Blood on the Sand (18 page)

   He got Dr Nelson's address and had just rung off when Cantelli emerged. Quickly bringing him up to speed on their way back to the station, Horton asked Cantelli to see if Danesbrook had confessed under Uckfield's questioning and to let him know immediately if he had. Then collecting his Harley he made for Yarmouth and the car ferry to Lymington.

'
M
y wife's at her art class and won't be back for a couple of hours,' Nelson said in a soothing voice, which Horton thought must have reassured his more nervous patients. He was a thin stooping man with sleeked-back silver hair, a prominent nose, kindly and intelligent hawk-like eyes under bushy silver eyebrows. 'Do you mind talking in the kitchen?'

   Horton would have talked in the garden shed if he thought he was going to hear something that might help him go forward with this tortuous case. He shook off his boots in the highly polished hall of the thatched house with mullioned windows that could have posed as an advertisement for Olde England. A grandfather clock ticked sonorously, and he half expected Miss Marple to appear from the sitting room as he followed Nelson into a kitchen, which oozed enough charm to make an estate agent wet his pants with excitement.

   Nelson offered Horton a coffee. He shouldn't have accepted because his caffeine level was getting dangerously high, but he reckoned it was going to be another long night. Cantelli had rung through while he was on the ferry to say that Danesbrook's solicitor had arrived and that he and Uckfield were about to interview Danesbrook after Uckfield's abortive attempt earlier to extract something from him. All he'd got were grunts. Birch's team had drawn a blank with any possible witnesses to Arina Sutton's fatality and the house-to-house near the barn where Anmore had been killed had come up with zilch.

   'I was very sorry to hear about Mr Carlsson's death,' Nelson said, placing the kettle on a Rayburn built into an ancient brick fireplace and gesturing Horton into a seat at the big oak table straddling the centre of the kitchen.

   Outside the wind was whipping itself into a fury and the rain was beating against the window. Thankfully the cottage didn't spurn modern comforts, and the central heating and thick curtains kept the drafts at bay. It was the type of kitchen Horton had imagined so often as a child, with a loving mother at the table, baking, and a father reading his newspaper. It was a childhood fantasy that still caused an ache inside him, exacerbated by the fact that it was the kind of home he'd like to have shared with Emma and Catherine – although in truth Catherine would have run a mile from this. Her taste was minimalistic and ultra modern, and, Horton thought, rather soulless, but he would have settled for a warehouse apartment or a shack in the Welsh hills if he could have saved his marriage and been with his daughter.

   He brought his mind back to the job in hand as Dr Nelson continued. 'Mr Carlsson seemed a very pleasant young man, though I suppose I could be wrong, hence your visit.'

   'We're still trying to piece together the last days of his life and the reason for his death,' Horton explained, avoiding being drawn on Owen's personality, though – he thought wryly – they knew little about it anyway. He shrugged off his leather jacket, adding, 'And sadly there's been another death, which we believe might be connected, a Jonathan Anmore. Did you know him, sir?'

   Nelson paused in the act of spooning coffee into two blue and white willow-patterned china cups complete with saucers. 'He's been murdered?'

   'Yes.' Horton didn't see any need to tiptoe around Nelson. He held his gaze and saw curiosity and bewilderment. Then Nelson shook his head sadly.

   'I met him at Christopher's funeral. He seemed such an amiable man.'

   'Did you speak to him, sir?' Horton asked hopefully.

   'Not much. After the committal we walked back to Scanaford House together. He told me he was Christopher's gardener; we discussed the weather, some plants, nothing more. He didn't come inside for the wake. I left him talking to Arina. She was very upset, understandably so. And now you say he's also dead.' Nelson placed the coffee in front of Horton. 'And you think his death and Owen Carlsson's might be connected with Christopher's or Arina's, although I don't see how.' Nelson took the chair opposite Horton.

   'How well did you know Owen, sir?' Horton asked, avoiding answering the question that Nelson had posed.

   'I didn't
know
him at all, Inspector. I saw him walking into the church beside Arina at the funeral and then obviously with her at the graveside. He seemed to provide her with some comfort. She introduced me to him at the wake, but he didn't stay long.'

   'How did she introduce him?'

   Nelson frowned as if remembering. 'She just said his name and that he was a close friend.'

   'And then he turned up here after Arina's death, why?'

   'I must say I was surprised myself. He said he wanted to talk about Arina. He wanted to know anything I could tell him about her, and her mother and father. I think he was grieving for her and didn't know who else to turn to. He must have remembered that Arina introduced me as her father's oldest friend. Owen probably thought that meant I had seen Arina grow up. I hadn't though. I told him that Christopher and I had trained together at Guy's Hospital, London. But that I went into general practice and Christopher into neurology. We always kept in touch and used to meet up in London occasionally for dinner and a few drinks.'

   'What sort of man was Sir Christopher?' Horton asked, interested, not having the faintest idea where his questions might lead him. The words 'time' and 'wasting' sprang to mind.

   'Clever. Ambitious. Amusing. I liked Christopher very much but our friendship was always best served at a distance. He was a bit
too
ambitious and
too
overbearing for my tastes. I would say we were opposites, which was why the chemistry worked in small doses. Christopher had to be in charge. He was a very dominant man but with a unique eye for detail that doesn't always fit with that type of personality. It was what made him a brilliant researcher though, and at the same time a risk-taker, a rare quality. But he'd never have made it as a GP, no bedside manner and not very tolerant.'

   In Horton's opinion that didn't stop many from becoming GPs.

   Nelson added. 'However, what Christopher lacked in social skills with his patients he more than made up for by his skill as a consultant, and he was a pioneer in neuropsychiatry.'

   'Did you tell Owen Carlsson this?'

   'Yes. He seemed interested, but he didn't make any comment. I can see that I've disappointed you.'

   Horton didn't think he'd shown any reaction but obviously had. He sipped his coffee thinking he'd need to be careful with Nelson.

   Nelson gave a rueful smile. 'I've had years of reading patients' minds, Inspector. GPs are a bit like police officers; we learn to spot and interpret the smallest body language signals that show us discomfiture, embarrassment, worry, lies. And we're very adept at undertones. Owen Carlsson was anxious and upset. I thought it was because of Arina's death. Is her death now suspicious?'

   Horton knew there was no point in lying or being evasive. Nelson by his own admittance would clearly see through it. 'I'm beginning to suspect it was.'

   Nelson pursed his lips together as he considered this. After a moment he said, 'I can't think who would want to kill her.'

   
Only Danesbrook
, thought Horton, but he'd ask Nelson about him in a moment.

   'When was the last time you saw Sir Christopher?'

   'Just over a year ago. My wife and I were in London. Iris went Christmas shopping with her sister while I had lunch with Christopher.'

   'Did you arrange it or did he?'

   'He did, though I can't see why that is important to you. He used the opportunity to tell me he had been diagnosed with cancer. I suspect it was why he wanted to meet.'

   Horton drank his coffee wondering where next to go with his questioning. 'Did Owen ask if you or Sir Christopher knew or had ever heard of Helen and Lars Carlsson?'

   Nelson shook his head. 'No. Who are they?'

   'They
were
Owen's parents. Arina was killed in the same place as they were in 1990. Owen didn't mention that to you?'

   'No.' Nelson's expression was one of genuine bewilderment.

   'Did Owen ask you or did you discuss what was in Arina's will?'

   Nelson's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. 'No.' He leaned forward with a faint flush on his thin face, his eyes shining. 'Now I see what you're driving at, Inspector. You think she was killed for her money.'

   'We have to consider it,' conceded Horton. 'Have you heard of a charity called Wight Earth and Mind?'

   Nelson shook his head.

   'Or a Roy Danesbrook?'

   'No.'

   'You didn't talk to him at Sir Christopher's funeral?'

   'No.'

   Horton studied the elderly man's face to detect a lie. He saw none, only interest. He would have thought that Sir Christopher would have mentioned his most recent passion to his old friend, but then Horton recalled that Nelson hadn't seen or spoken to Sir Christopher for a year.

   Nelson said, 'Does this man Danesbrook inherit?' Then he held up his hands. 'It's not my business, I know. I'm just intrigued, and sorry I can't be more helpful. Owen didn't mention his parents, this charity or that man. He simply let me ramble on about Christopher and Arina although I could tell him very little about Arina or her mother, Nadia. I didn't really know either of them.'

   Horton felt disappointment wash over him. He'd had a wasted journey. Owen Carlsson had come here for no other reason than to seek comfort for his bereavement. And yet Horton couldn't quite believe that. There was something he was missing, but he didn't have a clue what it was.

   'Tell me about Nadia,' he asked, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he felt.

   'She was a fine lady from what I saw of her, which was only three times. She was Dutch and sadly lost all her family during the war. They were shot by the Nazis helping English airmen to escape. Young Nadia managed to hide and was helped to escape by one surviving airman who smuggled her back to England with him.'

   'Who was the airman?'

   'I've no idea. Arina was twelve when Nadia died in 1980. I remember that Christopher had bought Scanaford House a few years earlier after Nadia had fallen in love with the Isle of Wight. Who could blame her? It's a beautiful place, and Scanaford House is rather splendid. Christopher kept an apartment in London to be near the hospital and his work. Christopher told me that Arina was a lot like her mother, who was a highly respected artist. She was quietly spoken and clever, artistic too. She worked as an interior designer. I'm not sure how any of this helps you find the killer, Inspector, but it's what I told Owen.'

   'Why didn't you go to Arina's funeral?'

   'I'd like to have done, but I had a hospital appointment and you know how long it takes to get one of those.' He smiled, but Horton couldn't help thinking that a doctor, who clearly had money, could surely have paid to go private and by-pass the National Health Service.

   'Nothing serious,' Nelson said, and then as though once again reading Horton's mind added, 'I did think of cancelling it but . . . well, quite honestly I didn't feel like facing another funeral or seeing Scanaford House again, after being inside it so recently with Christopher's funeral. I feel badly about not going, especially now you've told me her death might have been deliberate, but . . . well I can't undo what I've done.'

   Horton left a short pause. 'Did Owen mention his sister, Thea?'

   'No. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful. It sounds as if you've got your work cut out, Inspector.'

   Horton scraped back his chair and pulled a card from his trouser pocket. 'If anything else springs to mind, sir, no matter how trivial it might seem, would you give me a call?'

   'Of course.' Nelson took the card, whilst Horton pulled on his leather jacket. At the door Nelson said, 'Good luck.'

   Horton thought he'd need more than luck to find out what the devil was going on with this case; he'd need divine inspiration. And clearly he wasn't going to get it or a confession from Roy Danesbrook, whom he saw leaving the station as he pulled in to the car park just over an hour later.

   Horton found a dejected team in the incident room.

   'I see Danesbrook's been released,' he said, throwing his jacket and helmet on the desk in front of Cantelli.

   'All we can charge him with is benefit fraud,' said Cantelli, looking as though he could do with a month's sleep.

   'He's lying and a complete arsehole,' Uckfield said. Horton was inclined to agree.

   'Doesn't make him a killer though,' replied Cantelli wearily.

   Uckfield snorted. 'I don't believe all that crap about chance meetings and changing tyres. He staked out Sir Christopher and then used him to wheedle his way into inheriting a ruddy great fortune. He has a perfect motive for killing Arina, and no alibi. And no alibi for Owen Carlsson or Anmore's deaths. But we can't prove he was involved in any of them.'

   Horton fetched a plastic beaker of water from the cooler. His throat was still sore from the fire and the buckets of coffee he'd drunk hadn't really helped to ease it.

   Uckfield glanced at his watch. 'I wanted to hold him but his smarmy solicitor objected.'

   Horton drained the beaker and said, 'Danesbrook's the best suspect we have––'

   'Unless we count the vanishing sister,' Uckfield said. 'I'll have to make her disappearance public. I'll put out a press statement tonight.' He scraped back his chair. 'I need a drink, and I don't mean water.'