The Suffocating Sea Read online

  'John Cheshire.' He reached out his hand, and Horton looked down at his own sodden wet bandaged hands.

  'Better not,' he said with a wry grin.

  Cheshire looked surprised and puzzled. 'You have been in the wars. Do you want to come on board? Can I get you some dry clothes?'

  Horton looked at the man's stature, which was shorter and leaner than his, and said, 'Thanks, but I don't think they'll fit. I'll be all right. I'll call some mates who will help.'

  Horton squelched his way up to the office where he found Eddie almost beside himself with despair; his look of relief gave Horton a warm glow. It was a nice feeling to have someone care for you. Tonight, Horton's loneliness and feelings of isolation had been so acute that he had let his guard down, and look what had happened. Still, he was alive.

  Eddie rushed up to him. 'Bloody hell, I thought you was a gonner. Am I glad to see you! You all right? Do you want an ambulance? What happened?'

  'What I need is a phone. Go and talk to the fire officer, Eddie, and make sure everything is OK with the other boat owners.' Eddie got his drift and hurried away leaving Horton alone in the office. He could see the firefighters running hoses down the pontoon where Eddie's colleague was already on his mobile phone to his boss. Horton suspected a fire in two of the company's marinas wasn't going to make him a happy man!

  He would like to have called Cantelli but didn't want to disturb him in his bereavement. Instead he rang through to Uckfield.

  'Jesus! That's twice someone's tried to kill you – why?' Uckfield exclaimed.

  'If I knew that, I'd probably know who the killer is,' Horton snapped. Yet his mind was racing with the thought that this must be connected with his mother and that note in the margin of Gilmore's newspaper. And there was one person he was getting close to, whom he had interviewed that day, and who might have a lot to lose: Sebastian Gilmore.

  'I'll come down and handle the investigation, myself,' Uckfield said. 'I'll send a car to collect you. Where are you going to stay?'

  Horton thought he detected a hint of nervousness in Uckfield's voice. He didn't believe Uckfield would offer him a bed, so he wouldn't bother asking and suffer the humiliation of being fobbed off with excuses. He also wondered if Uckfield was worried he might ask Catherine.

  'I'll sort something out.'

  As Horton rang off he heard the familiar throb of the police launch and hurried outside to meet it at the waiting pontoon. He stopped for a brief moment to gaze across at Nutmeg; the firefighters were squirting water on her. His heart was heavy with sorrow. She had been his consolation and his refuge in the dark days following the debacle of Operation Extra and Catherine's rejection. Watching her burn he felt as though a chapter of his life had closed. Just as his marriage to Catherine was over, so the last vestiges of that phase of his life after the accusation of rape and his subsequent suspension were completed. Nutmeg was being laid to rest and he should do the same with the immediate past. The past further back though was a very different matter.

  His gaze took him to the car park above the marina with the fire engines and their blue lights flashing in the dark. His attacker had long gone. Did he know if he was still alive, Horton wondered. He would only have had an instant to escape the pontoon before Eddie and his colleague rushed out. Horton guessed he would have thrown the firebomb and immediately sprinted away.

  'Andy, what happened? Are you OK?' Sergeant Elkins exclaimed, leaping off the launch and swiftly securing a line to the pontoon. 'I heard about the fire over the radio. I couldn't believe it when they said it was your boat.'

  'I'm fine.'

  'Well you don't bloody look it, dripping all over the place and shivering like buggery.'

  Horton managed a smile. 'Typical British response, sorry, force of habit. And apologizing when I don't need to.'

  'Get on board. Ripley, the thermal blanket.'

  Horton was glad to let Elkins take control. He settled himself in the wheelhouse as Ripley placed the silver thermal blanket around his shoulders.

  Elkins opened his mouth to speak but Horton got there first.

  'Don't say I should go to hospital, Dai,' Horton said, using Elkins' real name and not Dave, as he had become popularly known. 'I just need a hot shower and some clean clothes, and somewhere to stay.' The first two were easy to arrange, but he didn't know about the third. Then he had a thought. 'Let me call Superintendent Uckfield.' When connected, he said, 'Steve, I'm going back with Sergeant Elkins – yes, the police launch is here. Call an ambulance. Tell them to make it look as though they're picking me up from the water. Our pyromaniac won't be hanging around the marina but he could be waiting somewhere down the road to see what happens. Let's make him think for a while that he's succeeded in putting me out of action. I'll call you as soon as I can to let you know where I am.' Turning to Elkins he said, 'Can you get me some dry clothes?'

  'Yes. Look, I've got an idea. I need to make a call.'

  As he did so, Ripley started the engine and piloted the launch into Langstone Harbour. Horton was content just to sit and think. His attacker had to be Sebastian Gilmore, and yet that couldn't be: the build was wrong. Horton couldn't mistake the giant of a man. So Gilmore must have hired someone to do his dirty work for him. If that were so, then Horton knew that his mother was the key to these killings and that Sebastian Gilmore was afraid that Horton would unlock it. And yet it didn't quite measure up. Sebastian Gilmore had to be some kind of idiot or psychopath to think he could get away with killing a detective on the case without anyone else pointing the finger at him. And Horton didn't have Gilmore down as an idiot, which meant he must be psychotic. After all, who else would kill Anne Schofield and enjoy setting fire to people?

  'It's all settled if you're happy with the arrangements,' Elkins broke through his thoughts. Horton stirred himself as Elkins continued. 'I have a friend who owns a Bavaria 44 in Gosport Marina. He's abroad working for six months. He's happy to let you live on board for as long as you like. In fact, he'd rather have someone on board, using the boat and looking after it.'

  'Is he sure?' Horton felt cheered by the news. This was a stroke of luck. It sounded ideal. 'Does he know that someone's intent on setting fire to me?'

  Elkins looked a little sheepish. 'Not exactly. I just told him a colleague who was a keen sailor needed a billet.'

  Horton frowned, concerned. Should he insist that Elkins tell his mate the truth and risk losing the opportunity of somewhere to stay? But perhaps he could avoid anyone knowing where he was, which would be fine if he could get enough on Sebastian Gilmore to bang him up quickly.

  'No one must know about it.'

  Elkins nodded. 'He doesn't want any money either and says you can sail her whenever you wish.'

  'Bloody hell, he's a very generous and trusting man! What on earth does he owe you, Dai?'

  Elkins flushed and bristled. 'It's not crooked if that's what you mean, Inspector.'

  'I didn't think it would be.'

  Elkins relaxed. 'I helped him out once, that's all—'

  'Saved his life more like,' Ripley shouted over his shoulder.

  'Yes, thank you, Constable. We were called to assist a rescue operation off the Isle of Wight. As we were almost on the spot we got there before the lifeboat and coastguard. I saw this man in the water and pulled him out, that's all.'

  Horton suppressed a smile. He knew that wasn't just all. Through chattering teeth, he asked, 'Have you had any joy confirming whether or not Sebastian Gilmore was in Cowes Marina on Tuesday night as he claims?'

  'The marina staff said to check back tomorrow when Neville's working. He was on duty last Tuesday night. Neville's a nosy bugger. If anyone knows he will.'

  Within an hour, Horton had showered, changed into dry clothes – uniform trousers, shoes and a sweatshirt – and was alone on board Elkins' friend's yacht with a cup of coffee in his scarred hands. The bandages had been consigned to the rubbish bin.

  'Nutmeg,' he said, saluting her, whilst gazing around his spac
ious and luxurious surroundings. His phone rang. It was Uckfield.

  'There was no sign of anyone hanging around the marina, but the ambulance sped away blue lights blazing just in case.'

  'And Nutmeg?'

  'She's gone. I'm sorry, Andy.' Uckfield left a pause before adding, 'Do you want a few days off?'

  'No,' Horton declared vehemently. Then he told Uckfield where he was staying and asked him to keep it quiet. 'The fewer who know the better. There's only you, Elkins and Ripley who know and I'd rather keep it that way.' Except for Cantelli, whom he would tell later and whom Horton trusted with his life. Then he relayed to Uckfield his suspicions regarding Sebastian Gilmore and added, 'When we've got more information I'd like to be the one to confront him with it. I want to know if he's surprised to see me. I take it I can go ahead and instruct the economic crime unit to look into his, Rowland Gilmore's and Brundall's backgrounds now?'

  Uckfield reluctantly agreed.

  Horton said, 'I don't want Dennings to know where I'm living either, or Catherine. And I'd rather you didn't say anything to Catherine or Alison about tonight.' Horton thought if Catherine knew then she would damn well stop him seeing Emma, and he had time yet to clear this up: two days, to be precise. He could sense Uckfield's hesitation and added firmly, 'As I said, Steve, let's keep this low key.'

  There was a short pause before Uckfield grunted an acknowledgement.

  Horton stretched out on the bunk in the aft cabin feeling strangely out of place in such comfort and luxury – he even had a shower on board – and tried to sleep. He was exhausted but he guessed that sleep would elude him for some time, as a result not only of the after effects of a massive surge of adrenalin and his unfamiliar surroundings, but also because of the thought that he knew what he had to do, and it scared him half to death because now there wasn't any doubt. He had to delve deeper into his mother's past. And he had no idea what he would find. But whatever it would be, he guessed he wasn't going to care much for it.

  Eighteen

  Monday: 9.15 a.m.

  Horton stared up at Jenson House, the tower block where he had lived with his mother on the top floor, and was surprised to find he felt neither the anger nor the pain of rejection that had plagued him for the last thirty years. Was that because he was finally taking action to solve the puzzle instead of letting it hang over his life like a black cloud? Or maybe it was the fact that the photograph and his birth certificate, the last tangible links with his mother, had been burnt in the fire? Had that had some kind of psychological effect on him, forcing him to look at this anew? Now he was getting over-analytical, he thought with a grimace, kicking down the stand on the Harley.

  He didn't expect anyone still to be living here who would remember Jennifer, but that wasn't really his purpose in coming. He hoped instead to trigger a long-forgotten memory, or to release a deeply embedded clue in his subconscious that would tell him what had happened to her. Perhaps he'd be able to recall a boyfriend, or her mood, or something she had said. Now he was back to behaving like bloody Freud again. He guessed this was a pointless exercise, and he was wasting valuable police investigation time, but a slight diversion wouldn't hurt, he reasoned, heading towards the entrance. Neither Superintendent Uckfield nor DCI Bliss knew about this. As far as they were concerned he was already speeding his way to Southampton and the offices of the Marine Accident Investigations Branch.

  The news of his second escape from death had spread around the station, and he was surprised and touched by the concern of many of the officers. DCI Bliss though was an exception. She made no mention of it; instead he got an ear bashing on when he was going to clear up some of his outstanding CID cases. He reminded her that Sergeant Cantelli was on bereavement leave and he was still an officer short, but she brushed both aside as being of no consequence.

  He pushed open the doors of Jenson House and DCI Bliss vanished from his mind. Suddenly he was a young boy again, running across the concourse, kicking a football with the other kids, stealing hubcaps and darting up and down the stairs. He was surprised because in all the years he had been here as a PC and a detective he had never recollected the slightest thing about his short life in this tower block. He guessed he had blotted it out because of the painful memories. But now that he had opened his mind to the past, the ghosts rushed out to greet him.

  They had tarted the place up since he'd last been inside, which must have been about five years ago, when he'd been seconded to the drugs squad – he'd been a sergeant then – and certainly since he'd lived here, but he felt as though nothing had changed at all. In his mind's eye he could see the small, blond, cropped-haired little boy swinging into the vestibule whistling tunelessly, ravenously hungry and eager to ditch his schoolbooks for football boots. He felt that same eager anticipation as the child of ten about to arrive home, but it was swiftly followed by the gut-wrenching ache of the moment he had finally realized that his mother had deserted him. He recalled the woman who had told him that she was never coming home; he could see her evil, smug face as she had imparted the news with uncharacteristic relish for a social worker. Maybe that was why he distrusted all social workers.

  He pushed that memory away; there was nothing in it for him, and, while he waited for the lift, he concentrated his thoughts on Emma. He had to get this killer by Wednesday. He couldn't let Emma down, because if he did then Catherine was bound to use it as some kind of weapon to prevent him from seeing her again. Her remarks and acid tones last Wednesday night at the Marriott Hotel had made that much clear.

  The lift opened with a shudder and a clunk and, pressing the button for the top floor, he thought of poor Rowland Gilmore losing his daughter and his heart missed a beat. He'd rather die himself than allow any harm to befall his daughter.

  The lift slid open and he stepped out, surprised to find his heart racing. His feet propelled him forward until he was standing outside his old front door. In his mind he could see his bedroom plastered with posters of football heroes, and his schoolbooks piled on the small chest of drawers under the window. He used to lean out and watch the ships, sailing boats, and hovercraft cross the Solent to the Isle of Wight beyond. Had he been unhappy? He couldn't remember, but now he recalled that the sailing boats had made him think of freedom, escape, and adventure, so maybe he had been.

  Bugger. He closed his eyes and instantly saw his mother's laughing face, her blonde hair tumbling down her shoulders. He could feel the texture of her dress, smell her soft musky perfume, and hear her light laughing voice...

  'I'm going out, Andy. You get yourself off to bed at nine. If I come home and find you in front of that telly I'll tan your hide and there'll be no football practice for you, my boy.'

  'Where are you going, Mum?'

  'Where do you think? Work, of course.'

  He turned away feeling a heavy sadness within him and almost collided with an elderly woman pulling a shopping trolley. Hastily, he apologized as her lined faced looked alarmed and concerned. Strangers here meant trouble and he guessed one wearing a black leather jacket emblazoned with the Harley Davidson logo was even more suspect.

  'It's OK, luv. I'm from the police.' He showed her his warrant card and she visibly relaxed.

  'You can't be too sure these days. We get some funny types round here.'

  'How long have you lived here, Mrs—?'

  'Cobden. Thirty-two years.'

  My God, she must have been his neighbour! He had been ten when he had left here; she would have been what – late forties, or early fifties? He couldn't recall her, and clearly she didn't remember him, or recognize the name on his warrant card, though he had only flashed it at her, but she might remember his mother. With a racing heart he said, 'I'm trying to trace a woman who used to live here thirty years ago. Fair, nice looking with a little boy...'

  'You mean Jennifer Horton.'

  'Yes!' For once he was unable to hide his surprise and there he had been telling PC Johns not to jump to conclusions. It felt strange to hear her name
, and uttered so normally. It made her come alive for him; he could almost see her here in this corridor, gossiping to the old woman, and this time he recognized that his feelings of anger and hatred towards her weren't as strong as before. 'I didn't expect you to remember so quickly.'

  'She walked out on her little boy, the poor little mite, and he stayed in there – ' she jerked her head at the door – 'waiting for his mother to come home. I had no idea. It broke my heart when the social carted the poor little blighter away.'

  Horton ignored the tightening in his stomach muscles. 'Do you know what happened to her?'

  'How a mother can up and leave her own child like that I don't know, but there were rumours.'

  'What kind?' Horton steeled himself to hear the worst, hoping that his police training would stand him in good stead and he wouldn't betray his turmoil.

  She inserted her key in the lock, and looked around as though afraid someone might overhear. Horton thought it would have been comical if it hadn't concerned him. In a low whisper she said, 'Men.'