sightings of Thea Carlsson resulting from the press statement and photograph issued by Uckfield late last night. Monday might bring more response, Trueman said, but Horton wasn't optimistic.
Inactivity sat heavily on him. Pacing the incident suite he was half tempted to go and join Marsden in the search for his boat intruder — either that or ride around the island in the hope of finding Thea Carlsson, although he knew that would be a complete waste of time.
He was about to complain about Strasser's delay when Trueman cried, 'They're here.'
Horton rushed over to peer at Trueman's computer screen not daring to hope they might help with the investigation, and steeling himself for disappointment.
Trueman said, 'I'll print them off. They're all black and white photographs anyway.'
As they slid off the printer, Horton found himself staring at three pictures which, judging by the style and subject matter, were the work of Helen Carlsson.
Trueman said, 'Strasser says there was writing on the back of each one; he's copied it across in his e-mail. The first one is a demonstration in Kathmandu against the execution of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto. April 1979.'
And the authorities didn't much care how they crushed it, thought Horton. Helen Carlsson must have taken a hell of a risk to get in that close.
'The second,' Trueman read out, 'is of the demonstration by metal detectorists against a law to ban metal detecting in this country in December 1979.'
'They obviously won their cause then because I see them all over Southsea beach.' Horton had had no idea that metal detecting had caused such a stir. He studied the third photograph. It was of a woman standing at the top of the steps of a Royal Air Force aeroplane. Either side of her were a man and woman dressed in suits, while on the concourse below were men and women in uniform. 'I don't need you to identify her,' Horton said, pointing at the former Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher. Then his eye lingered on the square-set woman standing to her right dressed in a smart suit, standing to attention, her eyes alert and hard. There was something familiar about her. He struggled to retrieve it as Trueman read from the computer screen.
'Twenty-ninth of August 1979, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher visiting Northern Ireland, disembarking from the aeroplane at RAF Aldergrove.'
That had been when the conflict in Northern Ireland had been at its height, which explained Helen Carlsson's interest in taking the photograph. Margaret Thatcher hadn't long been in power. Then something registered in his tired brain. A snatch of conversation flashed into his head. I will never forgive Margaret Thatcher and the Tories for their treachery… that bloody mad woman. Suddenly he knew without any doubt the identity of the young woman in the suit standing beside the Prime Minister.
'Well, well, well,' he expostulated, energized. 'Run me off another copy of this one, Dave. Then get me all the information you can on her.' Horton stabbed a finger at the sturdy figure.
'You recognize her?' Trueman asked, surprised.
Horton nodded. 'I do indeed. It's Bella Westbury. And I'd very much like to know what she is doing there and why before I ask her.'
SEVENTEEN
It was late afternoon and dark by the time Horton and Cantelli pulled up outside Bella Westbury's cottage. By then Horton had got some of the answers to his questions and Cantelli had managed to unearth the editor of the local newspaper who had generously opened up the office on the proviso that she got first bite of the news story.
Only police officers, the coroner and the relatives, such as they were — Helga and Peter Bohman — had been mentioned in the press reports of the Carlssons' road accident. The reporter had since married a sailor and moved to Plymouth. Horton couldn't see Thea being interested in any of them, but Cantelli had also discovered the author of The Lost Ghosts of the Isle of Wight, one Gordon Elms.
'He lives in Cowes,' Cantelli had reported. 'Two streets away from Owen Carlsson.'
And Horton's money was on Elms being the person Thea had been searching for in the library's telephone directory. He doubted now that it had anything to do with the case. It was just Thea's desire to meet the man who had written a much treasured book for her. But the librarian said she would get a copy of the book for them on Monday.
Horton detailed Trueman to check if Danesbrook, Bella Westbury, or Jonathan Anmore had travelled to Luxembourg at any time since Thea's arrival on the island. One thing, among many others, which troubled Horton, was if Bella Westbury had searched Thea's apartment she wouldn't have left the photograph behind.
'No sign of life,' Cantelli said, peering at the small cottage opposite.
Which was more than could be said for Uckfield who had finally surfaced all smiles and rosy cheeks just after lunch. His mellow mood hadn't lasted long after Horton had briefed him. And his temper wasn't improved when Marsden had returned to say that no one they'd spoken to so far around the Duver recalled seeing anyone suspicious in the area around the time Carlsson's body was found.
'Better see if she's all right,' Horton said, climbing out of the car. 'You don't happen to have a ramming rod in the boot?'
'I never travel without one. No, of course I don't.'
'Then we'll ask her to let us in.' Horton nodded in the direction of a small dark-coloured car which had just pulled in further down the road. 'Mrs Westbury?' he hailed her as she was inserting her key in the front door.
She spun round with a frown. Even though she'd given no indication that she'd seen them waiting, he knew she had.
'Mr Horton.'
'Detective Inspector Horton and this is Detective Sergeant Cantelli.' They flashed their warrant cards. Horton doubted she could see them properly under the dim street lamp some yards away, but she pushed open the door and said stiffly, 'It's late for a police visit.'
'We're investigating the deaths of three people and time isn't a luxury we have.'
She flicked on the light and turned to face them in the small lounge. 'Why didn't you tell me you were a police officer when you were here before?' She didn't bother to hide her anger but Horton could see it was false. She had known then exactly who he was. For someone who had been in the Army Intelligence Corps, as Trueman had discovered, and on protective security duty it wouldn't have been difficult.
'I was undercover,' he said, studying her closely, wanting to add, 'and I bet you know all about that from your career in British Army Intelligence', but he'd save that for later.
'Does that mean there is more to Arina's death than a hit-and-run, or is it Owen's death that sent you undercover?' she said with sarcasm.
'There's been another death-'
'I know. I've just come from Charlie Anmore's.' She closed the door behind them but didn't invite them to sit. 'Being undercover didn't help much, did it, Inspector?' she added acerbically, tossing her large canvas bag on the floor. 'What do you want? I'm tired and I'd like to go to bed.'
Horton could see the hostility in her green eyes. He wasn't sure if it was genuine or an act, but there was definitely something different about the tiny cottage. It took him a few moments to realize it was the cats. Where were they? If the kitchen door had been shut he might have thought them inside, but that was wide open. And all was silent. Not a single meow and no furry friends had come rushing to greet her, which he found rather strange. They couldn't all be out, surely?
'We won't keep you long, Mrs Westbury. Do you mind if we sit down?'
With ill grace she gestured them into the two comfortable and worn armchairs straddling the fireplace. Cantelli declined the invitation and waved Bella Westbury into the chair opposite Horton. He knew she would have preferred to stand to gain the advantage, but Cantelli was too wily to allow that. Once she'd sat the sergeant pulled up a straight hard-backed chair and positioned it between them.
Horton asked, 'How well did you know Jonathan Anmore?'
'We used to talk about gardens, plants, the state of the nation, his father, that sort of thing. He'd come in to Scanaford House for coffee on the days he was there.'
