Suffocating Sea (15 page)

He said, ‘Did you know that Tom Brundall was killed in a fire on his boat in Horsea Marina on Wednesday night?’

Sebastian’s eyes tightened. There was something behind them that Horton couldn’t quite read. It wasn’t fear and it wasn’t shock. Neither was it sorrow. Before he could analyse it though the door was thrust open, and Sebastian’s rugged face lit up.

‘My daughter, Selina,’ he introduced.

Horton swivelled round to see a slender woman in her mid twenties. His eyes followed her as she swiftly crossed to her father’s side. There was a petulant confidence in her stance and, Horton noted with interest, some hostility. She was fashionably dressed in tight jeans and a low-cut T-shirt underneath a leather jacket. She had her father’s determined set of the chin, and swiftness of movement, but not his build. It was a neat little figure made taller by her high-heeled boots over her jeans.

‘Selina, these are policeman. They think your Uncle Rowley was murdered.’

‘Bloody hell!’ She looked understandably shocked, but whether it was at the abruptness of her father’s announcement or the fact that Rowley had been murdered, Horton couldn’t tell. A bit of both he guessed, which he found rather odd if Sebastian Gilmore was telling the truth about not seeing his brother for twelve years. How old would Selina have been then: fifteen? Sixteen? And if that was the first time Sebastian had seen Rowland since leaving Portsmouth then Selina couldn’t have known her uncle very well.

Gilmore looked up at her and said, ‘A man called Tom Brundall was killed in a fire on his boat and he and Rowley used to work with me years ago. I hope I’m not about to be bumped off, Inspector.’

‘Is my father in danger?’ she demanded with a flick of her highlighted blonde hair, and a belligerent expression.

Horton didn’t know. ‘When did Tom Brundall work for you, Mr Gilmore?’

‘He worked for my dad first, like Rowley and me. I started on the boats in 1967. I was sixteen, but Tom had been working for Dad for some years before that. I was put with Tom on my first boat. I quickly became a skipper and then Tom used to come out with me. Rowley joined me straight from school in 1969. Dad had three boats then, sailing out of the Camber.

I took over the business when he became ill in 1979, that’s when Rowley decided to leave. He never really liked fishing.

He left Portsmouth shortly after that.’

Horton mentally and swiftly ran through a checklist of dates: Rowland’s wife and daughter died in 1980; he was ordained in 1985, and returned to Portsmouth in 1995.

Horton asked, ‘When did your brother marry?’

‘I can’t remember. 1973 or thereabouts. Why do you want to know?’ Sebastian frowned, puzzled.

Dr Clayton had told him that Rowland had been born in 1953 so he had been only twenty when he married; maybe it had been a case of having to. So how did Rowland know Jennifer Horton and when had they met? And had Sebastian Gilmore known her too? It wasn’t a question he could ask yet, but Sebastian Gilmore had shown no reaction to his name.

‘Did your brother have a share in your father’s business?’

‘I bought him out when he decided to call it quits. I gave him a fair price. He didn’t complain.’ Gilmore said, slightly defensively.

Interesting, thought Horton, a touchy subject as far as Sebastian Gilmore was concerned.

‘Rowley took the money and that was the last time I saw him until twelve years ago.’

‘And when did Tom Brundall decide that being a fisherman wasn’t what he wanted?’

‘1978.’

It was a year engraved on Horton’s heart and mind. The year his mother left him. Horton went cold as the thoughts that had been forming in the back of his mind suddenly crystallized.

Sometimes a thing is so obvious that it has to be pushed in your face several times before you notice it and now he saw that the ‘wrong’ Rowland Gilmore had mentioned and which Brundall wanted to confess, could be something to do with his mother’s disappearance. Had they killed her? The thought stole the breath from his body. It didn’t bear contemplating. He was mad even to think it, and he had no real evidence except those bloody newspaper articles and that overheard conversation. But that could mean anything, he told himself. Why should they kill his mother? It didn’t make sense.

Gilmore said, ‘We came back from fishing one day and Tom said, “That’s it, I’ve had enough. I’m off,” and I’ve never heard from him or seen him since.’

Horton was glad that Cantelli stepped in with the questioning because his throat felt like a stretched-out piece of elastic, and this time the pain in his chest wasn’t caused by smoke inhalation.

‘And you’ve no idea why he did that or where he went?’

Cantelli asked.

‘None whatsoever, except that his old man was dead by then. His mother died when he was young, and there was no need for Tom to do as his father bid.’

‘Did you know that Tom Brundall became a very wealthy man and that he lived in Guernsey?’

Horton watched Sebastian Gilmore carefully. He didn’t look surprised or bothered by the fact.

‘Tom was clever, and he was very good at figures. I remember he couldn’t stick the smell of fish or being out in the rough weather. But back then you followed in your father’s footsteps, not like now. Oh, except Selina’s different.’ He threw his daughter a proud and fond look.

She said, ‘I’m the sales director.’

‘And a bloody good one,’ Gilmore boasted proudly. ‘We wouldn’t have won that new supermarket contract without her.’

She was young for such a responsible position, thought Horton, though clearly her father’s daughter by the fact that she could negotiate lucrative contracts with the supermarkets at such a tender age. A tough little cookie, and an ambitious one if Horton was any judge. Gilmore’s was in secure hands.

Cantelli had given him time to get his emotions under control and he needed that for his next question.

‘Tom Brundall called on your brother shortly before he died.

Do you know why?’

Gilmore eyed him shrewdly. ‘So that’s it, is it?’

‘Did Brundall come to see you?’

‘No.’

Truth or a lie? Sebastian Gilmore held his eye contact. Again, Horton thought he saw something which he couldn’t quite fathom. ‘Have you any idea why he should come to Portsmouth?’

‘It was his hometown, so why shouldn’t he?’

Gilmore didn’t look as if he was being evasive or lying, but Horton saw in front of him a tough man well versed in the art of negotiation. Unless Horton was very much mistaken, this Gilmore could bluff, cajole, lie and bully with the best of them without blinking an eye. Rather different from his brother, Horton suspected. OK, so let’s see how he reacts to the next bit of news.

‘Brundall was overheard to say that he wanted to confess to your brother something that they did wrong some years ago.

Do you know what he meant by that?’

Gilmore looked puzzled. ‘I’ve no idea.’

Horton wasn’t convinced. All Gilmore’s reactions were right but Horton’s finely tuned antennae told him that Gilmore knew a hell of a lot more than he was saying.

‘Were your brother and Tom Brundall friendly outside of work?’

‘I don’t think so. There were eleven years between them.

Tom wasn’t a drinker, though Rowley liked a few.’

Horton could see that he’d get nothing further from Sebastian Gilmore. He needed the results of the post-mortem on Rowland Gilmore and he needed more background information on the two men. He rose and made to leave.

Gilmore sprang up. ‘You’ll let me know about Rowley? I’m sure you’re wrong. I can’t think why anyone would want to kill him, or Tom come to that.’

Cantelli assured him they would be in touch. As Horton reached the door he turned. ‘We’ve had to seal off the vicarage, but you’ll be able to have access to your brother’s belongings as soon as we’ve finished, which should be within the next couple of days.’

Sebastian waved away his concerns with the sweep of an arm. ‘There’s nothing I want or need from there.’

Outside, Cantelli said, ‘Do you think Sebastian Gilmore’s in danger?’

Horton stretched the seat belt round him and considered Cantelli’s question. He mulled over the interview, pushing away the thoughts of his mother, his mind connecting the strands of questioning and the undertones in Gilmore’s replies.

‘Brundall wanted to confess something that he and Rowland had done, and that something must have taken place when both men were here in Portsmouth and probably working together, otherwise they wouldn’t have come into contact with one another. So that puts the incident between 1969 when Rowland joined the fishing boat and 1978 when Tom Brundall left.’

Cantelli pulled out of Gilmore’s yard. He said, ‘Even if we were to trawl through all the incidents between 1969 and 1978, it doesn’t mean that whatever they did was reported, or even a criminal offence.’

Who would have connected a woman’s disappearance with two fishermen? Was it connected? Who had reported Jennifer Horton missing? Horton didn’t even know that. For the first time in his life his fingers itched to check.

‘Would Rowland have confessed his sins before entering the church?’ he asked, hopefully.

‘Not sure how it works in the Anglican faith, but I guess so. You’ll not get much joy there, though. The confessional is sacrosanct.’

‘Pity. But we can find out about Rowland Gilmore’s finances, both when he entered the church and when he died.’

‘How will that help?’

‘It might give us some indication of how much wealth he gave away and whether or not that compares with what his brother paid him for his share of the business. It’s just a detail and probably useless, but I’d like to know. Oh, and get a photograph of Rowland Gilmore from the Dean. You can drop me off at the vicarage, and meet me back there when you’ve finished with him.’

And by that time, Horton thought, feeling guilty and anxious, he’d have hidden, or eliminated, anything that might mention Jennifer Horton.

Eleven

The vicarage was exactly how Horton had remembered it except that the gentle, welcoming and slightly puzzled Anne Schofield was missing. Damn her murderer.

He stepped through the dismal hall and pushed back the door of Rowland Gilmore’s study. Hurrying across to the desk he saw that the newspapers had gone. Had Anne destroyed them after his visit or had the killer taken them after setting fire to the vestry? He hoped the former.

His eyes scanned the desk for the blotter and with relief he saw that it was still there with the words ‘Horsea Marina’ scrawled on it. The leather chair creaked as he sat down and he pushed the other books and papers off the blotter and studied the handwriting; it was definitely the same as the other notes and jottings on the blotter, which meant that it had to be the Reverend Rowland Gilmore’s. So why write those words?

Horton surveyed the desk. There was an old-fashioned telephone to his right; most people when on the telephone made notes or doodled, so had Rowland Gilmore been left-handed and written ‘Horsea Marina’ whilst he’d been speaking on the telephone to someone? Had it been Brundall who had called Rowland and arranged to meet him in the church? Perhaps Rowland had asked where he was staying and Brundall had replied, ‘On my boat in Horsea Marina.’ If so, then that didn’t tally with Mr Gutner’s evidence; he’d said that Gilmore had looked surprised and anxious when Brundall had shown up in the church. Could Gutner have been mistaken or exaggerating? It was possible. Or perhaps he had just misinterpreted Gilmore’s reaction. Then again the Reverend Gilmore’s surprise could have been from seeing Brundall so changed.

Time plays tricks with us all and Gilmore could have been expecting the Brundall of 1978 to emerge.

There was another explanation, Horton thought, sitting back and frowning: perhaps Gilmore had returned from his encounter with Brundall and written Horsea Marina on the blotter whilst he was contemplating Brundall’s desire to confess. Brundall had told him where he was staying and Gilmore had idly penned it.

He’d get the forensic team to remove the blotting paper when they came into the house later. Horton knew they wouldn’t be able to reveal the meaning behind the words, but they might just pick up some fingerprints in the house other than his, Anne Schofield’s and the Reverend Gilmore’s. If so, that might give them some lead on Anne Schofield’s killer and possibly even Rowland Gilmore’s. Horton just hoped that troops of parishioners hadn’t been in here.

He stared around the chaotic room and shivered. It felt damp and claustrophobic and though he wasn’t usually given to flights of fancy, this case was proving different. He felt a spirit of evil in this room, just as he had smelt danger at Horsea Marina on the night of Brundall’s death. He considered again the thought that had struck him in Sebastian Gilmore’s office: if Brundall and Rowland Gilmore
had
killed his mother then it meant she hadn’t deserted him.

The thought paralysed him. For years he had hated her and now he was considering the possibility that she might not have deserved that hatred. It hadn’t once crossed his mind that she could have been killed – after all, why should it? No one had ever said there was anything suspicious about her disappearance. All the adults who had pushed him from pillar to post had
told
him his mother had run off with a man, so what else was he supposed to believe? Yet, the small voice inside him whispered, you could have made some attempt at an investigation when you became a policeman.

He sprang up, angry with himself and her. He was being ridiculous; the ‘wrong’ Brundall and Rowland Gilmore had done probably had nothing whatsoever to do with Jennifer Horton.
Then why speak of her?
Shit. Action was what he needed and he began to search through the papers on Rowland’s desk, one part of his mind working like a copper but the other part, despite his best intentions, wandering back to his mother and lingering in the past.

There were stacks of sermons in the drawers, some odd scraps of notes, old shopping lists, and electric and telephone bills going back years. He picked up the books on the desk, mainly theology titles, and flicked through them. Nothing fell out. There was no mention of him or Jennifer Horton.