'What are you doing here?' Catherine demanded, hurrying towards him.
Uckfield answered. 'He's on duty.'
'I'm not actually, but I am on a case,' Horton corrected. He held Catherine's icy cold stare and told himself it didn't matter, but he felt a hard knot of pain inside his stomach.
Alison Uckfield's pale-skinned face puckered up with concern as she said, 'This doesn't mean you've got to leave, does it, Steve?'
Fat lot of good Uckfield would be.
Horton said, 'There's not much that can be done tonight, Alison.'
She looked startled at being addressed in so familiar a manner, and dashed a look at her husband, but Horton was buggered if he was going to stand on ceremony with a woman he had danced and laughed with, seen drunk, and kissed.
Taking his wife's arm and with a backward glance at Horton, Uckfield said, 'I'll clear it with Chief Superintendent Chievely tomorrow. You're on the case.'
Horton turned to Catherine. 'How's Emma?'
'Looking forward to seeing you on Christmas Eve. Don't disappoint her, Andy.'
Horton forced himself to remain calm, though he was thinking how dare she say that when he had never disappointed his daughter in her life. 'Who's looking after her tonight?'
She hesitated. Her eyes flickered to the function room. He knew instantly why.
'Your mother and father are here too.'
'Yes. I've got a babysitter.'
'Who?' His stomach clenched at the thought of Emma being abandoned to a stranger.
'A girl from the village called Michelle. She's highly reliable,' Catherine replied defensively.
He had to trust her he told himself. No matter what Catherine did to him he knew she wouldn't endanger Emma, but part of him was thinking that she could have stayed with him. Yet how could she on his boat? It was totally inadequate for a child. It was inadequate for him. And then there was his job. He didn't need to be here working at midnight, but how could he have got away by seven or eight o'clock, which was probably when Catherine had wanted to leave for her function?
Admitting defeat, he said, 'Enjoy your evening,' and walked away. It wasn't until he had reached reception that he paused and turned back. Catherine had vanished but he caught sight of another familiar face and he felt a tiny flicker of jealousy inside him. Staring up at an elegantly dressed dark-haired man in his late thirties was Frances Greywell. She didn't look as though she was going to protest either when he placed his arm across her naked shoulders.
Outside Horton breathed in the night air hoping to banish his acute sensation of isolation, but the fog was as suffocating as ever. He climbed on his Harley and rode home carefully and slowly. His route took him along the mist-shrouded seafront where the sound of the booming foghorns filled the air. There were young people milling around outside the nightclubs, and a police wagon was parked in front of the pier. Later, when club land spewed its contents on to the pavements, there would be drunken young people and scantily clad girls everywhere. He wondered if this would be Emma's fate. God, he hoped not. He wanted to play a part in her upbringing, and he knew deep in his heart that it had to be more than just a once-a-week visit.
Would the sleek, sophisticated Frances get him what he wanted? Or did she think him a loser? Had she spoken to Catherine at that dinner and dance? If so, what kind of picture had his estranged wife painted of him? With something akin to despair he climbed on board Nutmeg and gazed around it: two bunks, a small stove and portable toilet. It wasn't much to show for a lifetime's slog.
He lay back in the darkness, resting his hands behind his head, trying to blot out that picture at the hotel, of people laughing and drinking, of Catherine and Edward Shawford. It wasn't that he enjoyed that sort of event himself; on the contrary he'd loathed those parties and dances. But he was expected to attend the police dinner and dance which always took place in January and was seen as a bonding exercise by higher brass between all the units and stations across Portsmouth. Who was he going to take this year? He had thought briefly about asking Frances, but now that idea was scuppered. Once again he felt like the outsider and memories of his childhood came flooding back, the child standing alone. It churned his guts.
Mentally he pulled himself together. There was still work, and with an effort he turned his thoughts instead to that burnt body. There were many questions bothering him but one more than all the others stood out: why had someone wanted to kill a man who was already dying of cancer?
Three
Thursday: 7.45 a.m.
The question was still troubling him the next morning when he fetched a coffee from the machine and weaved his way through the crowded incident room. Of course, one answer had sprung to mind last night and that was perhaps the murderer didn't know that Brundall had cancer.
Uckfield had mobilized the troops quicker than Horton had believed physically possible. But when you're wining and dining with the chief constable anything was feasible, like his secondment to the major crime team, which Bliss had told him about that morning through gritted teeth. She said that Walters had called in sick (probably suffering from a hangover or an excess of sexual activity) and that Cantelli was to run the CID office. But Bliss had added that she still expected Horton to oversee it, handle his paperwork, and make sure the mugging case was properly investigated. Some secondment, he thought cynically. Perhaps he should have eaten spinach for breakfast!
Uckfield's office blinds were shut, which meant he was either in conference or having a nap after a boozy late night, and Horton guessed it was the former.
'Brundall's GP has confirmed he had cancer,' Trueman said. 'It was at a very advanced stage. Inspector Guilbert called the doctor early this morning and rang through the information five minutes ago. Guilbert's applying for Brundall's full medical details but it looks as though he's our victim.'
Horton reckoned so. He picked up a printed photograph on Sergeant Trueman's desk. It showed a small gathering of people on board a large luxury yacht.
'That's Tom Brundall in 1996,' Trueman added over his shoulder whilst scrawling the information on the GP's confirmation of cancer on the crime board.
'Which one?'
'Him.' Trueman pointed to a slim man, in his mid fifties with an angular face and light brown hair. He seemed surprised – or even startled – at having his picture taken. Horton got the impression he wasn't too pleased about it either. He felt a brief frisson of excitement as if there was something important in what he'd just seen. Had he recognized Brundall? He didn't think so. It must be something else, but try as he might he couldn't think what it was. It had gone.
Brundall was dressed in light-coloured trousers and an open-neck checked shirt. Beside him, reclining on the sunlounger, was a casually but well-dressed man in his mid thirties with fair hair, sunglasses on his head and a glass of champagne in his hand, smiling into camera. The other people in the photograph were behind them and slightly out of focus. Horton tried to banish the memory of the shrivelled blackened corpse on the pontoon and replace it with this one of Brundall. He thought Brundall looked a fairly innocuous sort of man, instantly forgettable, the kind you might expect to meet in a bank or an accountant's office.
Trueman continued. 'It's the only photograph that the Guernsey police can find of him. They got it from the local newspaper archives, along with this cutting.'
Horton took the piece of paper on to which the press cutting had been scanned and then e-mailed from Guernsey. 'Top banker claims times are good,' said the headline and they certainly looked it, if the size of that boat was anything to go by. It must have cost at least a million back in 1996.
He read the article with the practised skill of a thousand-words-a-minute man. The banker referred to wasn't Brundall, but the head of a private Guernsey bank, a man called Russell Newton who was entertaining guests aboard his yacht, including financier Tom Brundall. So that's what the dead man had done for a living. Was Newton the man on the sunlounger? Horton guessed so.
'Harrison is ag
eing the photograph to bring it up to date,' Trueman informed him. 'You know, colouring the hair grey and adding a few lines to fit the description the marina staff gave you. I should have copies in half an hour.'
'Thanks.'
'Glad someone appreciates it.' Trueman jerked his head in the direction of Superintendent Uckfield's office. 'He's like a bear with a sore arse.'
'Don't you mean head?'
'And that judging by the amount of black coffee the super's putting away. It's DI Dennings who can't keep still.'
'I thought he was sick!' Horton said, surprised and annoyed. He didn't intend taking orders from Dennings, or playing second fiddle to the man. And neither did he intend being the DI stuck in the incident room overseeing the case; Sergeant Trueman was quite capable of that. If that was how it was going to be then he'd rather be in CID even if it did mean ploughing his way through DCI Bliss's new reporting system.
Trueman said, 'Dennings must have heard there was something going off. Doesn't want to miss his first big case.'
Bliss hadn't said anything about Dennings being back, but maybe she didn't know. He crossed to Uckfield's office, knocked once and pushed back the door. Immediately he saw that Trueman was right. Uckfield's eyes were bloodshot and his craggy face was grey.
Serve him right, Horton thought; that will teach him to go drinking with Catherine's boyfriend. Dennings didn't look too good either. His moon-like face was pale and his eyes red-rimmed and tired. Horton recalled what Cantelli had said about that film starring Paulette Goddard, and ghosts and zombies.
'Didn't expect to see you, Tony?' he said. 'You look like someone's just woken you up from a night out haunting.'
Dennings opened his mouth to reply but Uckfield got there first. 'I want you to follow up this taxi fare lead, Inspector, whilst Dennings collates things this end and liaises with Guernsey.'
Dennings face was solemn, but Horton could tell he was fuming. Like Horton, Dennings was an action man. Perhaps Uckfield thought Dennings still under par from his flu; he certainly looked it. Horton hoped the bastard wasn't gong to infect them all with his germs. It would be about all they'd ever get from Dennings, he thought cynically. He was notoriously tight-fisted.
But it wasn't like the superintendent to be considerate and it puzzled Horton. There was no time to dwell on it or discuss the matter though, because Uckfield rose and swept out of his office, leaving them to trail in his wake. The incident room immediately fell silent as Uckfield entered it. Horton looked for Cantelli but couldn't see him. Perhaps he was in the CID office.
Uckfield didn't have much to say, mainly because there was so little information. Guernsey were picking away at Brundall's past and still trying to locate a relative. They were hoping to find some papers in Brundall's house that would tell them more about him. Horton hoped so too.
Trueman had arranged for the mobile incident unit to be set up in Horsea Marina car park in case anyone remembered seeing Brundall or his visitor. And Uckfield ordered a team to go into the marina to question the businesses there.
Half an hour later, with still no sign of Cantelli or a message from him, which wasn't like the sergeant, Horton was glad to head out of the station into a clear morning with no trace of fog. It had a crisp bite to it, making it feel more seasonal. He felt rather foolish and annoyed with himself when he remembered his fears last night.
Trueman had given him the address of Acme Taxis but it still took him a few minutes to locate it in a side street just off the main thoroughfare.
A beanpole of a woman in her forties, with short blonde hair, and a sharp pointed face, looked up as he entered.
'Won't be a moment, luv.' She talked into a mouthpiece and tapped information into a computer. Horton heard her send a car to pick up someone from Southampton Parkway railway station. 'Now what can I do for you, dear?'
Horton showed his ID. 'One of your cars collected a fare yesterday morning at about eleven thirty a.m. and drove him to Horsea Marina. I'd like to talk to the cab driver.' Horton had calculated the time. On average, and outside rush hour, it took half an hour to travel from Eastleigh to Horsea Marina and Avril said she had spoken to the man just before midday.
The woman consulted her computer screen. 'That was Peter Kingston. He's on a run at the moment. He'll be back in about ten minutes.'
'Any idea who the fare was?' She checked her computer as Horton stared impatiently around the cramped office with its faded and worn armchairs, coffee machine and newspapers scattered on a low table. He only had to wait ten minutes for Kingston to show, yet that already felt ten minutes too long. You've got time, he told himself, this is no race. Why then did he feel it was important to act swiftly? It wasn't just because DI Dennings had returned to work either. No, there was more to this than feelings of rivalry and professional jealousy. What though? That was the question, and one he couldn't put his finger on. It was bloody irritating to say the least.
'The fare paid cash. I've no idea who he was.'
Damn. Horton could have traced a credit or debit card payment or a cheque.
There was nothing for it but to wait until Kingston showed up. When he did, he was a small barrel of a man in his late fifties, with thinning white hair stretched across his egg shaped head. Horton felt like a giant beside him. He didn't want to question him in front of the woman, and suggested they step outside.
Kingston went one further. 'I'm off the run now. How about a coffee? There's a café three doors down on the right. I'll just sign out and meet you there. You can order me a bacon sandwich.'
It was the all-day-breakfast type with steamed-up windows, a good old-fashioned clanging bell above the door and a portly unshaven man behind a tall counter wearing an overall that looked as though it had been rescued off the rubbish tip. Health and safety would have closed this place down, if they ever got within sniffing distance, but clearly its customers loved it. It was crowded.
Horton placed the order and gazed around for a table. Two men in painter's overalls got up from the table near the window and Horton pounced on it. He sipped at his mug of black coffee, which tasted like liquorice, and wished Kingston hadn't ordered bacon because the smell of it frying brought back the picture of those charred human remains and threatened to start his stomach once again practising for the Olympic gymnastics gold medal.
The bell clanged and through a haze of cooking smoke and fried food, Kingston rolled in. Ex navy, thought Horton, studying the gait and the slightly pompous air with which he addressed the man behind the counter. Once he had greeted the proprietor, Kingston settled himself down, and took a gulp of his coffee.
'What do you want to know?'
'Everything you can tell me about the fare you picked up yesterday morning at eleven thirty and took to Horsea Marina.'
'Is it about that boat that caught fire? I heard it on the news this morning.' Kingston had that gleam in his little grey eyes that told Horton he'd bore the pants off everyone for a month retelling the tale.
'How do you know if your fare had any connection with that?' Horton asked, watching Kingston carefully, as he spooned another sugar into his coffee. No worries about getting diabetes there!
'Because he told me to wait for him, and I saw him go on to a pontoon. I just put two and two together. There's something funny about that fire, isn't there? Hey, he didn't do it, did he? He didn't look the type.'
'What was he like?'
Kingston thought for a moment. Horton curbed his impatience. He could tell this man would not be hurried or cajoled. Physically small he may be, but he was a giant in his own estimation and ego. Horton knew he would get the information he wanted. He just hoped that Kingston wouldn't embellish it in an attempt to inflate his own sense of worth.
'He hailed me outside the airport at about eleven twenty-five and got into the back of the cab. Some of them like to sit in the front, but not this guy. I asked him where he'd come from and he said Guernsey.'
Horton was encouraged. This was sounding good.
And vice versa, thought Horton, recalling some of the cab drivers he'd met.
Kingston's bacon sandwich arrived and Horton was rather glad when Kingston spread a liberal helping of brown sauce over it. Its spicy fragrance smothered the smell of roast flesh.
Horton let him take his first bite before he asked, 'How did he seem? Worried, pleased, happy?'
'Anxious, I'd say. He kept tapping his fingers on the door, and craning his neck as if I could get there any faster.'
The Suffocating Sea Page 4
