Suffocating Sea (12 page)

It was all so different from how he remembered it as a child.

Then Lucas sail-makers would have been on his right, the old boat sheds had faced on to the Camber, one of which had still miraculously survived, and across the far side of the water there had been the ship-building engineering works instead of those new houses and apartments.

Suddenly, without warning, he was back here, as a child, sitting on the concrete quayside swinging his legs over the edge.

It was summer. He was eating an ice-cream, which he now recalled his mother had bought from Cantelli’s ice-cream van opposite the engineering works by the ancient harbour walls.

There had always been, and still was in the summer months, a Cantelli ice-cream van there, and it was strange to think his link with the Cantellis went back so far, though he’d only met Barney through work. From that long-ago day he could hear the echoes of seagulls screaming overhead and smell the fish and seaweed mingling with the scent of beer.

With a racing heart he glanced behind him at the Bridge Tavern. It had hardly changed from the outside, but in his mind he saw his mother sitting on one of the wooden benches and beside her was a dark-haired man with a sharp-featured face. His mother looked upset; the man grabbed her arm, he leaned towards her talking earnestly.

Horton snatched his head away and stared at the fishing boats with an intense feeling of anger. They were the emotions he had experienced then, as a boy of what? Eight possibly.

So why had he felt like that? Why hadn’t he liked the man?

What had he said to Horton, or his mother? Instead of being happy eating ice-cream on a bright sunny day Horton recollected only misery and loneliness.

After a moment he turned back to look at the pub again, trying to grab some more of the memory, but it had vanished.

Had that man been the Reverend Gilmore? He wished he’d asked Anne Schofield or the slimy Yelford for a photograph of him now. Horton didn’t think it was Tom Brundall but then he could be wrong. His child’s mind could have exaggerated the man’s countenance. But it probably had nothing to do with either Brundall or Gilmore, it could just have been one of his mother’s boyfriends – he seemed to recall a few of them.

Jennifer Horton’s boy’s a copper.
Why was this so note-worthy? What was the ‘wrong’ Gilmore had referred to and what did Brundall want to confess? Both men had mentioned Horton’s occupation and that to his mind could only mean one thing: they had committed a crime, and they hadn’t been discovered. Was it worth checking the computer for unsolved crimes? He doubted it when he didn’t have any idea of the timescale. Also he had the feeling that this crime had probably gone unreported.

It began to rain so he started the Harley and headed out of Portsmouth towards the hospital on Portsdown Hill where he pulled up outside the mortuary. He found Gaye Clayton in her office and she beckoned him in with a weary smile.

‘You look tired,’ he said.

‘It’s a busy time of year for us and we’ve got a couple of people off sick.’

Horton sat down opposite her ancient battered desk and stretched out his long legs. ‘I think I might be about to add to your burden.’

She raised her fair eyebrows. ‘What is it this time – or should I say who?’

‘Rowland Gilmore. He died on Wednesday evening, supposedly of a stroke.’

‘I don’t like the sound of this “supposedly”.’

‘And neither do I. I’ve just been talking to someone who witnessed his death, and before that the fact that Gilmore was seen talking to Tom Brundall before he was killed. I have a terrible feeling their deaths are connected and that Rowland Gilmore’s might not be down to natural causes. I haven’t checked the police report yet, but wondered what you could tell me. Did you do the PM?’

She was tapping into her computer before Horton had finished speaking. ‘No. He’s not on the system, so he must be in this pile.’ She picked up a small stack of buff coloured folders and flicked through them. ‘Ah, here he is. Rowland Gilmore, born the fifth of March, 1953.’

That confirmed the age Anne Schofield had given him, which made him young to be his father, though not impossible.

Gaye was saying, ‘He was brought in at three minutes past seven on Wednesday night. He had all the symptoms of a stroke as far as the houseman was able to ascertain and from reports given to the ambulance man, he had trouble speaking and understanding, loss of balance and paralysis. He died at five minutes past seven.’ She looked up. ‘Didn’t anyone come in with him?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Gutner hadn’t said.

Gaye continued. ‘Because of this flu bug, and your body on the boat, his autopsy was put back. It’s being done tomorrow morning. We’re working overtime. I suppose you’d like me to do it.’

‘Yes.’

She nodded and suppressed a yawn. ‘Anything I should be looking for in particular?’

‘My witness says Reverend Gilmore—’

‘He was a vicar?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘I’m surprised the church hasn’t been on my back trying to hurry things along.’

‘I rather get the impression that Gilmore wasn’t one of their shining stars. His parish was in Portsea and he was a little eccentric. Apparently Gilmore was taking a service when he began to stumble over his words. He had convulsions and collapsed.’

‘What time was this?’

‘At six forty-five.’

She scribbled the time down. ‘I’ll do a thorough autopsy tomorrow.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

Back at the station he looked up the incident log to see who had gone to the church, then lifted his phone and asked Sergeant Stride if PC Johns was on duty. He was. Two minutes later Johns knocked on Horton’s door. He stood the other side of Horton’s desk looking bloody cocksure of himself, just as he always did.

‘You were called to an incident at St Agnes’s Church in Portsea on Wednesday night. The vicar was taken ill,’ Horton said crisply.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I was in the patrol car with PC Allen. By the time we got to the church the ambulance had arrived. I spoke to a couple of parishioners—’

‘Their names?’ Horton knew that one was Kenneth Gutner, but he wasn’t going to tell Johns that.

Johns retrieved his notebook and after a moment said, ‘Mr Kenneth Gutner and Miss Alice Weekes.’

‘And what did they say?’

Johns looked surprised. ‘Just that the vicar suddenly took ill. He started slurring his words and then collapsed.’

‘Nothing else.’

‘No, sir.’

‘Nothing about the vicar having convulsions?’

Horton saw a sneer of contempt in PC Johns’ face accom-panied by a knowing smile. ‘Mr Gutner did mention something about the vicar having some kind of fit.’

‘But you didn’t note it.’

‘I thought the old man was exaggerating. He seemed to be telling the paramedics how to do their job. One of those know-it-all types.’ Johns smiled.

Horton thought he’d wipe that grin from Johns’ face. ‘Do you know what makes a good policeman, Constable, and an even better detective? Obviously not, so let me tell you.
Never
make instant decisions about anyone based on your own prejudices.

Develop an instinct or a nose about them fine, but never rely on it, and always note every little detail no matter how insignificant because it might just make the difference between catching our criminal and letting him get away. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Johns tried to look contrite but Horton could see he was livid at being reprimanded.

‘It is possible that the Reverend Gilmore’s death is linked to the man who was killed in the explosion on his boat.’ Johns looked amazed. ‘OK, you can go, and Johns . . .’ Horton stopped him as he reached the door. ‘Just because someone is old it doesn’t mean they are senile and that their evidence should be dismissed. And neither does it mean they should be patronized.

Remember that and we might make a policeman out of you, yet.’

Horton wondered if he would remember. Johns reminded him of Dennings and it wasn’t just the build. Johns was the sort of copper who was good on a raid and out in the van on a Saturday and Friday night, but detection and understanding the subtleties of people would pass him by. And talking of Dennings, Horton rose and made for the incident suite. He must have some information on Sherbourne’s death by now, and perhaps there was something more on Brundall. Horton also thought it was about time Cantelli returned from his interview with the woman with the dog.

Nine

‘Brundall told Mrs Davis that he used to live in Portsmouth years ago,’ Cantelli said to Horton’s enquiry. ‘She claims he was much thinner than in the photograph I showed her, and which was on the television, but she can swear it was him and she described the car. This was at twelve fifteen. She walks the dog before she goes on duty. She’s an agency nurse at the hospital.’

‘Did she see him drive off?’

‘Yes, when she came back about fifteen minutes later.’

Horton thought for a moment before saying, ‘He met Reverend Gilmore at St Agnes’s at three thirty, and he called Sherbourne about four fifteen. So where did he go between twelve fifteen and three thirty?’

‘To his parents’ grave? Marsden’s discovered they’re buried in Kingston Cemetery. I’ve contacted the CCTV control office and asked if we can check the tapes along Kingston Road. If he was heading for his parents’ grave he might have driven into the city that way. And there’s a camera on the corner of St Mary’s Road leading to the cemetery. Seaton’s picking up the tapes.’

‘There’s another entrance into the cemetery from New Road and no CCTV there,’ Horton remarked, then, turning to Marsden, ‘Take a photograph of Brundall and ask around at the cemetery. Did anyone see him there at any time, but particularly between twelve thirty and three fifteen on Tuesday afternoon? If he went there then it would have been before going to St Agnes’s because it gets dark at three thirty and the cemetery closes then. Are there any flowers on his parents’ grave, if so who did he buy them from? Where did he park his car? Did anyone see it? You’d better hurry because it’ll be dark soon. If you get no joy today, go back tomorrow morning.’

Marsden rushed out looking relieved to escape the confines of the incident suite for a while.

Horton said, ‘There are several cameras along Queens Street; we might pick up Brundall on his way to St Agnes’s.’

‘I’ll get Walters to check.’

‘Where is he, by the way?’

‘Still interviewing the shopkeepers, I assume. I haven’t seen him.’

‘He’s taking his time.’

‘You know Walters, probably stopped for a three course lunch.’

‘Either that or he’s meeting his girlfriend to make up for lost time Wednesday night. Obviously you didn’t know about her?’ Horton added, seeing Cantelli’s startled look.

‘No, but I’d like to meet the woman who can put up with Walters. She must be quite a gal.’

‘Perhaps he’ll bring her to the dinner and dance.’ That would be a first, thought Horton. Maybe he could ask Dr Clayton if she’d go with him. Would she accept? She probably already had a boyfriend or even a partner for all he knew.

Cantelli said, ‘Talking of saints, how did you get on at the church?’

Horton told him, leaving out the bit about his mother. He might tell Cantelli, later, when he was ready, and had made some sense of it himself, but not here and not now.

Horton turned to Trueman. ‘Is there anything from DI Dennings?’

‘If there is the super hasn’t told me. I’ve e-mailed Inspector Guilbert the passenger lists of all the flights out of England to Guernsey on Thursday morning, but it’ll take some time to work through them, unless someone’s name automatically jumps out.’

And Horton hoped it would but he didn’t think they would be that lucky. He asked Trueman to get him all the information he could find on Sebastian Gilmore and to get an officer checking for links between Rowland Gilmore and Tom Brundall, then knocked on the superintendent’s door.

Looking up from his desk, Uckfield said, ‘The Guernsey pathologist has confirmed Sherbourne was strangled; there is damage to the thyroid cartilage, and the hyoid bone, just above the Adam’s apple. He claims it’s difficult to tell how long Sherbourne had been dead before the fire but he reckons at least four hours, which ties in with when he went missing.’

‘So Sherbourne’s killer is a man,’ Horton said, taking the seat across the desk. ‘A woman couldn’t have lifted the dead weight of a tall man like Sherbourne and carried him into the building.’

‘Unless she’s an all-in wrestler.’

‘Not many of those in Guernsey.’ Horton quickly apprised Uckfield of his interview with Kenneth Gutner, again leaving out the reference to himself and his mother. Then he broke the news that Brundall’s death could be linked with the Reverend Gilmore’s.

Uckfield stared at him incredulously. ‘You’ve got to be joking!’

‘Do I look like I am? And before you ask, Gutner is a very reliable witness. He’s not gaga. I believe him.’

‘What the hell am I going to tell the press?’

‘Nothing, yet. I need to talk to Gilmore’s brother, Sebastian.’

Uckfield’s head came up. ‘You don’t mean
the
Sebastian Gilmore?’

‘There’s more than one!’ Horton said sarcastically.

‘Not of this man there ain’t. Sebastian Gilmore has built up a hugely successful business. And he’s an influential member of the Portsmouth Business Forum.’ Uckfield frowned.

‘He would have been on the phone before now if he’d thought his brother’s death was suspicious. And Sebastian Gilmore doesn’t mince words. He’d have told the chief constable to get his arse in gear and find out who killed his brother. Go careful with him, Andy.’

Horton eyed Uckfield, knowing he meant he could stir things up for him if he didn’t.

‘I’ll treat him as if he was precious china.’ Horton rose.

‘I’ll also notify the Dean that we’re making inquiries into Reverend Gilmore’s death.’ That was if Yelford hadn’t already told him.

Uckfield groaned. ‘That means I’ll also have the Bishop on my back. For Christ’s sake, Andy, tell him to keep it to himself.

I can just see the headlines if this gets out. And we’ll look pretty bloody silly if we’re wrong.’