Evelyn Mackie's cultured tone broke through his thoughts. 'Owen was a lovely man, so polite and friendly.'
That didn't mean he was kind to his sister and animals though. Bullies often put on a false facade to the outer world whilst tormenting their victims. But the man on that answer machine message hadn't sounded like a bully.
Heaving a sad sigh Evelyn Mackie added, 'I can't believe he's dead. I only saw him on Saturday on the chain ferry crossing to East Cowes. He seemed fine then.'
Horton's ears pricked up at that. Thea claimed to have last seen her brother leaving the house on Saturday morning. 'What time was this?'
'It must have been just after ten. I was in my car heading for Fishbourne to collect a friend from the ten twenty-five car ferry from Portsmouth.'
'Was Owen in his car?'
'No, on foot. He was dressed for walking; boots, stick and a rucksack. I asked if he wanted a lift anywhere, but he said no. He didn't say where he was going.'
Pity. Horton recalled that Owen had been wearing boots when he'd seen the body, but where were the rucksack and the walking stick?
'Can you remember what he was wearing?'
She thought for a moment. 'Dark-green corduroy trousers and a navy-blue waterproof jacket. Why?'
'Just curious,' he said dismissively, but seeing that his comment didn't convince her, he expanded, 'Thea told me Owen had disappeared on Saturday so I was just checking if it had been when he went for that walk. It sounds like it to me.' Horton rose. 'Maybe I should tell Owen's neighbours on the other side.'
'It's a second home,' she said scathingly. 'They only come over in August for Cowes Week and at Christmas.'
Horton could tell she didn't like that either. And it did seem rather a waste of a house going empty for much of the year. He would like to have asked her more about Thea but that might have made her curious about him, and besides, if Thea had only just arrived then Mrs Mackie probably wouldn't know much anyway.
Horton took his leave and headed for the chain ferry. But the ferryman couldn't remember seeing Owen Carlsson. 'All these walkers look alike to me, mate,' he said. Horton doubted the man would have remembered even if he'd shown him the photograph from Thea's mantelpiece.
It had started to drizzle. There wasn't much more Horton could do. It would take resources and a media appeal to discover where Owen Carlsson had gone, and that was down to Birch, he thought gloomily.
By the time he'd reached the marina the drizzle had turned to a cold penetrating rain, and a chill wind was barrelling off the sea. What had started as such a beautiful day had turned into a grim one in more ways than meteorologically. He was tempted to revisit the scene to see what Taylor and his team had discovered, but curbed his impatience. Taylor would be with him soon enough, and besides he was wet and cold.
There was no sign of Sergeant Elkins or PC Ripley on the police launch moored five boats along from his yacht. Probably inside having a cuppa. Horton didn't blame them. It was Elkins' friend who had loaned him this yacht until April, after Horton's little yacht, which had been his home since Catherine had ejected him, had been set alight. Soon he would have to start looking for a boat of his own. He couldn't contemplate living in a dingy flat even though he'd been told by Frances Greywell that it would be viewed more favourably than a boat by the children's court judge.
He reached for his key and froze. The hatch was open. Surely to God he'd locked it before leaving. OK, so he'd been in a hurry to get to Thea Carlsson's house before DCI Birch, but not that much of a rush to forget to lock up.
His eyes narrowed. The padlock had been forced. Someone had broken in. In Bembridge this sort of crime, or in fact any type of crime, was highly unusual. In the space of six hours he'd managed to unearth two. Maybe Cantelli was right and he was jinxed.
Stealthily he stepped on board, his ears straining for the slightest noise. The intruder could be below. But only the sounds of the water slapping against the hull, the rain drumming on the decks and the wind moaning through the halyards greeted him.
He eased back the hatch. Nothing. Silently he crept down the steps into the cabin, then stiffened with fury as he registered the devastation around him. Every cupboard had been opened and the contents strewn over the floor and seats. But no maniac rushed out to assault him. He was alone. Whoever had done this was long gone.
Swiftly he made his way to his cabin where his clothes were tossed on the bed, his holdall upended. Since the fire on board Nutmeg, he had learned not to keep anything of value on the boat. His passport and a copy of his birth certificate, along with the missing person's file on his mother, were now safely held at Framptons Solicitors. He carried with him credit and debit cards, a photograph of Emma and his warrant card. All his post he'd had redirected to the station. The only thing of any real value on the boat was his laptop computer, and that was still here, intact and in its bag, and as far as he could see the zip hadn't been tampered with.
Why hadn't the intruder stolen it? It would have been valuable in its own right, and if someone had cracked his password allowing access to his emails and the police computers it would have been worth a bloody fortune. Did this suggest someone unfamiliar with technology? Or the opposite — someone who knew enough about computers to know that hacking in and finding the password would take time, expertise and blind guesswork and, by that time, Horton would have changed it anyway, so had left it behind.
Whatever, this clearly wasn't the work of an opportunist thief, or someone high on drugs or drink looking for something to sell for a quick fix. This intruder, Horton reckoned, had been searching for some clue as to his identity. And he wouldn't have found it.
He climbed back on deck and stared around in the slanting rain. The pontoon was hardly on the criminal's usual route, so why here, why now and why his boat? And why hadn't he stolen anything? There was only one answer: Owen Carlsson's murder.
THREE
'There are no prints, except yours,' Taylor mumbled nasally two hours later.
Horton wasn't surprised. Even the most stupid of thieves watched enough television to know they should wear gloves. But that didn't always guarantee they couldn't be identified.
'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.