The Suffocating Sea dah-3

by Pauline Rowson

  'If they have, they can't have found anything otherwise we'd know about it and so would the drugs squad.'

  'Would we though? Not if Gilmore was clean, and he'd been given a tip-off. Someone on the inside could be involved.'

  'OK.' Uckfield held up his hands in capitulation. 'I didn't know you had such an overactive imagination.

  'There is another thing…'

  Uckfield groaned.

  Horton said, 'All fishing vessels over fifteen metres in length have to be fitted with satellite tracking devices, which are monitored from the Fisheries Monitoring Centre in London, so have there been any problems with Gilmore's tracking devices-?'

  'You think they could have veered off course and picked up some merchandise?'

  'Why not? But some of Gilmore's fleet is under fifteen metres, they don't have tracking devices, so maybe they make the collections. Or perhaps it's nothing to do with drugs and Gilmore is over-fishing and getting away with it.'

  Uckfield sat back and stretched his hands behind his head. 'Is there money in that?'

  'There's money in anything illegal. Maybe he's forging quotas.'

  Uckfield sniffed loudly. 'Dennings can handle the fisheries people as well as Customs and Revenue. But let's get some hard facts first before we go barging in upsetting one of Portsmouth's most successful businessmen and risking bringing down the wrath of the media and his lawyers on us like a heap of heavy shit.'

  'Just make sure you tell DI Dennings that,' Horton couldn't miss pointing out. 'I don't think he's the tread softly type.'

  Uckfield shifted position. Scowling, he picked up his pen. 'Inspector Dennings knows his job.'

  There was a knock on Uckfield's door. Marsden entered smiling.

  'Won the lottery, Marsden, and come to give us all a hand out?' snarled Uckfield.

  'No, sir.'

  'Then wipe that bloody silly grin off your face. We've got four dead people and a bloody skeleton; there's nothing to look so bloody cheerful about.'

  'Sorry, sir.' Marsden rearranged his features as best he could but Horton could see he was brimming with some piece of news that he thought critical to the case. 'I've got a positive sighting of Brundall at the cemetery. I showed his photograph around and a woman says she saw him at a grave near her late husband's, only he wasn't at his parents' grave-'

  'He was at a man's called Warwick Hassingham,' Horton interjected triumphantly, throwing a glance at Uckfield which said, didn't I tell you there's something here for us in this rescue?

  Marsden looked as though someone had stolen his sweets.

  Uckfield said, 'That'll teach you to be so sodding cheerful, Marsden. What time was this?'

  'About two fifteen. He stayed for ten minutes and then left.'

  So Brundall had set out on a trip down memory lane, first to Warwick Hassingham's grave, and later that afternoon to Rowland Gilmore.

  Horton said, 'What's the betting he called on Sebastian Gilmore?'But there was a flaw in this, because Sebastian Gilmore said he'd returned to his office shortly after midday and had left almost immediately for his meeting at Tri Fare. Horton could check out the CCTV tapes at the commercial port for Wednesday afternoon, but then he recalled that Gilmores also had their own CCTV. They were certainly worth a look at if he could get hold of them, although he couldn't see Gilmore giving them up without a search warrant.

  Horton's phone was ringing as he reached his office and he leapt across his desk to reach for it before it stopped.

  'It's Dad,' Cantelli said.

  Horton went cold. He could tell immediately by Cantelli's tone that it was bad news. Please no, not that, he prayed. But it was too late for prayers, as Cantelli's next words confirmed.

  'He had a massive heart attack. He died at four thirty-five p.m.'

  Seventeen

  Horton returned to his boat that evening with a heavy heart. He recalled the little man with the twinkling eyes and the love of life and felt Cantelli's sorrow at losing so vital a human being and such a dearly loved family member. He didn't feel like eating or going for his customary run but he forced himself to do both.

  The weather was so appalling that he curtailed his run at the pier and headed back to the boat with a feeling of deep dissatisfaction at the way his own life was going and the sadness of Cantelli's news. He should have rung Barney to give him the name of the fourth fisherman on Gilmore's boat before his father died. He knew it was silly and that Toni Cantelli would hardly have cared about it in the throes of a heart attack, but it bugged Horton nevertheless. He couldn't get it out of his mind and it took him a long time to get to sleep.

  He was sure he had only just drifted off when something woke him with a start and now he was staring up at the coach roof fully alert, his ears straining for the least sound. All he could hear was the rain pounding the deck, the wind whistling through the masts and the slapping of water against the sides of the boat. It was just his imagination, and yet he felt uneasy. He knew that fear heightened perceptions and the premonition he'd experienced at Horsea Marina the night of Tom Brundall's death was back with a vengeance. He hadn't forgotten that someone had once tried to kill him. He cursed himself now for not being more vigilant.

  With his heart racing, he eased himself off the bunk and pulled on a sweater and tracksuit bottoms, slipping his feet into his trainers. Perhaps he had dreamt of danger and his body had involuntarily sprung into action as a result.

  He listened. Nothing. And yet something was telling him that he was in peril. He didn't dare turn on his light in case he alerted whoever was out there. His eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. The hatchway was almost closed, with just a narrow slit open to allow air to circulate inside the cabin. He couldn't open it further without it giving an alarming screech. But he'd have to risk it because staying here wasn't an option if someone was intent on killing him.

  He stiffened. Yes, he had distinctly heard the squeak of the security gate, as it swung open. It could be another boat owner, but Horton wasn't about to hang around and find out. As soon as the gate clanged shut whoever it was would be almost level with Nutmeg. Horton knew the timing exactly. And he didn't have minutes to lose.

  With his heart racing, he eased open the storage locker underneath the bunk opposite and silently shrugged his way into a buoyancy aid.

  Stealthy footsteps were getting closer, not those of any boat owner he knew. Grabbing his wallet and ripping Emma's photograph from above his bunk he took a deep breath, shoved back the hatchway and leapt into the cockpit in time to see a dark hooded figure clothed in black. Then an arm was raised. Horton didn't hesitate. As he leapt over the side of Nutmeg he felt a great searing heat follow him and heard the whoosh of an explosion. The sky lit up like the fourth of July and the roar of flames filled his ears. The icy sea sucked the breath from him. How long did he have before the cold swallowed him into oblivion? Ten minutes? But he was in the comparative safety of the marina; he could get to safety. He had to.

  He began to swim away from the fire, the cold already numbing him, his clothes pulling him down, but the burning Nutmeg was guiding him across to the next pontoon. After what seemed an age but could only have been minutes he grasped the wooden decking, panting heavily, his body screaming with fatigue. He could hear shouts and cries, people running. There was no one to pull him out, the marina was almost empty, it being winter. He was slipping and going under. With numb and trembling fingers he pulled at the cord and the buoyancy aid inflated. Then someone was grabbing him by his arms and hauling him up. He found some energy and propelled himself on to the pontoon, and lay there shivering and panting.

  'Are you all right, mate?'

  Horton was tempted to say, 'Yes, I always go for a swim in the marina in the middle of the night in December.'

  'I'll get you a blanket and call an ambulance.'

  'No ambulance,' Horton managed to say, pulling himself up into a sitting position and wrenching off the buoyancy aid. 'A blanket will do for now.' He was recovering and the
man seeing this climbed on to his boat and fetched a blanket, which he draped round Horton's shoulders. Pulling it across his sodden chest, Horton stared at the blazing spectacle that had been his home. He could feel the heat of the fire from here and he shuddered as he recalled how close he'd come once again to death. If he hadn't been woken by some sixth sense…Or was it? Now that he considered it he thought that maybe the sound of a car pulling up had alerted him. If that were so then it couldn't have been a car familiar to him. There must have been something about it that had jolted him out of his sleep, but what? And was he just imagining it?

  He felt desperately sad as he watched Nutmeg blaze. Then anger kicked in. How dare they destroy his home? Now he had nothing except…With his fumbling fingers encased in soaking wet bandages he grasped the sopping photograph of Emma. He still had her, thank the Lord, but if someone was intent on killing him, then next time they might try when Emma was with him. If he didn't find this killer before Wednesday then he would have to sacrifice spending his day with his daughter, which made him furious.

  'Your boat, mate?'

  'Yes, or rather it was,' Horton said, recalling that the photograph of his mother had also gone up in flames. Now he had nothing to remember her by except what he carried inside him.

  'What happened? Cooker explode?' his helper suggested. 'You were bloody lucky to get out alive. There was a chap at Horsea recently who wasn't so fortunate.'

  Horton remembered the blackened figure on the pontoon and shivered violently. He could hear the fire engines. Thankfully there were no boats either side of his poor Nutmeg.

  He stood up and, addressing his helper, said, 'Did you see anyone running up the pontoon?'

  'No, all I heard was a bloody great explosion, then saw you. You think someone did that deliberately?' he cried incredulously.

  Oh, yes, indeed, Horton thought, but said, 'Thanks for your help, Mr…?

  'John Cheshire.' He reached out his hand, and Horton looked down at his own sodden wet bandaged hands.

  'Better not,' he said with a wry grin.

  Cheshire looked surprised and puzzled. 'You have been in the wars. Do you want to come on board? Can I get you some dry clothes?'

  Horton looked at the man's stature, which was shorter and leaner than his, and said, 'Thanks, but I don't think they'll fit. I'll be all right. I'll call some mates who will help.'

  Horton squelched his way up to the office where he found Eddie almost beside himself with despair; his look of relief gave Horton a warm glow. It was a nice feeling to have someone care for you. Tonight, Horton's loneliness and feelings of isolation had been so acute that he had let his guard down, and look what had happened. Still, he was alive.

  Eddie rushed up to him. 'Bloody hell, I thought you was a gonner. Am I glad to see you! You all right? Do you want an ambulance? What happened?'

  'What I need is a phone. Go and talk to the fire officer, Eddie, and make sure everything is OK with the other boat owners.' Eddie got his drift and hurried away leaving Horton alone in the office. He could see the firefighters running hoses down the pontoon where Eddie's colleague was already on his mobile phone to his boss. Horton suspected a fire in two of the company's marinas wasn't going to make him a happy man!

  He would like to have called Cantelli but didn't want to disturb him in his bereavement. Instead he rang through to Uckfield.

  'Jesus! That's twice someone's tried to kill you — why?' Uckfield exclaimed.

  'If I knew that, I'd probably know who the killer is,' Horton snapped. Yet his mind was racing with the thought that this must be connected with his mother and that note in the margin of Gilmore's newspaper. And there was one person he was getting close to, whom he had interviewed that day, and who might have a lot to lose: Sebastian Gilmore.

  'I'll come down and handle the investigation, myself,' Uckfield said. 'I'll send a car to collect you. Where are you going to stay?'

  Horton thought he detected a hint of nervousness in Uckfield's voice. He didn't believe Uckfield would offer him a bed, so he wouldn't bother asking and suffer the humiliation of being fobbed off with excuses. He also wondered if Uckfield was worried he might ask Catherine.

  'I'll sort something out.'

  As Horton rang off he heard the familiar throb of the police launch and hurried outside to meet it at the waiting pontoon. He stopped for a brief moment to gaze across at Nutmeg; the firefighters were squirting water on her. His heart was heavy with sorrow. She had been his consolation and his refuge in the dark days following the debacle of Operation Extra and Catherine's rejection. Watching her burn he felt as though a chapter of his life had closed. Just as his marriage to Catherine was over, so the last vestiges of that phase of his life after the accusation of rape and his subsequent suspension were completed. Nutmeg was being laid to rest and he should do the same with the immediate past. The past further back though was a very different matter.

  His gaze took him to the car park above the marina with the fire engines and their blue lights flashing in the dark. His attacker had long gone. Did he know if he was still alive, Horton wondered. He would only have had an instant to escape the pontoon before Eddie and his colleague rushed out. Horton guessed he would have thrown the firebomb and immediately sprinted away.

  'Andy, what happened? Are you OK?' Sergeant Elkins exclaimed, leaping off the launch and swiftly securing a line to the pontoon. 'I heard about the fire over the radio. I couldn't believe it when they said it was your boat.'

  'I'm fine.'

  'Well you don't bloody look it, dripping all over the place and shivering like buggery.'

  Horton managed a smile. 'Typical British response, sorry, force of habit. And apologizing when I don't need to.'

  'Get on board. Ripley, the thermal blanket.'

  Horton was glad to let Elkins take control. He settled himself in the wheelhouse as Ripley placed the silver thermal blanket around his shoulders.

  Elkins opened his mouth to speak but Horton got there first.

  'Don't say I should go to hospital, Dai,' Horton said, using Elkins' real name and not Dave, as he had become popularly known. 'I just need a hot shower and some clean clothes, and somewhere to stay.' The first two were easy to arrange, but he didn't know about the third. Then he had a thought. 'Let me call Superintendent Uckfield.' When connected, he said, 'Steve, I'm going back with Sergeant Elkins — yes, the police launch is here. Call an ambulance. Tell them to make it look as though they're picking me up from the water. Our pyromaniac won't be hanging around the marina but he could be waiting somewhere down the road to see what happens. Let's make him think for a while that he's succeeded in putting me out of action. I'll call you as soon as I can to let you know where I am.' Turning to Elkins he said, 'Can you get me some dry clothes?'

  'Yes. Look, I've got an idea. I need to make a call.'

  As he did so, Ripley started the engine and piloted the launch into Langstone Harbour. Horton was content just to sit and think. His attacker had to be Sebastian Gilmore, and yet that couldn't be: the build was wrong. Horton couldn't mistake the giant of a man. So Gilmore must have hired someone to do his dirty work for him. If that were so, then Horton knew that his mother was the key to these killings and that Sebastian Gilmore was afraid that Horton would unlock it. And yet it didn't quite measure up. Sebastian Gilmore had to be some kind of idiot or psychopath to think he could get away with killing a detective on the case without anyone else pointing the finger at him. And Horton didn't have Gilmore down as an idiot, which meant he must be psychotic. After all, who else would kill Anne Schofield and enjoy setting fire to people?

  'It's all settled if you're happy with the arrangements,' Elkins broke through his thoughts. Horton stirred himself as Elkins continued. 'I have a friend who owns a Bavaria 44 in Gosport Marina. He's abroad working for six months. He's happy to let you live on board for as long as you like. In fact, he'd rather have someone on board, using the boat and looking after it.'

  'Is he sure?' Horton felt cheered by
the news. This was a stroke of luck. It sounded ideal. 'Does he know that someone's intent on setting fire to me?'

  Elkins looked a little sheepish. 'Not exactly. I just told him a colleague who was a keen sailor needed a billet.'

  Horton frowned, concerned. Should he insist that Elkins tell his mate the truth and risk losing the opportunity of somewhere to stay? But perhaps he could avoid anyone knowing where he was, which would be fine if he could get enough on Sebastian Gilmore to bang him up quickly.

  'No one must know about it.'

  Elkins nodded. 'He doesn't want any money either and says you can sail her whenever you wish.'

  'Bloody hell, he's a very generous and trusting man! What on earth does he owe you, Dai?'

  Elkins flushed and bristled. 'It's not crooked if that's what you mean, Inspector.'

  'I didn't think it would be.'

  Elkins relaxed. 'I helped him out once, that's all-'

  'Saved his life more like,' Ripley shouted over his shoulder.

  'Yes, thank you, Constable. We were called to assist a rescue operation off the Isle of Wight. As we were almost on the spot we got there before the lifeboat and coastguard. I saw this man in the water and pulled him out, that's all.'

  Horton suppressed a smile. He knew that wasn't just all. Through chattering teeth, he asked, 'Have you had any joy confirming whether or not Sebastian Gilmore was in Cowes Marina on Tuesday night as he claims?'

  'The marina staff said to check back tomorrow when Neville's working. He was on duty last Tuesday night. Neville's a nosy bugger. If anyone knows he will.'

  Within an hour, Horton had showered, changed into dry clothes — uniform trousers, shoes and a sweatshirt — and was alone on board Elkins' friend's yacht with a cup of coffee in his scarred hands. The bandages had been consigned to the rubbish bin.

  'Nutmeg,' he said, saluting her, whilst gazing around his spacious and luxurious surroundings. His phone rang. It was Uckfield.

  'There was no sign of anyone hanging around the marina, but the ambulance sped away blue lights blazing just in case.'