'Yes, Uckfield broke it to him last night. The Dean said he'd have both Rowland Gilmore's and Anne Schofield's files available for you.'
'What about her family?'
'There's a sister who lives in Abertillery, South Wales. The Dean notified his equivalent there last night and he and the police informed her. She's an invalid and can't get down here. There's no point in her coming anyway. We said we'd send her sister's belongings back, but I think her vicar is coming down to collect them on Monday.'
'The poor woman.'
Horton wondered if Cantelli meant Anne Schofield or her sister.
As Cantelli drove to Gilmore's home in a small village on the border between Hampshire and West Sussex, Horton mulled over the events of the previous night. He experienced that same knot of anger he'd felt last night when he had stared down at her blackened corpse. The gentle, kind woman he'd only recently met hadn't deserved such a terrible fate. She'd been an innocent victim in whatever was going on and he had vowed then, and silently reaffirmed now, that he would find the bastard who'd killed her.
When the hospital had released him at close on midnight he'd ridden home, nervously checking for anyone on his tail. But whoever it was who had tried to kill him had thought they'd finished the job; all was quiet and there was no one suspicious lurking around the marina. He was safe for one night at least. Soon, though, he guessed the killer would realize that he was still alive and would make another attempt on his life and Horton didn't intend ending up like Brundall, Sherbourne or poor Anne Schofield.
He gazed out of the window as Cantelli drove carefully through the country lanes. The rain had finally stopped and the blustery wind was tearing holes in the cloud big enough to let a glimpse of blue through; he didn't think it would last though. He wondered if he should have moved the boat this morning on the high tide, but consoled himself with the fact that the killer probably didn't know where he lived and besides it had been too windy to risk it. By the next high tide this evening it would be dark and too late to move Nutmeg. Perhaps tomorrow morning he might motor along Hayling Bay and up the Emsworth Channel to Northney Marina at the top of Hayling Island, and stay there for a few days, and yet he felt that was like giving in, or running away. It reminded him of his mother: had he run away from the truth of her disappearance all these years? He guessed he knew the answer to that one.
A low whistle from Cantelli made Horton look up to find they had come to a halt in front of a pair of electronically controlled gates beyond which Horton could see an impressive pale-pink three-storey Georgian house with some kind of extension on its left that would have given Prince Charles a seizure. How the planners had allowed the glass square carbuncle to be attached to such a splendidly proportioned and listed house, Horton didn't know. Or rather he did. Hadn't Uckfield told him Sebastian Gilmore was a very influential man? What Horton hadn't reckoned on was the reach of that influence; it obviously extended out of Portsmouth into wider Hampshire. Horton couldn't help but compare this with the Reverend's ex-council house and straggling grass. Had Sebastian Gilmore ever offered to help his brother? Had that help been refused? He was very curious to learn more about their relationship.
'I didn't think there was any money in fishing,' he said as Cantelli leaned out of the car window to press the intercom.
'I remember when Gilmore had ramshackle offices on the Town Camber. They pulled them down in the late 1990s to build those posh flats. That must have made him a bob or two. My dad used to know Gilmore senior.'
'Who is it?' demanded a crackly female voice of indeterminate age.
'Inspector Horton and Sergeant Cantelli. We'd like to talk to Mr Gilmore.'
'He's not here.'
'Can you tell us where we might find him?'
'In his office; at the ferry port. What do you want him for?'
'We'll contact him there,' Cantelli quietly asserted.
There was an irritable tut before the voice said, 'I'll let him know you're coming.'
Cantelli didn't even get the chance to say thank you. Horton felt mildly irritated that Sebastian Gilmore would now be prepared for them, though why it should irk him he didn't know.
'Friendly lot, aren't they?' Cantelli said, heading back to Portsmouth. 'Seems like we've had a wasted journey.'
Not quite, thought Horton. It had been illuminating to see how the other half of the Gilmores lived.
Twenty minutes later they were pulling into Fountain Quay at the Commercial Ferry Port. After scrutinizing their identification cards, a security guard directed them to a visitor's space outside a two-storey modern office block.
Horton climbed out and surveyed the area. There were a handful of cars in the car park, including a black Porsche Cayenne. He reckoned that must be Sebastian Gilmore's because of its personalized number plate. There were a couple of fishing vessels moored up alongside the quay and the bleeping of forklift trucks behind him told him that it was business as usual on a Saturday. He watched a lorry pull up in front of a large warehouse opposite. Gilmore's security was good too, he thought, noting the cameras.
'Where do Gilmore's export?' he asked Cantelli, as they waited in reception to be announced by another uniformed security man who was telephoning to the boss. He'd emerged from a room behind the reception counter where Horton guessed he could view the security monitors. Horton noted the camera in the far corner covering reception and another over the door.
'France and Spain mainly,' Cantelli answered. 'They do a big trade in crabs, lobsters and oysters all caught locally. Tony and Isabella buy from them for the cafes and restaurants. Sebastian Gilmore's got some lucrative supermarket contracts and has worked hard to build up the business.'
And was still working hard, Horton thought, a few minutes later when a large-boned man with short greying hair and a weather-beaten, rugged face rose from behind a desk that seemed like a child's against his size. Horton felt the energy radiating from the giant like a radioactive beacon. With two strides, Sebastian was around the desk but he stalled, staring down with a puzzled frown on his broad-featured face at Horton's bandaged hands.
'Had a bit of an accident,' Horton explained lightly in a hoarse voice.
Gilmore's lips twitched but there was no smile in the gesture or in his deep brown eyes. He waved them into a seat and returned to his own, throwing himself into the chair which groaned and creaked in protest.
'What can I do for you guys?' he said, his accent betraying his Portsmouth roots. It was very similar to a Londoner's.
Horton thought how completely out of place Gilmore seemed in this room: it was too small to accommodate the man's stature and vitality. Here was someone who, despite his fifty-odd years, was very fit and active, both in mind and body.
With its cheap, rough furniture the office was also in sharp contrast to the opulence of the Georgian manor house they'd just come from, though to the left of Horton was a rather large and splendid fish tank.
'It's about your brother's death,' Horton began and saw surprise register on Sebastian Gilmore's face.
'Rowley? What about him? He had a stroke.'
There was no adjustment of Sebastian's features to show sorrow or even anger. Horton detected puzzlement and, interestingly, irritation.
Cantelli said, 'We have new evidence that suggests his death could be suspicious.'
'That's absurd!' Sebastian Gilmore focused his intense gaze on Cantelli. 'You think my brother was killed?'
Cantelli, unfazed by the contemptuous stare, stoically replied, 'It's a possibility, sir, which is why a full post-mortem is being conducted.'
'Who on earth would want to kill Rowley? He was a vicar.'
Horton could tell by Sebastian Gilmore's tone of voice that vicars weren't particularly high on his list of revered occupations. Perhaps that was what had driven the brothers apart, though he only had Anne Schofield's word that they had been estranged.
Cantelli said, 'You may have heard on the news, sir, that your brother's replacement, the Reverend An
ne Schofield, died in a fire last night in St Agnes's Church, your brother's parish.'
Horton watched the expressions chase across Sebastian's face: incredulity, puzzlement, wariness.
'Are you saying that this has some connection with my brother's death?'
Placidly Cantelli continued. 'We need to explore the possibility, sir.'
'You're not saying that Rowley knew her, are you?'
Horton remained silent and Cantelli simply looked blank. Gilmore clearly didn't like this and glared at them before shooting up from his desk and turning to stare out of the window. Horton threw Cantelli a glance, which he knew the sergeant would interpret as 'say nothing, and wait'.
After a moment Gilmore spun round. 'You're nuts. Why would anyone want to kill my brother and this other vicar?'
'When did you last see your brother, Mr Gilmore?' asked Horton.
Gilmore threw himself down in his chair, which groaned with his weight. 'Twelve years ago. He was at the Town Camber staring down at the fishing boats. My business was still there then. You can imagine my shock when I discovered he'd become a vicar.'
'Why should you be shocked?' asked Horton provocatively.
'We don't go in for religion in our family, Inspector.'
He said it as though it was something to be ashamed of. Horton heard the disgust in Gilmore's voice and felt rather sorry for Rowland Gilmore.
'Perhaps losing his wife and daughter so tragically contributed to his decision to enter the church.' Horton found himself defending the late Rowland Gilmore.
'He told me about that. But God, if there is one, which I doubt, couldn't bring them back so what's the point? What's done is done, you have to pick yourself up and move on. That's my motto anyway.'
And did you sympathize with him over his tragic loss? Like hell you did, Horton thought. He was getting the impression the brothers were like chalk and cheese.
'Was he older or younger than you, sir?'
'Younger by three years, though what that-'
'And you haven't seen him since then?'
'No.'
'Rather unusual that, for brothers,' ventured Cantelli.
'Rowley went his way and I went mine. We had nothing in common but we didn't fall out, if that's what you mean. What evidence do you have that my brother was killed?' he demanded, springing forward and glaring at Cantelli. A lesser man would have immediately pushed back his chair but Cantelli didn't budge an inch. Horton didn't even see him blink.
'We can't say, sir.'
'You mean won't say. All right, but I want to be the first to know what you find in the post-mortem,' he demanded, his tone brooking no objections.
'Of course,' Cantelli replied easily. Horton knew it wasn't strictly a lie. Sebastian Gilmore would be the first person outside of the investigation to be told the results.
After a moment's silence, Horton said, 'We believe your brother knew a man called Tom Brundall-'
'God, there's a name I haven't heard for years!'
'You know him?' Horton asked, surprised.
'Of course. We all worked together: Tom, Rowley and me. We were fishermen. Didn't you know?'
Ignoring the sneering tone, Horton recalled that DC Marsden had said Tom Brundall's father had been a fisherman so Tom must have followed in his father's footsteps, but he'd had no idea that Rowland Gilmore had also been one. Now, looking at Sebastian Gilmore, he could see that only the ocean could be big enough to encompass this giant of a man, and he wouldn't mind betting that that was where Sebastian Gilmore's heart really lay. Here was a definite connection but he didn't see how it could help him. He didn't recall his mother talking about fishing or fishermen.
He said, 'Did you know that Tom Brundall was killed in a fire on his boat in Horsea Marina on Wednesday night?'
Sebastian's eyes tightened. There was something behind them that Horton couldn't quite read. It wasn't fear and it wasn't shock. Neither was it sorrow. Before he could analyse it though the door was thrust open, and Sebastian's rugged face lit up.
'My daughter, Selina,' he introduced.
Horton swivelled round to see a slender woman in her mid twenties. His eyes followed her as she swiftly crossed to her father's side. There was a petulant confidence in her stance and, Horton noted with interest, some hostility. She was fashionably dressed in tight jeans and a low-cut T-shirt underneath a leather jacket. She had her father's determined set of the chin, and swiftness of movement, but not his build. It was a neat little figure made taller by her high-heeled boots over her jeans.
'Selina, these are policeman. They think your Uncle Rowley was murdered.'
'Bloody hell!' She looked understandably shocked, but whether it was at the abruptness of her father's announcement or the fact that Rowley had been murdered, Horton couldn't tell. A bit of both he guessed, which he found rather odd if Sebastian Gilmore was telling the truth about not seeing his brother for twelve years. How old would Selina have been then: fifteen? Sixteen? And if that was the first time Sebastian had seen Rowland since leaving Portsmouth then Selina couldn't have known her uncle very well.
Gilmore looked up at her and said, 'A man called Tom Brundall was killed in a fire on his boat and he and Rowley used to work with me years ago. I hope I'm not about to be bumped off, Inspector.'
'Is my father in danger?' she demanded with a flick of her highlighted blonde hair, and a belligerent expression.
Horton didn't know. 'When did Tom Brundall work for you, Mr Gilmore?'
'He worked for my dad first, like Rowley and me. I started on the boats in 1967. I was sixteen, but Tom had been working for Dad for some years before that. I was put with Tom on my first boat. I quickly became a skipper and then Tom used to come out with me. Rowley joined me straight from school in 1969. Dad had three boats then, sailing out of the Camber. I took over the business when he became ill in 1979, that's when Rowley decided to leave. He never really liked fishing. He left Portsmouth shortly after that.'
Horton mentally and swiftly ran through a checklist of dates: Rowland's wife and daughter died in 1980; he was ordained in 1985, and returned to Portsmouth in 1995.
Horton asked, 'When did your brother marry?'
'I can't remember. 1973 or thereabouts. Why do you want to know?' Sebastian frowned, puzzled.
Dr Clayton had told him that Rowland had been born in 1953 so he had been only twenty when he married; maybe it had been a case of having to. So how did Rowland know Jennifer Horton and when had they met? And had Sebastian Gilmore known her too? It wasn't a question he could ask yet, but Sebastian Gilmore had shown no reaction to his name.
'Did your brother have a share in your father's business?'
'I bought him out when he decided to call it quits. I gave him a fair price. He didn't complain.' Gilmore said, slightly defensively.
Interesting, thought Horton, a touchy subject as far as Sebastian Gilmore was concerned.
'Rowley took the money and that was the last time I saw him until twelve years ago.'
'And when did Tom Brundall decide that being a fisherman wasn't what he wanted?'
'1978.'
It was a year engraved on Horton's heart and mind. The year his mother left him. Horton went cold as the thoughts that had been forming in the back of his mind suddenly crystallized.
Sometimes a thing is so obvious that it has to be pushed in your face several times before you notice it and now he saw that the 'wrong' Rowland Gilmore had mentioned and which Brundall wanted to confess, could be something to do with his mother's disappearance. Had they killed her? The thought stole the breath from his body. It didn't bear contemplating. He was mad even to think it, and he had no real evidence except those bloody newspaper articles and that overheard conversation. But that could mean anything, he told himself. Why should they kill his mother? It didn't make sense.
Gilmore said, 'We came back from fishing one day and Tom said, "That's it, I've had enough. I'm off," and I've never heard from him or seen him since.'
Horton
was glad that Cantelli stepped in with the questioning because his throat felt like a stretched-out piece of elastic, and this time the pain in his chest wasn't caused by smoke inhalation.
'And you've no idea why he did that or where he went?' Cantelli asked.
'None whatsoever, except that his old man was dead by then. His mother died when he was young, and there was no need for Tom to do as his father bid.'
'Did you know that Tom Brundall became a very wealthy man and that he lived in Guernsey?'
Horton watched Sebastian Gilmore carefully. He didn't look surprised or bothered by the fact.
'Tom was clever, and he was very good at figures. I remember he couldn't stick the smell of fish or being out in the rough weather. But back then you followed in your father's footsteps, not like now. Oh, except Selina's different.' He threw his daughter a proud and fond look.
She said, 'I'm the sales director.'
'And a bloody good one,' Gilmore boasted proudly. 'We wouldn't have won that new supermarket contract without her.'
She was young for such a responsible position, thought Horton, though clearly her father's daughter by the fact that she could negotiate lucrative contracts with the supermarkets at such a tender age. A tough little cookie, and an ambitious one if Horton was any judge. Gilmore's was in secure hands. Cantelli had given him time to get his emotions under control and he needed that for his next question.
'Tom Brundall called on your brother shortly before he died. Do you know why?'
Gilmore eyed him shrewdly. 'So that's it, is it?'
'Did Brundall come to see you?'
'No.'
Truth or a lie? Sebastian Gilmore held his eye contact. Again, Horton thought he saw something which he couldn't quite fathom. 'Have you any idea why he should come to Portsmouth?'
'It was his hometown, so why shouldn't he?'
Gilmore didn't look as if he was being evasive or lying, but Horton saw in front of him a tough man well versed in the art of negotiation. Unless Horton was very much mistaken, this Gilmore could bluff, cajole, lie and bully with the best of them without blinking an eye. Rather different from his brother, Horton suspected. OK, so let's see how he reacts to the next bit of news.
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