'What's up, Steve? Worried your boat might have gone up in flames?'
Horton joked with a familiarity that would have earned him a reprimand with any other senior officer, but every now and then Horton liked to remind Uckfield that they had once been close friends. He noted Uckfield's dinner jacket and bow tie underneath the camel coat. The superintendent must have been on his way to a function when he got Bliss's call.
With a flicker of annoyance Uckfield said crisply, 'What do we know about the dead man?'
Horton smiled a greeting at Dr Clayton who returned the gesture briefly before resuming her examination of the corpse. There was no sign of Dennings, and he wasn't a man to miss. His fifteen-stone muscular frame would have stood out like the Incredible Hulk.
After Horton had finished his briefing, Uckfield said, 'Great, so we think he might be this man Tom Brundall, but equally he could be any other Tom, Dick or Harry.'
'That's about the size of it so far,' Horton said, as Cantelli arrived.
'This place is like the Mary Celeste. I can't find a single soul on a blessed boat. Somerfield's had no joy either.'
Horton hadn't really expected anything different at this time of the year. He turned to Uckfield, and, half joking, said, 'I don't suppose you've been on your boat and seen the victim?'
Uckfield snapped, 'Of course I bloody haven't,' and swiftly turned to Dr Clayton. 'Well?'
'He's not a very pretty sight.'
Gaye glanced up. For a moment Horton thought she was referring to the superintendent.
'I can see that for myself,' Uckfield retorted. 'Was he murdered?'
'Interesting though.' She stood up, holding Uckfield's glare with composure, obviously refusing to be hurried or bullied into answering. Did Uckfield know he was addressing the daughter of one of the most eminent Home Office pathologists the country had ever seen, Samuel Ryedon? Horton doubted it or Uckfield's manner would have been sickeningly ingratiating instead of hostile.
'Could it have been an accident?' Uckfield pressed.
'Not judging by the pattern of the wound and the extent of the injury to the cranium. He was struck with a heavy object, something like a hammer.'
Horton peered once again at the body. It wasn't quite as bad the second time, though it was awful enough. But now the analytical side of his nature reasserted itself. Why had this man met with such a terrible end? Was it a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Somehow Horton doubted that. It was planned, he was sure. So what kind of person could have done this and why? He knew that people were driven to murder for all sorts of reasons: greed, jealousy, revenge, hatred, love, to name but a few. But to knock a man out and then set fire to him smacked of someone cold and calculating enough to cover his tracks by wanting to destroy the evidence. Either that or someone evil enough to take pleasure in watching another human being suffer for the sheer fun of it. Maybe their killer was a bit of both. The thought sent a cold shudder through him, making him feel both sad and sickened.
Dr Clayton pulled the blanket over the corpse. 'I'll do the post-mortem as soon as I get him to the mortuary.' Turning to Horton, she added, 'I'll let you know the moment I have anything. I wouldn't want to spoil the superintendent's evening.'
Ignoring her, Uckfield addressed Horton. 'You'd better get the divers in. Not that I expect them to find anything in the marina. Our killer wouldn't be that stupid.'
'You're taking command of the case?'
'It looks like murder to me, Inspector. And that counts as a major crime in my book,' Uckfield replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
Horton tensed at Uckfield's sneering tone, but said casually, 'In that case we'll leave it to you and DI Dennings.' He turned and walked away.
'Not so hasty. You got a date?' Uckfield called out angrily.
No, but you have, thought Horton. Now he'd see just how important a date it was. Come on, you bastard, ask me. Either that or get your blue-eyed boy in.
'Andy.'
Horton halted and slowly turned, managing to stifle the smile of satisfaction both at being summoned and the use of his Christian name. He heard Uckfield snarl at Cantelli. 'Haven't you got anything better to do, Sergeant, than hang around on the pontoon chewing like a bloody cow?'
Cantelli raised his eyebrows and turned to engage Dr Clayton in conversation.
Drawing level, Uckfield said in a low voice, 'Can't you follow this through, Andy? I'll clear it with DCI Bliss. Dennings is off sick with this flu bug and I've promised Alison I'd go to this bloody dinner and dance. It's in aid of one of her charities and she's put a lot of effort into organizing it.'
Yes, and I expect her father, the chief constable, will also be there, Horton thought cynically, which was the real reason Uckfield needed to go. It was sucking-up time to the in-laws. And Horton, knowing Uckfield of old, was aware Alison could go to Outer Mongolia on her own if precious daddy wasn't anywhere on the horizon.
Uckfield continued. 'Not much will happen on this case tonight anyway, and I know I can leave a good officer like you to kick start it.'
Horton had to bite his tongue. He felt like saying 'If I'm that bloody good why didn't you appoint me your DI instead of that idiot Dennings?'
'Sergeant Cantelli and I should have been off duty about two hours ago,' Horton said, holding Uckfield's stare. He wanted the man to plead yet he knew that Uckfield wouldn't. Horton had to be content with the small victory he had scored in getting the superintendent to ask for a favour in the first instance. He saw that he had made his point and before Uckfield could answer, added, 'I'll call you as soon as Dr Clayton has completed the post-mortem, Steve.' A favour didn't warrant the use of rank, not in Horton's eyes at least.
'Good.'
Horton knew Uckfield couldn't say thank you. It wasn't in his vocabulary.
Uckfield glanced at his watch. 'I'll call Sergeant Trueman on my way to the dinner and ask him to start getting the major incident suite ready. Hate these bloody things, but duty calls.'
If Uckfield had any sense of duty, Horton thought, he'd cry off. He'd always known that Uckfield was ambitious but what he hadn't realized until recently was just how ambitious.
'Was he born grumpy or has he simply perfected the art over the years?' Gaye Clayton said, nodding in the direction of Uckfield's disappearing figure.
'Must be the heavy responsibility of the job,' Horton said, recalling a very different Uckfield of their youth.
'And someone should tell him to lose some weight,' she added, picking up her case and heading down the pontoon after the superintendent. 'Not good for the heart,' she tossed over her shoulder.
'Not sure he's got one,' Horton heard Cantelli mutter. 'Sorry about volunteering you to work on.'
'It's OK. I'll call Charlotte.'
The undertakers arrived the same time as the SOCO team. Horton addressed their head, a thin, stooping man.
'I know you'll dust the pontoon gate for fingerprints, Phil, but there's been so many of us in and out of it that it's probably useless.' He turned to the fire investigation officer who had been keeping a discreet distance from them. 'We'll need your prints and those of the firefighters.'
Maidment nodded. 'I'll organize it and I'll let you have my full report tomorrow.'
Cantelli came off the phone and they made their way back to the car. Somerfield let them through the crime-scene tape without a smile.
Seaton had probably warned her that he was in a bad mood. As the last of the fire engines trundled away, Horton saw a black Mercedes sweep into the car park. Judging by the personalized number plate he reckoned it was the marina director.
Turning to Seaton, Horton said, 'Tell him we're not yet in a position to confirm who the victim is. He's to go nowhere near the scene and if he kicks up a fuss tell him to speak to Superintendent Uckfield in the morning.' That will serve him right for ducking out. 'Are you on duty all night?'
'Until six, sir.' 'Then stay here with Somerfield and make sure the scene is secure. Sergeant Cantelli will organize a relief in the morning. If you or Somerfield need to take a leak then take it in turns, the same goes for eating and drinking, but no sleeping. I'll get Sergeant Elkins of the marine unit to get the boat towed away for forensic examination as soon as Taylor says it can be moved.'
Seaton nodded, his expression serious, but Horton could tell he was pleased at being given the responsibility.
'He's not a bad lad,' Cantelli said, stretching the seat belt around him.
No, and he was a good policeman thought Horton, tilting the rear-view mirror to watch Seaton approach the casually dressed, worried-looking man climbing out of the black Mercedes. Horton wouldn't mind having Seaton in CID when the powers that be decided to allocate him extra resources, which he hoped was soon. Having lost DC Marsden to Uckfield's Major Crime Team, he was seriously undermanned.
At the station Cantelli went off to organize various tasks including carrying out Uckfield's instructions to call in the divers whilst Horton headed for the CID office where he found DC Walters pummelling a computer keyboard.
'I should have been off duty ages ago,' Walters grumbled. 'I've got a date.'
'If she loves you she'll wait for you. Has Guernsey come back with any information on Tom Brundall?'
'No.'
Damn. Maybe he could hurry them up with a call to John Guilbert. 'And the muggers?'
Walters looked up from his report. 'Late teens, early twenties, one Caucasian, one black. They were wearing those stupid hoodies. They came at the Yank suddenly from either side of him, pushed against him, roughed him up to get his wallet, which the stupid bugger kept in a kind of handbag over his shoulder, so it didn't take much, grabbed what they could and ran off. PC Jones says a witness saw them run into Curzon Howe Road but no one claims to have seen hide or hair of them.'
Which figured in that neighbourhood, thought Horton. 'Have you viewed the CCTV tapes? Queens Street, wasn't it?'
Walters looked surprised. 'The operation control officers said there was nothing on them.'
Horton sighed wearily. 'First rule of being a good detective, Walters, is never to believe anything anyone tells you. Second rule is to check it out yourself. Now, finish typing up your report, leaving out the reference to the stupid bugger, and the Yank, and get off home before you get roped into this murder investigation and miss your night of bliss.'
With surprising speed, Walters applied himself once again to the keyboard. The way he was punishing it they'd need a new one by the morning.
Horton's telephone was ringing and, reaching across his desk, he picked it up, hoping it was the Guernsey Police. Instead it was DCI Bliss summoning him to her office. He'd noticed with dismay that her car was in the car park when Cantelli had driven in. She kept longer hours than him and that was saying something. Maybe she didn't have much of a home to go to either.
He entered to her abrupt 'come' and found her glaring at him from behind her immaculately tidy desk like an angry parent whose teenage child had stayed out too long. Where on earth did she keep all her files and paperwork, Horton wondered. In front of her there was only a single piece of paper and a rather smart-looking silver pen beside it.
She didn't ask him to sit. 'Well?'
Sod it, he sat. He could see that it irritated her. Staring at her narrow pointed face and restless eyes, Horton swiftly brought her up to date with the mugging (his version not Walters') and then with events at the marina, finishing by telling her that he and Sergeant Cantelli had volunteered for extra duty. He could tell by her scowling expression that she wasn't very pleased about that and that obviously Uckfield hadn't called her and cleared it with her as promised.
'The superintendent will pick up the overtime bill, ma'am,' he said, thinking that might cheer her up, but her frown deepened.
'I will not have over-tired officers on my team. It leads to mistakes and sloppiness and I won't tolerate that.'
Where were the thanks for being dedicated to the job these days? Gone the way of Dixon of Dock Green it seemed, as far as Bliss was concerned. Horton had spent years juggling a caseload heavy enough to take the foundations of the Empire State Building without buckling under the strain, and he had an excellent clear-up rate. He didn't think staying on a few hours extra was going to make him fall asleep on the job tomorrow, and neither would it affect Cantelli.
He saw in her expression a determination to succeed that bordered on fanaticism. He'd seen that look before and not so long ago. It had been his own, reflected in the mirror, until Operation Extra had temporarily isolated him from the force and shown him that even when you thought you were on the inside, you weren't. It had been a hard lesson to learn, and the consequences of it were still reverberating around both his personal and professional life. But he liked to think he was beginning to come to terms with it.
Bliss continued. 'And I won't have this mugging treated lightly. It's a very serious incident, Inspector. This attack is hardly good for the city and tourism.'
Curbing his annoyance, he said, 'I'll get the community officers asking around the district and DC Walters is personally handling it.'
'Keep me informed. I'll talk to Superintendent Uckfield in the morning.'
And good luck to you, thought Horton, leaving her to scowl at the piece of paper on her desk; perhaps she was trying to intimidate it into disappearing?
'It is murder, isn't it?' Trueman said when Horton reached the incident suite. 'Because I'd hate to think I've stayed behind for the sheer bloody fun of it. I've got the number of that taxi firm by the way. They're based in Eastleigh.'
Horton's ears pricked up at that because Eastleigh was not far from Southampton airport and there were regular flights to and from Guernsey. Was the man in the suit who'd visited Brundall from the Channel Islands? It was a guess but Horton wouldn't mind betting that he was right.
He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly ten o'clock. He reckoned Walters' girlfriend would have given him up for the night by now, unless she was truly smitten and that was hard to imagine when it came to the overweight, irritating and slovenly DC. Still, there was no accounting for taste, which made him think of his estranged wife's lover.
He reached for a telephone dialled the taxi company's number. He let it ring for some time, drumming his fingers on the desk, before he was finally forced to accept that this particular taxi firm didn't work all night, or even late at night, leastways not from the number Trueman had given him. Still, there was little he could do now but first thing tomorrow morning he'd head out there. Then he remembered that he wouldn't be on the investigation.
Cantelli threw himself down into the seat opposite Horton. 'Guernsey has called to confirm that a Tom Brundall is a resident there and that he owns a boat called Enterprise. He kept it in St Peter Port Marina.'
So Brundall existed, and owned the boat that had gone up in flames. It was a step forward, but it didn't necessarily mean that Brundall was their burnt offering.
'There's no previous on him,' Cantelli continued, 'but Guernsey is checking out what he did for a living. The marina manager says Brundall left St Peter Port on Monday morning but didn't tell them when he would be back. There's no answer at his home and the Guernsey police can't locate any relatives. Apparently Brundall lived in a ruddy great mansion near a place called Petit Bot Bay. Did I pronounce that right?'
'Near enough. It's on the south coast of Guernsey.' Horton recalled it well. He'd moored not far from there in nearby Portelet a couple of times, with Catherine and Emma, on Catherine's father's yacht in the days that now seemed just a distant memory.
'What about a photograph?' Horton asked.
It wouldn't help with any identification but it could be used for the all-ports alert. Though he no longer thought that was necessary, as everything was pointing to the fact that their body was Tom Brundall.
'They haven't found any inside his house.'
Unusual but not necessarily suspicious. Irritating nevertheless. More delays. It couldn't be helped, but Horton felt uneasy, as though there was an underlying urgency to this case. He pushed away the edge of his premonition as it threatened once again to rear its ugly head.
'You'd better shoot off home, Barney. There's not much point in us both hanging around. I doubt we'll get more tonight. I'll wait for Dr Clayton's initial report. Sorry you've had to work late.'
'Don't be. It saved me from late night Christmas shopping with Charlotte,' Cantelli replied, pulling a face.
That reminded Horton he needed to make some time to go shopping himself, though he had no idea what Emma wanted for Christmas. He would have to ask Charlotte; with four daughters he was sure Cantelli's wife would be able to help.
Horton loitered about the incident room occasionally glancing at the clock. He wrote the information that Cantelli had given him on to the crime board. He didn't need to stay because Dr Clayton could call him on his mobile, if she couldn't reach him at the station, but unlike Cantelli, Horton didn't have anything to go home too, and it was warmer in the police station than on his boat.
How could he take his eight-year-old daughter to a tiny, freezing-cold boat? Simple answer — he couldn't. But where could he take her? The pantomime? The zoo? The shops? He didn't fancy any of them but it was Emma's treat. And that was another thing that bugged him, he thought, gazing out of the window at the foggy night: he didn't want to be the kind of father who only gave his child treats like some benevolent uncle. He wanted to be a proper father. He'd missed out on having one himself and he was damn sure that Emma wasn't going to. He wanted to make a home for her; somewhere she could stay, and bring her friends, which ruled out his boat.
He fetched a coffee from the machine in the corner of the room and turned his mind back to the case. What had the man in the dark suit to do with the victim? Why had he visited the victim? Who was he? Why had Brundall come to Portsmouth? All questions and no answers, not yet, but he'd get them. No, correction, DI Dennings would.
'Inspector, call for you. Dr Clayton.'
At last!
'He was alive when the fire broke out,' Gaye said peremptorily. 'I found carbon monoxide in his blood and fine particles of soot in his lungs. It's my belief he was struck forcibly. His skull is fractured and there is inflammation near the injury and blistering which contains proteins.'
Horton's heart quickened. 'We're definitely looking at murder then.'
'Yes. And I can confirm by the size and shape of the wound that he was hit with something smallish and round, as I said before, possibly a hammer.'
And Horton doubted they'd find that.
Gaye continued, her voice solemn. Horton heard the weariness in it. 'There is something else. He had cancer. He was riddled with it; it was in his spine and in the tissue I found in his skull. He hadn't got long to live.'
Then why come all the way across the Channel to Portsmouth? Was it a journey of nostalgia? Had he come to see someone for the last time? Did he have some unfinished business to attend to? Or had he just wanted to get away? Perhaps he had hoped to die at sea, but then that still didn't answer why he ended up in Horsea Marina.
'Could a woman have struck him?'
'With his being weakened by his illness it wouldn't have needed a lot of strength. Yes, a woman could have done it especially if he was crouching down or bending over when he was struck.'
'Any joy with his fingerprints?' Horton asked hopefully.
'Not enough skin left on the fingers, so you'll have to wait for DNA. I'll let you have the full report tomorrow. I'm off to bed now. I'm bushed.'
Horton didn't know how she could sleep after dissecting that corpse, but then that was her job. She had obviously perfected a technique of mentally switching off, much as he'd had to learn over the last eighteen years in the police force. Only he knew it didn't always work — he doubted it would tonight.
He could call Uckfield to tell him about the post-mortem but then decided it would be better to discuss this with him face to face. The duty sergeant gave him the location of the superintendent's charity function and half an hour later Horton was turning into the crowded car park of the Marriott Hotel on the edge of the city.
He consulted the function board in reception and saw that Uckfield's dinner and dance was located in the main banqueting suite. He had hardly gone a few paces though when he spotted Uckfield sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with a broad-set balding man in his late forties whom Horton instantly recognized as Edward Shawford, his estranged wife's boyfriend.
Horton stiffened. If Shawford was here then Catherine must be too. Alison Uckfield and Catherine were close friends, and Horton guessed they'd come as a foursome. If it hadn't been for Operation Extra and those accusations of rape he would have been in this party instead of bloody Edward Shawford. But that was all in the past. And Jesus did it still hurt! And there was him thinking he was moving on!
So who was looking after Emma, he wondered, making his way towards the bar? His in-laws? He felt a stab of envy swiftly followed by anger that others were allowed to take care of his daughter and not her father.
Uckfield looked up and caught Horton's eye. He started with surprise, then frowned and hauled himself off the bar stool. Horton watched as Shawford followed Uckfield's gaze. He caught the look of fear in the man's eyes and drew immense satisfaction from it. He should be afraid, Horton thought, recalling how he'd once come close to beating him to a pulp.
'We've had the results of the PM,' Horton said tersely. He was damned if he was going to address Uckfield by his rank, especially in front of Shawford.
'I'd better be going,' Shawford mumbled and scuttled away like a startled crab.
Horton despised him even more than he thought he possibly could.
Uckfield drew Horton away from the bar and the proximity of the banqueting suite.
'Don't I even get offered a drink, Steve?' Horton couldn't resist saying. He'd been off alcohol for three months but a soft drink might have been welcomed.
'You could have telephoned me,' hissed Uckfield with a glance at the banqueting suite doors, which at that moment opened and let escape a blast of music.
Horton could see Uckfield was a little tight. He relayed the information that Dr Clayton had given him and brought Uckfield up to date with Guernsey's findings, finishing with Trueman's news that he'd located the taxi company that had taken the visitor to Brundall. 'DI Dennings can talk to them in the morning.'
Uckfield said, 'I'd like you to stick with it, Andy, for tomorrow at least.'
The function room doors burst open again and this time Horton saw Alison Uckfield tumble out laughing. Beside her, in a short midnight blue dress, was Catherine. Horton caught his breath and hardened his heart. Her eyes fell on him and the smile instantly vanished from her face. Alison Uckfield glanced at her husband like a frightened child and it made Horton wonder what Uckfield had said about him, or perhaps it was Catherine who had spread evil tales. Fury surged through him, which he controlled, calling on the techniques that he'd perfected over the years spent in children's homes.
'What are you doing here?' Catherine demanded, hurrying towards him.
Uckfield answered. 'He's on duty.'
'I'm not actually, but I am on a case,' Horton corrected. He held Catherine's icy cold stare and told himself it didn't matter, but he felt a hard knot of pain inside his stomach.
Alison Uckfield's pale-skinned face puckered up with concern as she said, 'This doesn't mean you've got to leave, does it, Steve?'
Fat lot of good Uckfield would be.
Horton said, 'There's not much that can be done tonight, Alison.'
She looked startled at being addressed in so familiar a manner, and dashed a look at her husband, but Horton was buggered if he was going to stand on ceremony with a woman he had danced and laughed with, seen drunk, and kissed.
Taking his wife's arm and with a backward glance at Horton, Uckfield said, 'I'll clear it with Chief Superintendent Chievely tomorrow. You're on the case.'
Horton turned to Catherine. 'How's Emma?'
'Looking forward to seeing you on Christmas Eve. Don't disappoint her, Andy.'
Horton forced himself to remain calm, though he was thinking how dare she say that when he had never disappointed his daughter in her life. 'Who's looking after her tonight?'
She hesitated. Her eyes flickered to the function room. He knew instantly why.
'Your mother and father are here too.'
'Yes. I've got a babysitter.'
'Who?' His stomach clenched at the thought of Emma being abandoned to a stranger.
'A girl from the village called Michelle. She's highly reliable,' Catherine replied defensively.
He had to trust her he told himself. No matter what Catherine did to him he knew she wouldn't endanger Emma, but part of him was thinking that she could have stayed with him. Yet how could she on his boat? It was totally inadequate for a child. It was inadequate for him. And then there was his job. He didn't need to be here working at midnight, but how could he have got away by seven or eight o'clock, which was probably when Catherine had wanted to leave for her function?
Admitting defeat, he said, 'Enjoy your evening,' and walked away. It wasn't until he had reached reception that he paused and turned back. Catherine had vanished but he caught sight of another familiar face and he felt a tiny flicker of jealousy inside him. Staring up at an elegantly dressed dark-haired man in his late thirties was Frances Greywell. She didn't look as though she was going to protest either when he placed his arm across her naked shoulders.
Outside Horton breathed in the night air hoping to banish his acute sensation of isolation, but the fog was as suffocating as ever. He climbed on his Harley and rode home carefully and slowly. His route took him along the mist-shrouded seafront where the sound of the booming foghorns filled the air. There were young people milling around outside the nightclubs, and a police wagon was parked in front of the pier. Later, when club land spewed its contents on to the pavements, there would be drunken young people and scantily clad girls everywhere. He wondered if this would be Emma's fate. God, he hoped not. He wanted to play a part in her upbringing, and he knew deep in his heart that it had to be more than just a once-a-week visit.
Would the sleek, sophisticated Frances get him what he wanted? Or did she think him a loser? Had she spoken to Catherine at that dinner and dance? If so, what kind of picture had his estranged wife painted of him? With something akin to despair he climbed on board Nutmeg and gazed around it: two bunks, a small stove and portable toilet. It wasn't much to show for a lifetime's slog.
He lay back in the darkness, resting his hands behind his head, trying to blot out that picture at the hotel, of people laughing and drinking, of Catherine and Edward Shawford. It wasn't that he enjoyed that sort of event himself; on the contrary he'd loathed those parties and dances. But he was expected to attend the police dinner and dance which always took place in January and was seen as a bonding exercise by higher brass between all the units and stations across Portsmouth. Who was he going to take this year? He had thought briefly about asking Frances, but now that idea was scuppered. Once again he felt like the outsider and memories of his childhood came flooding back, the child standing alone. It churned his guts.
Mentally he pulled himself together. There was still work, and with an effort he turned his thoughts instead to that burnt body. There were many questions bothering him but one more than all the others stood out: why had someone wanted to kill a man who was already dying of cancer?
Pauline Rowson
The Suffocating Sea
Three
Thursday: 7.45 a.m.
T he question was still troubling him the next morning when he fetched a coffee from the machine and weaved his way through the crowded incident room. Of course, one answer had sprung to mind last night and that was perhaps the murderer didn't know that Brundall had cancer.
Uckfield had mobilized the troops quicker than Horton had believed physically possible. But when you're wining and dining with the chief constable anything was feasible, like his secondment to the major crime team, which Bliss had told him about that morning through gritted teeth. She said that Walters had called in sick (probably suffering from a hangover or an excess of sexual activity) and that Cantelli was to run the CID office. But Bliss had added that she still expected Horton to oversee it, handle his paperwork, and make sure the mugging case was properly investigated. Some secondment, he thought cynically. Perhaps he should have eaten spinach for breakfast!
Uckfield's office blinds were shut, which meant he was either in conference or having a nap after a boozy late night, and Horton guessed it was the former.
'Brundall's GP has confirmed he had cancer,' Trueman said. 'It was at a very advanced stage. Inspector Guilbert called the doctor early this morning and rang through the information five minutes ago. Guilbert's applying for Brundall's full medical details but it looks as though he's our victim.'
Horton reckoned so. He picked up a printed photograph on Sergeant Trueman's desk. It showed a small gathering of people on board a large luxury yacht.
'That's Tom Brundall in 1996,' Trueman added over his shoulder whilst scrawling the information on the GP's confirmation of cancer on the crime board.
'Which one?'
'Him.' Trueman pointed to a slim man, in his mid fifties with an angular face and light brown hair. He seemed surprised — or even startled — at having his picture taken. Horton got the impression he wasn't too pleased about it either. He felt a brief frisson of excitement as if there was something important in what he'd just seen. Had he recognized Brundall? He didn't think so. It must be something else, but try as he might he couldn't think what it was. It had gone.
Brundall was dressed in light-coloured trousers and an open-neck checked shirt. Beside him, reclining on the sunlounger, was a casually but well-dressed man in his mid thirties with fair hair, sunglasses on his head and a glass of champagne in his hand, smiling into camera. The other people in the photograph were behind them and slightly out of focus. Horton tried to banish the memory of the shrivelled blackened corpse on the pontoon and replace it with this one of Brundall. He thought Brundall looked a fairly innocuous sort of man, instantly forgettable, the kind you might expect to meet in a bank or an accountant's office.
Trueman continued. 'It's the only photograph that the Guernsey police can find of him. They got it from the local newspaper archives, along with this cutting.'
Horton took the piece of paper on to which the press cutting had been scanned and then e-mailed from Guernsey. 'Top banker claims times are good,' said the headline and they certainly looked it, if the size of that boat was anything to go by. It must have cost at least a million back in 1996.
He read the article with the practised skill of a thousand-words-a-minute man. The banker referred to wasn't Brundall, but the head of a private Guernsey bank, a man called Russell Newton who was entertaining guests aboard his yacht, including financier Tom Brundall. So that's what the dead man had done for a living. Was Newton the man on the sunlounger? Horton guessed so.
'Harrison is ageing the photograph to bring it up to date,' Trueman informed him. 'You know, colouring the hair grey and adding a few lines to fit the description the marina staff gave you. I should have copies in half an hour.'
'Thanks.'
'Glad someone appreciates it.' Trueman jerked his head in the direction of Superintendent Uckfield's office. 'He's like a bear with a sore arse.'
'Don't you mean head?'
'And that judging by the amount of black coffee the super's putting away. It's DI Dennings who can't keep still.'
'I thought he was sick!' Horton said, surprised and annoyed. He didn't intend taking orders from Dennings, or playing second fiddle to the man. And neither did he intend being the DI stuck in the incident room overseeing the case; Sergeant Trueman was quite capable of that. If that was how it was going to be then he'd rather be in CID even if it did mean ploughing his way through DCI Bliss's new reporting system.
Trueman said, 'Dennings must have heard there was something going off. Doesn't want to miss his first big case.'
Bliss hadn't said anything about Dennings being back, but maybe she didn't know. He crossed to Uckfield's office, knocked once and pushed back the door. Immediately he saw that Trueman was right. Uckfield's eyes were bloodshot and his craggy face was grey.
Serve him right, Horton thought; that will teach him to go drinking with Catherine's boyfriend. Dennings didn't look too good either. His moon-like face was pale and his eyes red-rimmed and tired. Horton recalled what Cantelli had said about that film starring Paulette Goddard, and ghosts and zombies.
'Didn't expect to see you, Tony?' he said. 'You look like someone's just woken you up from a night out haunting.'
Dennings opened his mouth to reply but Uckfield got there first. 'I want you to follow up this taxi fare lead, Inspector, whilst Dennings collates things this end and liaises with Guernsey.'
Dennings face was solemn, but Horton could tell he was fuming. Like Horton, Dennings was an action man. Perhaps Uckfield thought Dennings still under par from his flu; he certainly looked it. Horton hoped the bastard wasn't gong to infect them all with his germs. It would be about all they'd ever get from Dennings, he thought cynically. He was notoriously tight-fisted.
But it wasn't like the superintendent to be considerate and it puzzled Horton. There was no time to dwell on it or discuss the matter though, because Uckfield rose and swept out of his office, leaving them to trail in his wake. The incident room immediately fell silent as Uckfield entered it. Horton looked for Cantelli but couldn't see him. Perhaps he was in the CID office.
Uckfield didn't have much to say, mainly because there was so little information. Guernsey were picking away at Brundall's past and still trying to locate a relative. They were hoping to find some papers in Brundall's house that would tell them more about him. Horton hoped so too.
Trueman had arranged for the mobile incident unit to be set up in Horsea Marina car park in case anyone remembered seeing Brundall or his visitor. And Uckfield ordered a team to go into the marina to question the businesses there.
Half an hour later, with still no sign of Cantelli or a message from him, which wasn't like the sergeant, Horton was glad to head out of the station into a clear morning with no trace of fog. It had a crisp bite to it, making it feel more seasonal. He felt rather foolish and annoyed with himself when he remembered his fears last night.
Trueman had given him the address of Acme Taxis but it still took him a few minutes to locate it in a side street just off the main thoroughfare.
A beanpole of a woman in her forties, with short blonde hair, and a sharp pointed face, looked up as he entered.
'Won't be a moment, luv.' She talked into a mouthpiece and tapped information into a computer. Horton heard her send a car to pick up someone from Southampton Parkway railway station. 'Now what can I do for you, dear?'
Horton showed his ID. 'One of your cars collected a fare yesterday morning at about eleven thirty a.m. and drove him to Horsea Marina. I'd like to talk to the cab driver.' Horton had calculated the time. On average, and outside rush hour, it took half an hour to travel from Eastleigh to Horsea Marina and Avril said she had spoken to the man just before midday.
The woman consulted her computer screen. 'That was Peter Kingston. He's on a run at the moment. He'll be back in about ten minutes.'
'Any idea who the fare was?' She checked her computer as Horton stared impatiently around the cramped office with its faded and worn armchairs, coffee machine and newspapers scattered on a low table. He only had to wait ten minutes for Kingston to show, yet that already felt ten minutes too long. You've got time, he told himself, this is no race. Why then did he feel it was important to act swiftly? It wasn't just because DI Dennings had returned to work either. No, there was more to this than feelings of rivalry and professional jealousy. What though? That was the question, and one he couldn't put his finger on. It was bloody irritating to say the least.
'The fare paid cash. I've no idea who he was.'
Damn. Horton could have traced a credit or debit card payment or a cheque.
There was nothing for it but to wait until Kingston showed up. When he did, he was a small barrel of a man in his late fifties, with thinning white hair stretched across his egg shaped head. Horton felt like a giant beside him. He didn't want to question him in front of the woman, and suggested they step outside.
Kingston went one further. 'I'm off the run now. How about a coffee? There's a cafe three doors down on the right. I'll just sign out and meet you there. You can order me a bacon sandwich.'
It was the all-day-breakfast type with steamed-up windows, a good old-fashioned clanging bell above the door and a portly unshaven man behind a tall counter wearing an overall that looked as though it had been rescued off the rubbish tip. Health and safety would have closed this place down, if they ever got within sniffing distance, but clearly its customers loved it. It was crowded.
Horton placed the order and gazed around for a table. Two men in painter's overalls got up from the table near the window and Horton pounced on it. He sipped at his mug of black coffee, which tasted like liquorice, and wished Kingston hadn't ordered bacon because the smell of it frying brought back the picture of those charred human remains and threatened to start his stomach once again practising for the Olympic gymnastics gold medal.
The bell clanged and through a haze of cooking smoke and fried food, Kingston rolled in. Ex navy, thought Horton, studying the gait and the slightly pompous air with which he addressed the man behind the counter. Once he had greeted the proprietor, Kingston settled himself down, and took a gulp of his coffee.
'What do you want to know?'
'Everything you can tell me about the fare you picked up yesterday morning at eleven thirty and took to Horsea Marina.'
'Is it about that boat that caught fire? I heard it on the news this morning.' Kingston had that gleam in his little grey eyes that told Horton he'd bore the pants off everyone for a month retelling the tale.
'How do you know if your fare had any connection with that?' Horton asked, watching Kingston carefully, as he spooned another sugar into his coffee. No worries about getting diabetes there!
'Because he told me to wait for him, and I saw him go on to a pontoon. I just put two and two together. There's something funny about that fire, isn't there? Hey, he didn't do it, did he? He didn't look the type.'
'What was he like?'
Kingston thought for a moment. Horton curbed his impatience. He could tell this man would not be hurried or cajoled. Physically small he may be, but he was a giant in his own estimation and ego. Horton knew he would get the information he wanted. He just hoped that Kingston wouldn't embellish it in an attempt to inflate his own sense of worth.
'He hailed me outside the airport at about eleven twenty-five and got into the back of the cab. Some of them like to sit in the front, but not this guy. I asked him where he'd come from and he said Guernsey.'
Horton was encouraged. This was sounding good.
Kingston continued. 'I told him that me and the missus had got engaged there thirty years ago, and what a lovely place it was, but he just said, "How much further?" So I thought, OK, Pete, keep your mouth shut and drive. Some of the fares are like that. They want you to be invisible whilst others want to tell you their life history.'
And vice versa, thought Horton, recalling some of the cab drivers he'd met.
Kingston's bacon sandwich arrived and Horton was rather glad when Kingston spread a liberal helping of brown sauce over it. Its spicy fragrance smothered the smell of roast flesh.
Horton let him take his first bite before he asked, 'How did he seem? Worried, pleased, happy?'
'Anxious, I'd say. He kept tapping his fingers on the door, and craning his neck as if I could get there any faster.'
'How long did you wait for him at the marina?'
'About an hour. Cost him a bob or two, but he didn't seem to mind,' Kingston replied with his mouth full. 'I guess he was loaded. He told me to have a coffee. I said, "It's your money, mate." The meter was ticking all the time. I found a cafe that wasn't too posh amongst all those expensive shops and restaurants and when I got back to the cab he showed up five minutes later. I drove him back to the airport. He paid his bill and went off like a good boy.'
'Did he say anything on the return journey?'
'Not a word. He didn't even thank me, though he gave me a ten per cent tip.'
'Thanks enough then seeing as the fare must have been high,' Horton said, caustically.
'Not bad.' Kingston smiled and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.
'And how did he seem when you drove him back to the airport?'
After taking the last bite of his sandwich, Kingston said, 'Annoyed, rather than worried.'
'Can you describe him?'
'Wore a dark suit. About your height, slim, mid-fifties. Biggish nose and hawk-like eyes.'
It matched the description that Avril had given him with some extra detail. 'And you've no idea of his name?'
Kingston didn't have but Horton knew who would. He turned out of Eastleigh town centre and headed for the airport. At the information desk he showed his ID and asked to speak to the senior security officer. Three-quarters of an hour later he was walking back to his Harley pleased with himself.
He called Uckfield. Maybe he should have telephoned Dennings but he would only relay the information to the superintendent himself and Horton didn't see why Dennings should have the satisfaction of being the bearer of good news.
'Our visitor was on the ten twenty-five a.m. flight from Guernsey to Southampton yesterday,' Horton said, as Uckfield grunted down the line. 'Fortunately the flight wasn't very busy; there were only ten men on board. Three of them flew back to Guernsey from Southampton yesterday: one on the five fifteen flight, and two on the seven fifty flight. As those were the only two flights out of Southampton, and based on the taxi driver's evidence that he had dropped his fare off at the airport at half past one our man has to be the one who caught the earlier flight.' And a brief chat with the check-in girl had confirmed it.
Horton continued, 'He's called Nigel Sherbourne. His flight was booked from an address in St Peter Port, Guernsey, in the name of Sherbourne and Willings Solicitors.'
'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.