love you.' The pain of the memory gripped him, making him feel sick. He'd see Catherine in hell before she subjected his daughter to the same terrible fate.
It took every ounce of control for him to make sure he sounded normal when he said, 'Where's Mummy, Emma?'
'With Uncle Edward. Angie's looking after me, but she's on the computer.'
Uncle fucking Edward! So Catherine was still seeing that fat git. He'd like to punch him from here to kingdom come and back again. Taking a breath and forcing a smile into his voice he said, 'Don't worry, Emma. I'll talk to Mummy. I'll see that you don't have to go away to school.'
'Promise?'
'Of course. Now tell me what you've been doing all day.'
Horton listened to her chatter, which became steadily more joyful as it went on, whilst he became more depressed at the realization of what he was missing. This was a life that Catherine had denied him — his daughter's. It was like being shown all the toys in a shop as a child knowing you could never have access to any of them. And that was the story of his life. He'd always been on the outside, except at work. There he was on the inside. And that, he thought, with growing despair, was all he had left.
Finally his conversation with his daughter came to an abrupt close with, 'Angie's calling me. I'd better go. Bye, Daddy.' And she was gone.
Horton quickly selected Catherine's mobile phone number. She'd know it was him. She'd recognize his number. Would she answer? He doubted it, but miraculously she did.
'What is it, Andy? I'm busy,' she snapped.
Before he could stop himself he was saying icily, 'Shagging Edward Shawford I expect.' Then realizing that she could just hang up on him he quickly added, 'Is that why you want to send Emma away to school?'
'How do you know that? Who told you?'
'It's true then. You know I won't allow it.'
'It's got nothing to do with you.'
'She's my bloody daughter,' Horton roared, stung by her callous words, fighting desperately to hold on to the control that was his usual master, but which now seemed in severe danger of deserting him. A young couple brushed by, eyeing him strangely. He stepped further back into the shadows of a shop doorway.
'Don't swear at me!' Catherine hissed down the line.
He took a breath and silently chanted his mantra. Don't let the buggers see you're hurting. Don't let them see you care. It didn't work, because he cared too deeply. All he could see was Emma, alone and frightened. And all he could feel were the bitter memories of a little boy, terrified and hurt, standing in that empty prison of a room.
'Emma is not going to be abandoned,' he reiterated slowly and deliberately, as if each word weighed a ton and cost a million pounds. His hands were clenched, his insides contorted in a tight knot.
'No one's abandoning her,' Catherine said scornfully.
'So being shut up in a draughty old boarding school, deprived of her mother and her father, isn't abandoning your child?' he snapped.
'You're living in the wrong century. Northover is not something out of a Dickens novel. It's an excellent school where all the best people's children go-'
'So that's all she is to you, a status symbol!'
'I'm not going to have this conversation with you, Andy, and especially now. Emma is in my care and I'll decide what's best for her.'
In a flash Horton saw what game Catherine was playing. Coldly he said, 'You're doing this so that I can't see her, aren't you?'
'Don't be ridiculous.'
But he knew he was right by her false tone of indignation.
'I'm her mother and I'll-'
Horton punched his mobile off. He didn't want to hear any more. And he couldn't face returning to the pub to discuss the case. With a heavy heart he climbed on to the Harley and with no idea where he was going, letting his mood take him, he rode through the quiet streets of the island, occasionally stopping to look at the sea in the rain- sodden night.
Eventually he found himself back at Bembridge Marina, amazed to see that it was over four hours since he'd left the pub. He felt mentally exhausted. He'd considered every possible alternative to how he could prevent Emma from being sent away to school from abducting her — foolish — to finding something against the school, a criminal activity — possible. He'd have all the staff checked, double-checked and triple-checked. Finally he'd turned his mind to how he could gain permanent custody of Emma, which included resigning, showing Catherine up to be a terrible mother, bribing the judge and coaching his daughter to say she wanted to live with him. His brain ached with it all.
Angry and emotionally exhausted, he stripped off and stood under the hot shower long enough for his skin to wrinkle. Every nerve within him cried out for the chance to sink into drink-induced oblivion, something he hadn't done since April. He knew it wouldn't help matters, and that drunk or sober he wouldn't sleep.
He made a coffee, and sought distraction from his mental turmoil in thinking about the case. It was then he remembered the obituary on the Carlssons. Fishing it out of the pocket of his trousers, he sat down with his coffee and read it through twice. The first time quickly, the second slowly, taking in every word and linking it in his mind with Thea and Owen Carlsson, looking for anything that might help him connect the cases, but he didn't find it.
What he did learn, however, was that Helen had been the daughter of a Dorset butcher. Secondary school educated, she'd come up through her profession the hard way, forcing herself into what was then a male-dominated world — the business of being a newspaper photographer — putting herself into extreme and dangerous positions until her talent, and hard work, had finally been recognized.
Lars, by contrast, had come from a wealthy Swedish family. He'd been educated privately and gained his degree in art and history from Cambridge before returning to Sweden and architecture as his chosen profession. The two had met in America in October 1967 when Helen had been photographing the massive protest in Oakland, California, against the Vietnam War. Lars had been staying there with friends who had enlisted him in their protests.
Horton sat back thinking. What had happened to Helen Carlsson's photographs? Clearly they were worth a great deal of money. Had she made a will at the time of her death and bequeathed them to a close friend? Or had they been left to Owen or Thea? Perhaps they'd sold them. And what about Helen and Lars's personal papers: family photographs, mementos? Had they been in Owen's house and were now destroyed by the fire? Thea hadn't mentioned it. She hadn't even seemed upset that the book in which her mother had written a personal message had gone up in flames. She'd been more concerned about the bloody cat.
A sound outside caught his attention. Someone was coming down the pontoon. It could be anyone, the harbour master perhaps. On the other hand, Horton realized, it could be his intruder returning, and this time with a more sinister intent.
He rose. The footsteps grew nearer. They stopped. Holding his breath, Horton steeled himself for action. Then a voice hailed him — one he knew very well. Surprised, and letting out a sigh of relief, he slid back the hatch and stepped into the cockpit to find a very wet and bedraggled Cantelli standing on the pontoon. Cantelli's grim expression killed Horton's smile in an instant.
'Thea. You've found her. She's dead.' An icy wind sucked the breath from him.
'No. Not Thea.'
Thank God. Relief washed over him. Then Cantelli's words registered. Someone was dead, and if not Thea, then who?
'We've been trying to reach you,' Cantelli said, looking worried.
'Who is it, Barney? Who's dead?' His tired brain struggled to think who it could be.
'Jonathan Anmore.'
It took Horton a moment to think who Cantelli was talking about before he recollected the athletic fair man he'd seen in the churchyard. Surprised, he said, 'The landscape gardener! What the devil has he got to do with this case?'
That's what Uckfield would like to know.'
And so would I, thought Horton. So would I.
