had been shut when he had arrived. So the intruder must have been known to Thea, and she'd refused to say who it was. He blamed himself for not pressing her on it. He'd let his personal feelings get in the way of his job.
Uckfield started up the car and switched the heater on full blast.
Despite not wanting to admit it, Horton said, 'Thea must have gone willingly with whoever she let into the house up to her bedroom.'
'A lover?'
Horton wondered why he didn't much care for that thought either.
'Perhaps it was a friend of her brother's or someone claiming to be a friend.' Terry Knowles flashed into his mind again — but he was apparently in the Shetland Islands.
'Then why not tell us who it is?' Uckfield growled. 'If she's innocent.'
'She could be scared.'
Uckfield grunted but seemed disinclined to believe it.
Horton said, 'If we discount the environment theory, and Thea's involvement in her brother's death, Owen's murder could have something to do with the death of his parents in 1990.'
'How the blazes do you work that one out?'
'Isn't it an odd coincidence that Arina Sutton, the woman Owen Carlsson was with that night, was killed in the same place as his parents all those years ago?'
Uckfield was eyeing him as if he were mad.
Horton suddenly felt weary. The full pelt of the heater was making him incredibly tired. His throat hurt and his head ached with going around the same old circles. With an effort he roused himself to explain.
'Let's say Owen Carlsson is the hit-and-run driver's intended victim but because he leaves the restaurant late the driver kills Arina Sutton instead. Owen calls Thea on Sunday morning to tell her his girlfriend's been killed in exactly the same spot as their parents in 1990.'
'You don't know she was his girlfriend.'
'Why else would he take her out for a meal?'
'She could have taken him out. It could have been business.'
'Whatever,' Horton dismissed impatiently. 'The accident brings back terrible memories for Thea and she rushes home upset-'
'A week after the incident is hardly what I call rushing home.'
Uckfield had a point.
'There is another possibility.'
'Go on, amaze me.'
'Only if you turn that bloody heater off.'
Uckfield silenced the engine.
Horton continued. 'Owen's death could have nothing to do with his work, and nothing to do with his parents dying in the same place as his girlfriend. Arina Sutton's death could have been caused by a drunk driver, and one whom Owen recognized. Maybe not at first but after the shock wore off. Or perhaps he saw the car some time later and when he realized who the driver was he couldn't believe it. He kept silent because he knew this person well; he went to confront them with it on Saturday, to tell them to own up, and got himself killed as a result.'
'Then he was a bloody idiot.'
'But it's possible.'
Uckfield grunted an acknowledgment that it was.
'And it's possible that the killer thought Owen had confided this to Thea, hence the attack on her.' Uckfield opened his mouth to speak but Horton pressed on, 'And seeing as you don't get to talk to the elusive Laura Rosewood until tomorrow, I'd like to check out the Arina Sutton angle, talk to her relatives, posing as a friend of Owen Carlsson, of course,' he hastily added, seeing Uckfield was about to protest. 'Owen might have said something to a relative, like 'I think I know who killed her.' There's also the possibility that Arina's death might not have been an accident. Arina Sutton could have been the target and Owen knew why, which was why he was killed.'
Uckfield exhaled. 'Bloody hell, you've got more theories than my wife's got shoes. All right. Let me know what you come up with.'
'And you let me know the moment you get anything on Thea Carlsson.'
Uckfield promised he would.
On that note, Horton returned to his boat, changed into his leathers, and set out for Arina Sutton's home: Scanaford House.
SEVEN
Thursday midday
It was old. Georgian, Horton reckoned, drawing to a halt in front of the brick and stone house that resembled a minor stately home. The tree-lined driveway must have been almost a mile long. Whatever Arina Sutton's background it was certainly one of wealth. The house had to be worth a million pounds plus, and it was a million miles away from the cramped flat in a council tower block that had once been his childhood home. He told himself he wasn't resentful, but who the hell was he kidding?
Climbing off the Harley, Horton removed his helmet, glad the rain had finally ceased, though the darkening sky threatened more. He pushed his finger on the brass bell beside a solid oak door and ran a critical eye over the facade. The place had a shut-up, forlorn feel to it and judging by the flaky paintwork and grass growing out of the drainpipes was in need of some tender loving care. He wondered who he was he going to upset by calling here and asking questions about Arina's death. A grieving mother or father? A sister or brother? Whoever they were, clearly they weren't at home.
There was no letter box for him to peer through, only a black-painted post box fixed to the outside wall. He flicked it open. Empty.
Disappointed, he made his way around the left-hand side of house where the lawn gave way to a lake about the size of the one on Southsea seafront, on which they hired out paddle boats. Beyond this was a small copse of elms and some other trees whose species he didn't know. The sweeping lawns and the lake made him feel like a bit-part actor in Brideshead Revisited. Perhaps Arina Sutton had married well before meeting Owen Carlsson and had got a whacking great divorce settlement, which was more than Catherine was going to get. Her pos ition as marketing director of her father's international marine company paid well, and 'daddy' would always see she was all right. Horton reckoned that although he'd have to give her the house or his pension, he was damned if he was going to give her both.
The gardens were deserted except for the odd crow and magpie. Irritated that his journey had been a waste of time, he continued to the back of the house, but got the same story — closed for business. The bereaved had obviously departed to seek comfort elsewhere.
His attention was arrested by the sound of a car pulling up. Great. Now he might get some answers. He hurried back to the front where, with a slight quickening of pulse, he saw a dark coloured saloon car before telling himself that half the country owned dark-coloured saloons. His eyes swivelled to the lean, grey-haired man wearing cowboy boots, a ponytail and leather flying jacket who was peering at Horton's Harley with suspicion rather than admiration. At the sound of Horton's footsteps he looked up with hostile eyes and a scowling countenance.
'Who are you?' he demanded aggressively.
Horton would like to have asked him the same question, but he said, 'I'm looking for a relative of Arina Sutton.'
Horton wondered if he was Arina's brother, or husband. At a push he supposed he could possibly be her father if he'd had her young, say at eighteen. Arina had been forty when she'd died and this man was somewhere in his late fifties. He didn't look the type to own this pile but then he could be a former rock star, or even a drug dealer for all Horton knew.
'There aren't any relatives,' the man said warily.
Clearly not related then. Maybe he thinks I'm a burglar, or worse, an estate agent. Horton didn't trust the
