Suffocating Sea (30 page)

‘Not yet.’
But I will
.

He told Guilbert about Sebastian’s death and his theory of the relative seeking revenge.

Guilbert said, ‘Right, I’ll start looking into Jacobs’ death and re-interview Newton to see if I can get anything further from him. Keep me posted.’

‘Likewise.’

Horton stuffed the file on Jennifer into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and hurried along to the incident room as Trueman came off the phone.

‘I was just trying to get you. Marsden’s found a link between Anne Schofield and Rowland Gilmore. They attended the same seminar in 1996. He’s finding out if their acquaintance developed after that. And I’ve got some news about Peter Croxton.’

‘Never mind about him,’ Horton said excitedly, crossing to the crime board and staring again at the photograph of Brundall.

Of course, he could now see clearly the line of Brundall’s vision and it wasn’t into camera. Lynmor had discovered the fishermen’s secret, and had to be killed. Jacobs was murdered because Lynmor might have told him that secret. Taking up a pen Horton began to write the information Guilbert had given him on to the board saying, ‘I think I’ve got an ID on the skeleton. He’s—’

‘Andy, I think you’ll want to know about Croxton.’

Horton paused in mid scribble and turned. The intonation in Trueman’s voice told him this was vital information.

Trueman said, ‘Croxton doesn’t exist. At least not the one who was involved in that marine incident. None of the Peter Croxtons alive or dead matches the age profile of the rescued yachtsman and neither has a Peter Croxton ever lived at that address in Guildford. He gave the coastguards a false name.’

Horton stared at Trueman, his mind racing with this new information. Croxton had disappeared quickly after the incident and hadn’t shown for Warwick’s funeral. Why? Because he didn’t want anyone nosing into his business, or discovering who he really was. So was Warwick’s death an accident or had Croxton and the others killed him and now Croxton, or whatever his real name was, had finally silenced the last of those who knew his identity: Sebastian Gilmore. Correction, the last but one. There was him. But he had no idea who Croxton really was. And how the devil were they going to find Croxton? The trail was as cold as that freezer he’d found Sebastian in.

‘We’d better see if we can track down any of the coastguards who rescued Croxton to get a description,’ Horton said, not very hopeful. He didn’t blame Trueman for looking at him incredulously.

‘Inspector,’ a voice hailed Horton, ‘Sergeant Cantelli’s on the phone for you.’

Horton took the receiver, but before speaking into it said to Trueman, ‘Also see if you can find a missing persons report for a David Lynmor. I believe he’s the skeleton in the air-raid shelter. He was a journalist. Yes?’

‘I think we’ve got something on the CCTV recordings that might just interest you,’ Cantelli said.

Twenty-One

‘It was Walters who spotted it,’ Cantelli said.

Horton hid his surprise. ‘Glad to know you’ve earned your keep at last.’

Walters bit into his Mars Bar as Cantelli said, ‘This is the recording from yesterday evening at seven twenty-five.

Sebastian is seen walking into the warehouse. It’s taken from the camera in the yard. Nobody goes in after him but someone comes out half an hour later. See here.’ Cantelli pointed at the screen and Horton was looking at a short, square-set man, wearing a cap pushed low over his head. He frowned, puzzled.

Could this be Sebastian Gilmore’s killer, Croxton or whatever his blessed name was, or was it a relative of their skeleton?

‘Who goes into the warehouse before Sebastian?’

‘Apart from the usual staff, Selina Gilmore and Janice Hassingham.’

And there was no reason why they shouldn’t be there.

‘I recognized Janice Hassingham,’ Walters piped up, having finished his chocolate bar. ‘She’s on one of the recordings I checked earlier when I was looking for the muggers. She’s walking up Queens Street.’

‘She lives there, Walters.’ Then Horton added sharply, ‘That was Wednesday. What time?’

‘About half past five.’

‘That’s early for a woman who usually works late at this time of the year, preparing the accounts,’ Horton said thoughtfully.

‘She could have had an appointment,’ suggested Cantelli.

‘Or decided to go Christmas shopping at Oyster Quays.’

Or she could have left early to go to a Cathedral service.

There was nothing suspicious in her being in Queens Street, but he said, ‘Get the recording, Walters, and check the exact time.’

Walters pulled himself up and crossed to his desk where he burrowed under his paperwork to find it. Turning to Cantelli, Horton said, ‘Is she on the recording leaving her office at eight last night?’

Cantelli fast-forwarded it. ‘There she is.’ He pointed to a figure in a long raincoat heading towards the gates. Horton stared at her, feeling he’d just seen something important but couldn’t place what it was. Sebastian’s car was parked in front of the building.

Walters called out, ‘Got it, guv.’ He inserted the DVD into the disk drive on his computer, adding, ‘I’m sure it’s her. You can’t mistake that coat, though you can’t quite see her features even if I were to enhance it because of that bloody stupid hat.

But there’s a better shot later.’

‘Hat!’ Horton felt a bolt of excitement shoot through him.

That was it. He was beside Walters in a trice. ‘Hurry up, man.’

Impatiently, Horton waited and finally Janice Hassingham came into view. Horton stood back from the screen with a smile. ‘Recognize her, Cantelli?’

‘Eh?’

Horton saw it was an effort for Cantelli to bring himself back to the case. ‘She was at Horsea Marina the night Brundall was killed – the woman in the flowerpot-shaped hat. Janice Hassingham was there.’

‘Perhaps she went for a meal,’ Cantelli posed.

Horton scoffed. ‘A likely story!’

‘It’s one she could tell though.’

Cantelli was right and Horton couldn’t see her killing the man she had loved, or bashing Anne Schofield on the head and setting fire to her. Nor was she the person who had tried to kill him on his boat. She wasn’t tall enough. She couldn’t have killed Sherbourne either. Apart from the fact that she had to get to Guernsey, she wouldn’t have been strong enough to lift a dead body and dump it in Sherbourne’s office. But he was very curious to know why she had been at Horsea Marina the night of the fire and why she hadn’t thought to mention it. His instinct was screaming at him that she knew something about these murders and he was going to determine what.

His phone was ringing. Heading for it, Horton tossed over his shoulder, ‘Get her full address, Walters. Ask Seaton for it, he’s at the scene of crime – but don’t say why we want it.’

‘I’ve got your missing man,’ Trueman announced. ‘David Lynmor, aged thirty-four, five feet eleven. He was a freelance journalist. His wife reported him missing on fifth of September 1998. She emigrated to Canada in 2004. There’s a son.’

Horton had been right. This was their skeleton and he’d probably been killed by Brundall and the Gilmores and even this Peter Croxton. He gave a silent crow of victory. Maybe his revengeful relative theory was right after all.

‘How old is the son?’

‘Born in 1996.’

Horton felt the bitter taste of disappointment. The killer couldn’t be a vengeful son then. ‘Any other relatives?’ he asked hopefully. Maybe Lynmor’s brother had come seeking revenge and he was the man seen leaving Sebastian’s warehouse last night.

‘I haven’t got the complete file, but there’s none mentioned in the online report.’

Horton wasn’t going to give up on that idea yet. ‘Get the full details, Trueman, and ask the Canadian police to contact Lynmor’s wife.’
Should he now say widow?
‘We’ll be able to match DNA from the son to confirm it really is Lynmor.’

He put down the receiver and was about to call Uckfield when his mobile rang. He hoped it would be Frances Greywell but it was Charlotte Cantelli and she sounded worried.

‘It’s Barney . . .’

Horton peered through his blinds to see Cantelli hunched over his desk staring at the computer screen but Horton could tell that he wasn’t really seeing it. He looked thinner, older and incredibly tired. He pushed his door to.

‘Andy, I . . .’ Her voice broke and she took a deep breath before continuing. ‘I can’t reach him. He’s pushing me away.

He won’t even talk to his brother and sisters. He’s gone into work because he didn’t want to see them. We’re all meeting up in half an hour’s time to . . . you know, talk about Toni and sort out the funeral arrangements. I thought Barney would change his mind and come home. I know it will help him to start grieving, Andy. I thought you might . . . I know how much he admires and trusts you. Can you persuade him to come home?’

‘Leave it with me, Charlotte. I’ll get him there, even if I have to strap him to the back of the Harley.’

Horton beckoned to Cantelli to come into his office. Cantelli sat with a weariness that was far more than fatigue. It was as though the life had been sucked out of him leaving him a hulk of bones and flesh. His dark eyes had sunk further into their sockets. Horton knew that just telling Barney to go home wouldn’t work. With Charlotte’s sorrowful voice ringing in his ears, Horton swiftly brought Cantelli up to date with what Trueman had said about David Lynmor and Peter Croxton and explained his theories, ending with, ‘So either Croxton is our killer, wiping out the witnesses to the murder of Warwick and the link with drug smuggling, or it’s a relative of the journalist, David Lynmor, seeking revenge for his death. I think the former, because of his attempts to kill me, I can’t see a relative of Lynmor’s doing that, which means if Croxton believes I’ve somehow got some information on how my mother was involved with them then I’m next on the hit list.’

He could see that his final words had pierced Cantelli’s veil of sorrow.

‘Take some leave, go away until—’

‘What? They catch Croxton? I might be on leave a long time. No, Barney, I’m not running away. I tried it several times when I was in those God awful kids’ homes, until I finally realized that running away got me nowhere. I was still bloody lonely. I’ve also tried to push the past away, but it’s returned with a vengeance. I can’t run away any more and neither can you. Don’t look so surprised, you know what I mean. You can’t bury yourself in work, trying to pretend that you can cope with your loss. I know that’s a bit like the pot calling the kettle black, me saying that, but believe me it doesn’t work. I’ve had years of it. Your family needs you and you need them. You must grieve, not bottle things up, talk about Toni, mourn together and celebrate his life.’

‘I just thought being here . . . I can’t . . .’

Horton sat forward and said softly but firmly, ‘It’s OK, Barney. Go home.’

After a moment, Cantelli pulled himself up and nodded sadly. Horton watched him go with a heavy heart. He needed a breath of fresh air. He said to Walters, ‘I’m going to talk to Janet Hassingham.’

‘Well, she’s not at Gilmore’s. Seaton said she left there an hour ago, but he gave me the number of her apartment.’

‘Did she say where she was going?’

‘Home. She couldn’t work with all the distraction.’

And that suited Horton fine, he thought, hurrying out of the station. As he made for Admiralty Towers he wondered if he should tell Uckfield or Dennings, but the thought of his mother made him hold back.

It was two thirty when he pulled into the car park at the back of the building and before he could climb off the Harley the rear door opened and Janice stepped out. From where he was parked he didn’t think she could see him; she certainly gave no indication of it as she made for a small silver car in one of the bays. He froze as his copper’s nose told him something wasn’t right. In her left hand she was carrying a large briefcase, which looked as though it contained a laptop computer, and in her right she was wheeling a suitcase. Was she going away for the Christmas holidays? It was possible.

Why then did Horton get the feeling that she was
running
away? Was that just his overripe imagination?

He thought about the sighting of her on the CCTV recording the night Rowland Gilmore had died and her appearance at Horsea Marina when Tom Brundall’s boat had been set alight; had Janice Hassingham had a hand in their murders? She could have poisoned Rowland Gilmore and thrown a lighted match on to Brundall’s boat. He frowned. There was something bugging him and then with a shock he realized what it was. Both Janice and Selina had entered the warehouse before Sebastian, but when had they come out again? Damn, he should have asked. It was a glaring oversight on his part. His head was too full of theories. If Cantelli had been firing on all cylinders he would have asked. There was no time to call in now because Janice was pulling out of the car park. Horton followed at a discreet distance. He was surprised when she turned right into Queens Street and headed towards the harbour, rather than left and out of the city.

Just past Oyster Quays she indicated right and after a short distance swung into the Wightlink Ferry car park. He pulled up on the opposite side of the road as she spoke to the man on the gate who directed her into one of the many already packed boarding lanes. She wouldn’t get far on the Isle of Wight, he thought, unless she had a private aeroplane waiting for her at Bembridge or Sandown Airport to take her on some-

where. Or perhaps she was going to meet Croxton on a boat in one of the marinas there. That would certainly fit with his theory about Brundall and Sherbourne’s killer travelling back and forth to Guernsey by boat. Maybe she was just spending the Christmas holiday on the Isle of Wight and he should let her go, but something told him he had to pursue her, even despite or perhaps because of a sense of excitement mixed with foreboding.

He craned his neck to see the electronic sign in front of the car park, which told him the next sailing was at three o’clock and it was already five minutes past three. The ferry was running late, probably because of the high winds and the sheer number of Christmas holiday passengers. He could see it now coming into the port and knew it had a twenty-minute turnaround time to unload and load cars.