Danesbrook to get Cantelli to check the old man was OK, but then he thought it unlikely Jonathan would have said anything to his father.
'You have to believe me,' Danesbrook pleaded. 'We haven't killed anyone.'
'Get your coat.'
'But you said I could stay if I cooperated.'
'Did I? Sergeant, call a car to take him in.'
Danesbrook looked like a man who'd just seen his winning lottery ticket flushed down the toilet. 'You've got this all wrong, Inspector. We were going to get money from Sir Christopher, I admit that. He had plenty and his daughter didn't need it all, there was no real harm in that, but we wouldn't and didn't kill anyone.'
Horton wasn't convinced. He reckoned they were both capable of murder and a million pounds was a powerful motive. Of course that didn't fit with the deaths of Helen and Lars Carlsson. But that didn't mean there wasn't a reason. Only one he hadn't yet discovered.
As Cantelli stepped into the hall to call in, Horton said to Danesbrook, 'Where were you in March 1990?'
'I can't remember. Why do you want to know?'
Horton glared at him.
'All right. Let me think.' After a moment his haggard features brightened. 'I was in London, at the Poll Tax riots.'
'All month?'
'Pretty much. The riot was planned for the end of the month, the thirty-first of March, so there was a lot of organizing to do beforehand. That was one of my more successful demonstrations,' he added boastfully. 'It killed the tax dead. We showed the government they couldn't ride roughshod over us.' He gave a tentative smile.
'For someone who has spent most of his life on benefit and hardly paid a pound in taxes that's a bit rich,' Horton spat scornfully.
Cantelli led Danesbrook outside to a waiting patrol car. As he was giving instructions to the uniformed officers inside it Horton's phone rang. It was Marsden.
'Bella Westbury's leaving home with a suitcase, sir,' he said excitedly.
'Follow her.' He rang off and to Cantelli said, 'Bella's on the move. She can't get far at this time of night. The only transport off the island is the car ferry. When she gets there we'll bring her in.'
But they'd only just pulled into the station car park when his phone rang again.
'I've lost her,' Marsden relayed, dejectedly.
Horton cursed.
'She must have known I was tailing her,' Marsden said, 'because she timed it to perfection, slipping through on a red at a set of traffic lights. I couldn't follow, a damn great lorry was charging through. She was heading in the direction of Cowes so I thought she might have been taking the Red Funnel ferry to Southampton. But her car's not here.'
Horton quickly thought. 'Stay there, call me if she shows up and arrest her for the murder of Arina Sutton. I'll send a unit there to assist you.'
He rang off and speedily told Cantelli what had happened. 'Turn round and head for Cowes,' he ordered. 'The terminal's not the only place she could have been heading. There's a marina and that means boats.'
As Cantelli sped to the marina, Horton rang through to the station and told Uckfield what had happened.
'I'll put an alert out for her,' Uckfield said. 'Leave Danesbrook to me. This time I'll get him to talk, smarmy solicitor or not.'
Horton didn't know how he was going to find the boat Bella Westbury might be leaving the island on. She'd given no indication that she could handle one, and neither had there been anything in her house to point him in this direction. But he had to be right. And he had a feeling that if they didn't catch up with Bella now then they never would. She would go underground again.
'Her car's here,' Cantelli said, sweeping into the car park.
'You take the pontoons to the right, I'll take these.' Horton set off at a fast pace to his left, knowing that Cantelli wasn't about to enjoy himself on the water but he wouldn't shirk doing a thorough job nevertheless.
He wondered if they were already too late. She could be halfway down the River Medina by now, or out into the Solent.
The rain bounced off the wooden pontoons and the wind whistled and clattered through the masts. He didn't even know where to start. He could be searching one pontoon only to see her boat slip past him having left another. But, straining his eyes, he saw a figure step off a small yacht halfway down a pontoon to his right. His heart quickened but no, the build was wrong for Bella Westbury. Then there was the throb of a powerful engine. It was coming from the pontoon to his left. He spun round. It had to be her.
He sprinted back down the pontoon and up the other one with the rain bashing into him. A hooded figure was loosening the stern rope. It spun round at the movement of the pontoon and the sound of his footsteps. There was no mistaking who it was this time.
Bella Westbury hesitated, dashed a glance at the boat, looked set to jump on board, and then changed her mind. He reckoned she didn't have much choice; he could easily leap on before the boat pulled away, or, easier still, radio up and get the marine unit to pull her in.
'Tut, tut, you were meant to tell me if you were leaving the island,' Horton said with heavy sarcasm, drawing level with her.
'I didn't want to ruin your beauty sleep, Inspector.' Her expression remained impassive except, Horton thought, for a hint of scorn in the way the corners of her mouth turned down. She glanced away and retied the rope on the cleat. 'I expect you've taken Danesbrook in for questioning.'
'He said you were the brains behind defrauding Sir Christopher.'
She said nothing, simply raised her eyebrows.
'You'd better come with me to the station,' he said briskly, trying not to be irked by her arrogance.
'Then I'll need to switch off the engine and collect my things.'
Horton had no choice. Either he had to kill the engine or she did and either way if he let her out of his sight she could make a bolt for it. He wished Cantelli was here but there was no way of alerting him without phoning him and he didn't want to give Bella the slightest chance to slip away from him. He followed her on board and into the wheelhouse. The engine was silenced.
'My things are in the cabin.'
As he stepped down behind her he braced himself for a possible attack. He hadn't forgotten that pitchfork in Jonathan Anmore's back or the gunshot wound in Owen Carlsson's temple. He could be looking at a triple murderer who could be about to turn on him with a knife or gun.
'I'm not your killer,' she said, reading his mind.
'Why are you running away then?'
'My job's finished.'
Horton knew she didn't mean housekeeping. 'With Anmore's death?'
'No. Like I said, I'm not your killer, and neither is Roy Danesbrook. I didn't think there was any point hanging around any longer.'
Horton held her confident gaze. 'You didn't change sides, did you?' he said. 'In 1996 you were at the Newbury by-pass protest with Danesbrook. Your job was to infiltrate the protesters in order to tell the road contractor, or the police, or both, what the protesters were going to do. You also told Danesbrook's wife that you'd slept with her husband. Does Danesbrook know what you did to him, and that you were a spy?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
Oh, she did all right. And she didn't seem at all worried. That infuriated him. She was too complacent, too cocky.
Harshly he said, 'No doubt you also fed information to Intelligence on the Greenham Common peace protest and the miners' strike, and others I suspect. So who are you working for this time? And don't tell me you're not.'
She eyed him for a moment then said, 'Seeing as you're not recording this, Inspector, I work for whoever pays and needs me, private enterprise or the government, I'm not fussy. We both know there are organizations that will give handsome rewards for leaked information about their competitors. You can't get everything from the Internet despite what people think. Sometimes it needs a real live person to get into an organization
