'Which were?'
'Tuesdays and Saturdays.'
Cantelli looked up from his notebook. 'Did he mention any girlfriends?'
'No, and before you ask Jonathan wasn't homosexual either.'
Horton said, 'When did you last see him?'
'At Arina's funeral.'
'How did he seem to you then?'
'Upset and angry.'
In the short silence that followed, Horton could hear the wind howling around the cottage. The rain had started up again, beating against the window, making him even more surprised that not one cat had ambled in to settle in front of the fire.
'Have you been back to Scanaford House since Arina's funeral?' he asked.
'No. The solicitor took the keys.'
'But you had the keys after Arina's death.'
'Of course. Owen called me on Sunday morning to tell me about Arina's death. I couldn't believe it. I met him that afternoon at Scanaford House. He needed to talk to someone and so did I. We sat and had some tea. I called Mr Newlands, the solicitor, on Monday. He asked me to keep hold of my set of keys until after Arina's funeral and to organize the caterers for the wake. There was no one else to do it. Mr Newlands also asked me to sort through Arina's belongings. I packed up the clothes for the charity shop, and the personal items I boxed up and left for Mr Newlands.'
She brushed a stray strand of her brown hair behind her ears and held Horton's gaze, almost defying him to tell her she was lying. What Horton didn't like was the freedom of access she'd been given to the house since Arina's death.
'And what about Sir Christopher's things?' he asked.
'Arina hadn't touched them even though I volunteered to help her. So I cleared those out too. His clothes went to the charity shop and, again, I left the personal items for Mr Newlands.'
And he must still have those and Arina's. It was worth checking through them to see if there was anything that pointed to Arina's knowledge of Helen and Lars Carlsson. But if Bella Westbury had been involved in their deaths then she'd had ample time to remove anything incriminating from Scanaford House.
'Did you know Helen Carlsson?' he asked, watching her carefully yet knowing that someone who had worked in Intelligence would be very good at disguising their real emotions and reactions.
'No, although judging by the surname I take it she must be a relation of Owen's.'
'His mother. She, and Owen's father, Lars, were killed in a car accident in March 1990.'
She didn't look surprised and neither did she look worried. 'Very sad, but I can't see what that has to do with any of the recent deaths.' She rose and reached for the poker.
'They died in almost the same the place as Arina was killed.'
Holding the poker she turned to stare at him before her eyes wandered to Cantelli and back to Horton. 'And you think there's some connection between that and Arina's death and then Owen's. And Jonathan's, I suppose. Well I never heard Sir Christopher or Arina mention Helen and Lars Carlsson, and Owen never talked about them.' She opened the front of the stove and poked about inside it.
'Where were you in March 1990?' Horton said coolly.
She spun round with a wide-eyed look. 'I was in Wales, nursing my sick husband, who died in the August of that year.'
Horton left a moment's silence, holding her angry gaze before saying, 'Were you surprised that neither Sir Christopher nor Arina left you anything in their wills?'
'No. And before you ask I wasn't disappointed either because I didn't expect anything.'
'Then you do know the contents of the will. You said before you didn't.'
'Mr Newlands told me on Friday.'
Horton could check that. 'And what about Roy Danesbrook: were you surprised when he was left what now amounts to a considerable sum?'
'No, why should I be? It was Sir Christopher's wish. He was a very charitable man. Now, if you've finished…'
Horton withdrew the photograph from his jacket. 'Is this you?'
She replaced the poker and took the photograph. He watched her as she studied it. There was the merest flicker of anger before she said, 'How did you get hold of this?'
She'd made no attempt to deny it was her because she knew they would check. He said, 'Helen Carlsson took it.'
Bella Westbury's surprise seemed genuine. 'Well, I don't remember her, or the photograph being taken.'
'I find that difficult to believe,' sneered Horton. 'A Prime Ministerial visit in troubled Northern Ireland and you on protective security duty, I hardly think you'd ignore a photographer. She could have been IRA.'
'She was probably one of the official press corps. That bloody woman always wanted her face in the newspapers.'
Horton knew she meant Margaret Thatcher.
Bella added, 'Now I'd like to go to bed.'
But Horton refused to budge. 'Why did you change sides?'
'I don't know what you mean.'
Oh, she did all right. 'Army Intelligence and then rebel. They hardly seem compatible,' he scoffed.
She shrugged.
'I wonder what your ex-mining colleagues and former Greenham Common buddies would think of you if they saw this picture. They might not be very happy about having a spy in their camp.'
'You're nuts.'
'Am I?' he said evenly, holding her steely gaze.
She eyed him with a confidence that bordered on smugness. 'I came out of the army and I changed sides. I didn't like the way the establishment and big business were always telling people what to do, what they should think and what was good for them. I'd had it with politicians' bullshit whilst working on protective security.'
It had the ring of truth about it, but he knew it was a lie. 'Where are your cats?'
'What? I don't know,' she said with exasperation. 'Out.'
'All five of them!' Horton said, surprised.
'A couple of them are probably upstairs asleep. You don't want to question them too, do you? I hardly think they'll be able to help. Now, if you don't mind.. ' She waltzed to the door and wrenched it open. A gust of damp chilly wind rushed in and rattled the wind chimes.
Horton rose, slowly. At the door he faced Bella and said evenly, 'How well do you know Roy Danesbrook?'
'I met him at Scanaford House a couple of times. Why?'
'Thank you for your co-operation, Mrs Westbury. We'll need to talk to you again, so please don't leave the island without telling us.'
The door slammed within an inch of his nose.
Cantelli exhaled. 'Funny sort of woman,' he said as they crossed to the car. 'Couldn't quite put my finger on what was wrong about her, but if pushed I'd say there was no warmth, or maybe I mean depth, to her. She said all the right things and showed anger in all the right places, even when she almost chopped your nose off, but it was like she was going through the motions.'
Horton climbed into the car and stared across at the house. A light had come on in the front bedroom. He watched as she pulled the curtains, pausing to look down on them.
'She's leaving.'
'How do you make that out?'
'No cats. She had five when I was here before and there wasn't a meow to be heard.'
'Perhaps they're all out chasing mice.'
'Have you ever known a cat to be out in this weather when it's got a nice warm comfortable bed or chair to sleep on?'
