Suffocating Sea (17 page)

‘No.’

‘Well, hurry her up.’ Uckfield rang off.

Horton had no intention of doing so. He gave instructions to the officer guarding the house to ensure that no one except Taylor and his team went in. He prayed that there would be nothing for them to find about his mother. Maybe Uckfield was right and this person had lain in the shelter for over sixty years. But Horton wasn’t comfortable with that. He felt instinctively that the skeleton could be the key they needed to unlock this case.

Cantelli drove the short distance to the church. The car park had been cordoned off and a police car was straddled across the entrance. PC Johns hastily hid whatever it was he was reading and tried to look alert.

Apart from the occasional passer-by no one seemed to be taking any notice of the activity. Perhaps they were too busy doing their Christmas shopping, thought Horton, which reminded him of his determination to clear this case before Christmas Eve so that he personally could give his presents to Emma.

Perhaps the weather was keeping everyone inside. The drizzle had turned into a relentless downpour and it had grown colder. Not cold enough for it to snow but Horton wouldn’t mind betting they’d get some sleet before the day was out.

They found Taylor and his scene of crime officers meth-odically ploughing through the charred remains of the vestry.

Horton tensed as he stood in the doorway. The smell of burning flesh came back to him as virulently as it had been last night.

It made him want to throw up. He saw himself laid out on the mortuary slab with Gaye Clayton drooling over him and Uckfield telling her to hurry up the post-mortem. Jesus, it didn’t bear thinking about.

Cantelli, sensing his unease, said, ‘You OK to deal with this?’

‘I’m fine.’ Horton pulled himself together and addressed Taylor. ‘Found anything?’

He removed his mask and stepped outside the vestry under the shelter of an awning. ‘There’s a brass candlestick which looks as though it could be the murder weapon. We’ve found minute traces of blood on it.’

In a flashback, Horton saw Anne Schofield’s body falling face down from the cupboard with a mass of blood in her short grey hair. He heard the sound of splintering glass, felt the rush of searing heat and relived the cold frisson of fear.

‘Maidment says the fire was caused by an accelerant, which was soaked in a rag and stuffed into a glass bottle.’

Taylor’s voice seemed to come to Horton from a distance.

He forced himself to focus on Taylor’s long thin nose and slightly prominent eyes.

‘From the fragments of glass we’ve collected I would say that it was a beer bottle. I hear you were inside when it happened, Inspector. Rather you than me. You had a very lucky escape.’

You can say that again, thought Horton with a shiver. ‘We’ve got another one for you, Phil,’ he announced briskly. ‘But this one’s been dead for some time.’ And he told Taylor about their find in the air-raid shelter and asked his team to make it their next job. Even Taylor’s mournful face lit up at the challenge of finding some forensic evidence after so long.

Horton was glad to get out of sight of the vestry. Rounding the corner to the front of the church he saw a familiar figure leaning into the police car talking to PC Johns. The old man was getting soaked. This could be useful. Horton wondered if he’d seen Anne Schofield yesterday.

‘Hello, Mr Gutner.’

Gutner straightened up and his walnut face lit up with recognition. Horton would have to take a chance on Gutner letting slip some information about his mother in front of Cantelli, but he would rather it were the sergeant than anyone else, and Horton knew he could rely on Cantelli’s discretion.

‘The constable says there’s been a fire in the vestry and I can’t go in to practise the organ,’ Gutner said, puzzled.

‘Not at the moment. It’s a crime scene,’ Horton answered.

Gutner looked surprised and then triumphant. ‘I told you there was something funny about Reverend Gilmore’s death, didn’t I?’

‘It’s not—’

‘What’s wrong with your voice, Inspector? You got a sore throat? And what have you done to your hands?’

Horton could see the thoughts running through the old man’s mind. Gutner was definitely not senile, as Yelford, the Diocese administrator, had implied.

They were getting drenched and they’d all end up with sore throats if they stood out here for much longer.

‘Let’s get out of this rain.’

He steered Gutner to the church door and stepped inside.

‘Blimey, looks like you’ve got Fratton Park lights on loan.’

Gutner blinked, dazzled by the unaccustomed brightness of the usually gloomy interior.

Horton smiled at the reference to the football club. Ahead, around the altar, he could see a couple of scene of crime officers. He gestured Gutner to take a pew and the elderly man removed his cap and sat down awkwardly. Horton slid in beside him whilst Cantelli slipped into the pew in front and swivelled round to face them.

Horton introduced Cantelli and then said, ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, Mr Gutner. The Reverend Anne Schofield was attacked and killed last night.’

Gutner made to smile as though Horton was telling him a joke, then the truth of what Horton had said dawned on the old man. His skin paled and his eyes widened with surprise.

‘You’re serious?’

Horton remained silent as Gutner looked from him to Cantelli and back to Horton.

‘But who . . . ? Why . . . ? Bloody hell!’ breathed Gutner.

‘Did you see Anne Schofield yesterday?’

‘Yes. I came over in the afternoon to practise for the carol service tomorrow. We ran through the order of the service together. And now you say she’s dead too. I can’t believe it.

What’s going to happen about the carol service? Will it still be on?’

‘No. I’m sorry. You’d better check the arrangements with the Dean. How did she seem? Was she worried or preoccupied by anything?’

‘No. She was fine.’ Gutner ran a hand over his eyes as though wishing to blot out the thoughts that were running through his mind.

‘What time was this?’ Horton asked gently.

‘About four o’clock. We stayed chatting until just after six when I went home for my tea. I can’t believe this.’

Horton had received Anne’s call at seven fifteen, and he’d arrived at the church at seven thirty-two and by then she was dead. So what had Anne Schofield done between six o’clock and seven fifteen? If she’d been praying then it hadn’t done the poor woman much good. More to the point though: who had she been talking to? And he didn’t mean God.

Gutner was saying, ‘First the Reverend Gilmore and now her. Has someone got it in for us? I bet it has something to do with that man who came to see Reverend Gilmore, the one who mentioned—’

‘Did you see or hear anyone else in the church or outside?’

Horton swiftly cut him off and avoided looking at Cantelli.

But Gutner was shaking his head. ‘Not a soul.’

‘Was anyone parked outside when you left?’

‘No.’

Cantelli said, ‘Did you see any cars that aren’t normally around this area?’

‘No.’ Gutner eyed each of them in turn. His wrinkled face was solemn and his eyes were full of sadness. ‘You think someone killed her like they killed the Reverend Gilmore, don’t you?’ His gaze rested on Horton and then fell to Horton’s bandaged hands. ‘You were here? They tried to kill you too?’

he said in a flat tone.

Horton knew he was dealing with no fool. Would Gutner suddenly blurt out, ‘This has something to do with Jennifer Horton’? Horton held his breath as he asked, ‘Did the Reverend Gilmore ever speak to you about his past?’

Gutner eyed him keenly, then after a moment he gave a slight nod of his head and said, ‘OK. I understand. No, the Reverend never spoke of the past. Too painful I guess.’

Horton breathed a quiet sigh of relief. ‘Have you ever been inside the vicarage?’

‘Of course I have!’ Gutner exclaimed, eyeing Horton as if he’d suddenly gone mad.

‘You’ve seen the air-raid shelter then.’

‘Yes.’ Despite his distress Gutner chuckled.

‘What’s so funny?’ Horton asked, with that prickling sensation that he was about to discover something useful.

‘The vicar couldn’t bear to look inside it, but I told him there wasn’t any bogeyman there. Me, Jimmy Tomas and his sisters used to muck about in it when we were kids. Of course, the house wasn’t a vicarage then. It was an old ruin. We had a lot of fun in that old air-raid shelter.’

Horton caught Cantelli’s glance and said, ‘When was this?’

‘You’re asking something now! Let me think. It must be near on sixty years ago. The late 1940s.’

If their victim had been killed in the war, was it possible that Gutner and his young friends failed to see the human remains whilst larking around?

Horton asked, ‘Have you been in it since?’

‘I don’t think . . . hold on a mo, yes. It wasn’t long after the vicar arrived. I called on him and after we had a chat, he asked me what was in the shelter. I said nothing, but he asked me to take a look. He didn’t like closed-in spaces.’

‘And?’

‘Same as it always was, full of dust, dirt and spiders, though it brought back some memories.’ Gutner gave a grotesque wink which made Horton think of those sisters of Jimmy Tomas.

‘Why do you want to know?’

Horton rose and stretched out his hand. ‘You’ve been very helpful, Mr Gutner.’

Gutner took it, eyeing him sceptically.

‘We’ll run you home,’ Horton said. ‘It’s a nasty day to be out in.’

‘No. Thanks, Inspector, but I need a walk.’ At the door Gutner pushed his cap down on his white hair. ‘You will get whoever is doing these dreadful things, won’t you?’

Horton nodded.

‘Good. Go careful, Inspector, and good luck.’

‘Nice old man,’ Cantelli said, starting up the car and pulling away from the church. Horton flashed him a look, but saw nothing in the sergeant’s expression that betrayed his curiosity about that last remark of Gutner’s. The old man would have made a good police officer; he seemed bright, observant and curious to Horton. But he was also small. Too small in his day to be allowed into the police service when there were height restrictions. What a waste.

He said, ‘I still think the skeleton is connected with Gilmore.’

‘Those bones were well tucked away; maybe Gutner and his friends failed to spot them when they were larking around in there, and Gutner probably only stuck his head round the door when the vicar asked him to.’

Horton grunted an acknowledgement, then said, ‘Gutner’s sharp, though. We’ll take 1995 as a starting point until SOCO or Dr Clayton tells us otherwise.’

‘Can you really see Rowland Gilmore killing someone?’

Horton thought about it. ‘No, I can’t, though we don’t really know him. Maybe Brundall killed this person and hid him in the air-raid shelter. Perhaps Rowland Gilmore didn’t even know the body was there. Mr Gutner said the vicar didn’t like closed-in spaces.’

‘That could be a lie.’

Horton granted him that.

Cantelli continued. ‘Rowland Gilmore could have got Mr Gutner to check because he suspected Brundall had killed this person and hidden him there.’

‘If he did then Gutner wouldn’t have failed to miss a decaying corpse or maybe smell it in 1995, which confirms my view that our victim was killed after then.’

‘Maybe it was an accident.’

‘But why leave the body in the air-raid shelter?’

‘Because no one would think to go in there, not with the vicar on the premises.’

Yes, thought Horton, it had been a good hiding place. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly three o’clock. ‘Head for the hospital, Barney, I want a word with Dr Clayton.’

Horton found her in the mortuary. He told Cantelli to check on his father and, not bothering to hide his relief or anxiety, Cantelli hurried off to the high-dependency ward.

‘I thought you might have the results of the PMs,’ Horton greeted her.

Gaye pulled off her green cap and ran her fingers through her short auburn hair, ‘Your throat sounds bad. You’ve been talking too much.’

‘So I’ve often been told.’

She smiled. ‘It sounds sexy. Maybe you should cultivate a husky voice.’

‘I might not have any choice if I’ve done permanent damage to my vocal chords.’

‘Want me to take a look? I’ve got a nice cold slab you could lie down on.’ Horton saw Tom, the mortuary assistant, grin before he started a whistling rendition of ‘June is Busting Out All Over’.

Gaye crossed to the sink where she began to scrub her hands.

‘Gilmore’s death troubles me. And I wouldn’t say that to anyone but you and Sergeant Cantelli, because I like Cantelli and at least you have a brain and some instinct left in you, which is more than I can say for Superintendent Uckfield and that new detective of his. Where on earth did they dig him up? He’s like some prehistoric monster from the seventies.’

Horton felt inordinately pleased and tried not to show it. ‘I didn’t know you’d come across him that much.’

‘I haven’t, thank the Lord. He telephoned me from Guernsey, early this morning. I was just about to begin the autopsy on Gilmore. DI Dennings insisted on speaking to me. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I don’t think he’s met Tom yet. I look forward to that after their brief conversation. He insisted on calling me luv, which I can handle. Not sure Tom liked being called a monkey though. He wanted to know exactly how Brundall died.’

Now why would Dennings want to know that when Horton thought he’d already seen the report? Perhaps he was comparing notes on Sherbourne’s death.

‘And Gilmore?’

‘There are no signs of suspicious death, but equally there are no signs that he suffered a stroke or even a heart attack.

He was remarkably healthy, no clogged arteries or thinning blood vessels. No tumours. In fact there was no reason why he should die. I believe he could have been poisoned, although I haven’t found any trace of poison, which is what makes this case even more interesting. I’ve sent blood, skin and hair samples off for analysis.’

Horton was surprised. Poisoning was a bit different from being bashed on the head and being set fire to. He considered what Gaye had said. ‘If Gilmore was poisoned then wouldn’t he have shown signs of illness over a period of time?’