Suffocating Sea (23 page)

‘Not without more evidence you don’t.’

Undeterred, Horton continued. ‘Let’s say this man they rescued in 1977 was their supplier. They’d gone to meet him when the storm wrecked their plans and as a result Warwick Hassingham dies. That puts the dampers on Rowland Gilmore and Tom Brundall who quit not long afterwards with the money they’d already amassed. Sebastian resumes the smuggling operation with this rescued man, whose name he conveniently can’t remember. Everything goes well until whoever our skeleton is shows up, he could be this rescued man aka drug supplier who wants out, or it could be someone Rowland Gilmore has spoken to when studying to be ordained.’
And
was that someone Anne Schofield had also known?
‘He lets slip something about the drugs and eventually he’s tracked down to Portsmouth. This person threatens to tell of Rowland’s seedy past. Rowland calls either Brundall or his brother and they deal with it, or perhaps Rowland does it himself, luring him to the air-raid shelter and killing him.’

Horton interpreted Uckfield’s incredulous look and added,

‘Just because Rowland was a vicar it doesn’t mean he wasn’t capable of killing someone. Frightened men are as dangerous as angry ones.’

Uckfield grudgingly acknowledged that before saying, ‘It’s a bit far-fetched.’

Ignoring this, Horton said, ‘Everything settles down again until Brundall shows up last Tuesday wanting to confess his sins before he dies. He wants to go to his maker with a clean sheet—’

‘Cut the poetic stuff.’

Horton smiled. ‘Rowland doesn’t want to hear the confession; he gets scared that Brundall will tell someone else, so he calls brother Sebastian and asks his advice. Sebastian can’t risk Brundall talking to anyone else, and if his alibi checks out, that means he got someone else to silence Brundall, Rowland and Sherbourne – we still need to check his alibi for Anne Schofield – and that someone could be a professional killer as we originally thought, one of his drug suppliers or our mystery man who was saved at sea.’

Uckfield exhaled. ‘It’s a hell of a leap between a rescued man and a drugs ring.’

Horton sat back and stretched out his long legs, and with a frown he said, ‘Maybe, but why didn’t Gilmore mention Warwick Hassingham and the accident unless he’s got something to hide?’

‘Too painful?’ Uckfield suggested.

Horton recalled Gilmore’s attitude that afternoon when relaying the story of Warwick Hassingham’s death. Grudgingly he admitted to himself that Uckfield could be right. Yet he felt there was something there that didn’t ring true. He wasn’t going to give up on his theory yet.

‘I’ll contact the Marine Accident Investigation Branch first thing tomorrow and see if I can get the name of the rescued man and then we’ll be able to trace him.’

‘I think you’re way off beam, but as we’ve got bugger all else to go on, you might as well go ahead.’

Horton could see that Uckfield hadn’t bought his theory.

He said, ‘I could also talk to Customs and Revenue tomorrow; see if they’ve ever suspected Gilmore or his fishing fleet.’

‘No, leave that for DI Dennings. Better give him something to do.’

Horton acquiesced with a secret smile knowing that Uckfield was already rueing the day he’d given in to Dennings and this was just their first case together. But if Horton knew Uckfield then he’d find a way of getting Dennings out of his hair and one which didn’t risk his affairs being exposed.

He said, ‘It might also be worth checking Gilmore’s record with the Marine and Fisheries Agency to see if any of his fishing boats or his premises have ever been inspected by their officers, and if so when? And I’d like to know if any of his boats have been inspected at sea by the Royal Navy’s Fishery Protection Squad.’

‘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.