'There are no prints, except yours,' Taylor mumbled nasally two hours later.
Horton wasn't surprised. Even the most stupid of thieves watched enough television to know they should wear gloves. But that didn't always guarantee they couldn't be identified.
'Can you get anything from the glove prints?'
Taylor sniffed and shrugged an answer. It didn't inspire Horton with much hope. If the intruder had worn gloves then it meant he'd either had a pair on him to save his fingers from the cold — which didn't sound like your average toe-rag criminal — or he'd come equipped for breaking and entering, which if he had then surely he would have stolen the laptop computer. No, Taylor's findings confirmed Horton's initial thoughts: this intruder had come equipped with gloves because he had already dumped Owen Carlsson's body in that bunker earlier that morning after killing him, and had then hung around to see Carlsson's sister turn up to discover it. Which meant he either must have told Thea where to find it and all that stuff about her being psychic had been a lie, or he was Thea's accomplice in crime and her horror-stricken act had been staged for his or some other passer-by's benefit exactly as DCI Birch had suggested. The thought depressed Horton.
'We might get something from these hairs,' Taylor said, holding up a tiny plastic bag, 'Unless they're yours?'
'Mine aren't that long.' Horton ran a hand over his cropped fair head. And unless they belonged to the owner of this boat, or a friend of his, then they must belong to the intruder, because Horton certainly hadn't been entertaining on board this yacht. It was something, but it was useless if they didn't already have this person on the DNA database to match it against. And then, he thought, he could have brought the hair in himself on his clothing picked up from the bus or Evelyn Mackie's house…
Taylor said, 'I've taken scrapings from various items that the intruder must have touched. That might give us something.'
And, Horton thought hopefully, it might match with evidence found on Carlsson's body, which made him once again think of Thea Carlsson. Angry with himself for letting her get under his skin, he flicked on the kettle and said tersely, 'What did you find at the scene of crime? The other crime,' he added.
'It's too early to say.'
Horton had expected that. 'Coffee?'
'Allergic.'
Horton had yet to find something that Taylor wasn't allergic to. Work, he supposed. The man was mournful, nasal and mostly monosyllabic but he was efficient, dedicated, thorough and hard working. What more could a police officer ask?
'There was stuff that could have been there for days, weeks even,' Taylor added. 'Cigar and cigarette butts, couple of condoms, used.'
'Not much good if they haven't been,' muttered Horton. 'You didn't find the bullet then?'
'No.'
So it would be down to Dr Clayton to excavate it from Owen Carlsson's body.
'Anything strike you as unusual?' Horton asked, making himself a coffee. Taylor had over twelve years' experience, a sharp eye and a good brain. Not much got past him.
'There are no obvious signs that the body was transported there: no broken or trampled gorse bushes, no footprints, and no vehicle could get to that spot. But there was a lot of rain last night, and wind, so the sand has shifted and some of the gorse bushes have been uprooted; it's difficult to tell if that was because of the weather.'
'But you don't think he was killed there?' Horton pressed.
'We've got photographic images; we'll enhance them and they might give us a clearer picture.' Taylor slid out of his seat. 'I'll get everything examined and relay our findings to DCI Birch.'
It was a gentle reminder to Horton that he wasn't in charge of this investigation. Feeling irritable and restless, he watched Taylor go, knowing he was right; this case had nothing to do with him. Tomorrow he'd make his statement at Newport police station, and return home to Southsea Marina on the next high tide. He'd forget all about Thea Carlsson and her dead brother.
The trilling of his mobile sliced through his thoughts.
'For Christ's sake, Andy, can't you go anywhere without causing trouble?' Superintendent Uckfield bellowed.
'I didn't shoot him.'
'Just don't ask me to go on holiday with you!'
Perish the thought.
'Well?' commanded Uckfield.
'Well what?' How come Uckfield was suddenly interested? 'You'll have to talk to Detective Chief Inspector Birch.'
'He reckons he's got the tart who did it.'
'She's not a tart,' Horton said stiffly, and too quickly. He took a breath, not wanting Uckfield to read too much into his reaction, but it was too late.
'Oh, like that, is it?'
Hearing the sneer in Uckfield's voice, Horton cursed himself for over-reacting. But his response to Uckfield had told him he could no more walk away from this than streak naked through Portsmouth's busiest thoroughfare in the middle of market day. Forcing his voice to sound more casual, he said, 'Has Birch charged her?' He heard the deep throb of the police launch as it headed out of the marina.
'Says it's only a matter of time.'
'Motive?'
'Claims brother and sister could have fallen out.'
'Over what?'
'He'll find out.'
Or fabricate it, thought Horton uneasily. He didn't trust the emaciated Birch one inch. 'She was very distressed to find her brother's body.'
'Could be guilt.'
Horton gave him that, but he still wasn't convinced, despite his earlier thoughts. She hadn't looked guilt-ridden. But there was more to it than that. He told himself he wasn't attracted to her, and yet there was something that he couldn't explain, even to himself — a feeling, a bond? He didn't know exactly and was irritated at not being able to pinpoint it.
Uckfield said, 'How come she found him?'
Horton hesitated; he certainly wasn't going to tell Uckfield the psychic bit. The big man would laugh from here to John O'Groats and back again and then think the same as everyone else: that Thea was off her trolley or guilty as hell. So Birch hadn't told Uckfield about that. He wondered why. He must know by now; the woman police officer would have relayed that nugget of information even if Thea hadn't repeated her claim in the interview room. To distract Uckfield, Horton said, 'Owen Carlsson was seen on Saturday on the Cowes chain ferry.'
'How the bloody hell do you know that?'
'I've talked to his neighbour.'
'Thought you were on holiday. Does Birch know?'
'No idea.' Horton waited for the reprimand and was surprised when it didn't come. Instead Uckfield almost chuckled.
'Tell me what you've got.'
So Uckfield was another one who wasn't a member of Birch's fan club. Horton wondered who was; Sergeant Norris probably. He quickly briefed Uckfield about his visit to Owen Carlsson's house, but still said nothing about Thea and her psychic warning, or about the break-in on his yacht.
'We're coming over,' Uckfield abruptly announced when Horton had finished.
'The major crime team's been called in?' asked Horton with a mixture of surprise and relief. It meant that Birch must have doubts about Thea being the killer. Or more likely he couldn't prove it. That solicitor, Michael Braxton, must be doing a good job.
Uckfield said, 'Strange as it might seem, murder, or suspected murder, counts as a major crime.'
But Horton knew that wasn't the real reason. He could hear it in Uckfield's voice. And if Birch hadn't asked for assistance, who had?
Uckfield said, 'We'll be there just before eight.'
'Who's we?'
'Marsden and Somerfield-'
'DI Dennings?' Horton asked sharply. He didn't want the man who had taken his job in the major crime team plodding all over the place. Since appointing Dennings, Uckfield had realized his mistake and had been trying to ease him out, but unfortunately Dennings was sticking to Uckfield like treacle to a spoon, much to Uckfield's chagrin.
Uckfield said, 'He's sick.'
'Can't be with stress,' Horton quipped. 'He'd need to be overworked for that.'
'Flu,' Uckfield replied curtly.
'And the Port Special Branch post you're trying to persuade him to take?'
'Still trying. There's that vacancy on my team, remember?'
Not yet there isn't, thought Horton, if Dennings refuses to go. 'I'm on holiday,' he said, hoping Uckfield would ignore that. But he didn't.
'Cantelli's coming with me.'
Poor Cantelli. He got seasick just looking at water. And he didn't think Charlotte would be very pleased at having her husband dragged away from the bosom of his large family. He said, 'Then you'd better ask him what he's already got on Owen Carlsson.'
'Jesus! Has everyone been investigating this case except me, who should be?'
Horton said nothing, forcing Uckfield to continue. 'Trueman will co-ordinate the incident room at Newport station. Can't trust these islanders to do that properly.'
Birch and Norris were going to love this, Horton thought gleefully.
'And Somerfield might be able to get close to Thea Carlsson. You know, woman to woman kind of thing. Birch has had to release her. Seems she's got a pretty good lawyer and Birch had no real evidence to hold her, though he could have applied to do so, if he'd thought about it a bit longer. But thinking is not Birch's strong point.'
Why the hell hadn't Uckfield told him this immediately? And why hadn't that damn solicitor told him when Horton had left clear instructions that he should do so? Had Thea told him not to? Maybe Frances Greywell hadn't relayed the message.
Uckfield rang off. Horton thought about calling Cantelli then changed his mind. The sergeant was probably packing his bag and taking his sea sickness pills. Instead Horton called Braxton, after getting his number from Frances Greywell's office, only to be told that Mr Braxton was unavailable.
'I bet he is,' Horton murmured, throwing his mobile phone down in disgust. He paced the cabin feeling uneasy. He flicked on the light hoping it would dispel his concerns about Thea, but it didn't. The image of her terrified expression haunted him. She simply couldn't be guilty. A chilling suspicion began to form in his mind. Was she being threatened? Had her brother been killed as a warning and she'd been told where to find his body? Was she in that house alone? She had to be unless Evelyn Mackie had seen her return and had called on her. Would Thea have let her in though? Given Thea's past record of keeping to herself he didn't think so.
God, he wished he'd taken down Owen Carlsson's home telephone number; he could have called her. But again, he doubted if she would have answered it. Why would she have told the solicitor not to notify him that she'd been released? There was only one answer he could think of: because she didn't trust the solicitor. Correction, she didn't trust anybody. But she'd asked him to feed her cat! She'd given him a key. Why? He didn't know, only that he was certain that her life was in danger. He could feel it — and bollocks to Uckfield or anyone else who would laugh at him because of it.
Before he knew it he was locking the boat and hurrying towards the marina shop in the rain soaked night, wishing he had his Harley-Davidson.
Scouring the window he spotted a faded, dog-eared card advertising a local taxi company and without much hope rang the number. He was surprised when it was answered promptly by a cheerful voice which announced it would be with him in five minutes. That usually meant ten and on this island that would no doubt stretch into fifteen. By the time the headlights swept into the marina seventeen minutes later Horton was ready to throttle the bloody man, but he held his tongue and his temper long enough to give clipped instructions for Cowes.
While he had waited for the taxi to arrive, he'd considered calling Birch and asking him to send a car to Thea's house. But he didn't. Why, he couldn't say, except that it had something to do with Thea not trusting anyone, which meant he couldn't either.
He cut off the taxi driver's friendly chatter with a mixture of monosyllabic replies and stony silence. He soon got the message. Although the rush-hour traffic on the island was nowhere near as heavy as that on the mainland, tonight it seemed exceptionally busy. Horton cursed silently every time they stopped, which seemed like every five minutes. If he'd had the Harley he'd have been there by now.
Finally they were heading into Cowes. But even then it wasn't plain sailing. Jesus, it would have been easier to get out and run! At last they turned the corner and pulled up outside Thea's house. It was in darkness. Had he rushed here like an idiot and Thea was with friends or relatives? But she'd said there was no one. He rang the bell. No answer. He called through the letter box. Still no reply, and yet he felt sure she was inside. Could she have done something stupid like take her own life? He shuddered at the thought and, quickly extracting the key, opened the door.
Now his sense of danger was stronger than ever. Everything was silent. Too silent. Perhaps she was next door. But he didn't feel it. This bloody psychic stuff was rubbing off on him. Yet he couldn't bring himself to call her name. Some sixth sense was telling him there was someone here. He could feel a presence, and he didn't think it was a spook.
Silently and swiftly he covered the rooms on the ground floor. There was no one and no sign of Thea, though she had been here: a cup was on the drainer that hadn't been there this morning. A noise suddenly alerted him. His senses strained to place it and its location. It was the cat, Bengal. He was meowing and the sound was coming from upstairs.
Taking the stairs two at a time with his heart pounding like a piston engine, he paused on the landing and listened. Silence. Then Bengal mewed again. He was in Thea's bedroom.
Holding his breath, Horton thrust open the door hoping to slam anyone lurking behind it, but it only bounced back on him. The brief glimpse inside made his blood freeze. Swiftly he crossed the room where Thea was lying face down on the bed and pressed his fingers on her neck. There was a pulse, thank the Lord. But he barely had time to register this when a movement caught the corner of his eye. He dodged to his right at the same time as trying to turn, but he was too late. A violent blow caught him on the side of his head. He heard the crack before he felt the pain. Then the bed raced up to meet him. He sensed someone hovering, but the lights were fading fast. Muffled footsteps. Then nothing, only blackness.