Monday
She was as good as her word. Bella Westbury said nothing until her solicitor arrived from London mid morning. Horton had tried to get her to tell him who her client was, and to admit to killing Arina Sutton, Owen Carlsson and Jonathan Anmore, but he knew even before he started that he was wasting his breath. He couldn't even get her on a charge of intent to defraud Sir Christopher Sutton's estate, especially when Danesbrook claimed the charity idea was his and he hadn't done anything wrong anyway.
Irritated and frustrated, Horton left her with Marsden to make her formal statement and found Uckfield, Cantelli, Trueman and Somerfield in the incident room.
'We'll have to let them go.' He threw himself into a chair. He felt exhausted and clearly so did the others judging by their faces. There were dark shadows under Cantelli's eyes whilst Uckfield's were bloodshot and his craggy face drawn and grey. Trueman's five o'clock shadow looked as though it had been round the clock twice without actually producing a beard. Only Somerfield looked relatively fresh as she placed a coffee in front of Horton, and he suspected that was some clever trick with make-up.
'Can't we even get Danesbrook for fraud and embezzlement?' Uckfield said in desperation.
Cantelli answered. 'Danesbrook claims he was in the process of setting up the charity and there's no one to say he wasn't. All we can get him on is not declaring any money that Sir Christopher gave him to social security.'
Uckfield snorted in disgust then winced. Horton wondered what was wrong with him. He looked ill.
'There's worse,' Horton said. 'Although Bella Westbury and Danesbrook have no alibi for the time of Owen's death, they have one for Arina's death, if we believe them. They now claim they were together that evening.'
'As in having a relationship?' Uckfield asked disbelievingly.
'Apparently. Though they're probably lying to give each other an alibi. Danesbrook was in the pub at the time of Anmore's death and Bella says she was at home alone. We've got no proof to show that either she or Danesbrook were involved in Owen's and Jonathan's deaths, and we've got about as much chance of getting a
confession as we have of walking on water. Bella Westbury is as tough as a cow's backside. Did you have a word with Charlie Anmore, Somerfield? Is he OK?'
'Yes. He said that Bella Westbury just wanted to pass on her condolences. They talked about the old days and that was it. He says it was kind of her to call.'
Horton remained sceptical about that. He doubted Bella Westbury did anything out of pure kindness. Horton had asked Trueman to email a copy of the photograph of Bella Westbury to Sweden to ask Bohman if he recognized Bella or had heard Lars, Helen or Owen mention her name. The answer had come back negative on all counts.
'So where does this leave us?' asked Uckfield, glowering at them all.
It was a good question. Horton swallowed a mouthful of coffee before answering. 'It leaves us trying to find enough evidence and a motive to convict her. Has Laura Rosewood had any joy finding out who Bella's paymasters might be?'
'She's making enquiries, but I can't see anyone owning up to it, can you?'
Horton couldn't.
'You've told Bella not to leave the island?' Uckfield's demand turned into a groan.
'For the second time,' Horton replied wearily. 'And I doubt she'll take any more notice of me this time than she did before.'
'Then put a watch on her.'
Trueman nodded.
Uckfield added, 'Isn't there any evidence in that bloody barn to help us catch our killer?'
'The forensic lab is still testing various items,' Trueman said. 'There's no sign of Anmore's mobile phone, and he wasn't on a contract, but his phone company are seeing if they can list his most recent calls. We might get something from them later.'
'Might's no bloody use to us,' grumbled Uckfield, frowning.
Horton said, 'What about the gun used to kill Owen, any more news on that?'
Cantelli answered. 'The lab has confirmed that the fragments of the bullets found in Owen's body match the gun you found Thea with.'
'Could it have been Anmore's?'
Kate Somerfield said, 'Charlie told me that his son often sailed to France. Perhaps Jonathan picked up the gun there.'
She had a point. Horton said, 'Anmore's boat is small enough not to draw too much attention from the Customs boys.'
'Why not simply register and buy a gun here or use one at a gun club?' asked Cantelli, folding a fresh piece of chewing gum in his mouth.
'Perhaps he didn't want to be bothered with the red tape?' suggested Trueman. 'Or he only wanted it for target practice in his barn.'
'Should have bought himself an air rifle then,' Horton added sourly.
Uckfield rose and immediately let out a howl of pain, clasping a hand to his back. They all stared at him, surprised.
'You all right?' asked Horton, concerned.
'Do I bloody look it?' Uckfield hissed through gritted teeth.
'Perhaps you've pulled a muscle.'
'Yeah, laughing at you clowns, who couldn't catch the clap in a brothel never mind a triple killer.' He flashed Horton a hostile look before trying to straighten up, decided it wasn't a wise move and made a vain attempt to hobble to the crime board.
Horton threw Trueman a look. What's wrong with the Super? Trueman shrugged. No idea.
Horton said, 'There could be another reason for Owen's death, which puts Bella and Danesbrook in the clear.'
'Then for God's sake tell us,' Uckfield snapped. 'Or do we have to play twenty questions?'
'Owen could have witnessed something when he was out gathering data for his survey.'
'Like what?' asked Trueman.
'He was on the coastline so it could be smuggling, boat stealing, or dumping waste in the sea or in a coastal stream.'
Cantelli looked up. 'He could have found something which incriminated someone-'
'Such as?' grunted Uckfield, screwing his face up with pain.
'A body, a treasure trove, guns. Owen Carlsson could have seen Anmore bringing in guns. He confronted him and — bang.' Cantelli made a shooting movement with his two fingers.
Horton addressed Trueman. 'When was the last time the boat was used?'
'I'll check with the lab.' He lifted the phone.
Horton continued. 'And check if Customs have ever stopped him.'
Trueman nodded before speaking into the telephone.
Uckfield, with his hand on his back and clearly in some discomfort, said, 'We need to find out where Owen Carlsson went in the days before he was killed-'
'Before Arina was killed,' corrected Horton. 'Her death could still have been a warning for Owen to keep his mouth shut.'
'Yeah, and as we haven't got his diary we're back to asking Joe Public to help, which is about as much good as a split condom. No one's come through with a single sighting of him since that woman saw him on the Cowes chain ferry. And there's still no sign of Thea Carlsson.'
And that was worrying Horton. He hauled himself up with a glance at his watch. He wasn't going to find Thea by sitting around here discussing theories. Besides, he and Cantelli had an appointment. He nodded to Cantelli who unfurled himself from his chair.
'Where are you going?' demanded Uckfield, surprised.
'Ghost hunting.'
'What?' Uckfield's bellow turned to a yelp of pain.
'Gordon Elms is the author of a book that Helen Carlsson inscribed for her daughter and it's possible that Thea went to visit him.'
'And where the devil will that get us?'
Horton didn't know. Both Bella Westbury and Danesbrook had denied all knowledge of Thea's whereabouts but then they would if they'd killed her. 'You'd better see someone about your back,' he called out, not stopping to hear Uckfield's answer, which if true to his usual form would be a string of profanities.
'The super's obviously been overdoing it,' Cantelli said, pointing the car in the direction of Gordon Elms' house. 'Looks like he's taken on more than he can handle with this Laura Rosewood. What's she like?'
'Attractive, widowed and a friend of the Chief Constable's.'
Cantelli flashed him a look. 'He's playing a bit close to home. I hope his wife never finds out.'
Horton thought of Alison Uckfield and agreed. It wouldn't do Uckfield's career much good either.
Cantelli said, 'Elms has got his own website and seems to be something of a celebrity in ghost hunting circles.' He handed Horton a piece of paper.
Horton read aloud. '"The Isle of Wight is reputed to be the most haunted place in Britain. It is home to a medley of ghosts, spooks and spirits. Take a walk around Cowes with ghost hunter and popular author Gordon Elms, and discover the mysteries of the old town. Sign up for a tour of the many houses and hotels on this mystical magical island where ghosts still haunt the halls and corridors."' He looked up. 'Scanaford House?'
'I can't see Sir Christopher Sutton opening his house to the weirdos of the world.'
And neither could Horton. Nor could he see Arina Sutton doing the same — but Roy Danesbrook as the owner? That was another matter altogether. Cantelli was obviously following his train of thought.
'Be a good money-spinner though. Especially for someone like Danesbrook. Spend a night in the haunted house and spot a spook.'
'Does Danesbrook know Gordon Elms?'
'He says not.' Cantelli yawned. 'I can't handle these late sessions like I used to. Must be getting old.'
'If it's any consolation I'm feeling just as rough.'
Cantelli dashed him a glance as if to check. 'Charlotte called this morning,' he added, pulling into the traffic.
'Anything wrong?' Horton asked anxiously, sensing Cantelli's concerns.
'She says Joe's missing the only male in the household, and with five women, three of them hormonal if you count Charlotte, I said who can blame him.' Cantelli smiled, but Horton could see he was worried.
Joe and his six-year-old twin sister, Molly, were the youngest of Cantelli's brood. Ellen, the eldest at sixteen, had caused Cantelli some sleepless nights recently and he guessed her sisters, Sadie, who was fourteen, and Marie now twelve were probably fast catching up on the worry front. Horton wondered if he'd be around to see his own daughter through troubled times. He had to be, there was no question of that.
'How are the girls?' he asked.
'Ellen's more interested in boys than studying, so nothing new there. Sadie's dancing her feet off, loves all that ballroom and Latin American stuff, and Marie's blossoming now she's started at that new school.'
Horton recalled that Marie had had the misfortune to be sent to one of the worst inner city schools in Portsmouth — the one he'd been condemned to spend some years at as a child — because all the places at the schools Cantelli and Charlotte had applied for had gone by the time the local education department had found their lost application papers.
Cantelli said, 'She's only been there a fortnight and loves it. I can tell you, getting her into St Crispins, and her winning that scholarship, is the best thing that could have happened even if I did have to promise to return to the fold of Catholicism. I'd have converted to Buddhism if it took that to make her happy. And I would have sold my soul to the devil to pay for her school fees if she hadn't got a scholarship, clever girl. Just to see her face light up every time she talks about it is worth… Sorry.' Cantelli flicked Horton a glance. 'There's me wittering on when you must be worried sick about Emma. Any news on that front?'
Horton found himself telling Cantelli about Emma's phone call and Catherine's plans to send Emma away to school.
'Why don't you visit the school?' Cantelli urged. 'It wouldn't do any harm to see what it's like. You've every right to do that, even Catherine can't stop you. And if you find you don't like it, and there are reasonable grounds, then you've got something solid to fight against it.'
Cantelli had a point. He should have thought of it himself but emotion and Emma's sobs had clouded his judgement. 'I'll call them.'
'Yeah, and don't leave it too long. I know what you're like when on a case. That's not meant as a criticism,' he added hastily at Horton's dark look. 'Call that school as soon as we've finished with Gordon Elms — and talking of which, we're here.'
Cantelli indicated off the main road into a side street of stone bay terraced houses much smaller than the ones two streets away where Owen had lived. Convenient if you wanted to start a fire, Horton thought. But he had no reason to suspect Gordon Elms of anything let alone almost killing both him and Thea.
'It's not very impressive for a world-renowned professional ghost hunter.'
'Perhaps he's got a penthouse apartment on the south of France and this is his work base,' Cantelli joked.
The door was answered promptly. If Horton had expected someone dressed like Merlin then he was gravely disappointed. Gordon Elms did, however, resemble a gnome. He was small with a little round pot belly protruding over a pair of camel corduroy trousers that came just an inch short of being the right length. Beneath them, Horton caught a glimpse of fluorescent pink socks above shabby white trainers. In his fifties, with greying hair and a little grey goatee, Elms waved them into a small sitting room and offered them refreshments, which they both refused.
Horton noted there was no television. Above the fireplace was a sinister-looking painting of a large house, which he didn't recognize, though it bore a faint resemblance to Manderley before Mrs Danvers had set fire to it, according to the Alfred Hitchcock version. As he took the seat Elms gestured him into, Horton thought it rather a gloomy picture to hang in this room, it being executed primarily in shades of grey, while the room was decorated in red and gold, as if it had overdosed on Christmas and was reluctant to let go of the festive season. He noted the candles on the mantelpiece along with a couple of photographs of a younger version of Elms with an older woman, whose facial qualities and age paraded the fact that she must be Elms' mother.
Cantelli opened the questioning. He showed Elms the photograph of Thea and asked if he had seen her recently. Clearly by Elms reaction he had.
'Why yes! She came some days ago.'
They'd been right then, thought Horton; this had been the address Thea had been looking up in the library.
'When exactly?' pressed Cantelli.
'It was a Thursday. I know that because I hold an evening class on Thursdays. I lecture on the paranormal at the community centre. I was preparing for it when she arrived. Yes, it was the fifteenth.'
Two days later Owen Carlsson left his house and never returned.
'She'd read my book,' Elms said proudly.
Maybe he didn't get many admirers, thought Horton.
Cantelli said, 'The Lost Ghosts of the Isle of Wight.'
'Yes. She was very complimentary. Said it had been given to her as a present. I said that must have been at birth.' He smiled. 'I wrote it years ago and it's long been out of print though I am considering updating it and publishing it myself. Publishers these days only seem interested in you if you've been on the telly. And, as you can see, I don't even have a television set, and I wouldn't appear on one if you paid me. I'm not into cheap magic tricks. I'm a genuine ghost hunter and medium.'
'I'm sure you are, Mr Elms,' soothed Cantelli. 'When did you write the book?'
'Let me see. It was published in 1985, which means I wrote it in 1983, but I remember researching it for a year before that. In fact I began as soon as I moved here in 1982, a year after I first came here with my mother on holiday. I knew immediately this was the place for me, so when my mother died, I sold up and moved from London. Never regretted it either.'
Cantelli nodded and jotted this down in his notebook.
Horton said, 'Are you a full-time ghost hunter and medium?' If his voice held a note of scepticism, Elms didn't seem to notice it.
'Yes. I took early retirement from the council where I worked in the planning department. Why do you want to know about the book and this woman?'
Horton was tempted to say, 'Psychic powers deserting you?' But he held his tongue and instead asked, 'What did Thea Carlsson ask you?'
'She said her mother had given her the book,' Elms continued, with a slight frown at not having his question answered. 'She showed it to me and asked if I recalled selling it to her mother.' He gave a little laugh. It sounded as if his underpants were too tight, thought Horton.
'I told her I was a writer, not a bookseller, and that her mother could have bought it in any number of bookshops. She showed me a photograph of her mother, a blonde, good-looking woman, but I didn't recall her…'
Suddenly Elms looked uncomfortable, almost embarrassed. Horton wondered why, but it was Cantelli who beat him to the question.
'But you remembered something.'
'I felt something.'
Horton tried not to snort with derision. He was getting the impression that Elms was a bit of an actor, and the word 'ham' sprang to mind.
Earnestly, Cantelli continued. 'Like what, sir?'
Elms drew in his breath, closed his eyes, and steepled his hands in front of his chest. Cantelli flashed Horton a glance. Horton raised his eyebrows and rolled his eyes in response. He'd almost had it with this little squirt, but Cantelli, with a nod of his head and a steadying hand, urged patience. Horton waited. After a moment Elms threw open his eyes.
'Evil. I felt evil.'
'In what way, sir?' asked Cantelli chirpily, drawing a slight narrowing of eyes from Elms.
'In the danger kind of way,' he snapped. 'Is there any other kind of evil? You of all people should know it exists. You see it daily in your professional lives.'
He had a point, thought Horton.
Cantelli said solemnly, 'And evil seems to have befallen Miss Carlsson. Her brother was killed shortly after her visit here.'
'Good grief!'
'You didn't see, feel or smell that?' Horton sneered, drawing a flash of hostility from the little gnome.
'The evil wasn't specific, and it wasn't directed at Miss Carlsson,' Elms replied tight-lipped. 'I would have warned her otherwise.'
Horton considered this. Was Elms really psychic or had Thea told him about her mother's death and Elms was making this up as he went along? Horton wouldn't mind betting that was so. Behind Elms' angry eyes Horton saw his dislike of him, but then he was used to that.
'Did you tell Thea Carlsson of this evil?'
'Yes. She said she already knew about it. But I didn't pick up any vibes of her being a kindred spirit, so to speak.'
If he believed Elms was a genuine medium or spiritualist, or whatever you called them, then maybe he hadn't detected the vibes because Thea wasn't in danger, and neither was she psychic, but had colluded in the killing of, or had killed, her brother. Dr Clayton's words returned to haunt him. This is a clever killing by a clever killer. But no, he refused to believe it of Thea. They'd got their killers — Westbury and Danesbrook — even though they couldn't prove it yet. Elms was the phoney.
'Who was the evil directed at then?' he snarled, tired of the gnome and not wanting to waste any more time on him.
'I'm not sure, but as Miss Carlsson handed me the book I felt it.'
He wanted to say 'bollocks'. Maybe Cantelli felt this because he quickly interceded.
'Did she ask you about ghosts mentioned in the book or any specific ghosts?'
'No.'
They hadn't yet seen a copy of the book and Horton now doubted that it mattered anyway. There was a brief silence in which Horton strained for any sounds in the house. All he could hear was the whirring of the central heating. What was Elms not telling them? Horton felt sure there must be something, or was that just desperation on his part? Probably.
Elms asked, 'Who is her mother?'
'Was.' corrected Horton. 'She died in 1990, along with her husband, in a car accident at Seaview.'
Elms looked surprised but that could have been faked.
'Tragic. But why was their daughter…?' Elms paused.
Cantelli prompted him. 'You've thought of something?'
'Just the accident you mentioned in Seaview. There was hit-and-run there about three weeks ago.'
'Arina Sutton.'
'That's right. Such a nice lady.'
Horton resisted throwing a glance at Cantelli. Keeping the excitement from his voice he said, 'You knew her?'
'Yes. Well, not exactly, but I'd met her.'
'When?' asked Cantelli casually, pencil poised.
Elms thought for a moment. Horton wasn't sure if it was for show or he really was trying to remember. After a moment Elms said, 'It was just before Christmas. Would you like the exact date, Sergeant?'
'Please.'
Elms rose. 'I'll check my diary.'
He left the room. Horton swiftly and silently crossed to the door to make sure Elms wasn't hovering outside. He saw him disappear into the back room. 'What do you think?' asked Cantelli.
'He's a phoney but this link with Arina Sutton could be interesting.'
Horton could hear Elms moving about. 'Hope he's not hiding anything in there.' Like something of Thea's. But why would Elms want to kidnap and kill Thea? No, he was miles off beam with that one.
He said, 'Did you get a search warrant for Scanaford House?' He'd forgotten to ask earlier. 'Yes. It should be through this afternoon along with the warrants for Danesbrook's house and Bella Westbury's cottage.'
Horton doubted they'd find anything though. Bella was too wily for that. This case was really getting to him now. He was sick of it and he was desperate to find Thea Carlsson.
Elms entered with a frown and a diary. 'I went to Scanaford House on the sixth of December.'
'You had an appointment there with Ms Sutton?' Cantelli asked.
'Yes. I'm researching for a new book-'
'Lost Ghosts of the Isle of Wight Part Two,' posed Cantelli.
Elms smiled. 'Something like that.'
Horton scoffed, 'The father who murdered his daughter and threw her body in the lake.'
'You know about it?' Elms said, surprised.
'I thought everyone did. Why the interest now?' Horton saw Elms start slightly at the sharpness of his tone.
'I don't know what you mean by now,' he said haughtily.
Horton laughed derisively. 'Oh, I think you do.' He held Elms' stare, saw him flush and look away.
Picking at a corner of the diary and avoiding eye contact, Elms said, 'Sir Christopher Sutton would never let me in or near the house.'
And I don't blame him, thought Horton. He wouldn't have let the likes of Elms within spitting distance of his boat.
Wriggling up his nose, Elms added, 'He said he didn't want it becoming a spectacle for all the… ghost hunters in the UK.'
And I bet he expressed his opinions more vehemently than that, thought Horton, seeing Elms' discomfort. 'So, why the change of heart?'
'His daughter must have persuaded him, and besides Sir Christopher was dying of cancer.'
Cantelli said, 'You knew that?'
'Not until I arrived.'
'But what sparked you to telephone Miss Sutton after having been refused a visit for so long?' asked Cantelli, bewildered.
'I read an article in the local newspaper about the public meeting on the wind farms. There was a photograph of Sir Christopher Sutton with a group of people and one of them was his daughter, Arina. I didn't even know he had a daughter until then, so I thought I'd try her. She might be more sympathetic to my needs. I telephoned the house. She answered. I explained that all I wanted to do was to see the lake and the house and, if permitted, take some photographs for my new book. She agreed and we made arrangements for me to call round on the sixth of December. She told me her father was termin ally ill and wasn't to be disturbed, but he must have got wind of me being there because he came on to the terrace; or rather I should say staggered. Miss Sutton was pointing out the lake to me.'
Elms fell silent. Horton could see by Elms' expression that something had happened there and it had been rather unpleasant. He hoped it didn't have anything to do with ghosts. He prompted, 'And?'
Elms shifted. 'He went white, and I mean white. He couldn't speak. He just stared at me as if he'd-'
'Seen a ghost, sir?' suggested Cantelli.
'Well, yes, since you put it like that. He looked as though he was about to collapse when Miss Sutton rushed to his side and so did I. We got him into the house and on to the sofa. I left immediately. I could see that Miss Sutton was extremely worried and upset. And now the poor woman herself is dead.' He sighed, a little theatrically Horton thought.
He left a short pause before asking, 'Did Sir Christopher say anything?'
'No.'
'And Miss Sutton?'
'Just that she would call me. She didn't, of course, and then I read about her father's death.'
'You didn't attend their funerals.'
'I didn't want to intrude on the family's grief. And I didn't really know them.'
It was said genuinely enough but Horton wondered why he hadn't. It would have afforded him the perfect opportunity to nose around the gardens and the house, something he, by his own admission, had yearned to do.
'Did Miss Sutton call the housekeeper, Miss Bella Westbury, to help with Sir Christopher?'
'No.'
'Did you see her there?'
'Can't say I did. I didn't know he had a housekeeper, though I'm not surprised considering the size of the place. Do you know what will happen to it now? I wonder if the new owners would let me have a look around the place. Or perhaps I could call there before it's sold. That way I won't inconvenience anyone.'
Cantelli said, 'You'll have to talk to the solicitor, or perhaps Mr Danesbrook will tell you.'
'Who's he?'
Horton studied Elms' expression. He didn't appear to be bluffing.
'A friend of Sir Christopher's,' Cantelli added, as Horton rose.
'Thank you, Sergeant, I will.'
On the threshold Horton said, 'Do you know Jonathan Anmore?'
'No. Should I?'
'Did Thea Carlsson say anything to you, or ask you about a girl.'
'What girl?'
Horton thanked him.
'Was he telling the truth?' Cantelli asked as they pulled away.
'About his visit to Scanaford House or not knowing anyone connected with this case except for the Suttons and Thea?' Horton sighed. 'Probably. But I want a copy of that newspaper article he mentioned, just to make sure he really did see it.'