with some force, but the blow didn't kill him. He had a pretty thick skull. It would certainly have rendered him unconscious though. Studying the position of the body and my findings from the autopsy, I'd say he was kneeling down when he was struck.'
Mulling this over, Horton said, 'The body was found at the far end of the barn, so the killer would have walked the length of it. Anmore would have heard him coming. There was no other way in, which means that Anmore must either have known his killer and didn't see him as a threat, or our killer was already in the barn waiting for Anmore to arrive.'
Cantelli returned. 'That was Trueman. He says SOCO haven't found any additional tyre tracks around the barn other than Anmore's van, his father's car and our own vehicles.'
Horton considered this for a moment. 'Danesbrook could have parked his car further away and walked to the barn.' Though he couldn't see Danesbrook walking far in his pointed cowboy boots.
Gaye said, 'Perhaps the killer came in Anmore's van with him.'
And that didn't sound like Danesbrook's style either. And if he wasn't guilty then there was the other possibility which Cantelli had already voiced to him earlier: Thea Carlsson.
Reluctantly Horton now considered this. Had she been taken to the barn against her will and then killed Anmore? Or had she gone voluntarily and killed him? She could have thrown the anti fouling paint over Anmore as a defiant gesture because Anmore had killed her brother. After doing so she'd left on foot. But why not come to the police? There were two possible answers to that question: because she was afraid of what she'd done or she, with Anmore, had killed her brother using Anmore's gun. Damn, that didn't sound good.
'Could a woman have killed him?' he asked Dr Clayton, hoping she'd say no.
'Yes.'
Shit. 'Must have been a fairly strong woman.'
'Not necessarily.'
Double shit.
Gaye said, 'The victim was struck with something flat and wide, a spade I think. Taylor found one and had it bagged up. There was no blood on it visible to me but something could show up under the microscope. I'd say your killer came up behind the victim; he might even have been talking to him while he walked across the barn. The victim turns back to his boat, or to look at something on the floor, the killer picks up the spade, whacks the victim on the back of the head, he falls forward then the killer picks up the pitchfork and plunges it into the victim's back.'
Cantelli shuddered. 'Must be a cold-blooded bugger to do that.'
'Or a very angry one,' Gaye added, disappointing Horton further. He guessed that Thea might be capable of such an act if she believed that Anmore had killed her brother. And, let's face it, he hardly knew the woman. He'd met her twice and they hadn't exactly had time for in-depth discussion. But he didn't want it to be her. He wanted it to be bloody shifty-eyed Danesbrook with his greasy ponytail.
Gaye said, 'There's something else you might wish to consider. Your killer knew where to place that pitchfork for maximum effect in penetrating the pulmonary artery, which means he could have some medical knowledge, or maybe he was just lucky and your victim unlucky.'
Horton brightened up at that. As far as he was aware Thea Carlsson didn't have any medical knowledge, though they would have to check. And neither did Danesbrook, he thought disappointingly, but Dr Clayton's words reminded Horton about that list of names Cantelli had given him.
'Do you know any of these people?' he asked, handing her the sheet of paper that Cantelli had copied.
Raising a quizzical eyebrow she studied it. 'I've heard of Joshua Viking, a very clever and talented neurosurgeon in his day. And Francis Grant, a radiologist, or rather he was, they must both be retired by now. Why the question?'
Horton told her.
She looked at him, amazed. 'You think one of these people could have killed Owen Carlsson?'
'I didn't say that but there must be a reason why he wanted this list.'
Before she could answer, his phone rang. It was Trueman. He excused himself and headed out of the mortuary into a windy, damp day which was rapidly darkening.
'We've found someone on that list who Owen Carlsson contacted.'
Great. 'Who?' Horton asked excited.
'Dr Edward Nelson. He's a retired GP, lives in Lymington.'
Even better, thought Horton, a man with medical knowledge.
Trueman added, 'Owen visited Dr Nelson on the ninth of January, six days after Arina Sutton died. I didn't press Nelson on the phone as to why Owen called on him. I thought I'd save that for you. I also didn't mention Owen Carlsson's death, but Dr Nelson asked me if that was why I was calling — he said he'd heard about it on the local news.'
'Then why didn't he come forward?'
'Because he didn't think Owen's visit to him had anything to do with his death.'
And it might not, thought Horton.
Trueman said, 'We've still got a couple of names to contact, but I reckoned you'd want to know about Nelson.'
Horton glanced at his watch. It was just after three. 'Call him back and tell him I'm on my way to see him, Dave.'
'I've already told him that.'
Horton should have known.
He got Dr Nelson's address and had just rung off when Cantelli emerged. Quickly bringing him up to speed on their way back to the station, Horton asked Cantelli to see if Danesbrook had confessed under Uckfield's questioning and to let him know immediately if he had. Then collecting his Harley he made for Yarmouth and the car ferry to Lymington.
FIFTEEN
Friday 17.10
' My wife's at her art class and won't be back for a couple of hours,' Nelson said in a soothing voice, which Horton thought must have reassured his more nervous patients. He was a thin stooping man with sleeked-back silver hair, a prominent nose, kindly and intelligent hawk-like eyes under bushy silver eyebrows. 'Do you mind talking in the kitchen?'
Horton would have talked in the garden shed if he thought he was going to hear something that might help him go forward with this tortuous case. He shook off his boots in the highly polished hall of the thatched house with mullioned windows that could have posed as an advertisement for Olde England. A grandfather clock ticked sonorously, and he half expected Miss Marple to appear from the sitting room as he followed Nelson into a kitchen, which oozed enough charm to make an estate agent wet his pants with excitement.
Nelson offered Horton a coffee. He shouldn't have accepted because his caffeine level was getting dangerously high, but he reckoned it was going to be another long night. Cantelli had rung through while he was on the ferry to say that Danesbrook's solicitor had arrived and that he and Uckfield were about to interview Danesbrook after Uckfield's abortive attempt earlier to extract something from him. All he'd got were grunts. Birch's team had drawn a blank with any possible witnesses to Arina Sutton's fatality and the house-to-house near the barn where Anmore had been killed had come up with zilch.
'I was very sorry to hear about Mr Carlsson's death,' Nelson said, placing the kettle on a Rayburn built into an ancient brick fireplace and gesturing Horton into a seat at the big oak table straddling the centre of the kitchen.
Outside the wind was whipping itself into a fury and the rain was beating against the window. Thankfully the cottage didn't spurn modern comforts, and the central heating and thick curtains kept the drafts at bay. It was the type of kitchen Horton had imagined so often as a child, with a loving mother at the table, baking, and a father reading his newspaper. It was a childhood fantasy that still caused an ache inside him, exacerbated by the fact that
