Crisply, he said, 'DC Walters is interviewing the victim at his hotel.'
'The attack occurred two hours ago. We've lost valuable time tracking down the criminals.'
For goodness' sake, who the devil did she think he was? A rookie?
Stiffly, he said, 'The uniformed response officers went in immediate search of the youths, without results. And the victim was too shocked to give an accurate description. He was taken to hospital—'
'And is that all I'll have to tell the local newspaper tomorrow? It doesn't do much for our image as a tourist destination, does it?'
Not to mention your clear-up rate, he thought. Christ, Uckfield was bad enough wanting quick results but Bliss wanted them to be instant.
'This should have been dealt with sooner.'
'If I had the manpower it would have been,' he retorted.
Five minutes into the job and she was breathing down his neck and criticizing every decision he made. It hadn't taken him long to discover that she was a control freak. If one of his officers so much as sneezed she knew the time, decibel level and direction of the sneeze before he did himself.
'I don't want excuses, Inspector Horton, I want results.' And she rang off.
'And up yours too,' he mumbled. He'd heard on the grapevine that she didn't intend staying a DCI for very long, and as far as he was concerned the sooner she moved on the better.
Cantelli came off the phone. 'Dr Clayton's on her way.'
'Good.' Despite of, or maybe because of, Bliss's instructions that this was Uckfield's province, Horton said, 'I'll talk to the marina staff, Barney. You ask around on the pontoons: did anyone know our victim, when did they last see him?'
'Why don't I take the marina office, and you take the boats,' Cantelli suggested hopefully.
Horton knew that Cantelli was not one of the world's natural sailors. 'The pontoon's not going anywhere. You won't get seasick. Besides, I'll be quicker than you. I'll jog there.' He hoped he could dodge the reporters, if there were any, and the exercise would help to banish the remains of those uneasy feelings.
'I could take the car,' Cantelli said.
'And destroy the ozone layer unnecessarily for the sake of a few hundred yards! Heaven forbid.'
'Since when have you become environmentally friendly?'
'Barney, I live on a small boat with a little engine and use the wind to power it most of the time.'
'And the Harley?'
'It's less of a pollutant than the old banger you drive.' Cantelli held up his hands in submission. Horton broke into a jog, relieved to see that the crowd had
dispersed. The Chandlery was closed, the offices surrounding it locked up for the night, and the boatyard was silent. The marina office gave on to Paulsgrove Lake, which fed into the northern end of Portsmouth Harbour.
Horton took the steps to the lock control room above the office two at a time and rapped on the door. Announcing himself with a flash of warrant card to a swarthy looking man in his thirties who answered the door, Horton stepped inside nodding at the slight, fair-haired woman at the controls, who introduced herself as Avril.
The run had helped to banish Horton's tensions and he scolded himself for being paranoid. God, he was glad he had said nothing to Cantelli. He asked the man, who had introduced himself as Kevin Gardner, for the victim's name.
Gardner reached for a clipboard, and after consulting papers on it, said, 'Tom Brundall. He's a visitor. Only came into the marina two days ago, on Monday afternoon.'
'From?'
'Guernsey. Is he OK?' Gardner said, concerned.
'Did he give an address?'
'No. He paid cash in advance.'
Damn. Horton might have known it wouldn't be that easy. Had Brundall lived in Guernsey or had he just motored across from visiting there? If it was the latter then Brundall could have lived anywhere. Still, Guernsey was a starting point, and Horton knew just the man to ask: his old friend, Inspector John Guilbert, of the States of Guernsey Police.
'Has he locked out of the marina whilst he's been here?' Horton addressed the young woman.
'No. Is he all right? He wasn't on his boat when...'
'I'm afraid so.'
'Holy shit!' exclaimed Gardner. 'Poor man.'
Avril shuddered.
Horton left a short pause, which was filled by the foghorns. The sense of danger returned as the image of that charred body flashed into his mind.
'What did he look like?' he asked. Think logically. Do what you are paid to do.
Gardner answered. 'About your height, but in his mid-sixties, short grey hair, very thin.'
'Did he say why he'd come here?' Horton wondered if there was a Mrs Brundall who was about to hear some tragic news. If there were he was glad he wouldn't be the one to break it to her.
'Not to me he didn't and I didn't ask. Did you speak to him, Avril?' 'No. He smiled up at me as he was going through the lock and waved. He looked a nice old man. What caused the fire?'
'We don't know yet. The fire investigation officer will make his report, but we are treating his death as suspicious.' Horton wasn't about to divulge the information he'd been given.
'The boss isn't going to like this. He's on his way over from Brighton.' Gardner was clearly agitated.
'When you reached the pontoon did you notice if the gate was open or shut?'
'Shut. I punched in the security code.' Which, thought Horton, confirmed his earlier impressions that Brundall's killer had to be either someone familiar with the marina, a boat owner or employee, or someone Brundall knew and had admitted.
'Did Mr Brundall have any visitors?'
'I wouldn't—'
'Yes, he did,' Avril interrupted.
Horton was suddenly alert. 'When?'
'Today. I was heading for the boardwalk to do a bit of Christmas shopping and I saw a man getting out of a taxi.'
'What time?'
'Just before midday.'
Disappointing, because it couldn't have been the person who threw the lighted match on board, but, if Maidment was right about this being suspicious, this visitor could have loosened the gas cooker pipe after he arrived.
'How do you know he was going to see Mr Brundall?'
'Because he asked me where pontoon G was, and said he was looking for Mr Brundall. He couldn't get on to the pontoon without the security code so I let him through and watched him until he got to Mr Brundall's boat. I saw Mr Brundall come on deck, smile and shake hands with him. Then the man climbed on board.'
So, the visitor had been expected and welcomed. That didn't eliminate him, however, from being a possible accessory to murder.
'Can you describe him?' Horton asked, hoping this might give them an early lead.
'He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and yellow tie. Quite distinguished looking, short thinning grey hair, about mid fifties.'
Not the usual profile of a killer, thought Horton with a flicker of disappointment, but then who could tell?
'Oh, and he was carrying a briefcase,' Avril added.
So Brundall had had some business to attend to. 'Do you know what time he left?'
'No. Sorry.'
'You don't happen to know which taxi firm dropped him off?' Horton asked hopefully.
'I do actually.'
Praise the Lord for an observant woman!
'It was Acme Cars,' she continued. 'It made me think of my young brother who's got acne.'
Horton didn't recognize the name. They couldn't be local. Outside he called the CID office and got DC Walters.
'Only just returned from interviewing Mr Belmont,' Walters said before Horton could speak.
'Leave the American tourist for now; I want you to contact the States of Guernsey Police.' Horton swiftly brought Walters up to speed with events, then added, 'See if they have a record of a resident called Tom Brundall. Call me as soon as you have anything.'
He rang off to the sound of Walters grumbling and ran back to the pontoon. If Brundall had been a Guernsey re
sident, then why had he been killed in Portsmouth? Had he arranged to meet his killer here? Was his killer the man in the suit? Why did Brundall bring his boat here in December? It was hardly the season for it. Who was Tom Brundall?
Horton drew up abruptly as a thought suddenly struck him and he cursed himself for being so stupid. How did he know those charred remains were Tom Brundall's? He'd committed one of the cardinal sins for a detective in assuming it was Brundall because it was his boat, but with Avril's evidence, the dead man could easily be this man in the suit. It was impossible to recognize either of the descriptions that Kevin Gardner and Avril had given him from those charred remains, and the clothing had been singed to oblivion. Had any of the firefighters found the remains of a briefcase?
Horton reached for his mobile phone and once again called Walters. Whilst he waited for him to answer, he walked towards the pontoon, noting with surprise that Superintendent Uckfield had arrived on the scene pretty sharply. His car was parked next to the police vehicle. Bliss was a quick worker but even she couldn't have got the superintendent here as fast as this.
Perhaps Uckfield had had a premonition that something was happening here, Horton thought wryly, noting also Dr Clayton's Mini Cooper, but that would be like Hannibal Lecter suddenly converting to vegetarianism. Horton supposed Uckfield must have been near to the Marina when he'd got Bliss's call.
'About time. Where have you been?' Horton snapped as Walters eventually answered.
'On the phone to Guernsey, guv.' Walters sounded peeved.
Horton ordered Walters to put out an all-ports alert for two men: the visitor with the briefcase and the man who had steered the boat into Horsea Marina on Monday afternoon. As he stepped on to the pontoon another thought occurred to him: the victim didn't necessarily have to be either Brundall or the man in the suit; it could be someone whom Brundall had lured to his boat. And further more how did he know that Brundall was the boat owner's real name?
He frowned with irritation. He had a feeling that this case was going to be one of those – for every step forward they'd take two back. Cantelli had told him it wouldn't be his problem, and DCI Bliss had also reminded him of that same fact. Maybe he should be grateful.
Uckfield's squat figure loomed at him from out of the fog. Maybe this one was best left to the superintendent and DI Dennings, and yet Horton knew by the excitement he felt in his gut and by his earlier premonition which was still swirling around that he didn't want that.
Never let it be said that I don't like a challenge, he thought, and felt certain that this case was certainly going to be that.
Two
'What's up, Steve? Worried your boat might have gone up in flames?'
Horton joked with a familiarity that would have earned him a reprimand with any other senior officer, but every now and then Horton liked to remind Uckfield that they had once been close friends. He noted Uckfield's dinner jacket and bow tie underneath the camel coat. The superintendent must have been on his way to a function when he got Bliss's call.
With a flicker of annoyance Uckfield said crisply, 'What do we know about the dead man?'
Horton smiled a greeting at Dr Clayton who returned the gesture briefly before resuming her examination of the corpse. There was no sign of Dennings, and he wasn't a man to miss. His fifteen-stone muscular frame would have stood out like the Incredible Hulk.
After Horton had finished his briefing, Uckfield said, 'Great, so we think he might be this man Tom Brundall, but equally he could be any other Tom, Dick or Harry.'
'That's about the size of it so far,' Horton said, as Cantelli arrived.
'This place is like the Mary Celeste. I can't find a single soul on a blessed boat. Somerfield's had no joy either.'
Horton hadn't really expected anything different at this time of the year. He turned to Uckfield, and, half joking, said, 'I don't suppose you've been on your boat and seen the victim?'
Uckfield snapped, 'Of course I bloody haven't,' and swiftly turned to Dr Clayton. 'Well?'
'He's not a very pretty sight.'
Gaye glanced up. For a moment Horton thought she was referring to the superintendent.
'I can see that for myself,' Uckfield retorted. 'Was he murdered?'
'Interesting though.' She stood up, holding Uckfield's glare with composure, obviously refusing to be hurried or bullied into answering. Did Uckfield know he was addressing the daughter of one of the most eminent Home Office pathologists the country had ever seen, Samuel Ryedon? Horton doubted it or Uckfield's manner would have been sickeningly ingratiating instead of hostile.
'Could it have been an accident?' Uckfield pressed.
'Not judging by the pattern of the wound and the extent of the injury to the cranium. He was struck with a heavy object, something like a hammer.'
Horton peered once again at the body. It wasn't quite as bad the second time, though it was awful enough. But now the analytical side of his nature reasserted itself. Why had this man met with such a terrible end? Was it a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Somehow Horton doubted that. It was planned, he was sure. So what kind of person could have done this and why? He knew that people were driven to murder for all sorts of reasons: greed, jealousy, revenge, hatred, love, to name but a few. But to knock a man out and then set fire to him smacked of someone cold and calculating enough to cover his tracks by wanting to destroy the evidence. Either that or someone evil enough to take pleasure in watching another human being suffer for the sheer fun of it. Maybe their killer was a bit of both. The thought sent a cold shudder through him, making him feel both sad and sickened.
Dr Clayton pulled the blanket over the corpse. 'I'll do the post-mortem as soon as I get him to the mortuary.' Turning to Horton, she added, 'I'll let you know the moment I have anything. I wouldn't want to spoil the superintendent's evening.'
Ignoring her, Uckfield addressed Horton. 'You'd better get the divers in. Not that I expect them to find anything in the marina. Our killer wouldn't be that stupid.'
'You're taking command of the case?'
'It looks like murder to me, Inspector. And that counts as a major crime in my book,' Uckfield replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Horton tensed at Uckfield's sneering tone, but said casually, 'In that case we'll leave it to you and DI Dennings.' He turned and walked away.
'Not so hasty. You got a date?' Uckfield called out angrily.
No, but you have, thought Horton. Now he'd see just how important a date it was. Come on, you bastard, ask me. Either that or get your blue-eyed boy in.
'Andy.'
Horton halted and slowly turned, managing to stifle the smile of satisfaction both at being summoned and the use of his Christian name. He heard Uckfield snarl at Cantelli. 'Haven't you got anything better to do, Sergeant, than hang around on the pontoon chewing like a bloody cow?'
Cantelli raised his eyebrows and turned to engage Dr Clayton in conversation.
Drawing level, Uckfield said in a low voice, 'Can't you follow this through, Andy? I'll clear it with DCI Bliss. Dennings is off sick with this flu bug and I've promised Alison I'd go to this bloody dinner and dance. It's in aid of one of her charities and she's put a lot of effort into organizing it.'
Yes, and I expect her father, the chief constable, will also be there, Horton thought cynically, which was the real reason Uckfield needed to go. It was sucking-up time to the in-laws. And Horton, knowing Uckfield of old, was aware Alison could go to Outer Mongolia on her own if precious daddy wasn't anywhere on the horizon.
Uckfield continued. 'Not much will happen on this case tonight anyway, and I know I can leave a good officer like you to kick start it.'
Horton had to bite his tongue. He felt like saying 'If I'm that bloody good why didn't you appoint me your DI instead of that idiot Dennings?'
'Sergeant Cantelli and I should have been off duty about two hours ago,' Horton said, holding Uckfield's stare. He wanted the man to plead yet he knew that Uckfield wouldn't. Horton
had to be content with the small victory he had scored in getting the superintendent to ask for a favour in the first instance. He saw that he had made his point and before Uckfield could answer, added, 'I'll call you as soon as Dr Clayton has completed the post-mortem, Steve.' A favour didn't warrant the use of rank, not in Horton's eyes at least.
'Good.'
Horton knew Uckfield couldn't say thank you. It wasn't in his vocabulary.
Uckfield glanced at his watch. 'I'll call Sergeant Trueman on my way to the dinner and ask him to start getting the major incident suite ready. Hate these bloody things, but duty calls.'
The Suffocating Sea Page 2
