Authors: Pauline Rowson
‘He can’t be the killer then,’ said Uckfield.
‘OK, so the timing’s wrong for him to have thrown the lighted match on to the boat, because he was back in Guernsey, but he could have loosened the cooker pipe on his arrival.
That would have allowed enough time for the gas to build up.
Then his accessory comes along, knocks Brundall out and throws the match on board. That’s murder in my book.’
‘Why would his solicitor wish to kill him?’
‘Perhaps he’ll tell us if we ask nicely.’
Uckfield sniffed disbelievingly and said, ‘I’ll get Dennings on to Guernsey.’
On his way to Horsea Marina, Horton thought over this new information. If the solicitor was an accessory to murder then, according to Avril’s evidence, Brundall had welcomed him and expected his arrival, so had Sherbourne contacted Brundall on some pretext in order to fly here and loosen the gas cooker pipe, perhaps discovering some urgent papers that needed signing? Or had Brundall summoned the lawyer to Portsmouth? Maybe Brundall had left some urgent unfinished business in Guernsey that couldn’t wait until he returned. Or had something occurred here that had prompted Brundall to call his solicitor? Perhaps it was the reason why Brundall had returned to Portsmouth in the first place.
Horton hoped that visiting the scene of the crime might spark some ideas, but when he got there, his brain refused to come up with anything fresh and he saw nothing illuminating except the Christmas lights and decorations on the boardwalk.
The mobile incident suite was only just being manoeuvred into place in front of the pontoon where Brundall’s boat had been and Horton could see a couple of uniformed officers heading towards the shops to interview the owners.
The morning was already beginning to cloud over after such a promising start, and the water in the marina was turning a dull grey. He felt as though he was missing something important, but couldn’t for the life of him think what it was. Mentally he ran through the events of the previous night, but whatever was bugging him, it refused to surface. Perhaps Cantelli would have some ideas. He made to start the bike when his phone rang. It was Cantelli.
‘It’s Dad. He’s had a heart attack. I’m calling from the hospital.’
Horton’s heart lurched. He hadn’t expected this. No wonder Cantelli hadn’t been at the station earlier that morning.
‘When?’
‘About six thirty this morning he complained about pains in his chest and arm and Mum called the ambulance. Thank God she did, because it saved his life.’
Cantelli’s voice was uncharacteristically sombre and Horton thought he detected a shake in it as he spoke. He knew this would hit Barney hard as he was very close to his father.
Horton felt anxious for him.
‘How is he?’ he asked, recalling the wiry little Italian who always had a smile on his face and a gleam in his old eyes.
‘The next couple of hours are critical. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it into work.’
‘Sod that,’ Horton said crossly. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Thanks, but no. I’m here with Mum, Isabella, Tony and Charlotte. The kids have gone to school. Marie’s on her way from London.’
‘Let me know how it goes. And Barney . . . all the best.’
There didn’t seem much else he could say.
Four
Horton reported Cantelli’s news to Bliss as soon as he arrived back at the station, knowing that Cantelli wouldn’t have told her. With Cantelli on compassionate leave, Walters off sick and DC Marsden transferred to the major crime team that left only him, and he was working on the Brundall investigation.
Bliss eyed him coldly as he pointed this out to her. She said she’d have a word with Superintendent Reine about drafting in some uniformed officers to help in CID.
Good luck to her, Horton thought. As far as he was concerned Reine was notoriously weak-willed when it came to fighting his corner with the head of the Operational Command Unit, Chief Superintendent Chievely. Still that was her problem.
He dived into the canteen, bought himself a packet of dubious looking ham and cheese sandwiches and made for the incident suite where he found Dennings frowning at the crime board as if it might suddenly reveal the answer to the mystery provided he stared at it hard and long enough.
‘What did Sherbourne have to say?’ Horton asked, settling himself at an empty desk opposite Sergeant Trueman who nodded sombrely at him.
‘Nothing, because Nigel bloody Sherbourne isn’t in his office,’ complained Dennings, spinning round and glaring at him. ‘His secretary claims he’s at a client’s, and she’ll ask him to call the Guernsey police as soon as he returns. For fuck’s sake who does she think she is? And what the hell is Guernsey playing at? I’d have hauled the bastard in, client or no bloody client.’
Horton winced inwardly. Vice squad tactics maybe, but not exactly appropriate for CID or the major crime team. He rapidly revised his opinion of Dennings’ ailments; his flushed and perspiring face was due to increased blood pressure not fever. From his days spent with Dennings on surveillance, Horton knew he had a short fuse, as well as a coarse manner, and he didn’t exactly excel in communications skills. Dennings had a lot to learn about modern and efficient policing, as DCI Bliss would have called it, and Horton wasn’t convinced he was going to be a willing pupil. Still, Uckfield was Dennings’ boss and maybe he didn’t mind how his new DI behaved.
Horton caught Trueman’s glance. The sergeant’s face was impassive, but Horton detected a flicker of desperation in his eyes.
He peeled back the plastic wrapper on the sandwiches and examined them. Why did they have to smother everything in mayonnaise? It was if it had just been discovered as a cure for all ills. He guessed it was used to hide the taste. Through a mouthful he said, ‘Does she know why Sherbourne came to Portsmouth?’
‘No. He just said he’d be out for the day. She didn’t even know he’d flown here. Can you believe that? The snotty-nosed cow is covering for her boss. He’s probably giving her one.’
‘You’ve spoken to her then.’
‘Too right I have. Inspector Guilbert didn’t seem bothered so I thought sod it. I don’t know what they feed them on in Guernsey, but they’re too bloody laid back for my liking. For Christ’s sake, don’t they understand we’re dealing with a murder investigation?’
Oh, I bet you’ve gone down a treat, Horton thought, wondering how John Guilbert, an officer he respected, would take that. Dennings’ attitude was enough to make anyone instantly clam up. There was a time to get tough and indi-viduals to get tough with and this was neither. ‘It’s a small island, with a very low crime rate. Things are done differently there.’
Dennings snorted his scepticism. ‘Yeah, and Brundall was killed
here
, so they’d better get their arses in gear and do things my way.’
Horton now understood Trueman’s glint of exasperation.
He silenced the retort that bully-boy tactics wouldn’t work.
This kind of crime required using a brain, and although he’d always doubted Dennings had one, now he knew for certain that he didn’t.
‘What’s Sherbourne’s line of speciality – in law, that is?’
‘Everything and anything according to Miss Snotty-Draws.’
Horton interpreted that as the secretary.
‘You’d think the sun shone out of his backside,’ Dennings continued. ‘Mr Nigel Sherbourne can do anything except walk on water with a carrot stuck up his arse.’
Horton ignored Dennings’ crudity. ‘And “anything” is?’ This was getting to be like extracting evidence from a reluctant witness.
‘Business, property, divorce, wills, you name it, Mr bloody Sherbourne can do it. He’s been Brundall’s lawyer for as long as the secretary can remember. At least for the thirteen years she’s been there. She clammed up then tight as a nun’s knees– wouldn’t say any more except that Brundall was a very wealthy man. Guernsey police haven’t found a will but they’re hoping that Sherbourne’s office has a copy. I mean,
hoping
!
Can you credit it! By the time they get round to checking, our killer will have spent the bloody money.’
‘You think someone killed him because he changed his will?’
‘Why not? He was dying of cancer.’
‘If Brundall made a new will at the marina then someone would have needed to witness it, so why didn’t Brundall ask the taxi driver to do it?’
‘Perhaps the cab driver forgot to mention it to you.’
‘I don’t think so.’
Not Peter Kingston. He’d have been
bursting with the news.
‘Did Sherbourne give his secretary anything to type up this morning?’
‘Not from his visit to Brundall, so she says,’ Dennings said disbelievingly. ‘He was in a meeting when she arrived at the office this morning and then he went straight out to this client.
There was no tape left on her desk or in her in-tray.’
So Sherbourne must still have whatever it was on him, or perhaps there weren’t any papers, or tape, and the meeting had been simply a discussion between the two men. It was useless to speculate without the facts.
‘Have we got anything more on Brundall?’ Horton asked, finishing his sandwiches and tossing the packet in the bin.
‘We know that he moved to Guernsey in 1980.’
‘From?’
Dennings beckoned to DC Jake Marsden, who scrambled up from his desk and hurried across to them. Horton wondered how Marsden was taking to working under his new boss DI Dennings.
‘Portsmouth, sir.’ Marsden said.
Horton hadn’t expected that, though maybe he should have done. ‘He was coming back to his roots then,’ he murmured thoughtfully.
Marsden nodded. ‘Born 1942, the only child of Rose Almay and Eric Brundall.’
So no brothers or sisters, nieces or nephews which ruled
out a whole line of possible heirs if Brundall had intended
writing or changing his will and been killed because of it.
‘Eric was a fisherman and Rose a machinist in Vollers,’
Marsden told him, ‘A lingerie factory, which has now closed down. They married in 1941. Rose died in 1956 and Eric in 1975. They lived in Cranleigh Road after the war until 1975.’
Horton knew that to be a street of narrowed terraced houses, two-up, two-down and, when first built, with a toilet in the backyard. Brundall had come far since his childhood then: living in Guernsey, being photographed with bankers and owning an expensive motorboat.
Marsden went on. ‘There aren’t any Brundalls or Almays listed in the telephone directory, so it doesn’t look like there are any cousins either. I’m still waiting for information on Brundall’s employment record.’
‘And his medical records?’ Horton asked.
Dennings answered. ‘Inspector Guilbert’s applied for a warrant to gain access to them, but of course Brundall’s GP has already confirmed that he had cancer. But that’s all he would say.’
Trueman said, ‘DNA is being matched and the police are searching the house now for a list of his contacts.’
Horton interpreted what Trueman had left unsaid: we can’t go any faster no matter how much Dennings wants to steam-roller events.
Trueman added, ‘The forensic team are still working on the boat but they confirm Maidment’s report that the gas cooker pipe was loosened. It could have happened during the fire, but they don’t think so. They can’t be one hundred per cent certain though because of the damage to the boat.’
Horton said, ‘And that won’t look very good as evidence when we take it to court, which is exactly what our killer wanted.’
Trueman nodded his agreement. ‘It’s as we thought: the build up of gas was ignited by a match or lighter. No evidence of any accelerant.’
Dennings chipped in, ‘So Brundall could have lit the gas himself and caused the explosion.’
‘Which is what any defence would claim. Our only evidence that it was murder comes from Dr Clayton, and that bang on Brundall’s head,’ Horton declared.
‘And some smart-arse barrister could make that look like an accident,’ Dennings rejoined.
Horton agreed. ‘Gas can slowly seep out without being detected for some days. It’s possible the pipe could have been loosened in Guernsey.’
Horton watched the thoughts chase themselves across Dennings’ face until finally he caught the drift.
‘You’re saying the killer could have followed Brundall to Portsmouth?’
‘Maybe our killer didn’t want Brundall’s death on his own doorstep.’
Dennings frowned with thought. ‘Brundall might have been involved in some shady financial deal. He could have been financing drugs or arms, or even pornography.’
Horton thought it was possible, though they had no evidence to point that way. ‘Maybe our killer didn’t know that Brundall was already dying of cancer. Brundall could have started a business deal in Guernsey but it hadn’t been concluded until after he’d left so he had to summon his solicitor.’
‘Wouldn’t he have stayed to see it through?’ ventured Marsden.
‘This is a man who didn’t have time on his side. Or perhaps he wanted to see his home town one more time before he died.’
‘Huh!’ Dennings scoffed.
Horton said, ‘On the other hand the gas cooker pipe could have been loosened soon after Brundall arrived in Horsea Marina any time from Monday night onwards.’
Dennings glanced at his watch. ‘Superintendent Uckfield is giving a statement to the press in half an hour’s time. I’ll brief him.’
That would bring hundreds of calls, thought Horton, the majority of which would be a waste of their time, but one might just hold some information they needed.
Would Dennings pass off Horton’s comments as his own?
He guessed so. Dennings needed to impress his new boss and giving credit where it was due was hardly something he remembered Dennings being famous for in the past.
‘He’s driving me nuts,’ Trueman said with feeling after Dennings disappeared into Uckfield’s office.
Horton gave a wry smile. ‘It’s a cross we all have to bear.’
Then his expression turned serious. ‘Have you heard Cantelli’s news?’
‘About his dad, yes.’ Trueman gave a concerned frown.
‘Doesn’t look too good for the old boy.’
Horton returned to his office wondering how things were going for Cantelli at the hospital. There was nothing he could do to help though, so he turned his mind to the case, considering the possibility that a professional hit man could have killed Brundall because he had been involved in something illegal. As yet they had no evidence to show that, but if it seemed likely, the investigation would be handed over to the Serious Organized Crime Agency and Horton didn’t think Uckfield would like that very much.