Suffocating Sea (29 page)

When Horton didn’t answer him, Uckfield continued. ‘OK.

Let’s take a look at him.’ He jerked his head at Dennings to follow. Over his shoulder to Horton he said, ‘Call Dr Price and SOCO, and get some uniform back-up here.’

‘Already done, sir,’ Cantelli shouted back, and to reiterate his point another police vehicle on blue lights swept into the yard.

Horton turned to Cantelli. ‘How’s Selina?’

‘Very angry. Blaming us for her father’s death. I’ve left her with the personnel officer.’

Cantelli looked distant for a moment. Horton could see that this death and Selina’s reaction had reminded him of his own bereavement. He had lost his usual bounce and wasn’t even chewing his gum.

‘Come on,’ Horton said, ‘there’s someone I want to talk to before Dennings puts his oar in.’

With Gilmore dead, who did that leave as their killer? A relative of that skeleton as he’d suggested to Uckfield, or a hired killer, because Sebastian and the others had been, or were, involved in drug smuggling? If so, Horton reckoned they’d have little chance of catching him and his heart sank at that. He didn’t fancy living with the prospect that his life might still be in danger, particularly if he pursued inquiries into his mother’s disappearance. And then there was his future with Emma. Despite saying it wasn’t his case, Horton knew he had to follow it through, either officially or unofficially, no matter what DCI Bliss might say.

In reception, Horton nodded at the worried-looking security officer. He’d noticed the CCTV cameras on Saturday when they’d come here, and now he said, ‘Do those run twenty-four hours?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let us have all the recordings for last night, early this morning, and for last Wednesday, and Friday evening. I’d also like the ones at the entrance and any others you have on the yard. We’ll pick them up on our way out.’

Horton wondered if they’d get anything from them, but it was worth checking. With Cantelli following he made for Janice Hassingham’s office, knocked briefly and entered. She was at her desk but she didn’t appear to be doing any work.

Horton thought she looked unwell. She was pale and her eyes were ringed with fatigue.

‘Is it true that Sebastian is dead?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

She nodded sadly and waved them into seats across her desk.

‘Were you working late last night?’ Horton asked.

‘Yes, but I didn’t see anything or anyone. Seb returned from London at about four thirty. I know that because he came straight to my office to ask me about the accounts. It’s our year end on thirty-first of December and there’s always a lot to do this time of year. He stayed for about thirty minutes, whilst I ran through the final figures, which are showing a healthy profit. Then he returned to his office, or so I assumed.

He wasn’t in a very good mood, said the conference had been a complete waste of time organized and chaired by . . . well, incompetent people, although Seb was more coarse with his choice of language.’

Horton could imagine. ‘Was he still here when you left?’

‘Yes. His car was parked in its usual spot. I left here at eight o’clock, went straight home, had something to eat, watched TV and went to bed.’

And Horton guessed it was the same every night for Janice.

‘Where is home?’

‘I have an apartment in Admiralty Towers in Queens Street, not far from the harbour.’

Horton knew it. A whole rash of expensive and exclusive apartments had erupted on the site of the old brewery, cheek by jowl with council flats in one of the most deprived areas of Portsmouth – the one that Rowland Gilmore had adminis-tered over.

‘Did you ever visit St Agnes’s?’ he asked casually.

She eyed him keenly. ‘No. Wrong faith. I go to St John’s Cathedral. But if you’re asking did I ever see Rowland or come across him, then the answer is yes, very occasionally when I was walking to Mass or coming back from the shops.

And before you ask, Inspector, no, we never spoke and I never so much as acknowledged him. Besides, I don’t think he recognized me.’

‘Why didn’t you speak?’

She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I didn’t see any need to.

Sebastian had nothing to do with his brother so I didn’t think it was necessary or appropriate for me to strike up an acquaintance.’

Horton wondered if she blamed Rowland Gilmore for not saving her brother, and along with him Tom Brundall.

Sebastian had been at the helm so perhaps he was absolved of any blame.

Horton left a short pause before asking the next question, a critical one. ‘Ms Hassingham, when your brother was fishing with the Gilmores and Tom Brundall, did he ever say anything that made you think they might be doing something illegal?’

He saw her stiffen.

‘Of course not.’

Horton eyed her carefully. It appeared she was telling the truth. Her shock and surprise at his question seemed genuine.

‘Did Sebastian see his brother after that encounter at the Town Camber?’

‘He might have done. I don’t know. I wonder what will happen now. I suppose Selina will take over the business.’

And how would Janice take that? From her frown, he guessed not well. They left her to her work. Horton noted that she didn’t hurry along the corridor to comfort Selina.

‘Sad woman,’ Cantelli said when they were outside. ‘It’s as if you’re staring at a world of missed opportunities and regrets when you look at her.’

And you were, Horton thought. ‘Let’s take a look in Sebastian’s office.’

There was no police officer on the door and it wasn’t locked.

Dennings hadn’t got round to that yet, which was rather remiss of him. He should at least have sent a uniformed officer up here to seal off the room. Maybe he thought they’d already covered that, Horton grudgingly admitted.

He crossed to Sebastian’s gigantic desk, whilst Cantelli rummaged around in the filing cabinets. ‘What are we looking for?’

‘You don’t need me to tell you that. But if you come across

. . .’ Horton paused as he tried to pull open one of the desk drawers. It had got stuck on something, a piece of paper right at the back. He stretched in and released it and the drawer opened easily. It was an itemized telephone bill for the last month. Horton didn’t expect to find the killer’s phone number on it – Sebastian Gilmore wouldn’t be that stupid – but it would certainly be worthwhile checking out these numbers and talking to Gilmore’s contacts and friends. Maybe, Horton thought, scanning the numbers, they’d discover that Sebastian had spoken to his brother more recently than twelve years ago. They’d also need to check his landline. But it was Dennings’ job to organize this. Horton had to get on with those CID cases as no doubt DCI Bliss would soon remind him.

‘I wonder where Gilmore’s mobile phone is. It wasn’t on his body or in his car.’

‘Perhaps his killer threw it into the fish tank,’ Cantelli said, peering inside. ‘There are some ugly-looking buggers in here.’

‘I don’t expect they find you their pin-up of the month.’

That got a small smile from Cantelli.

‘It’s surprising what ends up in these things; drugs seem to be popular. The number of poor bloody fish I’ve seen high.’

Finishing his search of the desk, Horton glanced out of the window as the SOCO van entered the yard.

‘Get PC Johns, Barney. He can stand guard here.’

Horton continued his swift search whilst waiting for Johns.

It revealed nothing. He left Johns with instructions not to admit anyone, and joined Cantelli who had collected the CCTV

recordings from the security officer. At the station Cantelli took the tapes to the CID office to view while Horton gave Sebastian Gilmore’s itemized telephone bill to Trueman. Any news on Peter Croxton?’ Horton asked.

‘Which one? We’ve found twelve so far.’

‘Lucky his name wasn’t Smith then. I’ll be in my office if you get anything new.’

Horton was pleased to see that DCI Bliss wasn’t around.

He would dearly love to get a piece of evidence before Dennings. He hoped that one of the recordings might show someone entering that warehouse after Sebastian Gilmore, though he couldn’t really believe the killer would be that stupid or they’d be that lucky.

He groaned at the sight of his in-tray, which was overflowing on to his chair. There were pieces of paper with yellow Post-it notes stuck on them, urging him to attend to this report, or review this file, or call someone back, but there was one file that caught his eye. Ignoring all the others he picked it up and sat down.

It was thicker than he had anticipated. He could hardly breathe through fear of what he might be about to read on his mother and tried to steel his heart to repel the emotions that he felt sure were bound to assail him. Urging himself to consider this as just another missing person’s case, and perhaps one which might provide him with some idea of what the Gilmores had been up to in 1977, he read on. Very soon, though, he found that his emotions were firmly in check and his police training had asserted itself. The investigation into Jennifer Horton’s disappearance had been more thorough than he had expected.

A woman had formally reported Jennifer missing; she’d been listed as Horton’s head teacher. He remembered her teasing the information out of him and went cold as he recalled that terrible day when he had eventually been taken from school by a social worker back to the flat and from there to a dismal house full of smells, other children and cold, tiny rooms. He shuddered and quickly turned his thoughts back to the file. There had followed a series of interviews with the people who had worked with Jennifer and her neighbours, including the lady that Horton had spoken to earlier at Jensen House, Mrs Cobden. There wasn’t much more to add to the information that she’d already given him. Jennifer had left the flat at about one o’clock that day. She had been wearing her best clothes, and make-up, and was in good spirits. Mrs Cobden said she thought Jennifer was going to meet a man, though she had no real evidence to back that up.

Police officers then interviewed Jennifer’s work colleagues.

Horton flicked through the reports; there were no interviews with Jennifer’s friends. Why not? Didn’t she have any? And what about her family? Then his eye caught one report. No family. Both parents dead. Yet the report by a PC Stanley was inconclusive. It didn’t say how her parents had died, when or where, and neither did it mention any relatives, save himself as next of kin.

His e-mail alert told him that the press cuttings agency had come through with the articles on Gilmore. Reluctantly he pushed the file on his mother aside and scrolled down them, clicking on the headline of one or two, opening the file and skim-reading the articles. He was disappointed to find no photograph of Warwick Hassingham. It seemed a waste of time, but he persisted.

It wasn’t until he reached 1997 that he began to see a common factor. He sat up. With a racing heart he clicked back and then onwards again. Yes, several articles had been written by the same journalist: David Lynmor.

Onward Horton clicked and read, oblivious to the noises from outside his office. Then David Lynmor was no longer writing articles on the Gilmores. When did that happen? He checked back. The last one had been September 1997. Was that date significant?

Horton sat forward and steepled his fingers in thought, tapping them against his mouth. The timing was right for the skeleton in the air-raid shelter. But Lynmor could have changed jobs, or emigrated. He could have been run over by the number nine bus, joined a commune, or married an heiress, but Horton knew, by that feeling in his gut, that he hadn’t done any of those things.

Lynmor had written extensively about the fishing industry and interviewed the Gilmores on several occasions – many more times, Horton guessed, than had finally appeared as articles in the newspaper and the fishing press. Perhaps he had become
too
curious? Had he discovered something that Sebastian Gilmore wanted kept quiet? Like drug smuggling?

Was Lynmor’s death, not Peter Croxton’s, the secret that Tom Brundall had wanted to confess? He’d got the right theory, just the wrong dead man who had ended up a skeleton in the air-raid shelter.

Clearly, judging by one article Horton now read, David Lynmor had met Rowland Gilmore, because he’d written about the fisherman turned vicar. Had Lynmor discovered something that had made Rowland run to brother Sebastian who had summoned Tom Brundall? Had the three of them killed David Lynmor and stuffed his body in the air-raid shelter? And if so who were Lynmor’s relatives?

Horton rose, his mind racing as he considered this new theory. It was possible. His phone rang and, irritated at being interrupted in his train of thought, Horton snatched it up.

‘I’ve just got back from interviewing Russell Newton.’

It took Horton a moment to realize he was speaking to Inspector Guilbert from Guernsey. Now he gave him his full attention.

‘He remembers the day on board his boat with Brundall quite well because their party was gatecrashed,’ Guilbert continued.

Horton was ahead of him. ‘Let me guess: by a journalist.’

‘Yes, and a photographer who took that picture.’

‘Of course.’ Horton clicked his fingers. ‘I knew there was something odd about that picture. Brundall isn’t only looking surprised and shocked at having his photo taken, but he’s not looking directly into camera, he’s looking to the right of it, at the reporter.’ And Horton wouldn’t mind betting who that reporter was. ‘Does Newton know the reporter’s name?’

‘No. The photographer was local though. I checked with the newspaper office. He was called Jacobs. He died in a car crash in August 1996, two weeks after that photograph was taken. His car veered off the road, went over the cliff and burst into flames. He’d been drinking heavily.’

‘Or had drink poured down his throat,’ rejoined Horton.

‘You think it’s suspicious?’ Guilbert asked, surprised.

‘Oh, yes, bloody suspicious. I think we’ve found his reporter friend dead in an air-raid shelter. He’s been dead for some years.’

Guilbert gave a low whistle, then said, ‘There’s another thing. Newton says that after the incident he never saw Brundall again. He became more reclusive. Everything was done by phone, fax and latterly e-mail or through Brundall’s solicitor, Nigel Sherbourne. Does this help, Andy? Do you know who Nigel’s killer is?’