Monday: 4.45 P.M.
'Why this interest in Warwick, Inspector?' Janice Hassingham eyed him warily, as she nodded him into the seat opposite her untidy desk piled high with files and paper. 'My brother's been dead for thirty years.'
She wasn't what Horton had expected. Instead of being slim, smart and businesslike she was a short, shapeless, middle-aged woman in dull unfashionable clothes. Her straight, cropped grey hair accentuated the determined cast of her coarse-featured face and was marked with the scars of teenage acne and the lines of late middle age.
Her rather small office was crammed with box files and grey, dented filing cabinets — the kind that could be bought cheap from any ex-government surplus auction — and it overlooked the harbour. Beyond her he could see the cranes reaching over the quayside, and from the open window came the bleeping of a forklift truck below.
Sebastian Gilmore wasn't there and Horton was rather glad about that. He didn't want to explain why he had come to see Janice Hassingham, not until he had some more information. And he wanted to delay the moment when Sebastian realized he'd not been roasted alive. The security man at the reception desk had told Horton that Sebastian was at a conference in London with the Department of the Environment, Fishery and Rural Affairs. Horton had great difficulty envisaging Sebastian Gilmore stuck in an air conditioned hotel conference room sipping mineral water and listening to officials waffle on about quotas.
Selina's Mercedes wasn't in the car park either; the security man said she was at a meeting and wasn't expected back until the afternoon. So that left him with a clear field.
Watching Janice Hassingham closely, he said, 'You may have heard about the death of a man at Horsea Marina, Tom Brundall.' He noticed a slight reaction, which she covered by shifting some papers on her desk. Was it nerves or did that gesture hide some deeper emotion, he wondered. 'And, of course, the Reverend Rowland Gilmore's death, Sebastian's brother…'
Her eyes flashed up at him and quickly away again. 'You're interested because at one time they all worked together.'
'Yes.' For a moment he thought there was something vaguely familiar about her. He couldn't say what it was or why but he had the impression that he knew her from somewhere. 'I've read the report on your brother's accident. He was a brave man.'
'No, Inspector, he was a foolish man.'
The bitterness of her reply took him back and at the same time intrigued him. He was confident though he betrayed nothing of his feelings and was assured of this when she continued in the same crisp tone.
'The rescue helicopter would have reached the other man. Warwick should have waited, but he always was impulsive.' She frowned and glanced at her computer screen as the telltale pinging of an e-mail message popped into her in-box. She quickly fiddled with her mouse. He got the impression that she was trying to convey he was interrupting her in something far more important than her brother's death, but he saw beyond the facade. In front of him was a sad, lonely woman whose only solace he suspected was her work.
'I won't keep you long,' he said. 'I just need some background. It helps in cases like this.' He smiled reassuringly, though he needn't have bothered; Janice Hassingham had become immune to charm and perhaps even to kindness. 'Do you recall Tom Brundall and Rowland Gilmore?'
'Of course I do.' She spoke curtly yet her eyes betrayed her. So that was it! Which of them had she been in love with, Horton wondered.
'Tell me about them.' He crossed his legs and settled back in his chair as if he had all day to chat. For a moment he glimpsed irritation before sadness touched her face and he could see that the opportunity to talk about a past love was too great to let pass.
'Tom was quite a bit older than me. I was twenty when Warwick died, Tom was thirty five. He was a quiet man and very clever.' So it was Brundall she had hankered after, but had her passion been reciprocated? Perhaps not. Or had they been lovers and Brundall had ditched her when he'd taken off? 'Rowley was the youngest of the four. He was three years younger than Sebastian and twenty-four when Warwick died.'
'You've got a good memory for figures.'
'I should have. I'm the company accountant.'
He smiled but she didn't return the gesture, not because she was hostile, he thought, but because she was cautious. It was as though she had to hold herself in for fear of saying something that might show her true feelings.
'Rowley was also quiet but in a reserved way, not like Tom, who was so knowledgeable, yet he never bragged about it. He had a great head for figures. I remember him once-' But she stopped as though she was about to confess something important.
'Yes?'
'He was very good at forecasting the stock market.'
That wasn't what she had been about to say, but he let it go.
She added, 'I understand he made a lot of money after leaving the fishing industry. I'm not surprised.'
And maybe she glimpsed a life that she had missed out on. Did she blame her brother for that? He guessed so.
'And Warwick, what was he like?' Horton prompted, watching her carefully. A shadow crossed her face.
'Mad, is how I think most people would describe him. But Warwick was never one for doing the safe thing. Even as a child he used to worry our poor mum half to death with his antics. He was always getting into scrapes. Oh, nothing against the law, he just liked adventure — jumping off the end of the pier and risking his life, that kind of thing. But Warwick always got away with it. It was quite in character for him to try and rescue that man in the middle of a storm. It would never have crossed his mind that he might be swept overboard and drowned.'
She spoke with bitterness and not sadness. Oh, yes, Warwick had cocked up her life, or at least that was how she saw it. And if he was that daring, then maybe he was into smuggling drugs, with the others. What had Janice said? 'He always got away with it.' On 15 August 1977 he hadn't. Horton left a moment's pause before asking, 'How did the others take his death?'
She scowled at her papers, glanced fleetingly at him and away again before saying, 'They were devastated, of course. It took Sebastian days to get Rowley back on the boat, and even Tom didn't seem to have the heart for fishing anymore. He became very withdrawn. I think that was when Rowley first got religious, though the deaths of his daughter and wife were the final blow.'
'How do you know about that?'
Her head came up and she looked directly at him. 'Sebastian told me. I suppose religion gave Rowley some kind of crutch. My mother turned to spiritualism, for all the good it did her. She died within a year of Warwick's death. Our father was already dead. It was just before my twenty-first birthday when Warwick died. Not much to celebrate, Inspector.'
He could see how much she resented her brother's death, and guessed that over the years she had come to blame it (and him) for all her misfortunes. That resentment had spawned bitterness, which had burrowed inside her and taken root so that it had become her crutch.
'How long have you worked for Sebastian Gilmore?'
'Twenty-seven years. He gave me a job as soon as I qualified as an accountant and I've been here ever since.'
'You like it?'
'Sebastian has been very good to me, and with the expansion of his business I've gained promotion. Yes, I like it.'
'Do you recall the man they rescued: Peter Croxton?'
'Not really. He didn't come to the funeral.'
That more or less confirmed what Sebastian had said. So why hadn't Croxton attended the funeral of the man who had risked his life for him, and been killed as a result? There seemed only one explanation to Horton and that was he couldn't afford to be seen in public and with that fishing crew.
There seemed little more Janice could tell him about Warwick's death but there was something else that he needed to explore.
'Did your brother have any girlfriends?'
'A stream of them. They were attracted to him like flies round a dung heap.'
Interesting analogy. People usually said bees round a honey pot. Was that how she saw her brother: he was nothing but a pile of shit and the women ugly flies? Jealousy, bitterness and hatred had eaten away at this woman and looked as if they were still gnawing at her.
'Was there any particular girlfriend at the time of the tragedy?' He could feel his heart racing as he asked the question, and waited for her answer.
'Why do you want to know?' she asked sharply.
'Just routine,' he replied blandly.
She peered at him for a moment longer then, shrugging her shoulders said, 'There was one, a blonde woman; she was just a bit older than me. I don't know what happened to her.'
He felt a quickening of his heartbeat as he asked, 'Can you remember her name?'
'No. There were so many of them.'
He tried to curb his disappointment. 'Have you got a photograph of your brother?'
'No. I destroyed them all after Mum died. His death killed her and I couldn't bear to look at them.'
Pity. There had to be a picture of Warwick Hassingham somewhere and Horton had an idea of where he might find one.
He left her to her e-mails and her files, and on his way out asked both the security man at reception and the one at the gate if they recalled seeing Sebastian Gilmore on Friday night. Both confirmed that Mr Gilmore had left the premises at eight thirty. So that put him in the clear for Anne Schofield's murder. When Horton suggested that seemed very late, both said it was nothing unusual for the boss to be there half the night, or all of it if he expected the fishing fleet. Interesting. Was he waiting for something special to be delivered over and above fish? Or was Horton just hoping?
He made for the library, where he asked to examine the microfiche records of the local newspaper. He felt certain they would have covered the tragedy at sea. He had just settled down to scroll through them when his mobile phone rang. He was tempted to ignore the call but recognized the number as that of his solicitor. His chest went tight as he answered it.
'Can you talk?' Frances Greywell began. Horton heard the uncustomary hesitation in her voice and knew this was bad news. He steeled himself for what he was about to hear.
'What is it?'
'I've had a call from Catherine's solicitor.' The tension inside him hardened into a ball of pain.
'He says that Catherine is refusing you access to Emma on Wednesday on account of it being too dangerous for her to be with you at the moment. I understand that you're on a case where someone has tried to kill you by setting fire to your boat. Is it true?'
She sounded concerned but he ignored that, as disappointment and anger overwhelmed him.
'Hello, are you there?'
He must have grunted because she continued. 'I insisted that this had all been agreed and that Catherine couldn't go back on her word but I'm afraid she can if she has a legitimate reason to think your daughter's life might be in danger.'
Slowly Horton counted to ten, hoping to quell the anger inside him. It didn't help. The anger was still there only now he shifted the focus of it. Who the hell had told Catherine? If it was Uckfield, he'd have him by the balls, superintendent or not.
Finally he found his voice and said, 'Emma will be safe with me.'
'I said that of course, and told him that whatever case you were working on, it could be over by Wednesday, but, Andy…'
It was the first time she had used his Christian name. There was worse to come.
'Emma's gone away for Christmas with Catherine and her parents. They flew out from Gatwick to Cyprus at midday today. I've just got back into the office and found a message from her solicitor. I rang him straightaway. I'm really sorry.'
The bitch! Horton wouldn't mind betting she had planned this all along. Their flights had probably been booked ages ago. Catherine had had no intention of letting him see his daughter over Christmas. Christ, how it hurt.
'I'll get on to things the moment they get back from holiday,' Frances Greywell continued, 'and make sure you see Emma as soon as possible in the New Year. I know how disappointed you must be and how much this meant to you but we'll get something arranged.'
'You can arrange something now,' he said, tight-lipped.
'I can't-'
'I want to speak to my daughter on Christmas Day. You can manage that, can't you?'
He didn't mean to sound so curt; his anger wasn't directed at her.
After a moment she said, 'Leave it with me,' and rang off.
He thought about calling Catherine on her mobile and sounding off at her, but that would achieve nothing except make him more frustrated. If Frances couldn't get him permission to call and speak to his daughter on Christmas Day then he'd damn well do it anyway, all day and every ten minutes until someone answered the bloody phone. He couldn't bear the thought that Emma might think he had forgotten her.
He found it difficult to turn his mind to the case but now he was even more determined to resolve it by Christmas Eve and prove that Emma would have been safe with him. He toyed with the idea of trying to get a flight out to Cyprus. He knew where Catherine's parents' villa was. Yes, he could do that, and he could also find out who had told Catherine about the fire. The two thoughts kept him going while he trawled through the microfiche until he found what he had been looking for. Then he shelved his personal problems and concentrated on the articles in front of him.
The rescued man was mentioned by name, but unfortunately there was no photograph of him and neither was there one of Warwick Hassingham. Horton was disappointed. Instead the newspaper had used photographs of the Frances May, which they had obviously taken whilst she'd been moored up in the Town Camber.
Horton scrolled on to the coverage of the funeral. There was a photograph of the funeral procession with the hearse being pulled by two black horses. Walking behind the hearse was a hunched older woman, her hatless head lowered. Horton assumed her to be Warwick Hassingham's mother. Beside her, head held high, was a young Janice Hassingham with shoulder-length hair and wearing a black trouser suit. Behind them Horton saw a burly figure of an older man, and either side of him two young men: one clearly Sebastian and the other Rowland. The older man must be Terry Gilmore, their father. Rowland was smaller and thinner than his elder brother, not bad looking in a slightly feminine way with those neat features and long hair, which, of course, was fashionable then. Following them was a man and a woman, before the bulk of the mourners whom, unfortunately, Horton couldn't make out. The man he guessed was Tom Brundall and the woman possibly Teresa, Rowland Gilmore's wife. He made a note of the date the article appeared. There was no more information on Peter Croxton.
He found the obituary on Terry Gilmore. He'd died on 15 November 1978, ten days after Jennifer had disappeared and fifteen months after the tragedy that had taken Warwick Hassingham. Gilmore Senior was described as a driven man who had loved the sea; he'd seen a niche in the market for fishing in Portsmouth and established the thriving business in the Town Camber, which Sebastian had made even more successful. There was nothing there that Horton didn't already know.
He sat back, deep in thought. He wouldn't mind reading all the articles that had been written over the years on the Gilmores. Not only might it give him valuable background information on their business, but it might spark some ideas of the 'wrong' that Brundall had mentioned to Gilmore, other than it being drug running or that skeleton. And there might be an article that carried a photograph of the fishermen, including Warwick Hassingham. Before he checked that though there was something he had to do.
He returned to the station, and sought out Uckfield. Without knocking he burst into his office. 'Catherine's taken Emma to Cyprus for Christmas. You told her about the fire.'
'I didn't-'
'Don't lie to me, Steve,' Horton snapped, scrutinizing him carefully. 'You told Alison and she went squealing to Catherine. Don't you know how much it meant to me to see Emma, and you've bloody ruined it?'
Uckfield rose and closed his office door. Turning back to face Horton he said, 'I didn't say a word to either of them. Alison's father read the report and mentioned it to Alison. I tried to stop her telling Catherine but I was too late.'
'And you expect me to believe that!' Horton cried contemptuously.
'You can believe what you damn well like, it's the truth,' Uckfield snapped. Then more quietly he added, 'Perhaps if you'd told her yourself, you could have stopped her taking Emma away.'
'When I want your advice on my personal life I'll ask for it.' And Horton swept out, fury and disappointment eating into him.
He was glad no one stopped him on his way to his office and that DCI Bliss wasn't around. He closed his office door and sat for some time staring at nothing. Did he believe Steve Uckfield? He didn't know. Had Catherine planned all the time to take Emma away? He knew it was pointless rushing out to Cyprus; Catherine would call it harassment and use it to further prevent him seeing his daughter. Cantelli's theory was that Catherine was jealous of Emma's love for him. Horton couldn't believe that, but why was Catherine so against him seeing Emma? He needed to find a way of getting to the truth of that. For now, though, he had other mysteries to solve and they might help distract him from his personal anger and frustration.
He powered up his computer and logged on to the press cuttings service that the constabulary used and entered a request for all the articles that had been published on Gilmores over the last twenty years to be sent to him by e-mail. He might only get the ones scanned to computer but it was a start.
He searched amongst the steadily rising pile of papers on his desk for the file on Jennifer Horton, but it wasn't there. He was disappointed. He had hoped to take it home that night. His phone rang and he was surprised to hear Cantelli's voice.
'How's the investigation going?'
Horton was tempted to tell him about the incident on his boat last night and Catherine's betrayal over Emma, but he didn't want to speak over the phone, and he guessed that Cantelli had enough on his plate. He said. 'I'll bring you up to date later.'
'Yeah, OK.' Cantelli hesitated.
'You've got enough to do, Barney.'
'Isabella and Tony have got it all pretty much sussed. If you don't mind, I'd like to come in tomorrow.'
Reading between the lines Horton thought Cantelli wasn't so much peeved that his older brother and sister had elbowed him out of making funeral arrangements, but that he was desperately looking for something to stop him brooding over his loss.
'I'll be glad to see you.' He rang off feeling that it wasn't right for Cantelli to work, but he knew that he couldn't prevent him from coming in. Cantelli's voice had sounded terse, and Horton recognized all too well the emotions behind it. The sergeant was in denial. He didn't want to believe or even think that his father had died, and he couldn't face talking about it or making funeral arrangements. Horton's heart went out to him and helped to ease his own pain over Emma. He made for the canteen where he found Dennings tucking into a Christmas dinner. Horton didn't really want to sit with him, but he didn't have much choice, as there wasn't anywhere else free.
'What did you get from Customs and Revenue and the Fishery Agency?' he asked, putting a plate of curry down in front of him.
'Gilmore is squeaky clean.'
'No one's that,' Horton replied.
'Well, the bugger's clever enough not to have got caught. I hear you had an accident last night on your boat.'
'Yeah.' Horton began to tackle the curry. It wasn't hot enough for his taste.
'And you think that it was Sebastian Gilmore?'
Uckfield had obviously been talking. Horton just hoped he hadn't told Dennings, or anyone else, where he was now living.
'No. Wrong build. I wouldn't be surprised though if he hired someone, just like he could have done to kill the others.'
Before Dennings could comment Horton's mobile rang. He listened for a while then rang off. 'That was Sergeant Elkins. The marina manager has confirmed that Gilmore's boat was moored up in Cowes marina on Tuesday night and he left Cowes Wednesday morning about ten thirty. Someone in the apartment block also saw Gilmore Wednesday morning just after nine thirty. He was alone.'
'What did he go there for?'
'I'll ask him when I see him.'
'Which you won't. It's my case, remember.'
'How could I forget?' Horton sipped his Coke and ate his curry.
Through a mouthful of turkey, Dennings said, 'I told the super that it was about time we hauled Sebastian bloody Gilmore in and formally questioned him.'
'I don't think Uckfield wants to do that without more evidence, knowing how influential Gilmore is.'
'Well, that's where you're wrong.' Dennings scraped back his chair. 'Because we're bringing him in tomorrow morning.'
'On what grounds?'
'That he might be our killer.'
Might wasn't good enough as far as Horton was concerned. Not with forceful characters like Sebastian Gilmore. You needed firm evidence or at least the appearance of it, and Horton knew they didn't have this. A solicitor would tear holes through their vague suspicions in seconds. He was surprised at Uckfield.
He said, 'Gilmore has an alibi for Brundall's death and Anne Schofield's.'
Dennings paused. Horton saw the triumphant, half cocky gleam in his eye. 'Alibis can be falsified.'
Had Dennings broken Sebastian Gilmore's alibi, he wondered as he watched him strut out of the canteen. If he had then Horton was annoyed he hadn't been told and peeved he hadn't discovered it himself. He tossed back his Coke, mentally running through the facts of the case. No, he was sure Dennings was bluffing. But he had a point. Could Sebastian Gilmore have lied about his whereabouts when Brundall was killed? If he had, then his daughter had also lied as had the sales director at Tri Fare. It wasn't beyond the realms of fantasy. And maybe it was worth putting some pressure on that sales director.
He rose and took his tray of used crockery back to the trolley next to the kitchen, earning himself a smile from the young catering assistant. He was confident that Dennings would get very little out of Sebastian Gilmore. Uckfield had probably agreed to it out of desperation that he was getting nowhere fast with the case.
Back in his office, Horton called Inspector Guilbert in Guernsey and updated him on the case, assuming that Dennings wouldn't have done so, and he was right.
'I'm interviewing Russell Newton tomorrow,' John Guilbert said. 'Anything in particular you want me to ask him?'
'Find out all you can about that party on board his boat. Who was there? Who did Brundall talk to? How well did Newton know him? You know the kind of thing. Oh, and there is one more thing you can ask…' Horton hesitated; he was going to ask Guilbert to find out from Newton if Brundall had ever mentioned Jennifer. But Horton couldn't quite bring himself to say it. 'Did Brundall ever talk about his past as a fisherman, or mention a man called Warwick Hassingham?'
That night Horton carefully checked outside the boat at Gosport Marina. There was no sign of anyone loitering and with the marine unit keeping a close eye, Horton was able to relax a little. Reaching his hands behind his head he lay on the bunk and deliberately forced his thoughts away from Catherine and Emma and on to the case.
Had Sebastian Gilmore killed Jennifer Horton because her boyfriend, Warwick, had told her about the drugs? Had his mother been a junkie and Warwick her supplier? He didn't remember her as such, but he didn't know the difference between his true memory and what other people, and his boyhood pain of rejection, had put there in its place.
Then another thought occurred to him. Had Warwick Hassingham's death really been an accident? Had Warwick been about to betray the others, or had he already betrayed them to Jennifer? Did the three other fishermen push Warwick over the side of that fishing boat? Did this Peter Croxton know that? He was threatening to tell, perhaps blackmailing Brundall and Sebastian Gilmore who from 1995 onwards had been very wealthy men. So he had been silenced and dumped in the air-raid shelter. It made sense except for the age of the skeleton. Could Gaye Clayton be mistaken?
Sebastian could have given Warwick's sister the job of accountant because of a guilt complex for killing her brother. But the secret that Brundall had wanted to confess to Rowland hadn't been killing Warwick; it had been murdering Peter Croxton and, once Rowland had heard that, he couldn't let it rest. He must have called his brother to tell him he was going to the police, and hence he'd been silenced. Like Dennings had said, alibis can be false. Anne Schofield was killed because she had found a confession that Rowland must have written and in it there had been something about Jennifer and how she had been involved back in 1977, which was why she had called Horton.
Horton rose and began to pace the boat, testing out his theory. After Warwick's 'accidental' death had Sebastian comforted Jennifer Horton as a means of finding out what she knew? Had Jennifer become a liability, so had to be killed? If so, which of them had done it? Sebastian or Brundall? Horton just couldn't see Rowland in that role. Well, Brundall was dead. But if Sebastian Gilmore had consigned him to those years of children's homes whilst he'd lived in comfort and security, then by God Horton would make him suffer. Who said revenge was a dish best served cold? Too right it bloody was and he would serve it right in Gilmore's face.