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 parish ioners 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.
He crossed to the bookshelves either side of a tiled fireplace. There were a number of spaces. Had these gaps been there when he'd come in here with Anne Schofield? He couldn't remember, but the fact that he was registering it made him think they hadn't been. He'd been more concerned then about finding out what Gilmore had written about his mother than worrying about what books the man had on his shelves. Was there something in one of them that might give him a clue to his mother's past? He didn't have time to go through each and every one of them and he shuddered to think that DC Walters or another junior officer would unearth something. Perhaps he could return tomorrow, Sunday, and spend more time in this dank and miserable house trying to search for some clues to the past. But he knew he couldn't stand that. He shut the door, thinking that maybe he simply didn't want to know.
He explored the rest of the house. The living room with its brown-and-orange patterned carpet and dull green curtains held an ancient television set, no DVD or video, and a press-button cream telephone on a chipped wooden table beside a faded light-green Dralon settee. There were two armchairs and a heavy oak sideboard, circa 1920, opposite the lurching Christmas tree that made Horton feel even more depressed.
Upstairs there were two double bedrooms, a box room and a bathroom. All looked as though they hadn't been touched since the house had been built and only Rowland Gilmore's bedroom was furnished. Here there was a single brass bed, made up with a lilac eiderdown. Beside it was a painted white bedside table on which were a few women's toiletries, a faded pink lamp with half its tassels missing and a crime novel. He picked it up and skimmed the blurb; appropriately enough it was an ecclesiastical mystery thriller. The faint smell of perfume told him that this must have been Anne Schofield's. He felt repulsed and saddened over her death. If only she hadn't come here she'd be alive today. And maybe another person finding those newspapers wouldn't even have noticed the writing in the margin and the circled articles about him, or if they had they wouldn't have been so curious. Why had Anne Schofield taken the trouble to track him down? He should have thought of that earlier, but the shock of hearing his mother's name mentioned and seeing it written in those newspapers had overwhelmed him. Now, perhaps he'd never know.
Surveying the rest of the sad little room he saw a chest of drawers and a heavy dark wooden wardrobe, the kind that were often on sale in second-hand shops.
He opened the wardrobe. Her clothes weren't inside. Had she baulked then at the thought of hanging them up alongside the dead vicar's? Where were they? He pulled open a drawer in the large chest and found her underwear and blouses neatly folded inside it. There was a suitcase underneath the chest of drawers and he drew it out. Flicking it open, he found inside a couple of pairs of trousers and a skirt. She hadn't brought much with her, hopefully anticipating a short stay and it had certainly been that!
Horton returned his attention to the wardrobe and Rowland Gilmore's clothes. Most of the jackets and trousers were worn and shabby, but then his hand froze as he felt the texture of one of the jackets. This one was different. It felt expensive.
Pulling it out, he noted the Savile Row label and gave a low whistle. It was an old fashioned suit by today's standards, but it still screamed quality. Had this been bought on the proceeds of Gilmore's share of the fishing business? Horton was no fashion expert, and he would check, but judging by its collar and fit, and from what he already knew of Gilmore's life, he guessed it must have been purchased in the late 1970s.
Why had Rowland Gilmore kept this suit, when everything in his wardrobe looked as though it had been bought from a charity shop or jumble sale? What significance did it have for a man who had obviously cared nothing for personal belongings?
Horton's mind raced through what he'd seen here, or rather what he'd not seen. He hadn't found any photographs. So had Anne Schofield already disposed of them, or had Rowland Gilmore destroyed the ones of his wife and child, unable to bear the pain of looking at them? If so, Horton could understand that. This house was the refuge of a lonely man who had substituted the church for his family and, Horton guessed, had still found it lacking. The exhibition of poverty and deprivation Horton saw here had been to Rowland Gilmore's mind atonement for allowing his daughter and wife to die. Horton felt some empathy with him.
Gilmore had tried to kill himself before finding God and the Church and from Horton's experience suicides often killed themselves with a picture of their loved ones in front of them. This was a special suit and if that was so…
He reached inside the jacket pocket and his fingers curled around thick paper. Slowly, holding his breath, Horton drew it out. It was a photograph of a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a printed summer dress, pinched in at the waist with short puffed sleeves and a V-neck collar. She was laughing into the camera, or at the person behind the camera, and beside her was a little girl of about five or six with deep brown eyes, a wide smile and curly brown hair.
Horton felt the breath being sucked from his body. It was as if he was experiencing Gilmore's agony of loss. He sank heavily on to the bed as Gilmore's emotions assailed him: anguish, guilt, desperation…Was it any wonder the poor man had tried to kill himself? Horton tried to imagine the pain of losing a child. He wanted to rush out and find Emma. He wanted to hold her tight for ever, and to never let her go.
A stout knock on the front door finally jolted him out of his thoughts. He stirred himself and hurried down to let Cantelli in. Horton knew at once that there must be something different about him because Cantelli said, 'You look like you've seen a ghost.'
'Maybe I have.' And more than one, he thought. He handed Cantelli the photograph. 'Rowland's wife and daughter.'
Cantelli stared at the picture in silence. His expression softened. After a moment he said, 'What a bloody waste.'
He made to hand it back but Horton said, 'Keep it. Find out everything you can about them and the little girl's death. And bag up the suit I found it in. I want to know when it was made, where it was sold and what it cost.'
Cantelli nodded and turned the photograph over. He read, '"Teresa and Claire. 1979. Oxwich Bay." Where's that?'
'On the coast of Wales, not far from the Mumbles and Swansea.'
'Anne Schofield was from Wales. It's on her file. I didn't get a chance to go through it in the Dean's office but he's getting someone to copy it, and Rowland Gilmore's, and will send them over later. Do you think she knew him?'
Horton swiftly and mentally recalled his conversation with Anne and her expressions as they had talked. There had been nothing there to hint she had been lying but if she had known Rowland Gilmore, and he had mentioned Jennifer Horton to her, then it would explain why she had bothered to track him down after seeing those articles.
'Possibly. Did you get a photograph of Rowland Gilmore?'
'Yes.' Cantelli handed it across.
With a quickening heartbeat, Horton took it. He was staring at a slight man in his early thirties with straight brown hair thrust forward over a narrow face. It wasn't the man he had seen on the quayside. He was sure he'd never seen Rowland Gilmore in his life, and there wasn't the slightest resemblance between himself and Rowland Gilmore, so he couldn't be his father.
'That was taken on his ordination and kept in his file. The Dean said we could find a more recent photo on the Church's website.'
Horton was cross with himself for omitting to check that. 'What did the Dean tell you about Gilmore?'
They stepped inside the study, and Cantelli drew up in surprise. 'Christ, this house is bloody awful! And it makes me dislike the pompous prat I've just been talking to even more. How could the Church let him live like this?'
'I think it was Rowland's choice.'
'Some choice, eh? I've seen dogs living in better kennels.'
'The Dean?'
'He's executor of Rowland's will along with the Diocesan solicitors. Rowland didn't leave much money, which doesn't surprise me seeing this place.' Cantelli gestured at the room. 'But what he did have he left to St Agnes's, as his brother Sebastian told us. There wasn't much on his file that we don't already know. He was born in Portsmouth, was a fisherman before he was ordained. Widowed in 1980, six months after his daughter died, and that seems to be it. When he entered the Church though, he handed over the sum of just over five hundred thousand pounds.'
'That must have guaranteed his ordination.'
'You bet.' Cantelli had reached the window and was gazing into the garden. 'I…What the heck is-?'
'An air-raid shelter, and no, I haven't looked inside it yet.' Had Anne Schofield though? She said she hadn't.
Heading for the door, Horton said, 'Perhaps it's about time we did.' Better to have Cantelli with him than anyone else if there was something inside the shelter that referred to his mother, and better they should find it than the forensic team.
With Cantelli behind him, Horton stepped into the weed-strewn patch of garden. It was drizzling now and the day was depressingly dark and made darker by the looming dockyard wall with its barbed wire on top.
'I feel like I'm in Colditz,' Cantelli muttered. 'You got a plan for digging a tunnel or going over the wall?'
Despite his unease Horton suppressed a smile and stared at the rusting piece of corrugated iron over the entrance to the arch-shaped air-raid shelter. It looked as though it hadn't been moved in years. He stretched his fingers inside a pair of latex gloves and, taking his cue, Cantelli did the same.
'If we find a body I hope you get to it first.'
'Thanks. Give me a hand.'
Together they prised the corrugated iron sheet out of the way and leant it against the fence on their right, which gave on to a narrow alleyway before the garden of the next house. Horton noted there was a side entrance into the garden and a man's bicycle resting against the fence, the Reverend Rowland Gilmore's most probably.
There were three stone steps leading down into the shelter. Inside was dark. It smelt of decay and damp and Horton could hear the soft scurrying and rustle of animals, rats most likely.
Cantelli took a pencil torch from his pocket. The thin beam pierced the dim interior. Horton could see that on either side of the small shelter was a bench. There was nothing on it except dirt.
'I wouldn't like to have been in here when the bombs were falling,' Cantelli said, with feeling.
Horton agreed. There must once have been a large house where the ex-council house vicarage now stood, which must have been bombed. Whoever had lived in it must have been mad, or very brave, to have stayed here during the war, being so close to the naval dockyard and a prime target for the Luftwaffe.
'There doesn't seem to be anything here,' Cantelli said, voicing Horton's thoughts.
He wasn't sure whether he was disappointed or not. He didn't know what he had expected to find. Cantelli's thin beam of light swept under the bench on Horton's left.
'Hang on.' Horton's heart quickened. 'Shine your torch under there again.'
Cantelli obliged. Horton entered the air-raid shelter with Cantelli close behind. Horton had to duck his head, but Cantelli could just about stand up. Horton crouched down and peered into the gloom under the bench where Cantelli shone his inadequate light.
'Old newspapers,' he said.
Horton's pulse began to race and he could feel a cold sweat prickling his spine. Surely Anne Schofield wouldn't have dumped the newspapers that had mentioned him out here? He reached under and lifted a couple of them, but the paper crumbled in his hands. No, these papers had been here a long time.
'Can you see a date on them, Barney?'
Cantelli picked up the corner of one. 'No, but it looks bloody ancient to me.'
Horton again delved under the bench and clutched another handful. The same thing happened. The paper dissolved. 'There's nothing-' His hand froze. He had felt something other than paper.
'What is it?'
'I don't know. It's right at the back. It's hard. It feels like
… bones.'
'Animal?'
Horton heard the hopeful tone in Cantelli's voice. It could be a fox or dog perhaps. He lay down on his stomach and cleared away the rest of the paper as Cantelli peered over his shoulder. Then his fingers gripped the hard narrow object and, holding it, he pulled himself up. Cantelli shone his torch but there was really no need: they both knew instantly what it was.
Horton said, 'It's a femur and it's not animal. Looks like we've found ourselves a skeleton.'
Pauline Rowson
The Suffocating Sea
Twelve
'T he poor bugger could have keeled over in an air raid in 1940,' Uckfield said, after Horton relayed the news to him on the telephone.
'Wouldn't the builders have discovered him?'
'They probably didn't bother to look inside; you know how lazy the blighters can be.'
It was possible, but Horton had other ideas. 'It could be the "wrong" that Gilmore mentioned and Brundall wanted to confess. They could have killed this person.'
He knew it couldn't be Jennifer Horton because Rowland Gilmore had only been living in the vicarage since 1995. But he still clung to the belief that the two men had known something about his mother's disappearance, and because this skeleton couldn't be her that didn't necessarily mean that she wasn't dead, or that they hadn't had a hand in her death.
Uckfield was squawking down the line. 'Are you saying the vicar then lived with it at the bottom of his garden all these years, knowing he'd had a hand in its murder?'
Horton supposed it sounded a bit incredulous. 'Perhaps he saw it as a penance and prayed over it?'
'Huh! It's just the kind of weird thing they would do.' Uckfield scoffed, obviously of the same opinion as Sebastian Gilmore when it came to religion. 'OK, get Taylor and his team in after they've finished in the church, and get them to bag up the bones for Dr Clayton, but it's not a priority, Inspector. We've got three deaths which are. Any results on the PMs yet?'
'No.'
'Well, hurry her up.' Uckfield rang off.
Horton had no intention of doing so. He gave instructions to the officer guarding the house to ensure that no one except Taylor and his team went in. He prayed that there would be nothing for them to find about his mother. Maybe Uckfield was right and this person had lain in the shelter for over sixty years. But Horton wasn't comfortable with that. He felt instinctively that the skeleton could be the key they needed to unlock this case.
Cantelli drove the short distance to the church. The car park had been cordoned off and a police car was straddled across the entrance. PC Johns hastily hid whatever it was he was reading and tried to look alert.
Apart from the occasional passer-by no one seemed to be taking any notice of the activity. Perhaps they were too busy doing their Christmas shopping, thought Horton, which reminded him of his determination to clear this case before Christmas Eve so that he personally could give his presents to Emma.
Perhaps the weather was keeping everyone inside. The drizzle had turned into a relentless downpour and it had grown colder. Not cold enough for it to snow but Horton wouldn't mind betting they'd get some sleet before the day was out.
They found Taylor and his scene of crime officers methodically ploughing through the charred remains of the vestry. Horton tensed as he stood in the doorway. The smell of burning flesh came back to him as virulently as it had been last night. It made him want to throw up. He saw himself laid out on the mortuary slab with Gaye Clayton drooling over him and Uckfield telling her to hurry up the post-mortem. Jesus, it didn't bear thinking about.
Cantelli, sensing his unease, said, 'You OK to deal with this?'
'I'm fine.' Horton pulled himself together and addressed Taylor. 'Found anything?'
He removed his mask and stepped outside the vestry under the shelter of an awning. 'There's a brass candlestick which looks as though it could be the murder weapon. We've found minute traces of blood on it.'
In a flashback, Horton saw Anne Schofield's body falling face down from the cupboard with a mass of blood in her short grey hair. He heard the sound of splintering glass, felt the rush of searing heat and relived the cold frisson of fear.
'Maidment says the fire was caused by an accelerant, which was soaked in a rag and stuffed into a glass bottle.'
Taylor's voice seemed to come to Horton from a distance. He forced himself to focus on Taylor's long thin nose and slightly prominent eyes.
'From the fragments of glass we've collected I would say that it was a beer bottle. I hear you were inside when it happened, Inspector. Rather you than me. You had a very lucky escape.'
You can say that again, thought Horton with a shiver. 'We've got another one for you, Phil,' he announced briskly. 'But this one's been dead for some time.' And he told Taylor about their find in the air-raid shelter and asked his team to make it their next job. Even Taylor's mournful face lit up at the challenge of finding some forensic evidence after so long.
Horton was glad to get out of sight of the vestry. Rounding the corner to the front of the church he saw a familiar figure leaning into the police car talking to PC Johns. The old man was getting soaked. This could be useful. Horton wondered if he'd seen Anne Schofield yesterday.
'Hello, Mr Gutner.'
Gutner straightened up and his walnut face lit up with recognition. Horton would have to take a chance on Gutner letting slip some information about his mother in front of Cantelli, but he would rather it were the sergeant than anyone else, and Horton knew he could rely on Cantelli's discretion.
'The constable says there's been a fire in the vestry and I can't go in to practise the organ,' Gutner said, puzzled.
'Not at the moment. It's a crime scene,' Horton answered.
Gutner looked surprised and then triumphant. 'I told you there was something funny about Reverend Gilmore's death, didn't I?'
'It's not-'
'What's wrong with your voice, Inspector? You got a sore throat? And what have you done to your hands?'
Horton could see the thoughts running through the old man's mind. Gutner was definitely not senile, as Yelford, the Diocese administrator, had implied.
They were getting drenched and they'd all end up with sore throats if they stood out here for much longer.
'Let's get out of this rain.'
He steered Gutner to the church door and stepped inside.
'Blimey, looks like you've got Fratton Park lights on loan.' Gutner blinked, dazzled by the unaccustomed brightness of the usually gloomy interior.
Horton smiled at the reference to the football club. Ahead, around the altar, he could see a couple of scene of crime officers. He gestured Gutner to take a pew and the elderly man removed his cap and sat down awkwardly. Horton slid in beside him whilst Cantelli slipped into the pew in front and swivelled round to face them.
Horton introduced Cantelli and then said, 'I'm afraid I've got some bad news for you, Mr Gutner. The Reverend Anne Schofield was attacked and killed last night.'
Gutner made to smile as though Horton was telling him a joke, then the truth of what Horton had said dawned on the old man. His skin paled and his eyes widened with surprise. 'You're serious?'
Horton remained silent as Gutner looked from him to Cantelli and back to Horton.
'But who…? Why…? Bloody hell!' breathed Gutner.
'Did you see Anne Schofield yesterday?'
'Yes. I came over in the afternoon to practise for the carol service tomorrow. We ran through the order of the service together. And now you say she's dead too. I can't believe it. What's going to happen about the carol service? Will it still be on?'
'No. I'm sorry. You'd better check the arrangements with the Dean. How did she seem? Was she worried or preoccupied by anything?'
'No. She was fine.' Gutner ran a hand over his eyes as though wishing to blot out the thoughts that were running through his mind.
'What time was this?' Horton asked gently.
'About four o'clock. We stayed chatting until just after six when I went home for my tea. I can't believe this.'
Horton had received Anne's call at seven fifteen, and he'd arrived at the church at seven thirty-two and by then she was dead. So what had Anne Schofield done between six o'clock and seven fifteen? If she'd been praying then it hadn't done the poor woman much good. More to the point though: who had she been talking to? And he didn't mean God.
Gutner was saying, 'First the Reverend Gilmore and now her. Has someone got it in for us? I bet it has something to do with that man who came to see Reverend Gilmore, the one who mentioned-'
'Did you see or hear anyone else in the church or outside?' Horton swiftly cut him off and avoided looking at Cantelli.
But Gutner was shaking his head. 'Not a soul.'
'Was anyone parked outside when you left?'
'No.'
Cantelli said, 'Did you see any cars that aren't normally around this area?'
'No.' Gutner eyed each of them in turn. His wrinkled face was solemn and his eyes were full of sadness. 'You think someone killed her like they killed the Reverend Gilmore, don't you?' His gaze rested on Horton and then fell to Horton's bandaged hands. 'You were here? They tried to kill you too?' he said in a flat tone.
Horton knew he was dealing with no fool. Would Gutner suddenly blurt out, 'This has something to do with Jennifer Horton'? Horton held his breath as he asked, 'Did the Reverend Gilmore ever speak to you about his past?'
Gutner eyed him keenly, then after a moment he gave a slight nod of his head and said, 'OK. I understand. No, the Reverend never spoke of the past. Too painful I guess.'
Horton breathed a quiet sigh of relief. 'Have you ever been inside the vicarage?'
'Of course I have!' Gutner exclaimed, eyeing Horton as if he'd suddenly gone mad.
'You've seen the air-raid shelter then.'
'Yes.' Despite his distress Gutner chuckled.
'What's so funny?' Horton asked, with that prickling sensation that he was about to discover something useful.
'The vicar couldn't bear to look inside it, but I told him there wasn't any bogeyman there. Me, Jimmy Tomas and his sisters used to muck about in it when we were kids. Of course, the house wasn't a vicarage then. It was an old ruin. We had a lot of fun in that old air-raid shelter.'
Horton caught Cantelli's glance and said, 'When was this?'
'You're asking something now! Let me think. It must be near on sixty years ago. The late 1940s.'
If their victim had been killed in the war, was it possible that Gutner and his young friends failed to see the human remains whilst larking around?
Horton asked, 'Have you been in it since?'
'I don't think… hold on a mo, yes. It wasn't long after the vicar arrived. I called on him and after we had a chat, he asked me what was in the shelter. I said nothing, but he asked me to take a look. He didn't like closed-in spaces.'
'And?'
'Same as it always was, full of dust, dirt and spiders, though it brought back some memories.' Gutner gave a grotesque wink which made Horton think of those sisters of Jimmy Tomas.
'Why do you want to know?'
Horton rose and stretched out his hand. 'You've been very helpful, Mr Gutner.'
Gutner took it, eyeing him sceptically.
'We'll run you home,' Horton said. 'It's a nasty day to be out in.'
'No. Thanks, Inspector, but I need a walk.' At the door Gutner pushed his cap down on his white hair. 'You will get whoever is doing these dreadful things, won't you?'
Horton nodded.
'Good. Go careful, Inspector, and good luck.'
'Nice old man,' Cantelli said, starting up the car and pulling away from the church. Horton flashed him a look, but saw nothing in the sergeant's expression that betrayed his curiosity about that last remark of Gutner's. The old man would have made a good police officer; he seemed bright, observant and curious to Horton. But he was also small. Too small in his day to be allowed into the police service when there were height restrictions. What a waste.
He said, 'I still think the skeleton is connected with Gilmore.'
'Those bones were well tucked away; maybe Gutner and his friends failed to spot them when they were larking around in there, and Gutner probably only stuck his head round the door when the vicar asked him to.'
Horton grunted an acknowledgement, then said, 'Gutner's sharp, though. We'll take 1995 as a starting point until SOCO or Dr Clayton tells us otherwise.'
'Can you really see Rowland Gilmore killing someone?'
Horton thought about it. 'No, I can't, though we don't really know him. Maybe Brundall killed this person and hid him in the air-raid shelter. Perhaps Rowland Gilmore didn't even know the body was there. Mr Gutner said the vicar didn't like closed-in spaces.'
'That could be a lie.'
Horton granted him that.
Cantelli continued. 'Rowland Gilmore could have got Mr Gutner to check because he suspected Brundall had killed this person and hidden him there.'
'If he did then Gutner wouldn't have failed to miss a decaying corpse or maybe smell it in 1995, which confirms my view that our victim was killed after then.'
'Maybe it was an accident.'
'But why leave the body in the air-raid shelter?'
'Because no one would think to go in there, not with the vicar on the premises.'
Yes, thought Horton, it had been a good hiding place. He glanced at his watch; it was nearly three o'clock. 'Head for the hospital, Barney, I want a word with Dr Clayton.'
Horton found her in the mortuary. He told Cantelli to check on his father and, not bothering to hide his relief or anxiety, Cantelli hurried off to the high-dependency ward.
'I thought you might have the results of the PMs,' Horton greeted her.
Gaye pulled off her green cap and ran her fingers through her short auburn hair, 'Your throat sounds bad. You've been talking too much.'
'So I've often been told.'
She smiled. 'It sounds sexy. Maybe you should cultivate a husky voice.'
'I might not have any choice if I've done permanent damage to my vocal chords.'
'Want me to take a look? I've got a nice cold slab you could lie down on.' Horton saw Tom, the mortuary assistant, grin before he started a whistling rendition of 'June is Busting Out All Over'.
Gaye crossed to the sink where she began to scrub her hands.
'Gilmore's death troubles me. And I wouldn't say that to anyone but you and Sergeant Cantelli, because I like Cantelli and at least you have a brain and some instinct left in you, which is more than I can say for Superintendent Uckfield and that new detective of his. Where on earth did they dig him up? He's like some prehistoric monster from the seventies.'
Horton felt inordinately pleased and tried not to show it. 'I didn't know you'd come across him that much.'
'I haven't, thank the Lord. He telephoned me from Guernsey, early this morning. I was just about to begin the autopsy on Gilmore. DI Dennings insisted on speaking to me. Wouldn't take no for an answer. I don't think he's met Tom yet. I look forward to that after their brief conversation. He insisted on calling me luv, which I can handle. Not sure Tom liked being called a monkey though. He wanted to know exactly how Brundall died.'
Now why would Dennings want to know that when Horton thought he'd already seen the report? Perhaps he was comparing notes on Sherbourne's death.
'And Gilmore?'
'There are no signs of suspicious death, but equally there are no signs that he suffered a stroke or even a heart attack. He was remarkably healthy, no clogged arteries or thinning blood vessels. No tumours. In fact there was no reason why he should die. I believe he could have been poisoned, although I haven't found any trace of poison, which is what makes this case even more interesting. I've sent blood, skin and hair samples off for analysis.'
Horton was surprised. Poisoning was a bit different from being bashed on the head and being set fire to. He considered what Gaye had said. 'If Gilmore was poisoned then wouldn't he have shown signs of illness over a period of time?'
'Ah! Depends what he was poisoned with,' she replied, spinning round to face him with an eager expression on her face. She looked so radiant that he felt a stirring deep in his loins, and hoped his expression didn't betray his surprise. He'd never considered her in that light before and now he found himself rather warming to the idea.
'Was there any nausea?' she asked.
'Mr Gutner, who saw him collapse, didn't mention it, and he would have done.'
She turned back and finished drying her hands. Horton let out a surreptitious breath.
Throwing the paper towel into the bin she continued. 'Some poisons cause paralysis of the heart muscles, others the lungs, like curare, for example, which has no effect if taken by mouth, but if injected will kill. During the death throes the victim turns blue, but no one at the hospital mentioned the victim's colour. I think even they might have noticed that despite how busy they are. Curare is almost impossible to detect after death. Then there's hemlock, which is similar to curare in that it causes paralysis of the muscles. The first symptoms can take half an hour to appear and it may take several hours for the victim to die but this victim died fairly quickly after the paralysis set in so I doubt it's curare. And it's not hyoscine, because I didn't find any trace of it in the liver. Neither is it strychnine or antimony, which is similar to arsenic, plus a few others I've ruled out. But the lab will come back with more accurate results.'
She pulled off her green gown to reveal her boyish figure in a pair of tight jeans and T shirt. Horton wondered what she'd look like in a dress, the kind she might wear to the police dinner and dance, if he invited her. And if she accepted.
'I'm going to do some research, and I'd also like to talk to someone who saw the victim collapse.'
Horton could see nothing for it but to put her in touch with Kenneth Gutner. He would ask him not to mention the conversation he'd overheard between Brundall and Gilmore. If he told him it had to be kept quiet, as it was vital evidence, then he trusted Gutner to do so.
'And Anne Schofield?' Horton asked.
'There was no evidence of soot in the airways below the level of vocal cords, and the levels of carboxyhaemoglobin were well below ten per cent, which means that she was already dead when the fire started.'
That was a relief. He didn't like to think of her regaining consciousness to be consumed by flames.
'She was struck on the back of the head,' Gaye said, 'and, judging by the indentation in the skull, I would say you are looking for something that has an edge to it, and is five inches in length.'
Horton thought of that brass candlestick that Taylor had shown him. Its base was about the right size.
'So it's a similar pattern to Tom Brundall's death.'
'Yes. He was knocked unconscious before the fire was started but the shape of his wound is different, which means different implements were used.'
'Sherbourne was strangled before being left to burn.'
'You've let one get away from me!' she teased.
'Sherbourne was killed in Guernsey.' He wished though he could have got Gaye Clayton to examine him. It wasn't that he distrusted the Guernsey pathologist, just that he would have liked some consistency in this case.
Her face flushed red and her eyes blazed. 'So that's what prehistoric man was driving at. Did he think I'd missed something so basic like strangling?'
Gaye was going to have Dennings for breakfast when he got back. Horton hoped he'd be there to witness it. It would cheer him up no end because he was convinced that
Gaye Clayton would make mincemeat of the DI.
'Sherbourne was Tom Brundall's solicitor,' he said hastily. 'He visited him on the day that Brundall died.'
'You have got your work cut out!'
'And that's not all-'
'Not another one!'
'Yes. But this one's been dead for some time. We found a skeleton in the air-raid shelter in Gilmore's garden.'
She widened her eyes at him.
'There's no indication how long it's been there, but the same man who witnessed Rowland Gilmore die says he went into the shelter in 1995 and there weren't any bones then. I'm having the bones bagged up and brought over to you. It'll probably be later today.'
'Well, never let it be said that I don't like a challenge and you're certainly giving me that with this case. Just don't let ape man anywhere near me.'
'I'll make sure all the flights from Guernsey to England are cancelled.'
She smiled. 'Are you sure he can't walk on water?'
'Not righteous enough. He's worked in the vice squad.'
'That explains it.'
'What?'
'Never mind.' She turned away and then almost instantly turned back again. 'Oh, how's Sergeant Cantelli's dad? Dave Trueman told me.'
'He's not doing too badly.'
'Good.' She held his eyes for an instant, and he found it difficult to interpret what she was thinking, only that whatever it was it made the blood once again rush to his loins. She had reached the plastic curtained door before she called out, 'Give the sergeant my love.'
'Which one?' Horton shouted back, then wished he hadn't as his voice ended on a squeak.
'The dark romantic one.'
That had to be Cantelli, didn't it? And, surprised, Horton found himself feeling mildly jealous before she said, 'And look after that throat, Inspector.'