Pauline Rowson - Blood on the Sand

His mind went back to the scene. Was there anywhere near where Owen's body had been found that could have harboured a killer who had shot him as he walked past? There was a cafe — closed this time of year, a handful of very large houses — mostly divided up into holiday flats, some holiday caravans and beach huts, all facing the sea, again some distance away, and mostly empty. There was also the marina shop. If Owen had been killed as he'd walked past any of these, his body would then need to have been dragged over the nature reserve to the bunker where he'd been found. It was possible, he supposed, but that didn't answer the question why nobody had discovered him before yesterday, if he'd been killed on Saturday, and he didn't know that for sure. He was about to ask Gaye Clayton when she started talking again.

'I've sent his clothes to the forensic lab and I also took radiographs; they might reveal tiny fragments of glass, although at the distance from which he was shot I'm not hopeful.' She swallowed the remainder of her coffee and pulled a face as though not liking the taste. 'I've been living off this stuff all night. Doctor's curse. Takes me back to the old days on A and E. I'll probably have a thumping head tomorrow.'

Horton had difficulty seeing Gaye Clayton with living patients after having watched her cut into the flesh of dead people. 'How long had Carlsson been dead?' he asked.

'Ah, an intelligent question! You're redeemed, Inspector. There was a great deal of rigour in the body and lividity was extensive and permanent. The flies had laid their eggs in the soft tissue and they'd hatched. Sorry, Sergeant, is this making you queasy?'

Cantelli took a deep breath and said, 'After-effects of sea sickness.'

Horton smiled grimly and tried not to see the carcase of Owen Carlsson, or think about that smell.

'The eggs will usually hatch within eight to fourteen hours depending on the body temperature and the conditions outside. The maggots had gone through their first stage, which means that your victim had been dead two to three days, maybe four, but they hadn't reached the second stage so he certainly hadn't been dead as long as seven days.'

Cantelli swallowed hard.

Horton said, 'Which fits with his sister seeing him on Saturday morning and Mrs Mackie seeing him on the chain ferry later the same morning.'

'He was probably killed either late Saturday or some time during Sunday. Early Monday morning, at the latest, and that's the best I can do,' said Dr Clayton, almost apologetically.

Thea had said that she'd got no answer from her brother's mobile phone on Saturday evening, which suggested that Owen Carlsson was already dead. So where had he gone when he'd left the chain ferry in Cowes?

'Did you find anything in Owen's pockets?'

Gaye shook her head. 'Not even a handkerchief.'

Cantelli said, 'His wallet must have been in the rucksack. Could robbery have been the motive?'

'Has anyone used his debit or credit cards?'

'Not yet. But he could have had cash on him.'

'Villains don't usually go round shooting people on the Isle of Wight for cash,' Horton ventured. 'This is hardly an inner city.'

'No, but it is possible,' Cantelli insisted. 'They could have been high on drugs, or drunk, saw Owen out walking, alone, and thought him an easy target.'

Horton thought it unlikely. He reckoned this killer had known exactly where Owen Carlsson was every minute, probably every second of the day. And again he thought of Thea. What did she know that she wasn't saying?

Cantelli continued. 'Let's say they shot him through a car window, saw him fall, screeched to a halt, jumped out and stole his money. Then they tossed his rucksack in a ditch or hedge and bundled the body into the boot of the car.'

'I can tell you're feeling better; your creative juices are working well.'

'Must be this coffee.'

'Any views on that, Dr Clayton?' asked Horton.

'If he was kept in a car, he wasn't there for long. I didn't find any traces of oil on his clothes or skin, but there were fibres that looked as though he'd been covered with something: a rug, blanket, or similar. His clothes were wet, and there are salt residues, but given that he was found so close to the sea that's hardly surprising. The lab will give you a more accurate analysis.'

Cantelli resumed. 'The villains could have driven to the car park at the Duver, bundled Owen Carlsson out of the car late Tuesday night, carried him to the sand dune and then left him with the gun, which they wiped free of their prints, before pressing it into Carlsson's hand to make it look as though he'd shot himself.'

Gaye interjected. 'His prints were on the gun, but there was no gun residue on his hands.'

Horton looked thoughtful. 'I just can't see your average yobbo going to so much trouble. They'd have left the body where they shot him. And they certainly wouldn't have left their gun behind.'

'OK, not yobbos and not drunks,' Cantelli conceded, evidently reluctant to give up on his theory. 'But someone who set out to kill Owen Carlsson and make it look like suicide.'

But Dr Clayton was shaking her head. 'They failed.'

'Perhaps they're not very bright.' Cantelli added. 'After all, they got the wrong person first time round when they ran into Arina Sutton.'

'Ah, but that would mean Owen's death was planned and not a random attack. And was Arina the wrong person?' posed Horton.

Gaye looked up, more alert than previously. 'Sutton?'

'You know her?' Horton asked, curious, hearing a note of recognition in her voice.

'I know a Professor Sir Christopher Sutton.' She gave a tired smile and half a shrug. 'But it's a common enough surname.'

'Who is he?'

'A neuropsychiatric consultant.'

'A what?' asked Cantelli.

Gaye smiled wearily. 'Neuropsychiatry is the study of mental disorders attributable to the nervous system. Sutton is a clever man and a very entertaining speaker, egocentric like a lot of consultants, but brilliant. He must be retired by now. I heard him talk years ago, at a seminar, when I was studying personality, profiling and criminology. He was about sixty then and a legend in his field.'

Horton doubted if there was a connection, but he'd ask Trueman to check just to be sure. Not that it had any bearing on this case. Still, any information was better than none. Addressing Cantelli, Horton said, 'Did Thea Carlsson mention anything to Birch about Arina Sutton being killed in the same spot as her parents in 1990?'

'If she did he didn't bring it up at the briefing this morning. He claims she said practically nothing before the solicitor showed up and afterwards just sat there looking forlorn. All she did say was that she went to the Duver because she had a feeling that was where she'd find her brother. Of course Birch doesn't believe her.'

And neither does anyone else, thought Horton, studying Cantelli to see what he thought. Cantelli simply raised his dark eyebrows, as though to say 'who knows?'

Gaye scraped back her chair with a yawn. 'Sounds like you've got quite a case on your hands, Inspector.'

'I'm on holiday,' Horton replied, rising.

'Looks like it,' she rejoined sarcastically. 'Well, I'm going home to catch up on my beauty sleep.'

He should have answered, 'you don't need it', but he'd never been one for smooth talking. Not that Gaye Clayton expected it, but she was eyeing him rather curiously.

'I'll give you a lift to the hovercraft,' volunteered Cantelli as they headed out of the cafe.

Outside Horton paused and peered through the heavy stinging rain. There was no one loitering suspiciously. In this weather there wasn't anyone about at all.

Turning to Cantelli he said, 'How did Thea get to Bembridge? She didn't use her brother's car.'

'She phoned for a taxi to take her to St Helens and walked down to the Duver from there. The taxi driver has confirmed it.'