Cantelli rang off. 'It's registered in the name of Go Far Car Hire in Buckingham Street. It hasn't been picked up for any speeding offence.'
'Call them and ask if they hired the car to Brundall, and if so get Walters over there quickly. Tell him to bring someone from the company here right away with a set of keys. And phone Marsden and ask him to track down where Brundall's parents are buried.'
Horton walked down to the pontoon and gazed across the water to where Brundall's boat had been moored. He shuddered as the memory of that foggy night returned to haunt him. Once again he saw that charred body and felt a strong sense of foreboding. The wind stirred, rattling through the halyards for a moment, and then died down. If he had believed in ghosts he would have said that Brundall's was haunting him. But he didn't believe. And yet he felt something that he couldn't explain. A medium would call it a presence. But he wasn't any medium. He was a policeman. Facts were his stock in trade and yet...
Cantelli said, 'Brundall hired it all right. Walters is on his way there now.'
Horton glanced at his watch. It was almost ten thirty. Dennings would be in Guernsey talking to Inspector Guilbert.
Cantelli said, 'Is there anything wrong, Andy?'
Horton regarded him keenly. There was only concern in the sergeant's dark eyes. 'Apart from a murder, you mean?'
'You look...worried.'
'I'm fine,' Horton said, perhaps too sharply because Cantelli gave a slight lift of his eyebrows, but knew better than to push it. 'Have you called the hospital?' Horton asked to distract him.
'No. I'll do it now while we're waiting.'
'I'll call into the mobile incident suite.' Horton strode across the car park towards a large Portakabin facing the multiplex cinema complex. He spent a few minutes talking to the officer in charge and flicking through the reports but again no one reported having seen Brundall, and he hadn't visited any of the pubs or restaurants. Neither had he eaten at the yacht club. He must have brought supplies with him. Horton reckoned a dying man wouldn't have fancied much to eat anyway.
By the time he returned to the car, Cantelli was just coming off the phone. His dark face was puckered with concern and Horton was fearful the old man might have had a relapse.
'Marie's with Dad,' Cantelli said. 'I managed to text her and she stepped outside and called me back. He's not too bad, she says, though it seems strange to see him in bed and inactive. You know my dad – he's usually a bundle of energy. She'll have a word with the consultant when he does his rounds. Isabella and Tony are at work, the cafés don't run themselves, and Charlotte said she'd go in later this morning and take Mum. Charlotte will stay until she has to pick the twins up from school. I said I'd get up after work.'
Horton could see he was torn between wanting to be there all the time and being at work. He said, 'I'm sure they're looking after him, Barney.'
'Yeah. You just feel so bloody helpless.'
A car swept into the car park and drew up beside them. In the passenger seat next to Walters was a slim man in his thirties with gelled hair. Walters introduced him as Darren Trenchard.
'He booked it for a week,' Trenchard said in answer to Horton's enquiry. Horton was surprised that Brundall had planned to stay that long, though there was no reason why he shouldn't do so.
'Could I have the keys, Mr Trenchard?'
Trenchard handed them across. Horton donned a pair of latex gloves, which he retrieved from his jacket pocket and zapped the car open. He walked around to the passenger side and flipped open the glove compartment. Inside was the paperwork relating to the car and nothing else. The boot yielded only the spare wheel and some tools.
'Take a look at the mileage for me,'Horton said to Trenchard. 'Can you say how many miles your client has done?'
The man peered inside and then glanced at a copy of the agreement he'd brought with him. 'Forty-three.'
'And he hired it when?'
Another glance at the paperwork and Trenchard replied, 'Tuesday morning, midday.'
Forty-three miles meant Brundall must have stayed fairly local. There was no satellite navigation on the car so no record of where he had gone.
'Did Mr Brundall say anything to you when he hired the car?'
'Like what?' The man looked bewildered.
'Where he was going? What he needed a car for? Nice weather? Anything?'
'No, just that he wanted something basic and comfortable.'
'Did he collect it from your premises?'
'No. He called us and asked if we would deliver it and said he would do all the paperwork then.'
'Is that usual?'
'It happens, especially when people come here on their boats from abroad.'
He must have called from the public phone box near the cinema complex and perhaps that was where he had also summoned Sherbourne. Why hadn't anyone seen him do so then?
'Did he tell you where he had come from?' Horton asked.
'No. I checked his passport as a means of identification. It said he was British. He's
that man that got killed on his boat, isn't he? Was he a drug runner?' Trenchard's eyes lit up.
'You've been watching too much television. Are your cars cleaned before they're hired out?'
'Oh yes, inside and out.'
'Good. We'll need to take it away for examination. If it's all right you'll probably get it back cleaner than when you hired it. We'll give you a receipt.' He nodded at Walters to do the honours and drew Cantelli out of earshot. Horton hoped that the forensic team might be able to tell them something about where the car had travelled by the dust and mud in the tyre treads or under the wheel arches.
Cantelli said, 'We might get sight of Brundall on the CCTV cameras around the city.'
Horton wondered if Dennings would have thought of that if he'd been here and doubted it. Why hadn't Cantelli gone for promotion? He was far brighter than Dennings. But Horton already knew the answer to that question and he envied Cantelli. The sergeant was content with where he was and with what he had, and that, thought Horton, was a great gift.
'I'll ask Uckfield to make another statement to the press and get out a picture of this car.'
Horton left Walters to wait until the police vehicle recovery truck arrived and then to drop Darren back to Buckingham Street. His phone rang as Cantelli turned on to the motorway heading back to the station. It was Trueman.
'There are a couple of possible sightings of Brundall that look hopeful in response to the superintendent's statement to the press yesterday. A woman who was walking her dog on Portsdown Hill on Tuesday remembers speaking to a man who fits the description. It was just after midday.'
If it was Brundall then he must have driven straight there from hiring the car: it was only a few miles away and from Portsdown Hill, Brundall would have seen the city spread out beneath him. It was a spectacular and breathtaking view and might well have been the first place a man returning to his hometown would have visited; either there or the sea front.
'And the other sighting?' he asked.
'St Agnes's Church, Portsea, on the same afternoon.'
Horton started in surprise. Horsea Marina, the words on Reverend Gilmore's blotter. Could Brundall have known Reverend Gilmore? How? Had he once been a member of St Agnes's congregation or was there more to it than that? He felt his spine tingling not only with excitement but with a faint feeling of uneasiness and apprehension that he didn't much care for. Was it some kind of intuition that had told him he should have taken that piece of blotting paper when he'd left the vicarage? And wasn't it those two words that had driven him back here today to discover the hire car?
He got the details before ringing off. 'I'll talk to the parishioner,' he said to Cantelli, 'you tackle the woman with the dog.'
Cantelli pulled a face. Horton knew that Cantelli was about as good with dogs as he was on the sea.
'Why don't I take the parishioner and you take the woman with the dog?' suggested Cantelli hopefully.
But Horton couldn't
let him do that.
'You might have to enter an Anglican place of worship, and I wouldn't want to offend your religion,' Horton joked uneasily. He could see Cantelli eyeing him with suspicion. Damn. But how could he tell Cantelli he'd been to the vicarage and seen those words 'Horsea Marina' on the dead vicar's blotter without revealing why he had been there? Besides, he wanted to know why Brundall had been to St Agnes's Church and on the day both he and the Reverend Gilmore had died. It was one hell of a coincidence and he smelt trouble with a capital T the size of the Eiffel Tower.
'St Agnes is a Catholic saint as well as an Anglican one,' Cantelli said. 'Did you know that she's the patron saint of chastity, engaged couples, rape victims and virgins, to name but a few? If I have to go inside the church I'm sure the good Lord will forgive me my sins.'
'He might but I won't. You get the dog. I get the church,' Horton said firmly.
Seven
The last time he'd been inside a church, when it hadn't involved investigating vandalism, had been Emma's christening seven years ago. He brought the Harley to a stop in front of a red-bricked building sandwiched between two towering council blocks. It looked more like a barracks than a place of worship, and the large Christmas tree beside the heavy wooden doors did little to make the place look more welcoming.
There were no cars outside, so thankfully no service, and none about to start. Mr Gutner's wife, the man who claimed to have seen Tom Brundall, had told him when he had called on her ten minutes ago that her husband had left for the church where he would be practising for the carol service on Sunday.
Horton pushed open the heavy wooden door and shivered despite his leathers as he stepped inside the chilly interior, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom. Dim lights hung low from a high ceiling. A torch might have been useful, but he caught a glimmer of brightness by the altar, where a Christmas tree, this time lit, attempted to throw some light into a dull, unattractive world. Surely to God, if there were a God, then He wouldn't have been as miserable as this? Far from uplifting, this place oozed depression.
There was no sign of Kenneth Gutner. Perhaps he was in the vestry, wherever that was.
Horton's shoes made little sound on the wooden floor as he headed up the airy nave between rows of pews that looked a little worse for wear with scratches and carvings. He wasn't quite sure what God would make of 'Julie loves Darren' scratched on one of them. Perhaps He didn't mind; after all it was better than saying that Darren was a scumbag and she hated him.
This place was giving him the willies. Horton hoped that Cantelli's Roman Catholic church was brighter and more welcoming than this. He couldn't help recalling another cavernous church like this one and another aisle where Catherine had walked on their wedding day, and where he had been forced to parade his complete lack of relatives. The only foster parents he had cared about had died by then, which was a shame because Bernard and Eileen would have delighted in his marriage. Fortunately some of his colleagues had filled up the groom's side, but it still looked totally inadequate and pathetic.
He had felt the stares of Catherine's relatives boring into his back and heard their whispers, making him feel like a leper. 'What do you mean he hasn't got anybody? Everybody has someone.' Not him. Not then.
Uckfield had been his best man. Horton wished now it had been Cantelli, who had proved himself far more of a best man than Uckfield.
The small nativity set beside the Christmas tree reminded him of Emma. This year would be the first he wouldn't be at home. God, how he missed her! He recalled her sad little face staring out at him from her bedroom window when he'd turned up unexpectedly on the doorstep in October. It tore at his heart and the only solace he had was that he knew his daughter loved him. And this was the place to utter a silent prayer, though he couldn't quite bring himself to do so. For years his prayers had gone unanswered. Please God bring my mum back to me. He hadn't, so that was the end of God.
Horton brought his mind back to the job, leaning over to read the cards on the flowers that were laid out on the steps up to the altar, beside the nativity scene. Someone had cared for the Reverend Gilmore.
'We'll miss you. God Bless. Elsie and Douglas Winnacott.'
'Thanks for always being there. May you Rest in Peace. Sharon Moore.'
And there were several others in the same strain.
He straightened up and stepped back, gazing around him. There was no sign of Mr Gutner. Perhaps he was in the gallery, which he could see running round the remaining three sides of the church. On his right, above him, was the organ and below this stone pillars. In the depths of the gloom he could make out the confessional box. This church must be High Anglican if the vicar heard confessions, he thought, crossing over to it. He found some steps to its left, which he swiftly climbed. Soon he was peering down on the nave. Still no Mr Gutner. Perhaps his wife had got it wrong and he hadn't come here.
How big would the congregation be in a church like this? It had been built for hundreds probably, in the days when this area of Portsmouth had been a slum teaming with little houses full of poverty-stricken working-class people, many of whom would have worked in the dockyard. Now he reckoned the reverend would be hard pushed to get a handful of people here. Had Tom Brundall been one of them on Tuesday afternoon attending a special service? Why come here though? This parish church was a long way from the area where he had been raised and even further from the marina.
Horton walked towards the far end of the gallery. Now he was above the door by which he had entered. From here he couldn't see anyone entering the church.
The sound of footsteps caught his attention. He headed back to the stairs to see a man in his late seventies with white hair and a creased and crumpled leathery face rather like a walnut, settle himself at the organ. Mr Gutner, Horton presumed.
'Struth, you gave me a fright,' the old man cried, clutching his heart.
Horton apologized and decided to postpone asking questions about Brundall. He was curious to find out more about the Reverend Gilmore. Without introducing himself, he said, 'I was sorry to hear of the vicar's death.'
'So were we all. We'll miss him.'
'He was well liked?'
'Never a bad word nor a cross one. He didn't ask for much and didn't get much. Not like the kids today. Grab, grab, grab.'
'How long had you known him?'
'Since he first came here in 1995.'
Horton was surprised and shaken. He had assumed that Gilmore had been the vicar here for years. He cursed himself silently for not getting more information from Anne Schofield, and for letting his emotions overwhelm his curiosity. He should have asked more questions. And now that first article that Gilmore had put a ring round and had written his mother's name in the margin began to make more sense. Gilmore had seen it on his arrival in Portsmouth. So where was Gilmore from? And more puzzling was how would he have known his mother and Tom Brundall?
The old man was saying, 'Reverend Gilmore did wonders for this place, and the community. Oh, you don't want to judge him or us by this gloomy old church; this wasn't what he was about.'
Horton didn't think he had shown any visible distaste for the church. Perhaps this man was so used to people criticizing it that he automatically went on the defensive.
'Reverend Gilmore knew what it was like to be poor. He had his fair share of tragedy too; lost his wife and daughter.' The old man's expression clouded over as he shook his head sadly.
'How?' Anne Schofield hadn't said, but then maybe she didn't know. She had told him that she was a stranger to the area.
The old man lowered his voice and looked warily about him, as if he was about to divulge a secret and was afraid that Gilmore, wherever he was now, would hear. 'His little girl was killed in a boating accident, on the Reverend's yacht. She was only eight. They were out sailing when she fell overboard. She was dead by the time the Reverend could reach her.'
Horton suppressed a shudder. The church felt colder and darker than before. He tried not to imagine
how he would feel if it happened to Emma whilst she was on his boat. Catherine would never forgive him, and he would never forgive himself. He wondered if he would be able to continue living.
'The Reverend's wife never got over it. She was dead within six months. Committed suicide.'
Horton felt an icy chill run through him as he imagined the poor woman's grief.
'The Reverend Gilmore had a nervous breakdown. Tried to kill himself too. He knew what despair was. He understood.' His eyes filled with tears. 'God helped him out of it, and that's when he decided to become a priest.'
'So this all happened before he was ordained.'
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