Blood on the Sand by Pauline Rowson Page A

fare outside the hospital. Giving the driver instructions to return to his boat he once again wished he had the Harley. He toyed with the idea of sailing back to Southsea Marina tomorrow to collect it and then return to the Isle of Wight by car ferry, but that would lose him a day's investigation and he couldn't afford that. Besides, he had to stick around to see if Owen Carlsson's killer got curious about him again. Glancing at his watch he was surprised to see it was only eight o'clock. It felt a hell of a lot later. Suddenly he knew what he had to do.
       'Take me to Ryde Pier and the FastCat to Portsmouth.'
       'But you said––'
       'The FastCat, and as quick as you can.' With luck and a following wind he'd make the twenty fifteen crossing. From Portsmouth he could get a taxi to Southsea Marina, collect the Harley and return on the car ferry to the Isle of Wight. He could have hired a car on the island, but he much preferred the Harley. On that he could think.
       It was ten minutes before midnight when he finally returned to Bembridge Marina. He'd grabbed a pizza in a restaurant in Oyster Quays while waiting for the ferry to the island, and had snatched half an hour's sleep on the crossing, but that had only served to make him feel more exhausted than when he'd set out. He'd ridden through the quiet streets of the Isle of Wight carefully, grateful for the sheeting rain and cold night to help keep him alert.
       His yacht was as he had left it, chaotic, but there were no further signs of an intruder. Tidying up would have to wait. He gulped down a tumbler of water hoping it would ease the rawness in his throat, then showered and lay down in the darkness listening to the soothing sound of the water slapping against the hull, and the rain drumming on the coach roof.
       His mind sped back over the day's events, trying to make some kind of sense of the information he'd gleaned, but there were too many gaps. Perhaps Uckfield would be able to fill some of them in tomorrow – or rather today, he thought, glancing at the luminous digital clock beside him. And at least he'd get the chance to talk to Thea and find out who had told her where to look for her brother's body, and who had tried to kill her.
       Had the killer lured her to the Duver with the intention of making it look as though she'd killed her brother, and had then intended to shoot her and make her death look like suicide? Horton's arrival on the scene had scuppered that plan so the killer had tried again by knocking Thea out and setting fire to the house. It was possible. And he reckoned she knew who that person was. But why not say? Why protect him? Could it be a boyfriend?
       His phone rang. He was surprised to hear Sergeant Trueman's voice.
       'Bloody hell, Dave, can't you sleep?'
       'Not unless the boss tells me to. Actually I'm just on my way to our hotel. Hope I didn't wake you.'
       'You didn't.'
       'Thought not. Owen Carlsson––'
       'Yes?' Horton sat up, all thoughts of sleep obliterated with those two words.
       'He was involved in an incident nineteen days ago. A woman he was with was killed in a hit-and run at Seaview. Carlsson was paying the bill at the Seaview Hotel, where he'd been dining with Arina Sutton, his companion. She said she wanted a breath of fresh air. It was eleven fifteen. When Carlsson stepped out of the hotel he saw a car speeding towards her. He called out, but it was too late; she was knocked flying. Died instantly. No witnesses, apart from Carlsson.'
       What a waste. Was this woman's death enough for Owen to have killed himself ? But it hadn't been suicide. Tonight's events had proved that.
       'Did we get the driver?'
       'I'm not sure what the Isle of Wight police have done to trace him.'
       Horton heard the underlying criticism in Trueman's voice. Why hadn't Birch or Norris mentioned this to him, Horton wondered? They should have recognized the victim's name when