having the strength to plunge a pitchfork into Anmore's back.'
'That might not be what killed him,' Cantelli persisted. 'She could have stuck it in him after he was already dead.'
Horton knew Cantelli could be right. Nevertheless he had other ideas. 'Owen could have told Jonathan Anmore that he knew who had killed Arina and Jonathan thought he'd go in for a spot of blackmailing, especially after he heard that Owen Carlsson was dead. And the person he was blackmailing killed him.'
He thought back to his earlier brief conversation with Anmore. Anmore hadn't seemed worried or nervous when he'd told him Owen Carlsson was dead and neither had he appeared shocked or even smug, just concerned. But both Roy Danesbrook and Bella Westbury had shown signs of unease.
Stepping out of his scene suit Horton's eyes swivelled to Anmore's van. Perhaps they'd get some forensic evidence from it, he thought hopefully, before his gaze travelled beyond it to where DCI Birch and Uckfield were head to head in conversation.
Following the direction of his gaze, Cantelli said, 'The Guv doesn't look very happy.'
And neither did Birch, thought Horton, as Uckfield turned on his heel and stormed towards them leaving Birch to glower after him like a man who'd just had his tonsils removed without an anaesthetic.
'There's no point in you being under cover,' Uckfield growled. 'Every bugger here knows you're a cop. And the time for pussy-footing around is over. I want some answers on these murders and I want them quick.'
Horton wouldn't mind betting that the telephone call Uckfield had just received had been from the chief and judging by Uckfield's mood it hadn't been to utter words of praise and encouragement.
Horton said, 'I'll talk to Charlie Anmore.'
'Somerfield and Marsden can do that,' Uckfield said impatiently. 'I want you with me when I interview Laura Rosewood tomorrow. Be in at seven sharp.' Turning to Cantelli, Uckfield added, 'Let's leave this to the locals. DCI Birch can brief us tomorrow morning if his team find anything new. Meanwhile we need our beauty sleep. I want fresh eyes and brains. And I want results!' he boomed, storming off.
With raised eyebrows Cantelli followed Uckfield. Horton's eyes flicked to Birch who was eyeing Uckfield malevolently. Tomorrow morning Birch and Norris would be bleary-eyed and drunk with sleep deprivation and about as much use as an umbrella in a typhoon but that wouldn't stop Uckfield pushing them so hard they wouldn't know what year it was, let alone what day. Birch had played the wrong card in snitching to the chief. A superintendent grassed up is a dangerous beast and they didn't come more beastly than Uckfield in a rage.
Horton swung the Harley round and headed back to the boat, thinking that Uckfield might have ordered beauty sleep but obeying it would be another matter entirely.
ELEVEN
Friday 10.15 a.m.
Horton slept fitfully, with dreams of Anmore's and Owen's rotting bodies, punctuated by images of Thea Carlsson as he'd rescued her from the blazing house, but even then he guessed he'd managed to grab more shut- eye than Birch and Norris who were resentful and sullen throughout Uckfield's bad-tempered briefing.
On the journey to Laura Rosewood's home on the east coast of the island, Uckfield's mood, which was darker than a disused coal mine, didn't improve. He opened his mouth only to swear at any motorist or pedestrian who dared to get in his way, which seemed to be the island's entire population, and to comment that Ms Rosewood was bound to be a sandal-wearing, bead rattling Amazon with a moustache, or someone built like a shot-putter in the days of the Cold War and that this was all a bloody waste of time. Horton was inclined to agree with the latter sentiment, but reckoned on a younger version of Bella Westbury, all slacks and common sense. He was relieved when they swung into a wide gravel driveway which culminated in a futuristic house of glass and steel, perched on the cliffs of Luccombe. It was, thought Horton, totally out of keeping with the grey-stoned and colour-washed Victorian and Edwardian houses of the wooded area, and didn't look that environmentally friendly to him, which it should have been given the woman's position in the European Commission.
Laura Rosewood however was very friendly and not at all how either of them had imagined. As they followed her swaying hips clad in tight black trousers through a spacious hall Uckfield winked grotesquely at Horton. Clearly the attractive, slender, forty-something woman with short blonde hair and immaculate make-up had lightened Uckfield's mood considerably. Perhaps, thought Horton, they should install her in the station.
'It's such terrible news about Owen,' Laura Rosewood said, gesturing them into comfortable armchairs in an airy and expensively furnished room. Horton's eyes were immediately drawn to the magnificent view of a tumultuous grey-green English Channel beyond wide glass doors while Uckfield clearly had trouble taking his from Ms Rosewood's cleavage and the black bra beneath the dark-blue lacy top.
'We're hoping you can tell us what Owen was working on, Ms Rosewood,' Uckfield said solemnly.
'Of course. And it's Laura.' She flashed her perfect white teeth at him.
Uckfield's grin reminded Horton of a crocodile who'd just seen dinner in the form of a fisherman on the bank.
'When was the last time you saw Owen Carlsson, Laura?' Uckfield leered.
Horton tried not to wince. She was older than Uckfield's usual types but neither that nor the fact he was married would stop the big man from trying his hand.
'It was at Arina's funeral, a week ago Tuesday.'
'How did he seem?' asked Horton.
She swivelled her petrol-blue eyes to him. 'Upset, naturally. We all were. Are you any closer to finding out who killed Arina?'
Uckfield answered. 'Detective Inspector Birch is leading that investigation.'
This morning Horton had got his wish and Birch's officers were at Seaview conducting a house to-house, and trying to establish who had been in or around the hotel at the time of Arina's death. Another team were about to interview those in the houses near the barn where Anmore's body had been found. While Taylor's officers were going over the scene-of-crime with a comb so fine that not even a nit would get through. Cantelli had reported that the farmer couldn't confirm when the barn window had been broken. He said that Anmore must have boarded it up himself because he certainly hadn't done it. So not much joy there and neither had they found any witnesses to the fire.
'It's such a waste,' Laura Rosewood sighed. 'And now Owen's dead too. Is there any chance his death could have been suicide?'
'Would you have said he was capable of that?' asked Horton, knowing that it wasn't, but eager to hear her thoughts and get an insight on Owen's personality.
'No, he was a very positive, cheerful sort of man. At least he was on the occasions I met him, barring Arina's funeral of course. He was recommended by Terry Knowles for a project I'm involved with for the European Commission, which is why you're here, of course.' Her eyes swung back to Uckfield. 'Can I offer you some refreshment? Coffee?'
'Thanks,' Uckfield replied before Horton could refuse. He would have preferred information to caffeine but he was outranked.
'I'll ask Julie to make us some. Excuse me.'
They both rose as she left the room. Uckfield's eyes followed her greedily. 'Wouldn't say no to a bit of that.'
Horton didn't remind Uckfield that he was married. It would have been pointless. But it jogged Horton's memory that he hadn't yet called his solicitor regarding Emma being sent away to school. There had been the briefing and then the drive here. Once this was over, though, and he was alone, he'd call her.
'Nice place she's got; worth a few bob,' Uckfield added, prowling around the lounge and eyeing the exquisite glassware on specially designed shelves either side of an inset modern fireplace.
Horton agreed. There were also some expensive-looking modern paintings on the pale cream walls and the wide-screen plasma television and music system were both top of the range. Everything was neat, calming and spotless. The room barely looked lived in.
'Wonder what her old man does for a living,' Uckfield added, lifting and almost dropping a glass objet d'art
