'Andy, good to hear from you.'
Horton smiled at the softly spoken voice, thinking how it must have wound Dennings up. But behind the slow, casual manner there was a quick, incisive brain.
'I'm working on the Brundall case with DI Dennings.'
'Rather you than me.'
'He's not renowned for his tact.'
'Or his patience. He seems to think I'm Superman and can give him answers faster than a speeding bullet.'
'Talking of which, what have you got on Brundall? And don't tell me you've already relayed it to Dennings, because I doubt he asked the right questions, or if he did then he didn't listen to the answers.'
'You know him well.'
'Unfortunately. What have you found in Brundall's house?'
'Nothing and I mean nothing. No letters, no photographs, no diary, no computer.'
'Stolen or never existed?'
'Never existed. There are no signs of a break-in and his housekeeper, Patricia Lihou, confirms he didn't have a computer. Nice lady – quiet, comfortable, well past middle age and very upset at Mr Brundall's death.'
'Mr?'
'She's worked for him for the last eighteen years and says it's always been and still is Mr.'
'Did he ever speak about his family or his past?'
'She's says not, and I believe her. He was a very quiet man, and clever. He liked to do crossword puzzles, loved walking and his boat. She knew he had cancer and when he told her he was going out on the boat for a few days, she guessed it would be for the last time, but she never expected him to meet with an accident.'
'Did you tell her it wasn't accidental?' Horton asked, surprised.
'Of course, but she refuses to believe that someone could have killed such a nice man as Mr Brundall.'
Horton sniffed. 'She should have our job. What about Brundall's investments?'
'He's rolling in it, and we haven't even scratched the surface yet. When he moved here he already had millions. Mrs Lihou says Brundall never spoke about money. He was generous to her, lived well and maintained the house, but never spent much on himself except for his boat. He was a recluse, didn't mix with anyone on the island and never went on expensive holidays or business trips. I didn't know him and we've never come across him before.'
'What about Russell Newton? Brundall was photographed with him.'
'Mrs Lihou says that neither Mr Newton nor anyone else has ever visited the house. Newton's a very wealthy man and an influential one on the island. I've got to get the chief officer's authority to question him, but I will get it, Andy. It just takes time.'
'I know. Any idea who Brundall's next of kin is?'
'No. Sherbourne's tell me that Brundall has made a will but until they speak to Nigel Sherbourne they can't let us have access to a copy, and none of the staff or Nigel's partner know what's in it anyway. Whoever Brundall has named is sitting on a small fortune, lucky sod.'
'What would you do with all that money, John?' teased Horton.
'Buy myself a bigger boat.'
'There speaks a man after my own heart. Any idea when you'll get to speak to Sherbourne?'
'He should have returned to his office an hour ago, but there's been no sign of him and no contact from him.'
Horton frowned. That was news to him, and it didn't sound too good either. Had Sherbourne absconded?
Guilbert said, 'I'm worried, Andy. His wife says he hasn't been home and there's no answer to his mobile phone. We've issued an alert for him, but he's not your killer. I know him well and you couldn't meet a more reputable lawyer or man.'
John Guilbert's word had always been good enough for Horton in the past, so why not now? They should rule out the solicitor, which meant that something must have happened to him. Horton didn't think it boded well.
'Have you any idea of why Brundall would summon Sherbourne to England?' he asked.
'For the same reason you thought of, either to change his will or sign some business papers, and if Sherbourne's missing then it doesn't look too good, because whatever Brundall did sign, Sherbourne brought back with him, and someone doesn't want us to find it.'
'Does Dennings know this?'
'No. I've only just found out myself. His partner in the law firm also claims he had no idea what Sherbourne's business was with Brundall. All he knows is that Brundall telephoned late Tuesday afternoon, about four fifteen. He doesn't know what the conversation was about and he didn't have any idea that Sherbourne was going to England on Wednesday. He just said he'd be out for the day. Sherbourne booked his own flight and paid with the firm's credit card. He's reliable, Andy.'
Horton thought for a moment. If Guilbert were right then either someone had followed Sherbourne from Guernsey to England and back again, or someone from here had seen Sherbourne go onboard Brundall's boat and followed him back to Guernsey. If that was so, whoever it was must have known the solicitor to have recognized him. But he was getting ahead of himself.
'Perhaps he's broken down somewhere and can't get a reception on his mobile phone,' he suggested. Or perhaps he had a lover and had switched off his mobile.
Guilbert wasn't convinced.
Horton said, 'Did Brundall have a mobile phone?'
'We can't find any record of one or any bills so I guess not.'
Which meant Brundall must have used a call box in the marina.
They spent a couple more minutes exchanging news about the family. Guilbert was sorry to hear about Horton's impending divorce and glad that the ridiculous rape charges against him had been cleared up. Then Guilbert was called away and promised to ring Horton if any fresh evidence came to light or when they found Sherbourne.
Horton sat back deep in thought. Something in their conversation had sparked an idea. Guilbert had said there had been no computer in Brundall's house, so how had he kept track of his investments, and how had he moved his money around?
Horton supposed he could have done it through his bank. Was that Russell Newton's bank? That wouldn't surprise Horton. Or maybe he had used a broker. And if so then Horton was sure that Guilbert would find out, but like he said it took time. However, Horton had another idea. He rang Joliffe in the forensic department and a few minutes later had the answer to his question.
There had been the burnt-out remains of a laptop computer on Brundall's boat, but any data from it was irretrievable, Joliffe said. He also confirmed there had been no sign of a mobile phone.
Horton relayed by phone a digest of the conversation he'd just had with Guilbert to Sergeant Trueman, asking him to pass it on to Uckfield. He felt anxious and impatient for answers, but it couldn't be hurried. Instead he delegated as many CID tasks as he could to uniformed officers and then made a Herculean effort to concentrate on DCI Bliss's new reporting method which seemed to be more akin to writing a revised edition of War and Peace only longer. He sincerely hoped that Walters would be back tomorrow. If not then he needed Bliss to give him some manpower, as this was getting beyond a joke. Not that it was ever funny in the first place. How the hell was he supposed to deal with a serious incident if one occurred with a non-existent team? This was modern policing. Invisible.
His phone rang. He expected it to be Bliss. It was the front desk.
'There's a Reverend Anne Schofield asking for you, Inspector.'
'In reception?' he answered tetchily.
'No, on the line, sir.'
Not another attack of vandalism or theft in the church! The name wasn't familiar. He didn't have time for this but there didn't seem to be anyone left to delegate to.
'Can't you put her through to Inspector Warren?' He was head of Territorial Operations and although Horton had already pinched some of his officers, he felt sure Warren would have a few more to spare somewhere.
'She insisted on speaking to you personally.'
'OK,' Horton said grudgingly.
'Inspector, forgive me troubling you,' came a clear voice with a Welsh accent, as soon as he announced himself, 'but are you Jennifer Horton's boy?
'
Horton froze. It was the first time in years he had heard anyone speak his mother's name. The breath caught in his throat. His heart skipped a beat. Maybe he hadn't heard correctly.
'Hello,' the woman's voice came down the line to him. 'Are you there?'
'Why do you want to know?' he asked rather harshly.
'I don't mean to be rude,' she said nervously, catching his tone. 'But there is a reference to a Jennifer Horton in the late Reverend's Gilmore's papers.'
Who on earth was the Reverend Gilmore? What was she talking about?
'I guess I'm not making much sense,' she continued, interpreting his silence. 'I'm Reverend Gilmore's temporary replacement at St Agnes's in Portsea. He sadly passed away yesterday evening. I've been going through the things in his study and I've found some papers that refer to you. In the margin of one there is a note in Reverend Gilmore's handwriting, which says, "Jennifer Horton's boy". I just wondered...'
Horton stared at the telephone with a mixture of incredulity and dismay. He didn't want to think about the woman who had abandoned him. She was the past, dead and forgotten. Or rather she had been until now. The small voice at the back of his mind was urging him to ignore this. He should leave the past alone and tell the vicar to burn the papers, but he found himself saying, 'Where are you?'
'At the vicarage in Benton Close.'
He glanced at his watch. It was already seven thirty. He was off duty and there was nothing he could do on the Brundall case. Plenty to do in CID though, whispered a little voice. Aloud he said, 'I'll be there in ten minutes.'
Five
It wasn't what he had expected. The vicarage was one of twelve council houses set around a straggly and forlorn piece of greenery that couldn't by any stretch of imagination be called grass. Horton parked the Harley outside the ugly semi-detached house typical of the 1960s and, as he gazed up at it, he wondered how the late Reverend Gilmore had known his mother. From his memory of her, he couldn't see her being friendly with a vicar. Bookmakers and gamblers maybe, he thought with bitterness. And yet what did he really know about her? She had walked out on him one winter morning when he was ten. He hadn't seen or heard of her since. He didn't know if the police had investigated her disappearance, he hadn't asked, and he had never made any enquiries himself. Why should he? He'd had years, before joining the police, to fill with bitterness.
The vicarage gate squeaked as he pushed it open. He'd covered this patch as a constable and had been called to the area many times before, but he couldn't remember a Reverend Gilmore, or this house. There was a Christmas tree in the window but without its lights shining it looked like someone who had arrived at the party wearing the wrong clothes.
The garden was overgrown and neglected like the house, which badly needed a lick of paint. Perhaps the church really had lost as much money as it purported to have done over the last sixteen years. He lifted his finger to press the bell. Before he could do so, however, the door swung open and a large, square-set, rather plain, middle-aged woman with short white hair and a dog collar smiled a little warily at him. Horton guessed she hadn't expected a policeman on a motorbike dressed in black leathers.
He quickly introduced himself and showed his warrant card. Her gentle, clear-skinned face broke into a smile. It lit her pale blue eyes and made her far more attractive, but Horton could still see the concern and bafflement in her expression.
He stepped inside, surprised to find that his heart was going like the clappers. Suddenly the sense of menace that he had experienced at Horsea Marina last night was back with a vengeance. But why? There was no fog here and there was no smell of burning bodies, just a miserable looking damp house with peeling and faded wallpaper and an electric light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
'It's not very homely, is it?' she said, reading his mind. He thought her Welsh accent not nearly so strong as when he'd spoken to her over the telephone.
Why had the church allowed the Reverend Gilmore to live like this? He hadn't known him but he didn't think it right that a clergyman should live in such dire conditions.
Anne Schofield answered his unspoken question with an accuracy that caused him a moment's unease. 'He wouldn't let anyone help him, you know. He refused to have the place decorated. I'm afraid he was a bit eccentric and a hoarder, as you'll see.'
'How well did you know him?'
'I'd met him a couple of times. His parishioners and the Dean speak very highly of him. Coffee, Inspector?'
'No. Thanks.' He wanted this over with as quickly as possible. But he also wanted to find out more about Gilmore and how he came to know his mother. 'How old was Reverend Gilmore when he died?'
'Fifty-five.'
Horton started with surprise. He had expected her to say at least seventy. His mind was racing. How old would his mother be now? God, it was hard to remember. He had her birth certificate, along with a photograph, in that Bluebird toffee tin under his bunk. He hadn't looked at it in years. He guessed that she must be about fifty-eight, if she was still alive. Could Gilmore and his mother have been lovers? Could he be Gilmore's son? But, no, that was ridiculous. Why? Horton had never known his father and his mother had never spoken of him. He wasn't named on his birth certificate. He'd learnt to despise the absent father for abandoning him. And he'd hardened his heart against his mother for deserting him. He didn't want to revise those opinions. It involved too much emotion. Think of practical matters, he urged himself.
'How did Reverend Gilmore die?'
'A massive stroke. He was taking the Candlelight Christmas Service last night when he collapsed.'
The church had moved quickly then to put in a replacement vicar and get her into the vicarage.
She pushed open a door on her left to reveal a forlorn-looking room with a musty smell.
'It's a bit of mess, see.'
That was a gross understatement, he thought, staring around at the chaos. He'd seen tidier rooms after they'd been ransacked by burglars.
Horton followed her as she picked her way through the books and papers that littered the floor. He couldn't help treading on most of them. Ahead, buried under an avalanche of papers, was a battered old desk and behind it a swivel leather chair.
Anne Schofield picked up a pile of yellowing newspapers which had been stacked on the floor behind the chair, and as she did so Horton glanced out of the window at the rear garden. It was tiny but seemed even smaller because of the high brick wall that gave on to the naval base. Then he caught sight of a concrete structure in the right-hand corner of the garden.
'It's an air-raid shelter left over from the war,' she explained, obviously following the direction of his glance. 'I don't know if there's anything inside it apart from rats. I haven't had the courage to look yet.'
He could see four concrete steps leading down to an entrance across which was a sheet of rusting corrugated iron.
'This is what I found.' Anne pointed at the newspaper on the Reverend Gilmore's desk.
There was a large part of him that didn't want to look, but his police training and conditioning overrode that. There, staring at him, was an article that had been written in the summer of 1995 and along with it a photograph of him holding a medal to mark the Queen's commendation for bravery. Little good it did him these days, he thought wryly. He had overpowered a thug waving a loaded gun at a postmaster on Hayling Island. He couldn't remember much about it. Instinct had taken over. He hadn't even been on duty. In the margin of the newspaper in neat rounded script were the words: "Jennifer Horton's boy?" just as Anne Schofield had told him.
It was a shock seeing his mother's name, and with it flooded back the painful memories of hurt and shame as acute as the first time he'd experienced them. It stole the breath from his body and the terrible ache of loneliness that had haunted him most of his life, which had been rekindled by his wrecked marriage, swamped him. He wanted to get out of here. He needed space and air. He wanted to seek refuge on the sea; to pit himself against the elements and let them decide if
he should survive.
'There's more.' Anne Schofield's voice pierced his thoughts and with an effort he hauled himself back to the present.
His heart sank as he flicked through the rest of the newspapers. In every single one, the Reverend Gilmore had put a circle around an article and that article was about him. Jesus! It was as if he was reading a scrapbook on his career. At any moment he expected Michael Aspel to leap out from behind the curtains with a television crew and hand him a big red book, saying, 'This is your life.'
The Suffocating Sea Page 6
