Blood on the Sand (28 page)

   Brandishing the diary, Elms said, 'On the evening of the third of January I was at a private meeting with a client in Newport.'

   'Doing what?'

   'Helping her to communicate with a loved one.'

   'A seance.'

   'You can scoff all you like, Inspector, but there are powers out there

you can't even begin to imagine.'
And there are powers I've got that you don't need to imagine
, he felt like saying, but didn't. 'What time did you leave your client?'

   'It was late, about eleven thirty.'

   After Arina had been killed. But Horton would check.

   'I'll need the name of your client.'

   Elms drew himself up. 'That information is confidential. And I don't see any reason to breach that confidentiality.'

   'I'm going to have to insist.'

   'You can insist until you're blue in the face; I am not giving it to you.'

   'Then we'll just have to take you to the station.'

   Elms looked alarmed. 'On what grounds?'

   'Murder.'

   Elms made to laugh, then seeing that Horton was serious, his face fell. His eyes flitted nervously between Horton and Cantelli. 'You can't mean it? Who am I supposed to have murdered?'

   Cantelli answered, 'Arina Sutton, Owen Carlsson and Jonathan Anmore.'

   Elms' protruding eyes widened so much that Horton thought they'd pop out of their sockets. 'This is ridiculous,' Elms declared.

   Horton said smartly, 'Unless we can confirm with your client where you were on the third of January how do we know it's ridiculous?' Before Elms had a chance to reply, Horton swiftly continued. 'And what were your movements between Saturday the seventeenth of January and Monday the nineteenth of January?'

   Elms shuffled. 'I was here.'

   'Can anyone confirm that?'

   'No.' He shifted nervously.

   'And last Thursday between six twenty p.m. and ten twelve p.m.?'

   Elms brightened at that. 'I was at the hospital all day Thursday until just after nine o'clock––'

   'You're ill?' Horton asked so sharply that Elms jumped.

   'No. I'm a volunteer with the League of Friends.'

   Horton's mind whirred. St Mary's Hospital was almost the size of a small town. Elms could have been working anywhere within it but what if he'd seen Thea Carlsson there during that Thursday morning and, recognizing her as the woman who had come asking questions, and ones he didn't want to answer, he'd disposed of her? But why should he? the silent voice inside him nagged. It didn't stop him asking though, 'Where is she, Elms? What have you done with Thea Carlsson?' Horton stepped forward.

   Alarmed, Elms took a step backwards towards the door. Cantelli quickly slid between Elms and the exit.

   'I haven't done anything with her,' Elms cried, crashing into a small table and spilling its contents.

   'You saw her in the hospital. She thought you were a friend. But you weren't, were you? Did you tell her you'd take her out of there? Or did you just lie in wait until she came out then offered her a lift?'

   'I don't know what you're talking about.' Elms swivelled round, appealing to Cantelli.

   But Horton knew there was something Elms was not telling him. Time to frighten him into revealing it. 'Gordon Elms, I'm arresting you on suspicion of the abduction of Thea Carlsson and the murders of––'

   'I haven't killed anyone, I swear it.' He spun round to Cantelli and back to Horton. 'I didn't abduct her, she came willingly.'

   Horton felt as if time had stopped. His fists clenched. If Elms had harmed her . . . He wanted to grab Elms and shake the hell out of him. He saw Cantelli's warning glance –
go easy
– but he was prepared to ignore it.

   Elms couldn't get the words out quick enough. 'I was leaving the hospital Thursday morning. I'd promised Mrs Westleigh – she's elderly and very ill – that I'd fetch her husband – he's blind – and that I'd take him to the hospital to visit her. I saw Miss Carlsson walking across the car park. I was just climbing into the car and I asked how she was. She asked if I'd give her a lift.'

   Horton stared at Elms. 'I don't believe you.'

   'It's God's truth. I swear it.'

   Cantelli quickly stepped round to the side of Elms. 'Why didn't you tell us this before? You know we've been looking for her.'

   'Have you?'

   'Don't give me crap,' blazed Horton. 'We came here asking about her.'

   'Yes, but I didn't know you were looking for her.'

   Horton did a rapid replay of his previous conversation with Elms, looking for a fault in the man's statement and sadly found none.

   Cantelli asked the question that was on Horton's lips.

   'But you must have heard the appeal on the radio and television.'

   'I don't have a television or a radio. The news depresses me, so I decided a long time ago to stop listening to it. Please, you must believe me, I had no idea she was missing. I simply dropped her off– –'

   'Where?' rapped Horton, making Elms jump.

   'Yarmouth.'

   Horton opened his mouth to call him a lying little shit when he saw it could be true. Apart from the fact that Thea could have been visiting the place her parents had stayed she could have been intending to leave the island from there. Did she have a boat? Or perhaps someone had collected her by boat. Maybe she'd bought a ferry ticket by cash as a foot passenger, though the ticket office staff hadn't recognized her when one of Birch's offices had visited them to ask. But perhaps she'd managed to disguise herself, or the staff simply weren't observant. Horton wondered where she had got her money from with no credit or debit card and everything in the house destroyed. He also wondered if she could have been planning her escape while in the hospital. If that was so then there was only one reason why she should: Thea Carlsson must have killed her brother. But why go to Yarmouth when Jonathan Anmore's barn was in the opposite direction and several miles away? Then he recalled what Trueman had said – Anmore's last call on the Thursday of his death had been to a Mrs Best in Yarmouth. His shoulders sagged with the realization of what that meant. But still he clung on to the hope that Elms might be their killer.

   He said, 'We'll need you to come with us to make a statement.'

   'I will, but please tell me why you could even think I could have killed these people.'

   'Revenge,' answered Cantelli.

   'For what?' His eyes widened, his brow puckered.

   Horton answered, 'For not being acknowledged by your father and sister. For being ignored for years. For what your father did to your mother. You discovered who your father was, but he rejected you again at Scanaford House that day you visited there and so too did your sister. So you decided to get even. You deliberately ran over Arina Sutton. But Owen Carlsson saw you so he also had to die. You enlisted the help of Jonathan Anmore, who could have witnessed your little scene at Scanaford House while he was there as gardener, and you got him to dispose of the body and to frame his sister, Thea Carlsson. Offering him money. Then you killed Anmore and abducted and killed Thea Carlsson.'

   Elms looked deeply confused. 'I've no idea what you're talking about.' He appealed to Cantelli, whose gaze remained impassive. Elms' protruding eyes swivelled to Horton. 'You're saying that Miss Sutton was my sister and that Sir Christopher was my . . .' His voice faltered. He staggered back, pale and shaking, and sat down heavily.

   Horton could see that Elms genuinely hadn't known. And although Elms could be the best actor since James Stewart, in his heart Horton knew that he was no killer, just a man who had finally discovered his past. The lucky bugger.

   Elms' breathing became laboured and he raised a hand to his chest. Cantelli threw Horton a worried glance.

   'Are you all right, Mr Elms? Do you need a doctor?' Cantelli asked, concerned.

   Elms managed to shake his head.

   'I'll get some water.'

   Horton studied Elms with a feeling of envy. Over the years he'd told himself that he didn't care who his father was, probably much as Elms had done. But Horton knew he did, and a hell of a lot.

   Cantelli quickly returned. Elms took the glass and drank from it as though he'd been living in a desert for a week. The colour slowly returned to his face and his breathing eased. The first shock was beginning to wear off. Looking up, he said with a tremor in his voice, 'How do you know this? Is it really true?' All thoughts of attending his paranormal meeting seemed to have vanished.

   'It's true,' Horton replied firmly.

   'That explains why he looked so shocked when he saw me.' Elms' eyes flicked to the photograph of his mother. 'My mother and I were very much alike; Sir Christopher . . . my father . . . must have seen the resemblance immediately. My God, if only I'd known.' The tears began to run down his face. 'I'm sorry,' he blabbed, trying to dash them away. 'After all these years . . . You must excuse me.'

   He staggered up and stumbled from the room. Horton jerked his head at Cantelli to follow him and pulled his mobile from his pocket. He quickly briefed Trueman. Uckfield hadn't returned to the station. Horton asked Trueman to get a list of the boat owners for Yarmouth Marina and get someone to check with them and the harbourmaster for any sightings of Thea. Then he rang off and stared out of the window seeing nothing but the years of his lonely childhood and wondering if there would ever come a day when he'd experience what had just happened to Gordon Elms.

   He was glad when a few moments later Elms returned with his composure recovered. Horton handed across the photograph that Dr Nelson had given him. Elms took it with a trembling hand.

   'I've never seen her like this. She's so young and beautiful.' He looked up. 'She was a very bitter woman. I know she tried to do her best by me, but she would never speak of my father or her past.'

   Horton was tempted to ask if she hadn't communicated with him after passing over or under or on, or whatever these people said. Elms read his mind.

   'I didn't attempt to get in touch with her on the other side because she was very sceptical. We didn't really get on very well. The regrets I have . . . But you don't want to listen to that. She told me my father was in the army and had died on National Service. As I got older I knew that wasn't the truth, but she would get so angry when I asked her questions so I finally stopped asking. We came here on holiday in 1981. It was her suggestion. I didn't want to come, I was young – twenty two – I thought the Isle of Wight was the back of beyond, full of retired people waiting to die, but when I arrived it instantly felt like home.'

   'Did you go to Scanaford House?' asked Cantelli.

   'No. But we went there.' He jerked his head at the painting on the wall that had reminded Horton of
Manderley.
'They had a summer fête in the grounds. Whitefields, it was called. They pulled it down in 1986 and built new houses on it. Mum was happy then. The happiest I'd seen her in years. I bought it to remind me of my mother, laughing.'

   Horton thought the painting didn't exactly inspire jollity, but there was no accounting for taste.

   Elms sat forward and eyed Horton steadily. 'I don't know whether my mother was a saint or sinned against, and I doubt Sir Christopher would have told me the truth anyway, even if I had managed to speak to him. But I'm sorry I didn't make my peace with either of them before they went.'

   'Maybe you'll be able to in the next world,' Horton said with an element of cynicism. Elms took it as genuine.

   'I hope so.' After a moment he added, 'Does this mean . . .? No, I can't say it.'

   'That you inherit,' Horton helped him out, noting that basic human nature had quickly reasserted itself. 'You'll need to talk to the Suttons' solicitor.' Horton wasn't going to give him that information. Let him discover it for himself. Though he knew that Elms was not their killer he still said, 'We need you to make a statement, and confirm where you were at the time of Arina Sutton's death and for the deaths of Owen Carlsson and Jonathan Anmore.'

   Elms nodded and rose. In the hall as Elms reached for his coat from a peg, Horton said, 'We'll also need to take your car in for forensic examination and talk to the League of Friends. Who's in charge?'

   'Mrs Mackie.'

   Horton halted. 'Evelyn Mackie?'

   'Yes. We're not always on the same rota but she organizes them.'

   And that meant she could also have seen Thea in hospital on the day Gordon Elms gave her a lift. Then why the blazes hadn't she mentioned it?

'I
thought you knew I worked there as a volunteer,' Evelyn Mackie said brightly, as soon as Horton was seated in the stuffy, over-furnished front room. Cantelli had taken Elms to the station.

   Horton felt like asking, how? He wasn't psychic. 'Did you see or speak to Thea in the hospital?' he asked, curbing his irritation and impatience.

   'Oh, yes. I wasn't working on her ward but I made a point to see how she was. I told her Bengal was fine and that he could stay with me as long as she liked. I even offered her my spare bedroom but she refused. Then the nurse came over to tell her about the phone call.'

   Suddenly every nerve in Horton's body tingled. This was news to him. Why hadn't Somerfield discovered this when she questioned the staff after Thea's disappearance, he thought with a flash of anger? He'd bawl her out for this. It had cost them four days of delay, which they could ill afford.

   'Do you know who was calling Thea?' Horton prayed she did, but she shook her head.

   'No. The nurse asked Thea if she was up to speaking on the telephone. Thea nodded and the nurse wheeled the phone over. I left then.'