'Any in particular?' he asked as casually as he could, though even to him his voice sounded strained. His mind went back to the Town Camber and the dark-haired man with the sharp-featured face. He wished he could recall more of him, but all he got was an impression of vitality and strength, and a sense of evil. But then that was probably his ten-year-old brain kicking in. If Rowland Gilmore had shown up wearing a dog collar he'd probably have felt the same way. He hadn't wanted anyone to steal his mother's affections from him.
The old woman peered at him warily, and for a moment Horton wondered if she had recognized him.
She said, 'Why are you interested after all these years? Is she dead?' Then her expression cleared. 'It's one of them cold cases, isn't it? Like you see on the telly. You think she's been murdered!' she cried triumphantly, with a gleam in her eyes.
'Do you think that's likely?' he asked, outwardly calm, but feeling excited and anxious inside.
She thought for a moment. 'It didn't cross my mind at the time. I just thought she didn't want to be tied down with a kid. She liked a good time. She was young. But maybe you're right. Up until she ran off, she'd been a good mother. The boy was always clean and well fed, and he seemed a happy little soul.'
Her words were like darts stabbing his heart. He had tried not to think of his childhood for so long that it was a shock to remember that there had been times when he'd been happy. The misery of his childhood after the age of ten had obliterated the good times.
'When was the last time you saw her?'
She puckered her face in thought for a moment, then said, 'It was her birthday. I bumped into her as I was coming out of the lift and she was going down. I said, "Where are you going all dressed up to the nines?" She tapped the side of her nose, smiled and said, "Ask no questions and you'll get no lies." I never saw her again.'
So who had she been going to meet? If he knew that, he'd know her killer, because now he was convinced she was dead. And he wouldn't mind betting that Sebastian Gilmore was involved in it somewhere along the line.
There was nothing more the old lady could tell him. He thanked her for her help, and left, not leaving a card with his name on it and betraying who he was. Give it a couple of days, though, and he'd return. She might have remembered something more by then, or she might know someone who had. He also hoped to have those missing-person case notes.
He headed for Southampton, mulling over what the old lady had told him. She was right when she said his mother had liked men because Horton certainly remembered more than one man. But why shouldn't she have boyfriends? She had been young, pretty and single. Again he wondered who his father was; he couldn't recall his mother ever speaking of him. Had he just been a casual acquaintance, a five-minute grope in the back of a van somewhere? Or had it been a serious love affair? Horton liked to think the latter.
He pulled up in front of the Marine Accident Investigation Branch in Southampton, shelving thoughts of his mother, and turned his mind to the case of the rescued yachtsman. Although the MAIB had only come into being in 1989 it had inherited the reports from the Marine Directorate and the Maritime and Coastguard Agency. Horton knew that he would find some record of the marine tragedy that had claimed Warwick Hassingham's life.
The librarian, a slender fair woman in her late thirties with a weatherworn face and bright eyes, handed across a file.
'We haven't got all our records on to computer yet, so I'm afraid it's a case of ploughing through the paperwork. There's a summary sheet at the front. I'll leave you to it.'
Horton settled down to read.
It was Friday 15 August 1997 and the storm came up out of nowhere. Gilmore didn't have Global Satellite Positioning on the fishing boat but relied on experience and the lighthouse at St Catherine's to get his bearings. Just before midnight the Solent Coastguard received a Mayday from the motorboat, Haven, reporting that the engine had failed, and the helmsman was disorientated and had no idea where he was.
The rescue helicopter was scrambled and the Bembridge lifeboat alerted, but the Mayday call was also answered by the fishing vessel, Frances May. Skippered by Sebastian Gilmore, she was the first to reach the Haven, which was shipping water fast. They threw a line to the helmsman. Then, against Sebastian Gilmore's advice and instructions to wait for the rescue helicopter, Warwick Hassingham leaned over the side of the fishing boat to try and reach the man. He wasn't clipped on, a wave struck the Frances May and Hassingham was swept overboard. The crew of the fishing vessel threw another line to Warwick and pulled the injured man from the Haven on board, but Warwick Hassingham had gone. The helicopter mounted a full search and rescue operation, but there was no sign of Hassingham or the Haven, which was believed to have sunk. The rescued man was called Peter Croxton. He lived in Guildford.
Horton sat back. He had a name. Good. Did Croxton still live at the address in Guildford? If Horton was correct in his theory about drug smuggling and this man being the supplier, then he doubted it. There would be a coroner's report on Hassingham though and outside, Horton rang through to Sergeant Trueman and asked him to request a copy of it, and to trace Peter Croxton. On his way back to the station, he detoured to Dr Clayton to see if she had made anything of the bones they had recovered from the air-raid shelter.
'I was about to call you, Inspector,' she said, as he knocked and walked into her office. 'Come and take a look at him.'
'It's male then.' Horton followed her diminutive figure into the mortuary where the few bones Taylor had gathered up were laid out upon a slab. He nodded at Tom, who was whistling 'I'm gonna wash that man right out of my hair'.
'Yes. We were lucky to have the pelvis; it's thicker and heavier than the female pelvis. The body of the pubis is triangular in shape, whereas in a female it would be quadrangle and the sacrum is long and narrow and not short and wide, like this.' She pointed to the various bones as she spoke. 'And if that wasn't enough to confirm the sex of the skeleton then we have the skull.'
Horton stared at the bones, wondering how this poor devil had ended up in that air-raid shelter.
'He was also Caucasian. As to his height, the length of the femur puts him at five feet eleven inches.'
How tall was Peter Croxton? Could this be him?
'With regards to the length of time he's been dead, you're certainly looking at more than five years because there are no tags of soft tissue present. I'll do some laboratory tests to give you a clearer indication of date but from what I can see, and the condition of his teeth and fillings, I'd say between five to ten years.'
Which matched what Gutner had told them – give or take a few years. If this was Croxton and Horton's theory about him being a drug supplier was correct, then maybe Croxton had decided he wanted out. Sebastian Gilmore couldn't allow that so had killed him. Sebastian knew his brother was back living in Portsmouth, he'd seen him on the quayside, and had come up with the idea of dumping his body in his brother's backyard knowing that Rowland suffered from claustrophobia and wouldn't venture inside the air raid shelter. And if he ever did and found the body, then Rowland would keep quiet rather than risk losing his job.
'Any idea of his age?'
'From the pattern of the fusion of bone ends I would say he was about mid to late thirties when he died.'
Horton was disappointed. If he'd been killed in 1995, after Gutner had looked in the air-raid shelter, and if it were Peter Croxton, then that would make him about seventeen or eighteen at the time of the tragedy at sea. It was a bit on the young side to be involved in a complex drug smuggling operation as he had theorized, and who would have hired a motorboat to such a young man in 1977? It was still possible but it was looking more doubtful. There had been no age mentioned on the incident report. Sebastian might be able to give him some idea of the age of the rescued man, but would he tell the truth?
Gaye continued, 'I've taken pictures of the jaw and teeth and DNA survives in the bones for many years so we'll be able to compare this with family members for closer identification.'
'If we can find any relatives. Do you know how he died?'
'Now that's where we are lucky.' Gaye turned over the skull. 'See here.' She pointed to a large indentation and handed Horton a magnifier. 'Tell me what you see.'
Horton peered closely at the cranium. 'There's a long thin crack running from the dent.' He looked up. 'Someone hit him?'
'I would say so.'
'I suppose it's impossible for you to say if he was killed then moved.'
'Sorry.'
'So we're looking for a missing person, male, mid to late thirties, five feet eleven inches tall, Caucasian, who was reported missing any time from 1998 to about 2003.'
'That's about it. If he was reported missing. Perhaps nobody noticed.'
Her words made him think of his mother. Someone had noticed but how hard had anyone tried to find her?
Gaye said, 'The skull can be scanned into computer and "fleshed" out to give you likely facial appearance. I'm getting on to that now, but we have no indication of his eye or hair colour. And the lip shape and size are also independent of the bony structure. It's a start, though. I'll let you have the lab results as soon as possible.'
Horton didn't like to think how many men in their mid thirties were listed as missing between 1998 and 2003 but they'd check anyway. He told her about Cantelli's father. She shook her head sadly.
'Would you let me know when the funeral is?' she said.
'Of course.' He was surprised that she thought about going but also pleased that he would see her there.
On arriving at the station he made straight for the incident room where DC Marsden announced that Sebastian Gilmore's alibi for the night Rowland Gilmore and Tom Brundall had died had been confirmed. He had been at Tri Fare. Horton cursed. But he didn't give up all hope of pinning the murders on him. Like he had said to Uckfield, Gilmore could have hired someone to do his killing.
Horton could see Dennings in his office next to Uckfield's with his phone clamped to his ear. Uckfield wasn't around.
Horton pulled up a chair and spent some time scrutinizing the coroner's report on Teresa Gilmore's death. It confirmed what they already knew. Her clothes were found at the foot of the cliffs on the beach at Rhossili Bay on the Gower Peninsula in Wales, along with a note addressed to her husband. A walker on Rhossili Down had spotted the clothes and seen a woman in the sea. He had immediately alerted the rescue services, but by the time they reached her she was gone. What remained of her body was washed up two weeks later. The verdict was that she took her own life whilst the balance of her mind was disturbed.
He asked Marsden to take over Cantelli's task of looking into any possible connection between Rowland Gilmore and Anne Schofield, pleased to see that the files from the Dean's office had finally arrived, and was about to leave for his office when Trueman called him back.
'Andy, I might have something for you. Peters rang the coroner to ask for the report on Hassingham's death and managed to get some information over the telephone. There's a sister.'
Now, why hadn't Sebastian mentioned her? Maybe she was dead? But Trueman had said is. So perhaps she had emigrated, or was living in Scotland, and Sebastian hadn't thought it worthwhile bringing her up. Horton swiftly recalled the interview with Gilmore. Gilmore had interrupted him when he had expressed his surprise at Hassingham being buried at sea. 'His mother's wishes,' Gilmore had said, not his family's. And Mrs Hassingham had died eight months after the tragedy. Because of that Horton hadn't probed to find out if there was anyone else. He should have asked, though he didn't think she would be able to add anything to the case.
'Do you have an address?' he asked, not very hopeful.
'Not yet, but I know where you can find her.'
Something in Trueman's tone alerted Horton. Narrowing his eyes he peered at the sergeant. 'Where?'
'You asked me to do a company search on Gilmore before the economic crime unit took it over. A copy of his latest accounts are on their way to us, but I got a summary of them online. They all look perfectly above aboard...'
'And?' Horton asked impatiently, waiting for the punch line and thinking this had better be good.
'Janice Hassingham works for Sebastian Gilmore. She's his financial director.'
Was she indeed! That was twice Sebastian Gilmore had kept silent about the Hassingham connection: why? Horton was deeply interested, very curious and highly suspicious. And he guessed it was time to find out why Sebastian hadn't thought to mention her in their earlier interview.
Nineteen
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 façade. 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 set
tled 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.
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