Suffocating Sea (11 page)

‘St Agnes’s is a great big barn of a church, as you can see.

The lights were on; it was a grey, miserable Tuesday, with a heavy blanket of cloud closing in on you. Even with the lights on though there are places in this church that are still dim; it has a hundred nooks and crannies. I came up here to practise the organ and heard the door open and footsteps below—’

‘The time?’

Gutner puffed out his cheeks and thought. ‘About three thirty, give or take a minute. I thought it was the vicar at first but then realized it didn’t sound like his tread. I looked in my mirror, here above the organ, and saw a man walk towards the nativity.

It was that man whose picture was on the television, Brundall you said his name was. Then the vicar came out of the vestry.

I didn’t even know he was in the church. I came in that way, and didn’t see him, there’s a door that leads up from there to here. He saw this stranger and looked as if he’d seen a ghost.’

‘Was he pleased or afraid?’ Horton asked sharply.

‘Afraid,’ Gutner replied instantly. ‘Vicar went white and staggered back. Brundall moved forward as though to help the vicar, but he waved him away. “I’m all right,” the vicar said, then, “What are you doing here? We swore never to see one another again. I’ve made my peace with the Lord and tried to put right what we did wrong all those years ago.”’

Horton felt a thrill run down his spine. What had they done wrong? Did this have anything to do with Brundall’s death?

Horton wouldn’t mind betting on it.

‘Go on,’ he encouraged, not that he really needed to; Gutner was enjoying this despite mourning his vicar.

‘Brundall said, “I’m dying, cancer. I haven’t got long. I want to confess and I want you to hear my confession.” Vicar went even paler, he said something but I couldn’t hear what it was because he spoke so softly. Then I heard Brundall say, “Did you know that Jennifer Horton’s boy’s a policeman, a detective inspector here in Portsmouth?” Hey, that’s you, I bet it is.’

Horton tensed. He felt the breath being sucked from his body. First Gilmore and now Brundall, and now they were both dead. Jesus! What the hell was going on? Desperately he tried to keep his face expressionless but his head was swimming with this information, and his heart was pounding as though he’d just run a marathon. He hoped he sounded neutral when he asked, ‘What else did he say?’

Gutner didn’t seem to notice anything untoward with him.

Easily, the old man continued. ‘The vicar said, “Leave it, Tom.

It’s over, done with.” Brundall replied, “Not until I make my confession. If you won’t hear it, Rowley, then I will have to find another priest,” and then they moved out of earshot and sight. Brundall followed the vicar into the vestry.’

‘Do you know if the vicar heard his confession?’

‘No. I waited for a while before starting to play the organ.

I didn’t want them to think I had been eavesdropping, but they didn’t come out of the vestry. Not then anyway. I started playing and didn’t see the vicar until the candlelight service on Wednesday night and then he died.’

‘Have you any idea what the Reverend Gilmore was referring to when he said he’d tried to put right the wrong?’ Horton asked more in hope than anticipation.

‘No, but it can’t have been much because the vicar didn’t have a bad or wicked bone in his body. And now the other man is dead too and I know for definite his death wasn’t natural no matter what some smart arse doctor says.’

And Horton was inclined to agree with him. He wondered what the post-mortem on Reverend Gilmore had shown; there would have been one. If it had confirmed that the death was suspicious then he would have heard, so he assumed one hadn’t been conducted yet.

Had Brundall killed Gilmore? Was there time? The answer was yes. Just. After killing Gilmore, Brundall could have returned to his boat, where he was immediately accosted by his own killer who threw the match on to the gas-filled boat.

But
how
had Brundall killed Gilmore in full view of a congregation? No, it didn’t add up. Then a thought struck Horton.

Brundall had visited Gilmore on Tuesday at three thirty and had then called Sherbourne at about four fifteen the same afternoon summoning him to Portsmouth. Had Brundall wanted to write down his confession to give to Sherbourne to read out on his death? Yes, that was possible. And someone hadn’t wanted that confession heard, which meant there was a third person involved in this ‘wrong’ that Gilmore had spoken of and to which Brundall had wanted to confess before dying.

And that third person had killed Sherbourne in Guernsey to prevent the truth from being exposed. Horton felt his heart racing with this new information. But where the blazes did his mother fit into all this? Horton certainly couldn’t remember either Brundall or Gilmore.

He thanked Gutner and made to leave when the old man said eagerly, ‘Don’t you want me to come to the station and make a statement?’

‘Later,’ Horton said hastily, thinking that was the last thing he wanted. If Gutner made his statement then everyone would learn about Jennifer Horton and until Horton knew just how deeply his mother was involved in whatever had happened to Brundall and Gilmore, he wanted to keep it quiet. He could report Gutner’s conversation without mentioning the bit about Jennifer Horton.

He knew he shouldn’t and that he was withholding vital evidence from Uckfield, but the way he saw it he had no choice. He needed more information before he was ready to expose his traumatic childhood for all and sundry at the station.

‘I’ll send someone round later,’ he said.

Gutner seemed satisfied with this. Then he frowned. ‘But you will look into the Reverend Gilmore’s death, won’t you?’

‘I most certainly will,’ Horton reassured him.

‘Good.’ Gutner started to pump the organ. ‘It’s been nice meeting you.’

And you, thought Horton, glad to escape the gloomy atmo-sphere of the church, and pleased to see that his Harley was still outside and in one piece. He climbed on. It was time to find out more about Reverend Gilmore and he’d start by visiting the diocesan offices.

Eight

‘I was just going to lunch,’ the deputy diocesan secretary grumbled, waving Horton into a seat opposite his modern desk complete with a state-of-the-art computer. Horton had been surprised to find the Diocesan offices had been relocated to a modern office building at the entrance to the continental ferry port. He’d always assumed they were near Portsmouth Cathedral and had lost precious time trying to locate them there before someone had directed him here.

Horton didn’t warm to the burly man in front of him in the dark suit and pink shirt. And he was wearing a cravat, a form of neck gear that Horton always viewed with suspicion. Yelford was in his early fifties with pockmarked skin and remarkably prominent ears. His light brown hair looked as though it was a toupee, but Horton guessed it was just the way he combed and plastered it down with lotion, which smelt of bluebells and vinegar.

‘Why do you want to know about the Reverend Rowland Gilmore?’

Horton heard the defensiveness in Yelford’s question. ‘Just routine, sir,’ he replied, drawing a sceptical look and a pursing of lips from Yelford. ‘I understand the Reverend Gilmore was a very popular vicar.’

Yelford looked alarmed. ‘You’ve been talking to his parishioners?’ He ran his fingers over his cravat as if to check it was still there. ‘I hope you don’t think there was anything suspicious about his death.’

‘There are just a couple of things we need to check, Mr Yelford.’

‘Kenneth Gutner’s been talking again, hasn’t he? Just because he was an ambulance man he thinks he’s an expert on all matters medical.’

‘He’s expressed his unease about the vicar’s death to you then, sir?’ Horton asked, injecting his tone with surprise and concern.

Yelford looked annoyed that he’d risen to the bait. ‘He’s an old man. He gets confused.’ He gave a condescending smile that set Horton’s teeth on edge. He made sure not to return the smile and was gratified to see a faint flush creep up Yelford’s face.

‘Mr Gutner seemed in full grasp of all his faculties when I spoke to him.’

‘That was probably for only a few moments,’ replied Yelford uncharitably. ‘Reverend Gilmore had a stroke. No doubt it is very upsetting for Mr Gutner to lose his vicar, and the bereaved often try to find a reason for death, or someone to blame. It’s a natural reaction. No one else has come forward to claim that Gilmore’s death was anything but a natural one.’

No, thought Horton, noting that the Reverend had now become merely Gilmore, but that’s because no one else saw Brundall visit the church and talk to the vicar. And no one else knows of the connection between the two men, except their killer.
If
Gilmore was killed.

‘Of course, he will be sorely missed.’

To Horton’s ears Yelford’s remark sounded insincere, as if the man had spent years perfecting a soft quiet tone designed to make people think he cared when Horton could see that his eyes lacked any genuine sympathy.

Yelford continued as Horton remained stoically silent,

‘Gilmore was a generous and devoted man and he had such a difficult parish. He could have gone far, you know. He was an extremely intelligent man, but sadly not ambitious.’

Yelford made it sound as if this was some kind of mental deficiency. Time to be firmer with this slimy toad.

‘I’d like to see his file please,’ Horton announced curtly.

Yelford bristled and raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m not sure about that.’

Horton rose. ‘Very well, I’ll speak to the Bishop and return with a warrant.’

The threat worked. ‘That’s not necessary,’ Yelford said hastily, rising. ‘But I only have the briefest of details for administrative and personnel needs.’

‘That will do, for now,’ Horton said portentously.

Yelford frowned with irritation before turning to his computer keyboard. ‘What do you want to know?’ he demanded. Horton noted the silky whisper seemed to have evaporated into thin air, and in its place was a harsh, abrupt tone.

‘When was the Reverend Gilmore ordained?’

‘In 1985.’

Horton made some rapid mental calculations from what Anne Schofield had previously told him. ‘He would have been thirty-two then. Isn’t that a little late to find his vocation?’

‘It’s never too late,’ Yelford rejoined like a true sycophant.

‘Gilmore didn’t have a theology degree, in fact he didn’t have any qualifications, but he trained for two years before becoming ordained.’

‘Where?’

Yelford glanced at the file. ‘Ridley Hall in Cambridge. He did very well, excelled at everything. As I said, he was very bright.’

‘I understand his daughter was drowned. Can you tell me when?’

Yelford rearranged his features to look suitably sad. ‘A tragic accident. I believe it was in 1980. It’s not on the file.

His wife died shortly afterwards.’

‘Did he come here straight from being ordained?’

Yelford consulted the file again, though Horton got the impression he didn’t need to, and that it was done either for effect or to stall for time.

‘No. He was based in a number of areas: Bristol, Oxford, Ross-on-Wye. He returned to Portsmouth in 1995.’

Which fitted with what Kenneth Gutner had told him and that bloody article on Gilmore’s desk. But Horton had picked up a new nugget of information.

‘Returned?’

Yelford looked as though he’d been caught out committing a misdemeanour. He said stiffly, ‘He was born in Portsmouth.’

Was he now? Like Brundall. And like Horton’s mother. It was at least the beginnings of a connection. ‘What did he do before he was ordained?’

‘My file doesn’t hold that kind of information, Inspector. I am sure the Dean would be only too pleased to help you, but he is a very busy man at this time of the year. I could make you an appointment to see him after Christmas; until then I hope I have given you sufficient information.’

Far from it, Horton thought, as Yelford closed the folder and stood up. Clearly he wanted Horton off the premises.

‘Does the Reverend Gilmore have a next of kin?’

With a pointed sign, Yelford opened the folder and briefly consulted it. ‘There’s none mentioned in the file, but I do know that he had a brother: Sebastian Gilmore. He’s been in touch with the Dean over the funeral arrangements.’

Then why hadn’t the Reverend Gilmore named him?

‘I’d like his address.’

Yelford looked surprised and then smug as he said, ‘I would have thought the police would know Mr Sebastian Gilmore.’

The name rang a bell but Horton couldn’t place it: villain or hero? He wondered. Yelford rose and turned to his window.

‘Gilmore’s fresh fish and frozen food,’ he said, looking out.

Horton crossed to the window and looked down where Yelford was pointing. Of course! That Gilmore. Below and further to the right of Horton, he could see an office block and a large warehouse emblazoned with Gilmore’s name.

Horton also recalled the fresh fish market at the Town Camber and the fact that Brundall’s father had been a fisherman. Was it just coincidence that the Reverend Gilmore’s brother operated a fishing business? Somehow he doubted it.

He left the Diocesan offices carrying with him a nasty taste that Yelford had somehow managed to leave in his mouth.

Once outside he called Dr Clayton to be told that she would be free in about an hour, so he left a message to say he would like to see her then for a few minutes.

Instead of rushing back to the station, Horton found himself heading in the opposite direction towards the Town Camber. He needed time to digest what Gutner and Yelford had told him.

It was only early afternoon but it felt much later. A leaden sky was making the short winter day even darker and more oppressive than usual. In two days it would be the shortest day of the year and in six days, Christmas morning. He’d volunteered for duty. Better that than moping on the boat being haunted by the ghosts of his Christmas past. Still before that there was Emma.

Turning right on to the Town Camber, Horton drew up on the quayside just past Gilmore’s public fish market and in front of the Bridge Tavern. Switching off the engine he stared at the fishing boats and tugboats bobbing about in the basin.