loyal service?'
Cantelli smiled. 'It's in his name and it's not stolen.'
Uckfield looked sceptical.
Cantelli said, 'He lives in Ryde, divorced, aged fifty-three.'
'He looks older.'
'Probably the life he's led.' Cantelli took a sip of his tomato juice and pulled a face.
'If you don't like it why do you drink it?' asked Horton.
'Charlotte says it's good for me, though she might not think the same about the crisps.'
Horton said, 'Glad to see you've got your appetite back after your sea voyage.'
'Don't remind me, the memory's only just fading.' Cantelli consulted his notebook. 'Danesbrook served eighteen months in prison, from 1996 to 1998. He had some kind of mental breakdown after six months and was transferred to a secure hospital where he stayed until he was released.'
Uckfield beamed. 'So a nutter too, this gets better.'
Cantelli continued. 'He was convicted again in 2000 but got a community sentence for the fuel protest affray. Everyone wanted that hushed up.'
'But he is violent,' insisted Uckfield.
'Was,' corrected Horton, then added, 'But his car is a dark saloon, and it's got a dent in the passenger door. It could be from the impact on Arina's body.'
Cantelli looked puzzled. 'Why would he want to kill her? I know I've not met him but I can't see the likes of him inheriting Scanaford House.'
And neither could Horton. He only had Danesbrook's word he had been a friend of Sir Christopher's.
Trueman piped up. 'He could have been paid to kill her.'
'If her death is deliberate,' Uckfield stressed. 'Birch thinks not.'
'All the more reason to think it was then,' muttered Horton. He thought of that skilful drive down to the sea ending in striking Arina with enough force to kill her. It also made him think of Owen Carlsson's parents' death in the same place. Turning to Trueman he said, 'Did you get anything on Helen and Lars Carlsson?'
Uckfield huffed but said nothing. Horton knew he didn't think it had anything to do with their current case.
Trueman put down his lager and said, 'Lars Carlsson was in the UK attending a conference. He was an architect in Sweden. He and his wife decided to combine business with pleasure and take a holiday on the Isle of Wight.'
'Does that mean they lived in Sweden?' asked Horton.
'Yes. Stockholm. Lars was highly respected, a modernist and something of a pioneer in architecture in Sweden in the 1980s-'
'Which means concrete and crap buildings that no one wants to live in,' carped Uckfield.
'Go on,' said Horton to Trueman.
'They rented a house in Yarmouth. Thea Carlsson was in Sweden at school but Owen Carlsson was at Southampton University at the time of their death. Helen Carlsson was a professional photographer, and an acclaimed one. She'd won awards for her photographs of Chernobyl and the fall of the Berlin Wall. I found an obituary on them both in The Times. Here.'
Horton was impressed. He took the copy of the newspaper cutting from Trueman and saw the same good- looking couple as in the photograph on the mantelpiece in Thea's bedroom, only this time they were in evening dress. The picture had obviously been taken at an awards ceremony, and again he saw the striking resemblance between Thea and her mother. He made to pass it to Uckfield.
'I've read it. Doesn't tell us much.'
'I'll read it later.' Horton thrust it in his pocket. 'What about the accident?'
Trueman continued. 'It was a wet and windy night, in March. Visibility was poor. The autopsy on Lars Carlsson, who was driving, showed that he hadn't been drinking. The car skidded off the road and crashed over the wall on to the rocks and stones on the beach. The Carlssons were wearing seat belts but the impact was so severe that their charred remains were embedded in the wreckage. The engine was still running, petrol leaked from the fuel tank causing it to ignite. It was the early hours of the morning. There was no one around. They didn't stand a chance.'
'It was an accident then?'
'Looks like it.'
Horton considered this for a moment before saying, 'So did Arina Sutton's killer know about the Carlssons being killed there?'
Uckfield scratched his neck. 'If he did then we're back to finding a motive for Owen Carlsson's death and Arina Sutton was killed accidentally.'
'But we still have to consider that she could have been murdered for her father's money.'
Cantelli interjected. 'We don't know yet that she did inherit it.'
'OK, but let's assume she did.' Horton addressed Uckfield. 'We should get a team into Seaview and ask around for possible witnesses to her death. And we should conduct a house-to-house to see if we can get a better description of the car, and interview the staff in the hotel.'
'Not asking much, are you?' Uckfield sniped. He drained his glass. 'It was nineteen days ago! Most buggers can't remember what they were doing yesterday.'
'A photograph of Arina and Owen might jog some memories, and I mean a picture of them alive not on the bloody mortuary slab,' he added, quickly pre-empting Uckfield.
Cantelli said, 'I'll see if the solicitor can let me have a photograph of Arina, and I'll check if the newspaper archives have one of Owen Carlsson.'
Horton said, 'There must be one in Thea's apartment. What are we doing about that?'
Trueman answered. 'Luxembourg are waiting for a search warrant.'
And it seemed a long time coming, thought Horton. 'Why can't we just go in?'
'They want to do everything by the book.'
'Bloody book,' muttered Horton before his mobile rang. Glancing at the display he recognized his old home number and tensed. What did Catherine want now? Whatever it was he wasn't expecting good news. He thought about letting it ring then changed his mind.
'Yes?' he snarled.
'Daddy?'
Christ! His heart skipped several beats. The world froze for a second as the picture of his dark haired daughter sprang before him, causing a lump in his throat and a tightness in his chest. Quickly he rose and headed for the exit. Uckfield was the last person he wanted to be privy to this conversation.
'How are you, poppet?' he said, trying desperately to inject his voice with a lightness he didn't feel. This was the first time Emma had called him since he'd been forced to leave his home. Had something happened to Catherine? He was damned sure that Catherine wouldn't let Emma within a planet's distance of a phone to call him, and she'd never have given her his mobile number.
'Mummy says I've got to go away.'
Horton gripped the phone. Catherine couldn't be moving abroad. She couldn't be taking Emma from him.
He heard the tremor in his daughter's voice and as evenly as possible said, 'Where does Mummy say you're going?' Silently he prayed it wasn't true. He hurried towards the Harley, not wanting the others to come out and disturb him.
'I don't want to go away to school.' She began to cry. It ripped at Horton's guts. He would have given the world not to be here now, on an island. He silently cursed. Uckfield could solve his own bloody cases. Then the image of Thea's smoke-blackened, fearful face flashed before him. He felt torn. And angry that he felt that way.
'Don't cry, darling. It's all right. You don't have to go.'
'But Mummy says I do and that I'll like it. I won't. I'll hate it,' she sobbed.
Horton felt sick with anguish and tried to steel himself but his mind was full of visions of Emma abandoned. A child of eight. God, how the memories fled down the years and there he was, a boy of ten, standing alone in a barren, cold room, rejected, abandoned, confused and hurt. Cruel taunts ringing in his ears. 'Your mother doesn't
