The Suffocating Sea dah-3 Read online

  '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 he 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.

  Cantelli rang off. 'It's registered in the name of Go Far Car Hire in Buckingham Street. It hasn't been picked up for any speeding offence.'

  'Call them and ask if they hired the car to Brundall, and if so get Walters over there quickly. Tell him to bring someone from the company here right away with a set of keys. And phone Marsden and ask him to track down where Brundall's parents are buried.'

  Horton walked down to the pontoon and gazed across the water to where Brundall's boat had been moored. He shuddered as the memory of that foggy night returned to haunt him. Once again he saw that charred body and felt a strong sense of foreboding
. The wind stirred, rattling through the halyards for a moment, and then died down. If he had believed in ghosts he would have said that Brundall's was haunting him. But he didn't believe. And yet he felt something that he couldn't explain. A medium would call it a presence. But he wasn't any medium. He was a policeman. Facts were his stock in trade and yet…

  Cantelli said, 'Brundall hired it all right. Walters is on his way there now.'

  Horton glanced at his watch. It was almost ten thirty. Dennings would be in Guernsey talking to Inspector Guilbert.

  Cantelli said, 'Is there anything wrong, Andy?'

  Horton regarded him keenly. There was only concern in the sergeant's dark eyes. 'Apart from a murder, you mean?'

  'You look…worried.'

  'I'm fine,' Horton said, perhaps too sharply because Cantelli gave a slight lift of his eyebrows, but knew better than to push it. 'Have you called the hospital?' Horton asked to distract him.

  'No. I'll do it now while we're waiting.'

  'I'll call into the mobile incident suite.' Horton strode across the car park towards a large Portakabin facing the multiplex cinema complex. He spent a few minutes talking to the officer in charge and flicking through the reports but again no one reported having seen Brundall, and he hadn't visited any of the pubs or restaurants. Neither had he eaten at the yacht club. He must have brought supplies with him. Horton reckoned a dying man wouldn't have fancied much to eat anyway.

  By the time he returned to the car, Cantelli was just coming off the phone. His dark face was puckered with concern and Horton was fearful the old man might have had a relapse.

  'Marie's with Dad,' Cantelli said. 'I managed to text her and she stepped outside and called me back. He's not too bad, she says, though it seems strange to see him in bed and inactive. You know my dad — he's usually a bundle of energy. She'll have a word with the consultant when he does his rounds. Isabella and Tony are at work, the cafes don't run themselves, and Charlotte said she'd go in later this morning and take Mum. Charlotte will stay until she has to pick the twins up from school. I said I'd get up after work.'

  Horton could see he was torn between wanting to be there all the time and being at work. He said, 'I'm sure they're looking after him, Barney.'

  'Yeah. You just feel so bloody helpless.'

  A car swept into the car park and drew up beside them. In the passenger seat next to Walters was a slim man in his thirties with gelled hair. Walters introduced him as Darren Trenchard.

  'He booked it for a week,' Trenchard said in answer to Horton's enquiry. Horton was surprised that Brundall had planned to stay that long, though there was no reason why he shouldn't do so.

  'Could I have the keys, Mr Trenchard?'

  Trenchard handed them across. Horton donned a pair of latex gloves, which he retrieved from his jacket pocket and zapped the car open. He walked around to the passenger side and flipped open the glove compartment. Inside was the paperwork relating to the car and nothing else. The boot yielded only the spare wheel and some tools.

  'Take a look at the mileage for me,'Horton said to Trenchard. 'Can you say how many miles your client has done?'

  The man peered inside and then glanced at a copy of the agreement he'd brought with him. 'Forty-three.'

  'And he hired it when?'

  Another glance at the paperwork and Trenchard replied, 'Tuesday morning, midday.'

  Forty-three miles meant Brundall must have stayed fairly local. There was no satellite navigation on the car so no record of where he had gone.

  'Did Mr Brundall say anything to you when he hired the car?'

  'Like what?' The man looked bewildered.

  'Where he was going? What he needed a car for? Nice weather? Anything?'

  'No, just that he wanted something basic and comfortable.'

  'Did he collect it from your premises?'

  'No. He called us and asked if we would deliver it and said he would do all the paperwork then.'

  'Is that usual?'

  'It happens, especially when people come here on their boats from abroad.'

  He must have called from the public phone box near the cinema complex and perhaps that was where he had also summoned Sherbourne. Why hadn't anyone seen him do so then?

  'Did he tell you where he had come from?' Horton asked.

  'No. I checked his passport as a means of identification. It said he was British. He's that man that got killed on his boat, isn't he? Was he a drug runner?' Trenchard's eyes lit up.

  'You've been watching too much television. Are your cars cleaned before they're hired out?'

  'Oh yes, inside and out.'

  'Good. We'll need to take it away for examination. If it's all right you'll probably get it back cleaner than when you hired it. We'll give you a receipt.' He nodded at Walters to do the honours and drew Cantelli out of earshot. Horton hoped that the forensic team might be able to tell them something about where the car had travelled by the dust and mud in the tyre treads or under the wheel arches.

  Cantelli said, 'We might get sight of Brundall on the CCTV cameras around the city.'

  Horton wondered if Dennings would have thought of that if he'd been here and doubted it. Why hadn't Cantelli gone for promotion? He was far brighter than Dennings. But Horton already knew the answer to that question and he envied Cantelli. The sergeant was content with where he was and with what he had, and that, thought Horton, was a great gift.

  'I'll ask Uckfield to make another statement to the press and get out a picture of this car.'

  Horton left Walters to wait until the police vehicle recovery truck arrived and then to drop Darren back to Buckingham Street. His phone rang as Cantelli turned on to the motorway heading back to the station. It was Trueman.

  'There are a couple of possible sightings of Brundall that look hopeful in response to the superintendent's statement to the press yesterday. A woman who was walking her dog on Portsdown Hill on Tuesday remembers speaking to a man who fits the description. It was just after midday.'

  If it was Brundall then he must have driven straight there from hiring the car: it was only a few miles away and from Portsdown Hill, Brundall would have seen the city spread out beneath him. It was a spectacular and breathtaking view and might well have been the first place a man returning to his hometown would have visited; either there or the sea front.

  'And the other sighting?' he asked.

  'St Agnes's Church, Portsea, on the same afternoon.'

  Horton started in surprise. Horsea Marina, the words on Reverend Gilmore's blotter. Could Brundall have known Reverend Gilmore? How? Had he once been a member of St Agnes's congregation or was there more to it than that? He felt his spine tingling not only with excitement but with a faint feeling of uneasiness and apprehension that he didn't much care for. Was it some kind of intuition that had told him he should have taken that piece of blotting paper when he'd left the vicarage? And wasn't it those two words that had driven him back here today to discover the hire car?

  He got the details before ringing off. 'I'll talk to the parishioner,' he said to Cantelli, 'you tackle the woman with the dog.'

  Cantelli pulled a face. Horton knew that Cantelli was about as good with dogs as he was on the sea.

  'Why don't I take the parishioner and you take the woman with the dog?' suggested Cantelli hopefully.

  But Horton couldn't let him do that.

  'You might have to enter an Anglican place of worship, and I wouldn't want to offend your religion,' Horton joked uneasily. He could see Cantelli eyeing him with suspicion. Damn. But how could he tell Cantelli he'd been to the vicarage and seen those words 'Horsea Marina' on the dead vicar's blotter without revealing why he had been there? Besides, he wanted to know why Brundall had been to St Agnes's Church and on the day both he and the Reverend Gilmore had died. It was one hell of a coincidence and he smelt trouble with a capital T the size of the Eiffel Tower.

  'St Agnes is a Catholic saint as well as an Anglican one,' Cantelli said. 'Did you know that sh
e's the patron saint of chastity, engaged couples, rape victims and virgins, to name but a few? If I have to go inside the church I'm sure the good Lord will forgive me my sins.'

  'He might but I won't. You get the dog. I get the church,' Horton said firmly.

  Seven

  The last time he'd been inside a church, when it hadn't involved investigating vandalism, had been Emma's christening seven years ago. He brought the Harley to a stop in front of a red-bricked building sandwiched between two towering council blocks. It looked more like a barracks than a place of worship, and the large Christmas tree beside the heavy wooden doors did little to make the place look more welcoming.

  There were no cars outside, so thankfully no service, and none about to start. Mr Gutner's wife, the man who claimed to have seen Tom Brundall, had told him when he had called on her ten minutes ago that her husband had left for the church where he would be practising for the carol service on Sunday.

  Horton pushed open the heavy wooden door and shivered despite his leathers as he stepped inside the chilly interior, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom. Dim lights hung low from a high ceiling. A torch might have been useful, but he caught a glimmer of brightness by the altar, where a Christmas tree, this time lit, attempted to throw some light into a dull, unattractive world. Surely to God, if there were a God, then He wouldn't have been as miserable as this? Far from uplifting, this place oozed depression.

  There was no sign of Kenneth Gutner. Perhaps he was in the vestry, wherever that was.

  Horton's shoes made little sound on the wooden floor as he headed up the airy nave between rows of pews that looked a little worse for wear with scratches and carvings. He wasn't quite sure what God would make of 'Julie loves Darren' scratched on one of them. Perhaps He didn't mind; after all it was better than saying that Darren was a scumbag and she hated him.

  This place was giving him the willies. Horton hoped that Cantelli's Roman Catholic church was brighter and more welcoming than this. He couldn't help recalling another cavernous church like this one and another aisle where Catherine had walked on their wedding day, and where he had been forced to parade his complete lack of relatives. The only foster parents he had cared about had died by then, which was a shame because Bernard and Eileen would have delighted in his marriage. Fortunately some of his colleagues had filled up the groom's side, but it still looked totally inadequate and pathetic.