury, Laura Rosewood and Roy Danesbrook.
Horton said. 'Ask Trueman to find out if Owen Carlsson contacted any of the people on this list, and when and why. Has Newlands given Danesbrook a key to Scanaford House?'
'No.'
'Good. Make sure it stays that way. His car's here,' Horton said, pleased, as Cantelli turned into the narrow street of tiny flat-fronted terraced houses just off the promenade in Ryde.
Cantelli squeezed his hired car into a space halfway up the steep incline and zapped it shut. The rain had ceased and the sun was making brief appearances in a cloud scudding sky. Walking back down the hill, Horton took a glance inside the dark blue saloon. It revealed only a screwed-up newspaper and some parking tickets. He could detect nothing from the dent in the front passenger door but he'd get Forensic on to it.
He pressed his finger on Danesbrook's bell and left it there. No one came. He swore softly.
'He can't have gone far if his car's here,' suggested Cantelli.
But that wasn't necessarily true, thought Horton, because Danesbrook might have caught the hovercraft or catamaran across to the mainland. Disappointed and frustrated he turned away and almost bumped into a lopsided elderly man with a bulbous, wart-ridden nose.
'You looking for Roy?' the old man asked.
'Do you know where we can find him?'
'Not the bailiffs, are you?' He peered at them with watery eyes.
'No.'
'Then you must be police.'
Horton smiled to himself. Had Danesbrook already earned himself a visit from the local police? Or maybe he and Cantelli just looked like coppers.
'You'll find Roy in the bar of the Victoria Arms. Turn sharp right at the end of the road then along about two hundred yards. It's on the corner facing the kiddies play park and the seafront.'
'Thanks.'
'Don't tell him I sent you.' The old man put a key in the door of the neighbouring house and stepped inside.
Horton got the impression he didn't much care for Danesbrook. That made two of them. Three if he counted Laura Rosewood. Horton was rather looking forward to this official interview with the ponytailed man in the cowboy boots, and there would be no scuttling away and evasiveness. No, Horton thought determinedly, this time he'd get the answers even if he had to shake them from him.