Authors: Pauline Rowson
‘He’d have to have a pretty powerful boat.’
‘That’s not the problem. Anything over twenty-five feet and with a powerful engine could have done it. No, our problem is the killer might not keep his boat in a marina. He could have his own private mooring, and that will be more difficult to check. Still, Guernsey’s a small place and you don’t live and work on an island only thirty-one miles long and twenty-four miles square without understanding the sea and knowing who’s out and about on it. Guilbert will find it, if it’s there to be found, because Dennings won’t have a clue where to start.’
‘Does Catherine know about your dice with death?’
‘No, and I made Uckfield swear not to tell her, or Alison.
If Catherine finds out, she might think I’m in danger and stop me from seeing Emma on Christmas Eve.’
‘We’ll have the case sewn up by then.’
‘That’s what I like about you, Barney, your blind faith and sheer bloody optimism. Come on.’ Horton rose. ‘Let’s go and talk to a man about his brother, after which you’ve got an appointment with the Dean.’
And whilst Cantelli was with the Dean, Horton was going to take a good look around the vicarage, which had been sealed off with an officer posted outside. He’d managed to forestall anyone entering the house. It hadn’t been too difficult because Anne had been killed in the church. Horton wanted to be the first inside that vicarage to make sure the newspapers that mentioned him and his mother were destroyed.
Then there were the words ‘Horsea Marina’ on the blotting paper. Would that piece of blotting paper still be there, or had the killer taken it away after killing Anne Schofield and trying to kill him? If it had gone then Rowland Gilmore’s killer couldn’t have been Tom Brundall. And if it was still there . . . ?
That could either mean the killer missed it or thought it unimportant, in which case Rowland Gilmore’s killer wasn’t Tom Brundall. He felt he was going round in circles.
‘Does the Dean know about Anne Schofield’s death?’ Cantelli asked, breaking through his thoughts as they headed out of Portsmouth towards Sebastian Gilmore’s home. Trueman had obtained the address, but Horton hadn’t rung to make an appointment. Quite honestly he’d forgotten after the excitement of last night and there was no point in bothering now.
‘Yes, Uckfield broke it to him last night. The Dean said he’d have both Rowland Gilmore’s and Anne Schofield’s files available for you.’
‘What about her family?’
‘There’s a sister who lives in Abertillery, South Wales. The Dean notified his equivalent there last night and he and the police informed her. She’s an invalid and can’t get down here.
There’s no point in her coming anyway. We said we’d send her sister’s belongings back, but I think her vicar is coming down to collect them on Monday.’
‘The poor woman.’
Horton wondered if Cantelli meant Anne Schofield or her sister.
As Cantelli drove to Gilmore’s home in a small village on the border between Hampshire and West Sussex, Horton mulled over the events of the previous night. He experienced that same knot of anger he’d felt last night when he had stared down at her blackened corpse. The gentle, kind woman he’d only recently met hadn’t deserved such a terrible fate. She’d been an innocent victim in whatever was going on and he had vowed then, and silently reaffirmed now, that he would find the bastard who’d killed her.
When the hospital had released him at close on midnight he’d ridden home, nervously checking for anyone on his tail.
But whoever it was who had tried to kill him had thought they’d finished the job; all was quiet and there was no one suspicious lurking around the marina. He was safe for one night at least. Soon, though, he guessed the killer would realize that he was still alive and would make another attempt on his life and Horton didn’t intend ending up like Brundall, Sherbourne or poor Anne Schofield.
He gazed out of the window as Cantelli drove carefully through the country lanes. The rain had finally stopped and the blustery wind was tearing holes in the cloud big enough to let a glimpse of blue through; he didn’t think it would last though.
He wondered if he should have moved the boat this morning on the high tide, but consoled himself with the fact that the killer probably didn’t know where he lived and besides it had been too windy to risk it. By the next high tide this evening it would be dark and too late to move
Nutmeg
. Perhaps tomorrow morning he might motor along Hayling Bay and up the Emsworth Channel to Northney Marina at the top of Hayling Island, and stay there for a few days, and yet he felt that was like giving in, or running away. It reminded him of his mother: had he run away from the truth of her disappearance all these years? He guessed he knew the answer to that one.
A low whistle from Cantelli made Horton look up to find they had come to a halt in front of a pair of electronically controlled gates beyond which Horton could see an impressive pale-pink three-storey Georgian house with some kind of extension on its left that would have given Prince Charles a seizure. How the planners had allowed the glass square carbuncle to be attached to such a splendidly proportioned and listed house, Horton didn’t know. Or rather he did. Hadn’t Uckfield told him Sebastian Gilmore was a very influential man? What Horton hadn’t reckoned on was the reach of that influence; it obviously extended out of Portsmouth into wider Hampshire. Horton couldn’t help but compare this with the Reverend’s ex-council house and straggling grass. Had Sebastian Gilmore ever offered to help his brother? Had that help been refused? He was very curious to learn more about their relationship.
‘I didn’t think there was any money in fishing,’ he said as Cantelli leaned out of the car window to press the intercom.
‘I remember when Gilmore had ramshackle offices on the Town Camber. They pulled them down in the late 1990s to build those posh flats. That must have made him a bob or two.
My dad used to know Gilmore senior.’
‘Who is it?’ demanded a crackly female voice of indeter-minate age.
‘Inspector Horton and Sergeant Cantelli. We’d like to talk to Mr Gilmore.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Can you tell us where we might find him?’
‘In his office; at the ferry port. What do you want him for?’
‘We’ll contact him there,’ Cantelli quietly asserted.
There was an irritable tut before the voice said, ‘I’ll let him know you’re coming.’
Cantelli didn’t even get the chance to say thank you. Horton felt mildly irritated that Sebastian Gilmore would now be prepared for them, though why it should irk him he didn’t know.
‘Friendly lot, aren’t they?’ Cantelli said, heading back to Portsmouth. ‘Seems like we’ve had a wasted journey.’
Not quite, thought Horton. It had been illuminating to see how the other half of the Gilmores lived.
Twenty minutes later they were pulling into Fountain Quay at the Commercial Ferry Port. After scrutinizing their identification cards, a security guard directed them to a visitor’s space outside a two-storey modern office block.
Horton climbed out and surveyed the area. There were a handful of cars in the car park, including a black Porsche Cayenne. He reckoned that must be Sebastian Gilmore’s because of its personalized number plate. There were a couple of fishing vessels moored up alongside the quay and the bleeping of forklift trucks behind him told him that it was business as usual on a Saturday. He watched a lorry pull up in front of a large warehouse opposite. Gilmore’s security was good too, he thought, noting the cameras.
‘Where do Gilmore’s export?’ he asked Cantelli, as they waited in reception to be announced by another uniformed security man who was telephoning to the boss. He’d emerged from a room behind the reception counter where Horton guessed he could view the security monitors. Horton noted the camera in the far corner covering reception and another over the door.
‘France and Spain mainly,’ Cantelli answered. ‘They do a big trade in crabs, lobsters and oysters all caught locally. Tony and Isabella buy from them for the cafés and restaurants.
Sebastian Gilmore’s got some lucrative supermarket contracts and has worked hard to build up the business.’
And was still working hard, Horton thought, a few minutes later when a large-boned man with short greying hair and a weather-beaten, rugged face rose from behind a desk that seemed like a child’s against his size. Horton felt the energy radiating from the giant like a radioactive beacon. With two strides, Sebastian was around the desk but he stalled, staring down with a puzzled frown on his broad-featured face at Horton’s bandaged hands.
‘Had a bit of an accident,’ Horton explained lightly in a hoarse voice.
Gilmore’s lips twitched but there was no smile in the gesture or in his deep brown eyes. He waved them into a seat and returned to his own, throwing himself into the chair which groaned and creaked in protest.
‘What can I do for you guys?’ he said, his accent betraying his Portsmouth roots. It was very similar to a Londoner’s.
Horton thought how completely out of place Gilmore seemed in this room: it was too small to accommodate the man’s stature and vitality. Here was someone who, despite his fifty-odd years, was very fit and active, both in mind and body.
With its cheap, rough furniture the office was also in sharp contrast to the opulence of the Georgian manor house they’d just come from, though to the left of Horton was a rather large and splendid fish tank.
‘It’s about your brother’s death,’ Horton began and saw surprise register on Sebastian Gilmore’s face.
‘Rowley? What about him? He had a stroke.’
There was no adjustment of Sebastian’s features to show sorrow or even anger. Horton detected puzzlement and, interestingly, irritation.
Cantelli said, ‘We have new evidence that suggests his death could be suspicious.’
‘That’s absurd!’ Sebastian Gilmore focused his intense gaze on Cantelli. ‘You think my brother was killed?’
Cantelli, unfazed by the contemptuous stare, stoically replied,
‘It’s a possibility, sir, which is why a full post-mortem is being conducted.’
‘Who on earth would want to kill Rowley? He was a vicar.’
Horton could tell by Sebastian Gilmore’s tone of voice that vicars weren’t particularly high on his list of revered occupations. Perhaps that was what had driven the brothers apart, though he only had Anne Schofield’s word that they had been estranged.
Cantelli said, ‘You may have heard on the news, sir, that your brother’s replacement, the Reverend Anne Schofield, died in a fire last night in St Agnes’s Church, your brother’s parish.’
Horton watched the expressions chase across Sebastian’s face: incredulity, puzzlement, wariness.
‘Are you saying that this has some connection with my brother’s death?’
Placidly Cantelli continued. ‘We need to explore the possibility, sir.’
‘You’re not saying that Rowley knew her, are you?’
Horton remained silent and Cantelli simply looked blank.
Gilmore clearly didn’t like this and glared at them before shooting up from his desk and turning to stare out of the window. Horton threw Cantelli a glance, which he knew the sergeant would interpret as ‘say nothing, and wait’.
After a moment Gilmore spun round. ‘You’re nuts. Why would anyone want to kill my brother and this other vicar?’
‘When did you last see your brother, Mr Gilmore?’ asked Horton.
Gilmore threw himself down in his chair, which groaned with his weight. ‘Twelve years ago. He was at the Town Camber staring down at the fishing boats. My business was still there then. You can imagine my shock when I discovered he’d become a vicar.’
‘Why should you be shocked?’ asked Horton provocatively.
‘We don’t go in for religion in our family, Inspector.’
He said it as though it was something to be ashamed of.
Horton heard the disgust in Gilmore’s voice and felt rather sorry for Rowland Gilmore.
‘Perhaps losing his wife and daughter so tragically contributed to his decision to enter the church.’ Horton found himself defending the late Rowland Gilmore.
‘He told me about that. But God, if there is one, which I doubt, couldn’t bring them back so what’s the point? What’s done is done, you have to pick yourself up and move on. That’s my motto anyway.’
And did you sympathize with him over his tragic loss? Like hell you did, Horton thought. He was getting the impression the brothers were like chalk and cheese.
‘Was he older or younger than you, sir?’
‘Younger by three years, though what that—’
‘And you haven’t seen him since then?’
‘No.’
‘Rather unusual that, for brothers,’ ventured Cantelli.
‘Rowley went his way and I went mine. We had nothing in common but we didn’t fall out, if that’s what you mean. What evidence do you have that my brother was killed?’ he demanded, springing forward and glaring at Cantelli. A lesser man would have immediately pushed back his chair but Cantelli didn’t budge an inch. Horton didn’t even see him blink.
‘We can’t say, sir.’
‘You mean won’t say. All right, but I want to be the first to know what you find in the post-mortem,’ he demanded, his tone brooking no objections.
‘Of course,’ Cantelli replied easily. Horton knew it wasn’t strictly a lie. Sebastian Gilmore would be the first person outside of the investigation to be told the results.
After a moment’s silence, Horton said, ‘We believe your brother knew a man called Tom Brundall—’
‘God, there’s a name I haven’t heard for years!’
‘You know him?’ Horton asked, surprised.
‘Of course. We all worked together: Tom, Rowley and me.
We were fishermen. Didn’t you know?’
Ignoring the sneering tone, Horton recalled that DC Marsden had said Tom Brundall’s father had been a fisherman so Tom must have followed in his father’s footsteps, but he’d had no idea that Rowland Gilmore had also been one. Now, looking at Sebastian Gilmore, he could see that only the ocean could be big enough to encompass this giant of a man, and he wouldn’t mind betting that that was where Sebastian Gilmore’s heart really lay. Here was a definite connection but he didn’t see how it could help him. He didn’t recall his mother talking about fishing or fishermen.