he'd given it to them at the scene of the crime, especially when putting it together with the fact that Thea had reported her brother missing. Was Birch holding out? That was highly probable given the man's dislike of him. But perhaps Birch considered the fact that the death of this woman and now her partner was pure coincidence. But Horton didn't trust coincidences one tiny little bit.
'Did Carlsson get a registration number?'
'According to the report he said it all happened too quickly and he was hardly thinking about that.'
No, only police officers were trained that way.
Trueman said, 'All Carlsson could say was that it was a dark-coloured saloon car.'
Which were two a penny. Then a thought struck Horton. Had Owen recognized the driver and been killed because of it? Or perhaps Owen was mixed up in something dangerous; he'd known the accid ent was intended for him – a warning for him to tow the line. Over what though? And how did that affect Thea? Were Thea and Owen both involved in something dangerous? Had Owen ignored this warning and so had to be eliminated? Perhaps the killer thought that Owen had confided in his sister, which was why she had to be killed. Or was he just reading too much into this? Probably.
Rubbing his eyes, Horton said, 'Where did Arina Sutton live?'
'Scanaford House, Arreton.'
Horton knew the village. It was strung out along a busy road between the island's capital at Newport and the coastal resorts of Sandown and Shanklin.
'There's something else,' Trueman added.
Horton could hear by Trueman's tone it was significant.
'Helen and Lars Carlsson, the parents of Owen and Thea, were killed in a road traffic incident in 1990.'
The couple in the photograph with the Triumph motorcycle. Thea had told him there was no one. She hadn't lied. 'So?'
'They died in almost exactly the same spot as Arina Sutton.'
Horton felt a prickling sensation crawl up his spine. 'What happened?' he asked quietly.
'Their car went out of control, careered over the sea wall on to the stones below and caught fire.'
And a child and teenager were orphaned. 'Who was driving?'
'Lars Carlsson. He hadn't been drinking.'
'Suspicious?'
'No.'
Or rather it hadn't been. Not until now.
FIVE
Thursday 8.35a.m.
T he narrow street in Seaview which led down to the sea was deserted. That wasn't surprising, thought Horton, given the time of day, the season and the fact that most of the houses were second homes owned primarily by the London set and frequented only in August.
Horton drew the Harley to a halt by the low sea wall and gazed across a grey choppy Solent into a cloud-shrouded horizon. The shores of Portsmouth and Hayling Island were invisible. It was as though they were marooned here from the rest of the world. Throughout the night his thoughts had been haunted by Thea and the new mystery that Trueman had tossed into his lap – the deaths of Helen and Lars Carlsson in 1990. Did that have anything to do with the incident here nineteen days ago? Had the killer mistaken Arina Sutton for Thea Carlsson and been determined to murder the Carlsson children in exactly the same spot as where their parents had died, only it had gone wrong? But why the hell should he want to do that?
He swivelled round to peer up the road where Arina Sutton had been killed. The first thing that struck him was the driver would need to have been very skilful, or lucky, to have sped down the road and slammed into poor Arina Sutton before taking the sharp bend to the left, without careering over the low sea wall and crashing on to the stones and rocks below, as the Carlssons had done. And another thing: how could the driver have got up so much speed in such a short distance to create an impact powerful enough to kill? OK, so the road was on an incline and pedestrians did die even if hit at low speed, but it was less
'Did Carlsson get a registration number?'
'According to the report he said it all happened too quickly and he was hardly thinking about that.'
No, only police officers were trained that way.
Trueman said, 'All Carlsson could say was that it was a dark-coloured saloon car.'
Which were two a penny. Then a thought struck Horton. Had Owen recognized the driver and been killed because of it? Or perhaps Owen was mixed up in something dangerous; he'd known the accid ent was intended for him – a warning for him to tow the line. Over what though? And how did that affect Thea? Were Thea and Owen both involved in something dangerous? Had Owen ignored this warning and so had to be eliminated? Perhaps the killer thought that Owen had confided in his sister, which was why she had to be killed. Or was he just reading too much into this? Probably.
Rubbing his eyes, Horton said, 'Where did Arina Sutton live?'
'Scanaford House, Arreton.'
Horton knew the village. It was strung out along a busy road between the island's capital at Newport and the coastal resorts of Sandown and Shanklin.
'There's something else,' Trueman added.
Horton could hear by Trueman's tone it was significant.
'Helen and Lars Carlsson, the parents of Owen and Thea, were killed in a road traffic incident in 1990.'
The couple in the photograph with the Triumph motorcycle. Thea had told him there was no one. She hadn't lied. 'So?'
'They died in almost exactly the same spot as Arina Sutton.'
Horton felt a prickling sensation crawl up his spine. 'What happened?' he asked quietly.
'Their car went out of control, careered over the sea wall on to the stones below and caught fire.'
And a child and teenager were orphaned. 'Who was driving?'
'Lars Carlsson. He hadn't been drinking.'
'Suspicious?'
'No.'
Or rather it hadn't been. Not until now.
FIVE
Thursday 8.35a.m.
T he narrow street in Seaview which led down to the sea was deserted. That wasn't surprising, thought Horton, given the time of day, the season and the fact that most of the houses were second homes owned primarily by the London set and frequented only in August.
Horton drew the Harley to a halt by the low sea wall and gazed across a grey choppy Solent into a cloud-shrouded horizon. The shores of Portsmouth and Hayling Island were invisible. It was as though they were marooned here from the rest of the world. Throughout the night his thoughts had been haunted by Thea and the new mystery that Trueman had tossed into his lap – the deaths of Helen and Lars Carlsson in 1990. Did that have anything to do with the incident here nineteen days ago? Had the killer mistaken Arina Sutton for Thea Carlsson and been determined to murder the Carlsson children in exactly the same spot as where their parents had died, only it had gone wrong? But why the hell should he want to do that?
He swivelled round to peer up the road where Arina Sutton had been killed. The first thing that struck him was the driver would need to have been very skilful, or lucky, to have sped down the road and slammed into poor Arina Sutton before taking the sharp bend to the left, without careering over the low sea wall and crashing on to the stones and rocks below, as the Carlssons had done. And another thing: how could the driver have got up so much speed in such a short distance to create an impact powerful enough to kill? OK, so the road was on an incline and pedestrians did die even if hit at low speed, but it was less
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