The Suffocating Sea Read online

  With curiosity now overcoming his emotions he began to examine the dates. The newspapers were all later than the one where Gilmore had written his mother's name. That had been the article that had sparked this interest in him. But why this obsession?

  'What can you tell me about him?' he asked, making sure to hide the emotion in his voice.

  'Nothing, I'm afraid. I've come from a parish in North Hampshire. You'll need to speak to his parishioners or the Dean.'

  Would he though? He wanted to move on with his life. Emma was his future. It didn't matter that she didn't have paternal grandparents. It was probably for the best that she didn't know who they were. And, he reminded himself, he didn't have time to spare. He had a murderer to catch, and if not that then a pair of yobs who had attacked an American tourist, not to mention all the other thefts, assaults and burglaries piling up on his desk!

  'Thank you for showing me these,' he said politely, with, he hoped, a voice devoid of emotion. 'They're of no interest to me. Reverend Gilmore obviously knew my mother, but I didn't know him.'

  He wanted to get out of here quickly. The place was depressing him. He turned to leave when his eyes caught something written on the crowded blotter. Pushing the pile of newspapers further over, he saw quite clearly standing out from the other scribblings, the words, 'Horsea Marina'. Nothing unusual in that except the words were heavily under lined and appeared to have been written recently. The lettering wasn't as faded as the rest. It was just a coincidence, he told himself. Why then did something click inside him, which he couldn't put his finger on? It was a bit like a light switch going on but the bulb was missing.

  'Did the Reverend Gilmore own a boat?' he asked, hoping that illumination would come with her answer.

  'Not that I know of,' she said, surprised. 'Why?'

  'He's written the name of a marina on his blotter, or perhaps you wrote it?'

  'It wasn't me.' She frowned, puzzled by his line of questioning.

  Why should Reverend Gilmore choose to write those words when his parish didn't extend to the marina some seven miles to the north and west of the city? Perhaps he had a friend or relative who lived at the marina. The explanation could be perfectly simple and probably was, but Horton couldn't help thinking it a coincidence. That was the policeman in him.

  Anne Schofield interrupted his thoughts. 'What would you like me to do with the newspapers?'

  'Burn them or throw them out for recycling,' he said quickly and firmly. The past was no use to him.

  He saw her eyeing him closely. She looked troubled. 'And if I find any other reference to you or Jennifer Horton do you want me to call you?' she asked gently.

  He wanted to say no, but knew he couldn't. After a moment he retrieved a card from his jacket and said, 'You can contact me on my mobile.'

  It wasn't until he was on his way home that he wished he'd taken that piece of blotting paper. He told himself that lots of people lived and worked at Horsea Marina, and Gilmore could have known any of them. But that fresh blue ink bothered him as much as the discovery that Gilmore had known his mother. And it continued to nag at him when he went for a run.

  He didn't have his mother down as a churchgoer, but if Gilmore had been his father then he would only have been seventeen and his mother eighteen when he'd been conceived. Had she run away from home when she had discovered she was pregnant? Perhaps she had been thrown out. In 1968 times weren't so enlightened and people weren't tolerant towards unmarried mothers. Maybe he still had grandparents alive in Portsmouth who knew nothing about him, or rather who didn't want to know about him, which was more likely.

  It was a foul night with lashing rain and gale-force winds blowing off a turbulent sea and Horton was glad to shower and get back to the boat. He called the incident room to be told there was still no sign of Sherbourne. He hadn't returned to his office or his home and calls to the hospital had drawn a blank. So where was he?

  Horton shivered, not from the cold but from the conviction that something must have happened to him and it didn't bode well. If Guilbert hadn't vouched for him then Horton might have thought, like Dennings, that Sherbourne was a suspect in a murder case and had run away.

  Sitting on his bunk, with the wind howling through the masts and the rain drumming on the coach roof, Horton tried not to think about his mother. It was pointless. Anne Schofield's call had resurrected so many emotions in him that he knew he couldn't put it off any longer. With a racing heart and dry throat he reached out and lifted the cushions on the opposite bunk. Stretching a hand into the space underneath, he retrieved a battered old Bluebird Toffee tin. His hand hovered over it. Then with a breath he threw open the lid and removed a photograph.

  It had been years since he'd looked at it and now, with his heart beating fast and not because of his physical exertions, he stared at the woman with the little boy beside her. He must have been about five or six when this picture had been taken. He could recall nothing about the circumstances although he recognized the location. It had been taken down by the harbour entrance where the Gosport chain ferry had once traversed across the narrow channel. His mother was holding a glass and he was clutching a packet of crisps. She was dressed in a pair of flared red trousers, a white jumper with sweetheart neckline and a wide-brimmed floppy hat over her shoulder-length blonde hair. He was in shorts and a T-shirt. It was clearly summer. How old was she? Early twenties? Who had taken the photograph? His mother's boyfriend? Could that have been the Reverend Gilmore?

  Horton racked his brains, trying to recall the day, but it eluded him. Behind his mother was the sparkling blue sea of Portsmouth Harbour and to her right he could make out the dockyard as it had been before its transformation into the select waterfront complex of shops, restaurants and luxury apartments that was now Oyster Quays.

  He shoved the photograph back in the tin and put it under his bunk. He tried to sleep but images and words from the day's events swirled around in his head determined to wake him every half an hour. He was rather glad when his phone rang and he reached across the bunk for it, trying to see the time.

  He half expected to hear Cantelli's voice, but it was Uckfield who growled down the line.

  'There's been another fire.'

  'Where?' Horton was suddenly wide awake. He swung his legs over the side of the bunk and grabbed his watch. He was amazed to see it was 5.25 a.m.

  'Guernsey.'

  Horton's heart sank. Of course it could be Brundall's house, but Guilbert and his officers had already been inside that, so not much point in setting fire to it now. There was only one place that it could be and the thought sent a shudder through him.

  He said, 'Sherbourne's office?'

  'Spot on.'

  Coincidence? Not bloody likely.

  'How bad?'

  The answer was in Uckfield's silence.

  Horton caught his breath. 'Sherbourne's dead?'

  'Yes.'

  Six

  Friday: 6 a.m.

  'It looks as though Sherbourne was already dead when the fire started at about two a.m.,' Uckfield said, as Horton unzipped his leather jacket and, slinging it on a desk in the incident suite, placed his helmet on top of it. They were the only two there.

  So where was Dennings? Horton wanted to ask. Surely Uckfield had called him?

  'Did the arsonist use Sherbourne's keys to get into the offices?' asked Horton.

  'There was no forced entry if that's what you mean, although a window was broken. But the fire investigation officer says that was where the firebomb was thrown inside. The building is practically gutted and Sherbourne a mass of charred bones.'

  Horton tried not to recall the picture of Brundall's remains on the pontoon, but didn't quite manage it. Peter Kingston's description of the solicitor flitted through his mind: "About your height, slim, mid fifties. Biggish nose and hawk-like eyes." Not any more, he thought.

  Uckfield said, 'Sherbourne's car has also been found flashed up. Guilbert says they'll be lucky to get its make and regi
stration number never mind any prints. What the bloody hell did Brundall tell or give Sherbourne?' Uckfield cried, exasperated. 'If Sherbourne was killed because Brundall made a new will then we need to find his original heir bloody quickly. I would say he's our prime suspect.'

  'Only problem is, neither DC Marsden nor Inspector Guilbert can find a relative.'

  'Must be someone else then. And all the bloody files in that solicitor's office have gone up in smoke. Great!' Uckfield rubbed a hand across his eyes. Horton wondered what time he'd been hauled from his bed. The big man looked as though he hadn't had any sleep, and only a change of clothes told Horton he had been home. Horton doubted if John Guilbert had even had that luxury.

  Uckfield said, 'I'm sending Dennings to Guernsey.'

  And that will go down like a lukewarm lager on a hot summer's night. Maybe he should call Guilbert and warn him, Horton thought as Trueman walked in.

  Uckfield hauled himself off the desk.

  'Sergeant, get Inspector Dennings on the first available flight to Guernsey.'

  Trueman looked as if he was about to say 'with pleasure' then obviously thought better of it.

  Horton said, 'Where is Dennings?'

  'On his way. I called him after I telephoned you and told him to pack a bag.'

  Horton pointedly consulted his watch. 'Maybe he's lost his passport.' Uckfield scowled at him. They all knew you didn't need one for visiting Guernsey. 'Or perhaps he doesn't know what to wear.'

  'He's not going to the North Pole,' snapped Uckfield.

  'Ah, but does DI Dennings know that?'

  Uckfield opened his mouth to reply but Horton got in first. 'Whoever killed Sherbourne knew he'd visited Brundall, but how? Either Brundall inadvertently let the cat out of the bag before he died – perhaps he called his killer or called someone who knew the killer – or someone in Sherbourne's office knew the solicitor was coming to England to see Brundall, which means they've lied to the Guernsey police, and whoever it is told the killer.'

  Uckfield narrowed his eyes and sniffed noisily, as Horton crossed to the coffee machine.

  'Or perhaps our killer was watching Brundall's boat and saw Sherbourne board it,' Horton continued, pressing the button for coffee, black, no sugar. 'He recognized Sherbourne and knew it could spell danger, which means the killer must be from Guernsey otherwise how else would he know Nigel Sherbourne?'

  'So you think it's the same killer?'

  'It seems likely.' Horton took his coffee, sipped it and pulled a face. It never seemed to get any better. 'The killer sees Sherbourne climb on board and gets worried about what Brundall's told him. He kills Brundall that night and then hotfoots it back to Guernsey to prevent Sherbourne blabbing. He knows where to locate Sherbourne, follows him, but can't get to him before he sees his client, so he waits until he comes out, abducts and kills him. He then sets fire to Sherbourne's offices to make doubly sure that whatever Brundall has told his solicitor remains a secret, which means we need to check the flights—'

  'Sergeant,' Uckfield bellowed.

  Trueman was less than a foot behind him.

  'I want the passenger lists of all the flights from Southampton to Guernsey on Thursday morning. And you'd better check out flights from the other airports too, especially any flights that went late Wednesday evening.' The door opened. 'Inspector Dennings, what took you so bloody long?'

  'I got—'

  'Never mind. Trueman, as soon as you get that passenger list relay it to Inspector Dennings; he'll be in Guernsey by then. Then I want you, Dennings; with the help of the Guernsey police, to go through it like it's that racing paper you study so keenly. Check out all the runners. I want to know if there is anyone on that list who knows or knew Sherbourne or Brundall, and their exact movements from Sunday night until last night.'

  Dennings looked puzzled and with an irritated frown Uckfield quickly relayed Horton's theory, after which Horton said, 'Of course it could be two killers and our pyromaniac here told his pyromaniac friend over there about Sherbourne's visit.'

  Uckfield spun round to face Horton. 'In that case, you'd better start finding me some leads here.' To Dennings, he said, 'Get going if you're to catch the—'

  '08:25 flight,' interjected Trueman, obviously keen to push Dennings on to the earliest possible flight and volunteer to carry his luggage for him. 'Otherwise you'll have to wait for the 11:10.'

  'And that's too bloody late.' Uckfield snatched a glance at his watch. 'Get a car to take you there. Blue lights all the way if necessary.'

  Horton was glad to get Neanderthal Man out of the way, and Trueman, breaking with his usual habit of remaining implacable in the face of panic, bollockings and briefings, looked as if he'd received an early Christmas present.

  Horton was surprised to find both Walters and Cantelli in the CID office. He could tell by Cantelli's cheerful expression that it was good news and felt overwhelmingly relieved.

  'Recovered from your flu?' Horton addressed Walters.

  'It wasn't flu, just an iffy stomach. Couldn't get off the toilet.'

  'It's all those curries you eat.'

  'I don't like curry,' protested Walters.

  'Well, now that you're back, pick up where you left off on the tourist mugging. Did you get copies of the CCTV tapes?'

  'No.'

  'Well get them, scrutinize them and ask around the local shopkeepers in Queen Street, see if you can pick up some clue as to where our muggers are before DCI Bliss has a coronary. Cantelli, you're coming with me. How's your dad?' Horton asked as they swept out of the station, thankfully making it before DCI Bliss could grab them.

  'He's chatting up the nurses, so he must be feeling better,' Cantelli said brightly. 'They reckon he'll be home for Christmas.'

  'I'm very glad to hear it.' 'Where are we going?'

  'Horsea Marina. I'll fill you in on the way.'

  By the time Cantelli pulled up in front of the pontoon where Brundall's boat had been moored Horton had brought him up to speed with the case, but not about his visit to the vicarage and the words on the Reverend Gilmore's blotter. In the chill grey morning, Horton stared across the calm surface of the marina. Opposite he could see the modern houses and apartments, to his right the boardwalk of shops, restaurants and pubs, and to his left rows of boats on blocks and the boat-moving crane. He had come here, as he had yesterday, hoping to find inspiration, but this time with those words on Gilmore's blotter imprinted on his brain. Though they couldn't have anything to do with the Brundall case, he felt that they had nudged something in his subconscious that was telling him there was something here they had all missed.

  'OK,' he said, chaffing his hands in the cold morning air, 'let's go over the facts. Brundall arrives here on Monday. He takes a vacant berth. What was the weather like on Monday?'

  'It started raining in the evening. I had to pick Sadie up from Guides.'

  'Brundall is a sick man. He'd probably had a long day motoring across from Guernsey—'

  'How long would it have taken him?' Cantelli unravelled a fresh piece of gum and offered the packet to Horton, who shook his head.

  'In that boat, with its powerful engine, and the weather fair, I'd say between three to four hours.'

  Cantelli looked surprised. 'That quick?'

  In Nutmeg it would take me for ever, Horton thought, though he had done it several times with Catherine and Emma on his father-in-law's yacht.

  He continued. 'Let's say Brundall came here with a purpose. He was a dying man yet he'd made a special effort. Why?'

  'He wanted to see someone for the last time?'

  'He's got no relatives that we can find.'

  'He had unfinished business here?'

  'Like what?'

  Cantelli shrugged. 'Maybe he just wanted one last look at his hometown, or perhaps he came to visit his parents' grave.'

  Horton spun round. That was it, of course! Why hadn't he made the connection when Marsden had mentioned the parents were dead? He said, 'If he did then how did h
e get around? He'd hardly have taken a bus, too awkward to get into the city from here, and he was ill and wealthy.'

  'He called a taxi or maybe—'

  'He hired a car,' Horton finished, excited. 'And he would have driven that car back here.' He scanned the car park. 'It will be parked near this pontoon, and it would have been here on Wednesday when we attended the fire, which leaves...' Horton's eyes fell on a dark blue Ford. 'That one.' He hurried across to it and peered in at the driver's window, but there was nothing to see.

  Cantelli was already calling in the registration number. Horton was annoyed; he should have thought of this earlier. They had a team of officers out here and a mobile incident suite and yet nobody had picked up on this. He didn't think the vehicle itself would yield anything but they might get some sightings of it and Brundall, between Monday and Wednesday evening.