'Yes, it bloody well is. We were having a meeting on Wednesday night. It was the only time we could both make it, and I had to go on to that damn function. We were discussing the profile of the police during major crimes. OK?' Uckfield demanded angrily.
'OK.' Horton left a brief pause before adding. 'Have you told Dennings?'
'Why the hell should I? He wasn't there.'
'Sergeant Cantelli was, and he saw Madeleine.'
'Then he'd better keep his mouth shut.'
'About your meeting?' Horton sneered.
Uckfield took a deep breath. 'Look, Andy, neither Madeleine nor I saw anything, just heard a ruddy great explosion and it wasn't orgasmic. I went on deck as soon as I… as soon as it happened, but could see there was little point in trying to do anything. The boat was a raging inferno. I heard the fire engines, then saw a police car arrive. I told Madeleine to hang on for a while. I didn't know the silly cow would stand around gawping at the bloody fire once she left my boat.'
Horton got the impression that Madeleine Dewbury's days as Uckfield's lover and their public relations officer were numbered.
'I called in, got the details and then showed up. Bloody good job I did too, it being a major crime.'
Horton didn't speak. Uckfield was forced to continue. 'This doesn't have to come out. We saw nothing and no one. It has no relevance to the case.'
How many times have I heard that before, thought Horton. And how many times had Steve sneered at the person saying it?
'I'll owe you one,' Uckfield added brightly.
Something in Uckfield's tone made the hairs rise on the back of Horton's neck. Suddenly the answer to many questions that had been bugging Horton for months were answered, such as how did the newly promoted DI Dennings leapfrog Horton to get into the MCT? Why had Uckfield given Dennings the job he had promised to Horton?
I'll owe you one.
Madeleine Dewbury wasn't the first of Uckfield's extramarital conquests and she wouldn't be the last. Horton had ignored Uckfield's philandering in the past, and kept silent over it, but Dennings was a different kettle of fish. He obviously knew of Uckfield's affairs, or rather an affair, and that could only mean he had discovered it before being promoted and had threatened to tell. In return for keeping his mouth shut Dennings had been rewarded.
Horton rang off, feeling the anger well up in him. But surely there had to be more at stake than a bit of hanky-panky to warrant Uckfield's appointing Dennings over him?
He sat down and thought back to Operation Extra, the case that had got him suspended because of a false accusation of rape. He and Dennings had been working together. Before Horton had gone undercover he'd been on surveillance watching Alpha One in Oyster Quays, an all-male health club and gym suspected of being a brothel and a cover for the importing and selling of illegal pornography. After a couple of weeks of nothing happening, Horton, on the instructions of his boss, had left the surveillance to Dennings to go undercover. Was that when Dennings had seen Uckfield with someone? It had to be.
Had Dennings caught Uckfield in a compromising position with a girl, on camera, and threatened to tell? Uckfield couldn't let it come out; due before the promotion board and in with a chance for the plum job as head of the newly formed Major Crime Team, he couldn't risk any scandal. Uckfield needed Dennings' silence in return for a favour.
Uckfield was more stupid than Horton thought, and he had compounded that stupidity by getting into debt with a man whose only quality as a police officer was his physical strength. Despite feeling bitter towards Uckfield for betraying him, Horton nevertheless found himself trying to find a way to get Dennings off Uckfield's back. Why? Because he hated corruption. But was that all? If he could remove Dennings from Uckfield's team without dropping the superintendent in it would Uckfield be grateful? Would that gratitude extend to rewarding him with the position as his DI? Wasn't that just the granting of another favour and corruption too?
'Sod it.'
He checked outside the boat. There was no sign of anyone watching him. He was tired and his conversation with Uckfield had left him feeling weary and depressed. The cold and damp did little to ease the soreness in his throat. He crashed out on his bunk hoping that the pyromaniac killer wouldn't strike that night, because if he did, Horton knew he might not have the energy to resist.
Fourteen
Horton woke late on Sunday after a heavy, dream-filled sleep, which had him running away from fire and villains brandishing axes whilst Catherine laughed at him. As a result his head felt muggy and he wasn't in the best of tempers. He cursed the gales that were still roaring through the halyards and causing the boat to rock even in the comparative calm of the marina, and when he ran down to the showers he found that the sleet had once again become driving slashing rain.
It was too dangerous to move Nutmeg on the morning's high tide in this weather and the next high tide would be ten p.m., which meant he would be able to get out of the marina from seven onwards, but by then it would be dark, and Nutmeg was too small a boat to risk moving in both the dark and the wind. He'd have to take his chances and stay put. He could, of course, always book into a hotel if he was that worried about this pyromaniac killer coming after him. It wasn't the expense that prevented him from doing so but the fact that it felt like running away. Nutmeg was his home and had been since April. Cold and cramped though she was, he nevertheless loved her.
Half an hour later he was weaving his way through the Sunday Christmas traffic cursing the shoppers snaking their way into the city centre. He'd be glad when it was all over and they could get back to some semblance of normality, though in his job there was no normal.
He thought about his forthcoming interview with Sebastian Gilmore. Had he known Jennifer Horton? Both Rowland Gilmore and Tom Brundall had known his mother, so he wouldn't mind betting that Sebastian had also. But he'd given no indication of recognizing him or his name.
Horton dropped into the incident suite on the way to his office.
'Don't you ever go home?' he asked, finding Trueman hard at work.
'Like you, Andy, I just can't keep away from the place. Anyway the missus is going Christmas shopping, and I guessed this was the lesser of two evils.'
'Where's Superintendent Uckfield?'
'Said he'd be in later. His daughter's singing in a carol service at church.'
And that was about the only time you'd get Uckfield inside a church unless a crime had been committed or the chief constable was there, which Horton guessed he would be on this occasion to listen to his granddaughter.
'Has the Dean sent over those files on Anne Schofield and Rowland Gilmore?'
Trueman shook his head. Horton was irritated. He'd had long enough. 'Chase them up, will you?'
'On a Sunday! Won't the staff be in church?'
'I don't care where they are. I want those files.'
Collecting a tired-looking Cantelli, Horton headed for Gilmore's mansion.
'Sorry to drag you out on a Sunday and your day off,' Horton said, his bad temper abating and feeling a little guilty.
'It's OK. Charlotte's taking the children to see Dad this afternoon. He was asking after them yesterday. Hospital's no place for kids but I guess he should see them just in case…'
Horton knew what he was thinking. 'Look, you shoot off after we've seen Sebastian
Gilmore. No, I insist. I just wanted you to be with me when I interviewed him, that's all.'
Poor Cantelli looked too relieved to pick up on Horton's intonation, which if he had done he would have asked why Horton needed him. Why not DC Marsden or Walters? It was a sign that told Horton, Cantelli was very worried about his father's health and it made him feel even guiltier. But if anything were to emerge about his mother then Horton only wanted Cantelli to hear it.
Horton hadn't expected Gilmore to be working on a Sunday and he was proved right. After being admitted to the grounds Cantelli squeezed his Ford between Sebastian Gilmore's black Porsche Cayenne and Selina's Mercedes.
'We're the poor relations,' Cantelli said, climbing out. 'Dad should have taken up fishing when he first came to England instead of selling ice cream.'
As Horton pushed open a door that led into a small vestibule of the Georgian mansion, Selina Gilmore threw open an inner door and greeted them with a frown of irritation. She was wearing a very short, tight skirt, knee-high boots, a tight T-shirt and a good deal of make-up.
'What do you want?' she demanded curtly.
Horton repeated what Cantelli had already explained into the intercom at the gates. 'A word with your father, please.'
'Can't this wait until tomorrow?'
Horton remained silent. With a huff she swung round and obviously expected them to follow, which they did as she led them through a hall the size of a football pitch.
'This is like something out of The Bishop's Wife,' Cantelli said under his breath, but she heard him.
'What?' She swung round.
'The sergeant likes old movies,' Horton explained.
She glared at Cantelli as if he had a screw loose. Cantelli smiled then raised his eyebrows at Horton as soon as her back was turned.
She led them through a second door and into another hall. Horton thought the house was going to go on for ever, then she threw open a door to their left and ushered them into a gymnasium.
Curtly she said, 'I'll let my father know you're here.'
'Perhaps she thinks we need the exercise,' Cantelli said, gazing around with distaste. 'Looks like a modern torture chamber to me.'
Horton wondered why she had brought them here. In a house this size there must be other more suitable rooms for them to have waited in. OK, so the kitchen might be out of bounds if Sunday lunch was being prepared, ditto the dining room, but what about a sitting room or a study? They could even have waited in one of the two reception halls. Perhaps he was just being suspicious but he got the impression that Selina Gilmore didn't want them nosing round the house.
Horton crossed to a rowing machine as Cantelli tried an interconnecting door on the far side of the room. It was locked.
'Where do you reckon that leads to?' 'The swimming pool.' Horton jerked his head in the direction of the window to the left of the door that gave on to the carbuncle he'd seen from the gates on their first visit here.
'Very nice,' Cantelli said, gazing through it. 'Olympic size too. There's a lot of money here, Andy.'
Was it too much for one man to have made from a successful fishing business? 'Remind me to get his accounts checked out.'
Horton climbed off the rowing machine after a few easy pulls. Cantelli mooched around the room, sitting on the exercise bicycle and then standing on the running machine. He ended up on one of the benches but made no attempt to lift the weights.
'I asked Dad about the Gilmores last night. He remembers Sebastian's father, Terry Gilmore. Says he was a fierce character, everyone was scared to death of him. He was a very determined man and tough, but a worker. Dad thinks he had a stroke in the seventies which was when Sebastian must have taken over.'
As if he'd heard his name the door burst open and Sebastian stomped in. Once again Horton felt his energy fill the room, and large though the gymnasium was it suddenly felt very small. Gilmore didn't offer his hand, perhaps because he had recalled that Horton's were bandaged, though judging by the man's expression Horton guessed it was a hostile body-language gesture.
'What is it now?' Gilmore boomed in exasperation.
'You wanted to be the first to know the results of your brother's post-mortem, but if you'd rather wait…' Horton turned away, knowing that Gilmore would have to capitulate. He was far too impatient to be left hanging on.
'I didn't realize you'd have them so quickly.'
Horton turned back, registering Sebastian Gilmore's surprise. And was that relief he also witnessed before Gilmore scowled? The giant didn't seem quite as self-assured as he had done yesterday. Was this because they were seeing him in his home, or had he suspected them on some other mission?
'The post-mortem on your brother has revealed very little-'
'His death wasn't suspicious then.' Gilmore seemed to cling to the idea like a limpet to a mine.
Horton was sure there was relief in those steely eyes, but maybe he just imagined it. 'We're not yet certain-'
'I don't-'
'There appears to be no obvious reason why he died,' interrupted Horton forcefully. 'In fact he seemed remarkably healthy, which in itself makes us wonder. That, coupled with Tom Brundall's death, makes us suspicious.'
'But people do suddenly die. Sudden-death syndrome or some such thing. Perhaps it happened to Rowley.'
'That still leaves us with Tom Brundall's death.' Horton wasn't going to mention Dr Clayton's suspicions about poisoning.
Gilmore began to pace the room, frowning. Suddenly he swung round. 'A fire on board a boat can be an accident.'
'Yes, and being a boat owner you'd know that.' Horton had the satisfaction of seeing Gilmore surprised.
'You've been checking up on me.' He glared at Horton.
'As Mr Brundall's death occurred in Horsea Marina, we need to check on all the boat owners there,' Horton answered smoothly. 'Why didn't you tell us you kept a boat there?'
'You didn't ask.'
'How long have you owned it?'
'I bought it at last year's boat show. Now if there are no further-'
'Ever been across to Guernsey in it?'
'Yes, and to Jersey and France,' Gilmore snapped. 'But what has that got to do with my brother's death?'
'How long does it take you to get to Guernsey?'
'Look, what the devil is all this about?'
'Must be a couple of hours in the right conditions with those powerful engines. Where do you stay in Guernsey?'
'I don't know what the hell you're driving at, but if you must know I stay in Albert Marina, St Peter Port.'
Cantelli said, 'Did you ever see Tom Brundall there? It's where he kept his boat.'
'So that's it? I wish you'd just come out and ask the bloody questions instead of acting all bloody Sherlock Holmes about it. I told you I haven't seen Tom from the day he walked off the boats.'
Cantelli said, 'Are you married, sir?'
Gilmore glowered at Cantelli. 'What the hell has that to do with Rowley's death?' he thundered.
Horton wasn't quite sure either, but Cantelli must have had his reasons for asking the question — he always did. Perhaps he thought Sebastian had murdered his wife and put her in Rowland's air-raid shelter.
Gilmore said, stiffly, 'My wife died twenty-seven years ago. Now if you've finished- '
'How long were you married?'
Gilmore stared at Cantelli as if the village idiot had just confronted him. 'Does this have any significance?' he roared.
Cantelli shrugged and smiled as if a simpleton. Horton knew the sergeant's tricks of old. This one never failed to get a reaction. He was curious to see which way Gilmore would leap: patronizingly superior and humour the idiot copper or blustering angry and demand explanations. Gilmore went for the former.
'If you really must know, Sergeant,' he said with some hauteur. 'We were married in 1974 and my wife died in 1981, a year after Selina was born.'
'I'm sorry to hear that, sir.' Cantelli shook his head as his pencil laboured over his notebook. Horton saw the anger on Gilmore's face turn to puzzlement and then wariness.
He said, 'You took your boat out of Horsea Marina on Tuesday. Where did you go?'
Gilmore swung round to face Horton. Quickly recovering his composure from Cantelli's unexpected questions, he said, 'If I'd known you were going to interrogate me, I'd have called my solicitor.'
'Interrogate? I'm sorry if you got that impression, Mr Gilmore. We just need to place everyone who knew Mr Brundall before and around the time of his death. Where did you go?' Horton insisted.
Gilmore hesitated. Was he trying to think up a lie, Horton wondered, or tossing up whether to tell them to go to hell?
That fitted with what Uckfield had told him. 'Was anyone with you, sir?'
'Look, what is this? You think I had something to do with Brundall's death? Then bloody say so. I was on my own, satisfied?'
It would take a lot more checking to satisfy him. Evenly, he said, 'And where were you on Wednesday evening, sir?'
'You can't honestly believe that I had anything to do with Brundall's death? This is bloody ridiculous. I'm going to make a complaint about this. You burst in here and question me like a common criminal.'
Horton contrived to look contrite. 'I'm sorry, sir. Would you rather answer the questions at the station?'
'No, I bloody wouldn't. If you must know, and seeing as it's obvious I am not going to get rid of you, or your ridiculous allegations, until I answer your questions, I drove to my office from my boat, OK?' Gilmore glared at Horton. Horton said nothing, forcing Gilmore to continue. 'I collected Selina and we went to a sales meeting with Tri Fare, the supermarket chain at their head office in Bristol. I didn't get back here until gone ten; there was an accident on the M4.'
'Would anyone else have access to your boat?'
'My daughter,' Gilmore sniped. 'But seeing as she was with me at Tri Fare, she didn't. Just what the fuck are you driving at?'
It was good, Horton thought, very good, but it didn't convince him. Behind those granite eyes he saw fear. He smelt wariness and concern. Gilmore knew something about Brundall's death, all right; Horton would stake his career on it.
'And your movements on Friday night between six o'clock and seven forty-five?' Now let's see what the bugger produces out of the hat for the time of Anne Schofield's death and his close encounter with eternity.
Gilmore picked up a weight. Horton could see his fist curling round it, the knuckles whitening. Here was a man desperately holding on to his temper, or was it his tongue? Did he want to explain why he had killed Anne Schofield and tried to kill him, or was Horton simply imagining it? He held Gilmore's strong intimidating stare and kept silent. He knew Gilmore was the type who hated silence and hesitation.
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