Pauline Rowson: Blood on the Sand

'Can you get anything from the glove prints?'

Taylor sniffed and shrugged an answer. It didn't inspire Horton with much hope. If the intruder had worn gloves then it meant he'd either had a pair on him to save his fingers from the cold — which didn't sound like your average toe-rag criminal — or he'd come equipped for breaking and entering, which if he had then surely he would have stolen the laptop computer. No, Taylor's findings confirmed Horton's initial thoughts: this intruder had come equipped with gloves because he had already dumped Owen Carlsson's body in that bunker earlier that morning after killing him, and had then hung around to see Carlsson's sister turn up to discover it. Which meant he either must have told Thea where to find it and all that stuff about her being psychic had been a lie, or he was Thea's accomplice in crime and her horror-stricken act had been staged for his or some other passer-by's benefit exactly as DCI Birch had suggested. The thought depressed Horton.

'We might get something from these hairs,' Taylor said, holding up a tiny plastic bag, 'Unless they're yours?'

'Mine aren't that long.' Horton ran a hand over his cropped fair head. And unless they belonged to the owner of this boat, or a friend of his, then they must belong to the intruder, because Horton certainly hadn't been entertaining on board this yacht. It was something, but it was useless if they didn't already have this person on the DNA database to match it against. And then, he thought, he could have brought the hair in himself on his clothing picked up from the bus or Evelyn Mackie's house…

Taylor said, 'I've taken scrapings from various items that the intruder must have touched. That might give us something.'

And, Horton thought hopefully, it might match with evidence found on Carlsson's body, which made him once again think of Thea Carlsson. Angry with himself for letting her get under his skin, he flicked on the kettle and said tersely, 'What did you find at the scene of crime? The other crime,' he added.

'It's too early to say.'

Horton had expected that. 'Coffee?'

'Allergic.'

Horton had yet to find something that Taylor wasn't allergic to. Work, he supposed. The man was mournful, nasal and mostly monosyllabic but he was efficient, dedicated, thorough and hard working. What more could a police officer ask?

'There was stuff that could have been there for days, weeks even,' Taylor added. 'Cigar and cigarette butts, couple of condoms, used.'

'Not much good if they haven't been,' muttered Horton. 'You didn't find the bullet then?'

'No.'

So it would be down to Dr Clayton to excavate it from Owen Carlsson's body.

'Anything strike you as unusual?' Horton asked, making himself a coffee. Taylor had over twelve years' experience, a sharp eye and a good brain. Not much got past him.

'There are no obvious signs that the body was transported there: no broken or trampled gorse bushes, no footprints, and no vehicle could get to that spot. But there was a lot of rain last night, and wind, so the sand has shifted and some of the gorse bushes have been uprooted; it's difficult to tell if that was because of the weather.'

'But you don't think he was killed there?' Horton pressed.

'We've got photographic images; we'll enhance them and they might give us a clearer picture.' Taylor slid out of his seat. 'I'll get everything examined and relay our findings to DCI Birch.'

It was a gentle reminder to Horton that he wasn't in charge of this investigation. Feeling irritable and restless, he watched Taylor go, knowing he was right; this case had nothing to do with him. Tomorrow he'd make his statement at Newport police station, and return home to Southsea Marina on the next high tide. He'd forget all about Thea Carlsson and her dead brother.

The trilling of his mobile sliced through his thoughts.

'For Christ's sake, Andy, can't you go anywhere without causing trouble?' Superintendent Uckfield bellowed.

'I didn't shoot him.'

'Just don't ask me to go on holiday with you!'

Perish the thought.

'Well?' commanded Uckfield.

'Well what?' How come Uckfield was suddenly interested? 'You'll have to talk to Detective Chief Inspector Birch.'

'He reckons he's got the tart who did it.'

'She's not a tart,' Horton said stiffly, and too quickly. He took a breath, not wanting Uckfield to read too much into his reaction, but it was too late.

'Oh, like that, is it?'

Hearing the sneer in Uckfield's voice, Horton cursed himself for over-reacting. But his response to Uckfield had told him he could no more walk away from this than streak naked through Portsmouth's busiest thoroughfare in the middle of market day. Forcing his voice to sound more casual, he said, 'Has Birch charged her?' He heard the deep throb of the police launch as it headed out of the marina.

'Says it's only a matter of time.'

'Motive?'

'Claims brother and sister could have fallen out.'

'Over what?'

'He'll find out.'

Or fabricate it, thought Horton uneasily. He didn't trust the emaciated Birch one inch. 'She was very distressed to find her brother's body.'

'Could be guilt.'

Horton gave him that, but he still wasn't convinced, despite his earlier thoughts. She hadn't looked guilt-ridden. But there was more to it than that. He told himself he wasn't attracted to her, and yet there was something that he couldn't explain, even to himself — a feeling, a bond? He didn't know exactly and was irritated at not being able to pinpoint it.

Uckfield said, 'How come she found him?'

Horton hesitated; he certainly wasn't going to tell Uckfield the psychic bit. The big man would laugh from here to John O'Groats and back again and then think the same as everyone else: that Thea was off her trolley or guilty as hell. So Birch hadn't told Uckfield about that. He wondered why. He must know by now; the woman police officer would have relayed that nugget of information even if Thea hadn't repeated her claim in the interview room. To distract Uckfield, Horton said, 'Owen Carlsson was seen on Saturday on the Cowes chain ferry.'

'How the bloody hell do you know that?'

'I've talked to his neighbour.'

'Thought you were on holiday. Does Birch know?'

'No idea.' Horton waited for the reprimand and was surprised when it didn't come. Instead Uckfield almost chuckled.

'Tell me what you've got.'

So Uckfield was another one who wasn't a member of Birch's fan club. Horton wondered who was; Sergeant Norris probably. He quickly briefed Uckfield about his visit to Owen Carlsson's house, but still said nothing about Thea and her psychic warning, or about the break-in on his yacht.

'We're coming over,' Uckfield abruptly announced when Horton had finished.

'The major crime team's been called in?' asked Horton with a mixture of surprise and relief. It meant that Birch must have doubts about Thea being the killer. Or more likely he couldn't prove it. That solicitor, Michael Braxton, must be doing a good job.

Uckfield said, 'Strange as it might seem, murder, or suspected murder, counts as a major crime.'

But Horton knew that wasn't the real reason. He could hear it in Uckfield's voice. And if Birch hadn't asked for assistance, who had?

Uckfield said, 'We'll be there just before eight.'

'Who's we?'

'Marsden and Somerfield-'

'DI Dennings?' Horton asked sharply. He didn't want the man who had taken his job in the major crime team plodding all over the place. Since appointing Dennings, Uckfield had realized his mistake and had been trying to ease him out, but unfortunately Dennings was sticking to Uckfield like treacle to a spoon, much to Uckfield's chagrin.

Uckfield said, 'He's sick.'

'Can't be with stress,' Horton quipped. 'He'd need to be overworked for that.'