TEN
' He's over there,' Uckfield announced, pointing to the far end of the barn.
From where Horton was standing he couldn't see the body, only a small wooden yacht on a trailer and, surrounding it, a couple of petrol-driven lawn mowers and other gardening implements.
On the six-mile journey across country to Dills Farm, Horton had trawled his memory recalling his brief conversation with Anmore in the churchyard, looking for some sign that the gardener would be their next victim, but only one thing stuck in his mind: Scanaford House. Makes you wonder if it's cursed. Everyone who comes into contact with it ends up dead. Except me and Bella. Perhaps he'd better put a watch on Bella Westbury, he thought, climbing into the scene suit. But ghosts didn't kill people, not unless Anmore had been frightened to death by one, and Horton thought that highly unlikely in the middle of a barn three miles from Scanaford House.
He said, 'How come DCI Birch called you in?' There was nothing to connect Anmore with Owen Carlsson's murder.
Uckfield pushed a toothpick in his mouth. 'He knew Anmore was the Suttons' gardener and because we're considering a possible link between Arina Sutton's death and Carlsson's he thought we should be here.'
Horton had a suspicion that wasn't entirely the truth and judging by Cantelli's expression he agreed. Birch probably knew they'd all been drinking in the pub and Horton wouldn't put it past him to tip off the press about this murder in the hope that they'd arrive to find the officer-in-charge stinking of booze. Uckfield smelt like a brewery. Horton wondered how long he'd stayed drinking in the pub in Newport after he'd left. He caught Cantelli's eye and an unspoken signal passed between them. They'd need to get Uckfield away before the media showed up, though thankfully this being an island the national press wouldn't arrive until the morning, if at all. How to get him away without making him even more belligerent than usual was another matter.
Horton told Uckfield what Bella Westbury had said about Anmore's amorous tendencies, adding, 'He could have been killed by a jealous lover or husband.'
'Birch and Norris can follow that up. We'll examine any links between Carlsson and Anmore.'
That made sense, and three deaths around Scanaford House — four if you counted Sir Christopher — was four too many for Horton's taste. 'Did the doctor give any indication as to how long he's been dead?'
'Barely wanted to touch the poor sod, afraid he'd get that bloody paint all over him.'
'What paint?'
'You'll see. Made me wish Doc Price was here; drunk or not he'd have done a better job than the streak of piss they sent along. But he was good enough to tell us he is dead.'
'Who found him?'
'Anmore's old man discovered him at about ten twelve p.m.'
Horton checked his watch, before slipping his arm into the white sleeve. It was just after midnight.
Uckfield said, 'Charlie Anmore says his son didn't return home for his tea at six. He tried his mobile and got no answer. He knew his son couldn't be gardening in the dark but he thought he might have got held up with a client, or gone to the pub, so he didn't bother too much about it. When it got to ten and Jonathan still hadn't appeared, Charlie rang round a few of his son's mates, tried the local pub, without success, and finally came here. His son hires the barn from the farmer.'
Uckfield's words had taken them to the body. Horton drew up with a start.
'You never said he'd been stabbed in the back with a ruddy great pitchfork.'
'Didn't want to spoil the surprise.'
'Thanks,' muttered Horton, ignoring his churning gut as best he could and focussing his gaze on
Anmore. He was lying face down, with his arms outstretched, and now Horton saw what Uckfield had meant about the paint. Anmore was covered in a russet-coloured liquid, which, if Horton wasn't mistaken, and judging by the discarded tin some two feet away, was anti-fouling paint for the boat's hull.
Uckfield belched loudly. 'Charlie Anmore eased the body over to check it was Jonathan, got himself covered in paint, and then staggered out to summon help from the farmer, who thought Charlie was bleeding to death and nearly had a heart attack himself.'
'Where's Mr Anmore now?'
'PC Somerfield and one of Birch's officers took him home. Somerfield's still with him but the other officer has taken Anmore's clothes to the station for forensic examination tomorrow.'
'Shame the old boy touched him.'
'Yeah, but I doubt he killed his son, though you never can tell.'
Horton knew that was a sad fact of life. He studied the body, his revulsion replaced by curiosity. The pattern of death certainly didn't fit with Owen Carlsson's or Arina Sutton's. In fact there seemed no pattern at all to any of the deaths except perhaps those of Helen and Lars Carlsson with that of Arina Sutton; both involved cars and both had been in the same location. But Anmore had been the Suttons' gardener.
'Why the paint?' he asked, intrigued.
Uckfield shrugged. 'Fit of temper after stabbing him? Or maybe Danesbrook did this. It looks like the work of a lunatic, though why he'd want to kill Anmore beats me unless he didn't like the azaleas he planted. Who knows what sets these people off?'
Was Roy Danesbrook involved, wondered Horton? He turned to Cantelli. 'Has anyone interviewed the farmer?'
'Sergeant Norris spoke to him earlier. He says he heard Anmore's van drive up the track at about six thirty. He was watching the weather forecast on the television, which is how he knows the time. He didn't see the van though, and he can't see the barn from the house. He didn't hear any other car approaching the barn, but he did go out for a pint. Charlie Anmore came pounding on his door at about ten twenty. He called the police, left his wife to give Charlie a stiff drink and came up the barn to see for himself. He says he touched nothing.'
'Did his wife hear or see anything?' asked Horton.
Cantelli shook his head. 'She was at a Women's Institute meeting in Newchurch until nine and there was no one else in the house. DCI Birch's officers will start a house-to-house tomorrow, but there are only three houses in the immediate area so it won't take them long and they're a mile away. This is a pretty isolated spot.'
Yes, and ideal for murder, thought Horton. The farmhouse was a mile up a muddy track, off a narrow country lane, and surrounded by woods. Taylor might get something from the track, but Horton guessed too many police vehicles had trundled up and down it. There was something that had caught his attention, however. Dr Clayton had said that Owen Carlsson had been shot through glass and here, on his right, was a boarded-up window.
Pointing to it he asked, 'When was that broken?'
Cantelli glanced at the window. 'The farmer might know. You thinking Owen could have been killed here?'
'It's possible, and then transported to the Duver in Anmore's van.'
Uckfield's phone rang and he hurried away, struggling to wriggle out of his scene suit as he went while reaching for his mobile phone.
Horton turned away from the body and with Cantelli followed Uckfield at a slower pace.
Cantelli said, 'There is another possibility, Andy.' He dashed an apologetic glance at Horton.
Horton knew what he was thinking. He said, 'You believe Thea Carlsson could have done this.'
'It's just an idea,' Cantelli shrugged. 'Perhaps it's like you said earlier. Owen recognized Anmore as the person who had killed Arina. Anmore could have been driving a car and not his van. Owen confronted him and Anmore killed him. But Owen had already told Thea about his suspicions and she came here to avenge her brother's death.'
Groaningly weary, Horton knew he had to consider it as a possibility. 'How did she know where to find Anmore?'
'Her brother could have told her before he died.'
'Then why didn't she tell us?' cried Horton.
'Maybe she wasn't sure until she let Anmore into the house and he tried to set fire to her.'
'That still doesn't explain why she wouldn't say anything to us,' Horton said stubbornly. 'And I don't see her
