on Cantelli's untidy desk. 'We'll also assume that Roger Thurlow was the intended victim and that Culven's death was secondary. Culven was laid out as if on a crucifix to make a point. He was killed as some kind of sacrifice.'
'For what?'
'To frame Melissa, just as those letters were forged, to point the finger at her.'
'Why?'
'Jealousy?'
'Mary Stephens wasn't jealous of Melissa: the poor cow pitied her. Someone from the fuchsia club?'
Despite his weariness Horton smiled. 'I can't see anyone going to those lengths just because she pipped them to first prize.'
His eyes flickered to the wall behind Cantelli. Pinned on his notice board were photographs of his five children with Charlotte; they were all smiling. The twins had drawn Cantelli a picture each: Joe a fire engine and Molly a house, and they had written their names carefully underneath their artistic endeavours. Where were all the pictures Emma had drawn for him? He'd left the house in a hurry and didn't even have one. Did she still draw them for him and did Catherine rip them up? Or had Catherine told her that nasty daddy didn't deserve to have any pictures?
Cantelli broke through his thoughts. 'Why would someone be jealous of Melissa Thurlow? Ok so she's got a nice house and loads of money, not that you'd think it looking at the state of Briarly House, but Marsden's checked out her bank and savings account and she's rolling in it.'
'Which she inherited from her adoptive father.' Horton suddenly felt better as his ideas crystallised. The weariness sloughed off him. 'That's it Barney. It has to be. Someone is jealous of her inheriting his fortune. I want Randall Simpson's background checked out. I want to know everything about him and his relatives. Is there someone out there who doesn't think she should have inherited all of Simpson's wealth?'
'If there is he's taken a long time to get even; must be a very patient man.'
'What was it John Dryden said? Beware the fury of the patient man.'
'Was Dryden a cop then?'
Horton smiled.
'So why not try before?'
'Perhaps he's been abroad and has just found out she inherited a pile? Or he might have been ill, in hospital or in prison. He wants revenge for Melissa stealing what he thinks should have been his.'
'Randall Simpson couldn't have any children.'
'A brother, sister, cousin, great aunt, who cares, just see if you can find any relatives, Barney. It won't be too difficult; he was a prominent businessman. Meanwhile I'm going to have a word with Melissa.'
There was hope in her eyes when she entered the interview room, which Horton had to quickly dash by telling her that it was likely she would be detained for further questioning.
'You can't still think I killed Roger and Michael!'
'I'd like to ask you some questions about Randall Simpson. Do you want your lawyer present?'
She looked surprised then with a wave of her arm and irritation on her tired face said, 'No.'
'Did he have any relatives?'
'No.'
'None?'
'I don't know what Randall has to do with all this, inspector, but if you really must know he was an orphan. He was brought up in a Barnados Home.'
Dead end then? No, not yet. There must be someone. 'Did he ever try to trace his family?'
'He might have done. He never said.'
'What about his birth certificate? Do you have a copy?'
'It's in a Bluebird toffee tin in my wardrobe.'
'Can you remember what's on it?' They'd check anyway.
'You mean his mother and father's name? There's nothing or rather it says 'unknown'. He was found abandoned outside a hospital in Guildford in 1908.'
Damn. This wasn't going to be easy, Horton thought, with annoyance. But someone must have traced Randall's past. Someone who had good cause to think they should have been entitled to Randall's fortune.
'Have you ever been approached by anyone claiming to be a relative of Randall?'
She looked surprised. 'No. Why this interest, inspector?'
'I think it's possible someone might have framed you.'
'Then you believe I'm innocent?' Her face brightened.
'Has there ever been anyone enquiring about your late father's background?'
She ran a hand through her hair and thought for a moment. Then he saw her eyes light up. She sat forward with a faint flush on her face. 'Of course. How could I have forgotten? There was someone. He was writing a book about Randall, a biography. He examined my father's papers and asked me questions.'
His heart missed a beat. 'Who was he?'
She frowned. 'I can't recall his name.'
'No matter we can look it up. Did he give you a copy of the book?' He didn't remember seeing one in the bookshelves.
'No.' She looked puzzled. 'I'd forgotten all about it. It must be at least eight years ago.'
'Can you describe him?'
She let out a breath, shaking her head. 'He was sort of ordinary.' She closed her eyes for a moment trying to visualise him. Horton silently urged her to remember something, anything. She said, 'He was about my age, possibly a bit younger, like I said just ordinary. I am sorry, inspector. Perhaps if I'd had a copy of the book I might have remembered him but when he didn't send me one and I didn't hear from him again I just assumed he'd not bothered to write it.'
'You didn't check to see if it had been published?'
'No.'
He thought that a little odd.
She said, as if interpreting his silence, 'If it had been published Roger would have told me. He would have capitalised on it.'
'And that's why you never mentioned it to him?'
'I thought if it comes to something then so be it. But I hoped it wouldn't. Every time there was an article in the newspapers or magazines about Randall, Roger would call the journalists and try and get some publicity for himself out of it.' And you just wanted to be left alone with your memories and your fuchsias, Horton thought. He told her that if anything else occurred to her to let the custody clerk know. He relayed the information to Cantelli, instigated the search for the book and the biographer, whom he believed was bogus, and sent Marsden out to collect Randall Simpson's birth certificate from Briarly House.
It was just after five when Cantelli put his head round the door of his office. 'You hungry?'
'No. I'm hot, tired, irritated, dirty and frustrated. I know I'm right, Barney, but who is this biographer?'
'What you need is a nice cup of tea and a breath of fresh sea air. I know just the place.'
It took a moment for Horton to follow Cantelli's train of thought. When it clicked he felt a shiver of anticipation that quickened his pulse and set the hairs pricking at the back of his neck. He hardly dared to hope. 'Isabella's seen Lucy?'
'And there's more. She knows where Lucy lives.'
The journey from the station to the seafront seemed to take forever. Horton could barely conceal his impatience. He couldn't speak. He didn't even want to think. He'd had too many hopes dashed to raise them too high. Perhaps Isabella was mistaken and the girl she had discovered was some other blonde? Please God, let it be her. Just give him the chance to talk to her once that was all he asked. It wasn't much, surely?
Isabella Cantelli greeted them warmly as they stepped into the seafront cafe, a smile lighting her dark, finely-boned face.
'Didn't expect to find you behind the counter,' Cantelli said.
'Short staffed. Either I muck in or we lose custom. Let me get you a drink and then I'll get Adrienne to cover for me.'
Cantelli ordered his usual double espresso. Horton didn't want a drink, he wanted Lucy's address but he could hardly blurt that out. Curbing his irritation with great difficulty he ordered a coffee and stared at the colourful and
