it was the kind of home he'd like to have shared with Emma and Catherine — although in truth Catherine would have run a mile from this. Her taste was minimalistic and ultra modern, and, Horton thought, rather soulless, but he would have settled for a warehouse apartment or a shack in the Welsh hills if he could have saved his marriage and been with his daughter.
He brought his mind back to the job in hand as Dr Nelson continued. 'Mr Carlsson seemed a very pleasant young man, though I suppose I could be wrong, hence your visit.'
'We're still trying to piece together the last days of his life and the reason for his death,' Horton explained, avoiding being drawn on Owen's personality, though — he thought wryly — they knew little about it anyway. He shrugged off his leather jacket, adding, 'And sadly there's been another death, which we believe might be connected, a Jonathan Anmore. Did you know him, sir?'
Nelson paused in the act of spooning coffee into two blue and white willow-patterned china cups complete with saucers. 'He's been murdered?'
'Yes.' Horton didn't see any need to tiptoe around Nelson. He held his gaze and saw curiosity and bewilderment. Then Nelson shook his head sadly.
'I met him at Christopher's funeral. He seemed such an amiable man.'
'Did you speak to him, sir?' Horton asked hopefully.
'Not much. After the committal we walked back to Scanaford House together. He told me he was Christopher's gardener; we discussed the weather, some plants, nothing more. He didn't come inside for the wake. I left him talking to Arina. She was very upset, understandably so. And now you say he's also dead.' Nelson placed the coffee in front of Horton. 'And you think his death and Owen Carlsson's might be connected with Christopher's or Arina's, although I don't see how.' Nelson took the chair opposite Horton.
'How well did you know Owen, sir?' Horton asked, avoiding answering the question that Nelson had posed.
'I didn't know him at all, Inspector. I saw him walking into the church beside Arina at the funeral and then obviously with her at the graveside. He seemed to provide her with some comfort. She introduced me to him at the wake, but he didn't stay long.'
'How did she introduce him?'
Nelson frowned as if remembering. 'She just said his name and that he was a close friend.'
'And then he turned up here after Arina's death, why?'
'I must say I was surprised myself. He said he wanted to talk about Arina. He wanted to know anything I could tell him about her, and her mother and father. I think he was grieving for her and didn't know who else to turn to. He must have remembered that Arina introduced me as her father's oldest friend. Owen probably thought that meant I had seen Arina grow up. I hadn't though. I told him that Christopher and I had trained together at Guy's Hospital, London. But that I went into general practice and Christopher into neurology. We always kept in touch and used to meet up in London occasionally for dinner and a few drinks.'
'What sort of man was Sir Christopher?' Horton asked, interested, not having the faintest idea where his questions might lead him. The words 'time' and 'wasting' sprang to mind.
'Clever. Ambitious. Amusing. I liked Christopher very much but our friendship was always best served at a distance. He was a bit too ambitious and too overbearing for my tastes. I would say we were opposites, which was why the chemistry worked in small doses. Christopher had to be in charge. He was a very dominant man but with a unique eye for detail that doesn't always fit with that type of personality. It was what made him a brilliant researcher though, and at the same time a risk-taker, a rare quality. But he'd never have made it as a GP, no bedside manner and not very tolerant.'
In Horton's opinion that didn't stop many from becoming GPs.
Nelson added. 'However, what Christopher lacked in social skills with his patients he more than made up for by his skill as a consultant, and he was a pioneer in neuropsychiatry.'
'Did you tell Owen Carlsson this?'
'Yes. He seemed interested, but he didn't make any comment. I can see that I've disappointed you.'
Horton didn't think he'd shown any reaction but obviously had. He sipped his coffee thinking he'd need to be careful with Nelson.
Nelson gave a rueful smile. 'I've had years of reading patients' minds, Inspector. GPs are a bit like police officers; we learn to spot and interpret the smallest body language signals that show us discomfiture, embarrassment, worry, lies. And we're very adept at undertones. Owen Carlsson was anxious and upset. I thought it was because of Arina's death. Is her death now suspicious?'
Horton knew there was no point in lying or being evasive. Nelson by his own admittance would clearly see through it. 'I'm beginning to suspect it was.'
Nelson pursed his lips together as he considered this. After a moment he said, 'I can't think who would want to kill her.'
Only Danesbrook, thought Horton, but he'd ask Nelson about him in a moment.
'When was the last time you saw Sir Christopher?'
'Just over a year ago. My wife and I were in London. Iris went Christmas shopping with her sister while I had lunch with Christopher.'
'Did you arrange it or did he?'
'He did, though I can't see why that is important to you. He used the opportunity to tell me he had been diagnosed with cancer. I suspect it was why he wanted to meet.'
Horton drank his coffee wondering where next to go with his questioning. 'Did Owen ask if you or Sir Christopher knew or had ever heard of Helen and Lars Carlsson?'
Nelson shook his head. 'No. Who are they?'
'They were Owen's parents. Arina was killed in the same place as they were in 1990. Owen didn't mention that to you?'
'No.' Nelson's expression was one of genuine bewilderment.
'Did Owen ask you or did you discuss what was in Arina's will?'
Nelson's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. 'No.' He leaned forward with a faint flush on his thin face, his eyes shining. 'Now I see what you're driving at, Inspector. You think she was killed for her money.'
'We have to consider it,' conceded Horton. 'Have you heard of a charity called Wight Earth and Mind?'
Nelson shook his head.
'Or a Roy Danesbrook?'
'No.'
'You didn't talk to him at Sir Christopher's funeral?'
'No.'
Horton studied the elderly man's face to detect a lie. He saw none, only interest. He would have thought that Sir Christopher would have mentioned his most recent passion to his old friend, but then Horton recalled that Nelson hadn't seen or spoken to Sir Christopher for a year.
Nelson said, 'Does this man Danesbrook inherit?' Then he held up his hands. 'It's not my business, I know. I'm just intrigued, and sorry I can't be more helpful. Owen didn't mention his parents, this charity or that man. He simply let me ramble on about Christopher and Arina although I could tell him very little about Arina or her mother, Nadia. I didn't really know either of them.'
Horton felt disappointment wash over him. He'd had a wasted journey. Owen Carlsson had come here for no other reason than to seek comfort for his bereavement. And yet Horton couldn't quite believe that. There was something he was missing, but he didn't have a clue what it was.
'Tell me about Nadia,' he asked, hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he felt.
'She was a fine lady from what I saw of her, which was only three times. She was Dutch and sadly lost all her family during the war. They were shot by the Nazis helping English airmen to escape. Young Nadia managed to hide and was helped to escape by one surviving airman who smuggled her back to England with him.'
'Who was the airman?'
'I've no idea. Arina was twelve when Nadia died in 1980. I remember that Christopher had bought Scanaford House a few years earlier after Nadia had fallen in love with the Isle of Wight. Who could blame her? It's a beautiful place, and Scanaford House is rather splendid. Christopher kept an apartment in London to be near the hospital and his work. Christopher told me that Arina was a lot like her mother, who was a highly respected artist. She was
