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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.'
       'Flu,' Uckfield replied curtly.
       'And the Port Special Branch post you're trying to persuade him to take?'
       'Still trying. There's that vacancy on my team, remember?'
        Not yet there isn't , thought Horton, if Dennings refuses to go . 'I'm on holiday,' he said, hoping Uckfield would ignore that. But he didn't.
       'Cantelli's coming with me.'
       Poor Cantelli. He got seasick just looking at water. And he didn't think Charlotte would be very pleased at having her husband dragged away from the bosom of his large family. He said, 'Then you'd better ask him what he's already got on Owen Carlsson.'
       'Jesus! Has everyone been investigating this case except me, who should be?'
       Horton said nothing, forcing Uckfield to continue. 'Trueman will co-ordinate the incident room at Newport station. Can't trust these islanders to do that properly.'
       Birch and Norris were going to love this, Horton thought gleefully.
       'And Somerfield might be able to get close to Thea Carlsson. You know, woman to woman kind of thing. Birch has had to release her. Seems she's got a pretty good lawyer and Birch had no real evidence to hold her, though he could have applied to do so, if he'd thought about it a bit longer. But thinking is not Birch's strong point.'
       Why the hell hadn't Uckfield told him this immediately? And why hadn't that damn solicitor told him when Horton had left clear instructions that he should do so? Had Thea told him not to? Maybe Frances Greywell hadn't relayed the message.
       Uckfield rang off. Horton thought about calling Cantelli then changed his mind. The sergeant was probably packing his bag and taking his sea sickness pills. Instead Horton called Braxton, after getting his number from Frances Greywell's office, only to be told that Mr Braxton was unavailable.
       'I bet he is,' Horton murmured, throwing his mobile phone down in disgust. He paced the cabin feeling uneasy. He flicked on the light hoping it would dispel his concerns about Thea, but it didn't. The image of her terrified expression haunted him. She simply couldn't be guilty. A chilling suspicion began to form in his mind. Was she being threatened? Had her brother been killed as a warning and she'd been told where to find his body? Was she in that house alone? She had to be unless Evelyn Mackie had seen her return and had called on her. Would Thea have let her in though? Given Thea's past record of keeping to herself he didn't think so.
       God, he wished he'd taken down Owen Carlsson's home telephone number; he could have called her. But again, he doubted if she would have answered it. Why would she have told the solicitor not to notify him that she'd been released? There was only one answer he could think of: because she didn't trust the solicitor. Correction, she didn't trust anybody. But she'd asked him to feed her cat! She'd given him a key. Why? He didn't know, only that he was certain that her life was in danger. He could feel it – and bollocks to Uckfield or anyone else who would laugh at him because of it.
       Before he knew it he was locking the boat and hurrying towards the marina shop in the rain soaked night, wishing he had his Harley-Davidson.
       Scouring the window he spotted a faded, dog-eared card advertising a local taxi company and without much hope rang the number.