a hobby or profession?
Then his eyes spanned the handwritten notes on the box files noting the names of projects: Estuarine, marine and coastal ecotoxicology in the south-west Solent; The determination of seabed reference conditions for potential offshore windfarm sites off the Isle of Wight and Hayling Bay; Sea temperatures and global warming and, judging by the name on the reports, this was clearly Owen Carlsson's profession and his office.
Horton picked out the file on Estuarine, marine and coastal ecotoxicology in the south-west Solent and glanced through the covering notes unable to make much sense of them. Stuffing the papers back, he extracted notes from a second folder. It was a study on the impact of onshore and offshore wind farms on and round the Isle of Wight. An environmental pressure group called REMAF had commissioned it, which stood, Horton saw, for Renewable Energy Means A Future. A shrill piercing tone shattered the silence, making him start. Scrabbling under some papers on the desk, Horton located the phone. The light was flashing on the answer machine, showing that three messages had already been left. He let the phone ring and listened as the answer machine clicked on, shuddering slightly as he heard the dead man's voice.
'Hi, this is Owen Carlsson. I'm out trying to save the planet. Leave a message and I'll get back to you when I've completed my mission. If I don't return your call you'll know I've failed, but you and no one else will be around to care very much by then anyway.'
Horton smiled. Clearly, Owen had had a sense of humour and had been passionate about his work. Then Horton remembered that rotting body and the smile died on his lips.
A male voice bellowed, 'Where the devil are you, Owen? I had to cancel the meeting with Laura. Call me — and I don't mean next week. I mean now.'
The last word was shouted before the phone was slammed down. Horton punched in 1471 and jotted down the telephone number of the caller. It was a mobile number. He pressed the play button and found that the same man had left the other three messages since Monday, growing increasingly cross with each one, and not leaving his name. It was obviously someone well known to Owen. Who was this Laura he kept referring to? From the messages the meeting had been arranged for today, Wednesday.
He shoved the papers on wind farms back into the box file, wondering why Thea hadn't answered the telephone in her brother's absence, explaining that her brother was missing. Perhaps she'd been too upset, he thought, pulling open the desk drawers and rummaging around inside, thinking that maybe he should have put on his latex gloves. She must have heard the phone. Even if she had been out of the house on each occasion why hadn't she come in here and played the messages? Had Owen banned her from doing so? But why would he do that, unless she was one of those women who couldn't resist tidying up, like Catherine who was obsessed with maintaining his former marital home like a show home. Perhaps what he'd seen of this immaculately kept and tastefully decorated house was down to Thea, and her brother had drawn the line at any make-over in here.
There was nothing of interest in the desk. He wondered where Owen Carlsson kept his more personal documents: birth certificates, passport, examination and school certificates, old photographs. There was also no sign of a gun licence and neither was there anything that resembled a gun cabinet. Sergeant Norris would have checked out the ownership of the gun by now, but Horton found himself once again calling Cantelli.
He asked Cantelli to check the National Firearms Licensing Management System, and the police computer to see if either Owen or Thea Carlsson owned a gun.
Then he told Cantelli about the telephone message left on Owen Carlsson's machine and gave him the mobile number. 'Find out who is on the end of it and whatever else you can get on him, but don't tell him about Owen Carlsson. I don't want him alerted.'
'OK.'
Horton called to the cat as he climbed the stairs, remembering what he was meant to be there for, but Bengal didn't show. He checked out the bedrooms at the front of the house, finding that one of them was Owen Carlsson's while the other was a plainly decorated spare room. There was nothing in either of them to tell him why Owen Carlsson had been killed. And if he'd been hoping for love letters, pornography or even guns he was disappointed.
Staring around Owen Carlsson's immaculately tidy bedroom he was intrigued by the contrast here with the man's chaotic office below. It made him wonder who the real Owen Carlsson was — the tidy one or the rather more carefree one indicated by his office and that answer phone message. Was there an inner conflict in Owen Carlsson, a split personality perhaps that had somehow resulted in his death?
God, he was beginning to sound like a psychologist, a breed he didn't have much time for after his experiences of them as a child. It didn't take a degree or professional training to know why he had been so unruly. A police officer and his wife, who had been his last foster parents, had managed to interpret his moods and needs and channel his energy into making his life more constructive not any trick cyclist.
His attention was caught by the sound of a car pulling up, and hurrying to the window he saw a smartly dressed woman in her fifties enter the house to his right. It could be worth having a word with her. He checked the bathroom — nothing out of the ordinary unless there were blood stains invisible to the naked eye — before pushing open the door of the last room along the landing. Here he found the cat curled up on a dark blue duvet.
The huge tabby opened one eye and contemplated him warily as he moved around the bedroom. Judging by the female clothes and smattering of toiletries in the adjoining shower room this was clearly Thea Carlsson's bedroom, but he was struck by the fact that she had few possessions and even fewer clothes. There was also no laptop computer, no mobile phone and no personal letters. On the mantelpiece though were two framed photographs and Horton crossed to these. He found himself looking at what must surely be Owen Carlsson. Here were the same thin face, white-blond hair, pale blue eyes and wide mouth as his sister. They could almost have been twins except that — judging by this photograph — Owen had been some years older than Thea, who was standing next to him in cap and gown. Horton wondered what her subject had been; she could hardly have graduated in psychic mediumship. Where did she work? What did she do? He hoped Cantelli would enlighten him because there was nothing here to tell him.
He replaced the photograph and picked up the other one. It was of a man and woman, in their mid to late twenties, standing beside a motorbike, which Horton recognized instantly as a Triumph. He also knew immediately who the couple were. There was no mistaking the parents of Owen and Thea Carlsson. And judging by their clothes it looked as though the picture had been taken in the early 1970s. Where were they now, he wondered? Why hadn't Thea mentioned them? They would need to be told about their son's death. But then he recalled that Thea had said there was no one. They must be dead, he thought, replacing the picture, unable to stop himself thinking of his own parents.
He'd never known his father, and as far as he could remember his mother hadn't spoken of him. Was he alive, and if so was he even aware of Horton's existence? He doubted it. And there was no way of knowing or finding out, unless he located his mother. And that seemed highly unlikely. The past was better left where it was. If only it would stay there, he thought bitterly, turning his attention to the books in the low bookcase.
He found several on spiritual healing and psychic phenomena, which were obviously Thea's given her earlier declaration. He thought of Birch and Norris's reactions to her claims of being in touch with the dead and winced. Was she sticking to her story? He hoped not but what was the alternative? That she was a killer? There was a vulnerability about her that bothered him. And he didn't much like the vision of Birch's cynicism and derision as he questioned her.
Had she asked for a solicitor? He told himself that Birch's officers would have explained her rights, but he was concerned that her shock might make her say something which Birch would misinterpret or seize upon as evidence of her guilt — like that damn psychic thing. And if she hadn't been charged…
Telling himself he was an idiot, he rang the solicitor who was handling his divorce. Frances Greywell came on the line almost instantly. She didn't give him the chance to speak.
'I've heard nothing more from Catherine's solicitor about you seeing Emma. I'll chase them up.'
'I'm not calling about that. Do you know any good lawyers on the island who specialize in criminal law?'
'Why?' she asked, surprised. 'Are you-?'
'It's not for me,' he hastily interjected and quickly gave her an edited version of his discovery that morning, and details of Thea Carlsson.
'There's Michael Braxton. He's well thought of.'
'Call him and ask him to contact DCI Birch or Sergeant Norris at Newport station. If Thea hasn't got a solicitor, ask Braxton if he'd represent her. I want someone with her as soon as possible despite anything she says
