Blood on the Sand
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Inspector Andy Horton's holiday peace is shattered when stepping out across an abandoned golf course on the Isle of Wight on a cold, grey January morning, he finds himself facing a distraught young woman with a gun in her hand, leaning over a corpse in one of the discarded bunkers. When she professes to be the dead man's sister and psychic, Horton's old adversary, DCI Birch, is convinced she is a mentally disturbed killer, but Horton is not so sure. Soon he is uncovering a web of intrigue that ripples down the years, and which someone is determined should never be revealed...
photograph on the mantelpiece in Thea’s bedroom, only this time they were in evening dress. The picture had obviously been taken at an awards ceremony, and again he saw the striking resemblance between Thea and her mother. He made to pass it to Uckfield. ‘I’ve read it. Doesn’t tell us much.’ ‘I’ll read it later.’ Horton thrust it in his pocket. ‘What about the accident?’ Trueman continued. ‘It was a wet and windy night, in March. Visibility was poor. The autopsy on Lars Carlsson, who was driving,
wasn’t . . .?’ ‘No.’ Horton didn’t see any need to tell her about his or Thea’s close encounter. Uckfield said, ‘But she is missing.’ Horton would have preferred to have kept that quiet. And he didn’t like the undertone of Uckfield’s statement. Laura said, ‘Perhaps she’s returned to Luxembourg?’ Horton answered. ‘How did you know she lived there?’ ‘I had a meeting with Owen on the twenty-second of December in Brussels to discuss the project and he mentioned he was spending Christmas with his
Medicine Agency, the European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control, and the European Environment Agency.’ ‘But not Owen’s findings,’ Uckfield added pointedly. Horton knew that Laura Rosewood had already confirmed that but he wondered if Thea could still have translated something that had made her rush home to her brother. Though what it could have been, and how it could have led to his death and Jonathan Anmore’s, he didn’t know. He guessed he was on the wrong track with that one. But there
watched her as she studied it. There was the merest flicker of anger before she said, ‘How did you get hold of this?’ 130 Pauline Rowson She’d made no attempt to deny it was her because she knew they would check. He said, ‘Helen Carlsson took it.’ Bella Westbury’s surprise seemed genuine. ‘Well, I don’t remember her, or the photograph being taken.’ ‘I find that difficult to believe,’ sneered Horton. ‘A Prime Ministerial visit in troubled Northern Ireland and you on protective security duty, I
everything else was just wallpaper. And he knew that the thin man in front of him, in baggy jogging pants and an overlarge and grubby sweatshirt, was the key to the murders. How had an intelligent man like Sutton been taken in by this shyster? And why hadn’t Arina Sutton seen through him? But then maybe she had. And it had cost her her life. He said, ‘If you tell me one more lie, I will charge you for murder. Is that clear?’ His head was pounding. He knew he was out of order, but the only way to