Suffocating Sea (10 page)

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 chris-tening 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.’

‘Yes. After God saved him, the Reverend decided to give away all his wealth and enter the church. He went to some college up country to study and came out a priest.’

‘He was once a wealthy man then?’

‘Must have been to have a yacht.’

Not necessarily, thought Horton, considering his own tiny yacht; that certainly wasn’t any millionaire’s pad. But the old man had given him a wealth of information, much of which he would be able to check, if he wanted to, though he didn’t see why he should and where it would take him except to that connection with Brundall.
If
, of course, Mr Gutner had really seen him here; his eyesight might not be a hundred per cent.

‘Do you know where the Reverend Gilmore lived before he came here?’ Horton asked.

The old man eyed him keenly. ‘You’re a copper, aren’t you?’

‘Does it show?’ Horton smiled. He liked Gutner. Policemen can never ask questions casually, it seemed. This man was no fool.

‘Can smell them a mile away, even if they’re wearing leathers. You undercover?’

‘No, just riding a Harley.’

‘Saw it outside, nice bike. Hope it’s still there when you leave.’

‘So do I.’ Horton returned the old man’s smile. ‘How come you know I’m a policeman, apart from the smell?’

‘Because no one asks that many questions about someone they don’t know, in a church that’s off the beaten track, in a hole like this. Oh, and my wife phoned me on my mobile to say a handsome young copper in leathers was looking for me.’

Horton laughed. There didn’t seem much that got past Kenneth Gutner.

‘Besides I knew that sooner or later one of you lot would wake up to the fact that the Reverend’s death was no accident, or a natural one.’

The laughter died in Horton’s throat and the smile vanished in an instant. A chilling suspicion began to form in his mind.

He tried to tell himself that the old man must be exaggerating, or that he was upset and needed someone to blame, but deep inside him he knew that wasn’t the case. Half afraid of where this might lead him, he said, ‘What do you mean?’

‘I used to be an ambulance man and I’ve seen a lot of deaths in my time including stroke victims, and I’m telling you that weren’t no stroke the Reverend Gilmore had.’

Horton didn’t like the sound of this. He eyed Gutner closely.

Others might have dismissed the elderly man as being senile, but Horton wasn’t that rash or stupid. His copper’s antenna was radiating like it had just been struck by lightning.

‘What happened, Mr Gutner?’

Gutner eyed him sharply for a couple of seconds, seemed to like what he saw and nodded. ‘Reverend Gilmore had only just started to welcome the congregation to the Candlelight Christmas Service when I could see that he was having trouble getting the words out. His mouth was moving but the words sort of got stuck. And before you say that’s what happens when you have a stroke, I know it does but not like this. A stroke victim doesn’t have convulsions and Gilmore convulsed before he collapsed. I rushed down to help. I was playing the organ as usual that night. There was a crowd around him by the time I got to him. I pushed them aside. His breathing was all wrong. I shouted for someone to call the ambulance and spoke to Gilmore gentle like until they arrived. An hour later he was dead.’ There were tears in the old man’s eyes.

Horton thought he could hear the church creaking and groaning as if in sympathy with Gutner’s words. One part of him said, the old man is mad; it was a natural death. And yet Horton’s instincts were screaming the opposite. Why had Gilmore written Horsea Marina on his blotter? Why had Brundall come here? And why had both men died on the same night?

‘What time was this?’

‘The service started at six o’clock with a procession of adults and kiddies holding candles as they walked to their seats. The candles were extinguished, the congregation sat and the Reverend began the service at about six thirty. He was taken to hospital just on seven o’clock. The verger stepped in after that and we carried on with our worship, but nobody’s heart was in it.’

The fire on Brundall’s boat had started at seven thirty, forty-five minutes after Gilmore’s collapse
. If
Gilmore’s death was suspicious, and it was a big if, then it was certainly possible for the killer to have had time to get from here to Horsea Marina. Yet how could someone have killed the vicar in full view of the congregation without anyone seeing him?

‘I believe you saw a man called Tom Brundall talking to the Reverend—’

‘Yeah, and that’s another thing, why did his boat catch fire the day he visited the vicar?’

Gutner might be elderly, but there was no fooling him.

Horton said, ‘It could be a coincidence.’

‘Since when have the cops believed in coincidence?’ Gutner scoffed.

He was right. With admiration for the man’s intellect, which hadn’t diminished with age, Horton said, ‘OK, tell me what happened.’

Gutner settled back in his seat. He paused. Horton could tell it wasn’t for effect but that he was marshalling his thoughts to give as accurate and concise an account as possible. He would have made a good copper.