Suffocating Sea (4 page)

‘Guernsey has called to confirm that a Tom Brundall is a resident there and that he owns a boat called
Enterprise.
He kept it in St Peter Port Marina.’

So Brundall existed, and owned the boat that had gone up in flames. It was a step forward, but it didn’t necessarily mean that Brundall was their burnt offering.

‘There’s no previous on him,’ Cantelli continued, ‘but Guernsey is checking out what he did for a living. The marina manager says Brundall left St Peter Port on Monday morning but didn’t tell them when he would be back. There’s no answer at his home and the Guernsey police can’t locate any relatives. Apparently Brundall lived in a ruddy great mansion near a place called Petit Bot Bay. Did I pronounce that right?’

‘Near enough. It’s on the south coast of Guernsey.’ Horton recalled it well. He’d moored not far from there in nearby Portelet a couple of times, with Catherine and Emma, on Catherine’s father’s yacht in the days that now seemed just a distant memory. ‘What about a photograph?’ Horton asked.

It wouldn’t help with any identification but it could be used for the all-ports alert. Though he no longer thought that was necessary, as everything was pointing to the fact that their body was Tom Brundall.

‘They haven’t found any inside his house.’

Unusual but not necessarily suspicious. Irritating nevertheless. More delays. It couldn’t be helped, but Horton felt uneasy, as though there was an underlying urgency to this case. He pushed away the edge of his premonition as it threatened once again to rear its ugly head.

‘You’d better shoot off home, Barney. There’s not much point in us both hanging around. I doubt we’ll get more tonight.

I’ll wait for Dr Clayton’s initial report. Sorry you’ve had to work late.’

‘Don’t be. It saved me from late night Christmas shopping with Charlotte,’ Cantelli replied, pulling a face.

That reminded Horton he needed to make some time to go shopping himself, though he had no idea what Emma wanted for Christmas. He would have to ask Charlotte; with four daughters he was sure Cantelli’s wife would be able to help.

Horton loitered about the incident room occasionally glancing at the clock. He wrote the information that Cantelli had given him on to the crime board. He didn’t need to stay because Dr Clayton could call him on his mobile, if she couldn’t reach him at the station, but unlike Cantelli, Horton didn’t have anything to go home too, and it was warmer in the police station than on his boat.

How could he take his eight-year-old daughter to a tiny, freezing-cold boat? Simple answer – he couldn’t. But where could he take her? The pantomime? The zoo? The shops? He didn’t fancy any of them but it was Emma’s treat. And that was another thing that bugged him, he thought, gazing out of the window at the foggy night: he didn’t want to be the kind of father who only gave his child treats like some benevolent uncle. He wanted to be a proper father. He’d missed out on having one himself and he was damn sure that Emma wasn’t going to. He wanted to make a home for her; somewhere she could stay, and bring her friends, which ruled out his boat.

He fetched a coffee from the machine in the corner of the room and turned his mind back to the case. What had the man in the dark suit to do with the victim? Why had he visited the victim? Who was he? Why had Brundall come to Portsmouth? All questions and no answers, not yet, but he’d get them. No, correction, DI Dennings would.

‘Inspector, call for you. Dr Clayton.’

At last!

‘He was alive when the fire broke out,’ Gaye said peremp-torily. ‘I found carbon monoxide in his blood and fine particles of soot in his lungs. It’s my belief he was struck forcibly. His skull is fractured and there is inflammation near the injury and blistering which contains proteins.’

Horton’s heart quickened. ‘We’re definitely looking at murder then.’

‘Yes. And I can confirm by the size and shape of the wound that he was hit with something smallish and round, as I said before, possibly a hammer.’

And Horton doubted they’d find that.

Gaye continued, her voice solemn. Horton heard the weariness in it. ‘There is something else. He had cancer. He was riddled with it; it was in his spine and in the tissue I found in his skull. He hadn’t got long to live.’

Then why come all the way across the Channel to Portsmouth? Was it a journey of nostalgia? Had he come to see someone for the last time? Did he have some unfinished business to attend to? Or had he just wanted to get away?

Perhaps he had hoped to die at sea, but then that still didn’t answer why he ended up in Horsea Marina.

‘Could a woman have struck him?’

‘With his being weakened by his illness it wouldn’t have needed a lot of strength. Yes, a woman could have done it especially if he was crouching down or bending over when he was struck.’

‘Any joy with his fingerprints?’ Horton asked hopefully.

‘Not enough skin left on the fingers, so you’ll have to wait for DNA. I’ll let you have the full report tomorrow. I’m off to bed now. I’m bushed.’

Horton didn’t know how she could sleep after dissecting that corpse, but then that was her job. She had obviously perfected a technique of mentally switching off, much as he’d had to learn over the last eighteen years in the police force.

Only he knew it didn’t always work – he doubted it would tonight.

He could call Uckfield to tell him about the post-mortem but then decided it would be better to discuss this with him face to face. The duty sergeant gave him the location of the superintendent’s charity function and half an hour later Horton was turning into the crowded car park of the Marriott Hotel on the edge of the city.

He consulted the function board in reception and saw that Uckfield’s dinner and dance was located in the main banqueting suite. He had hardly gone a few paces though when he spotted Uckfield sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with a broad-set balding man in his late forties whom Horton instantly recognized as Edward Shawford, his estranged wife’s boyfriend.

Horton stiffened. If Shawford was here then Catherine must be too. Alison Uckfield and Catherine were close friends, and Horton guessed they’d come as a foursome. If it hadn’t been for Operation Extra and those accusations of rape he would have been in this party instead of bloody Edward Shawford.

But that was all in the past. And Jesus did it still hurt! And there was him thinking he was moving on!

So who was looking after Emma, he wondered, making his way towards the bar? His in-laws? He felt a stab of envy swiftly followed by anger that others were allowed to take care of his daughter and not her father.

Uckfield looked up and caught Horton’s eye. He started with surprise, then frowned and hauled himself off the bar stool. Horton watched as Shawford followed Uckfield’s gaze.

He caught the look of fear in the man’s eyes and drew immense satisfaction from it. He should be afraid, Horton thought, recalling how he’d once come close to beating him to a pulp.

‘We’ve had the results of the PM,’ Horton said tersely. He was damned if he was going to address Uckfield by his rank, especially in front of Shawford.

‘I’d better be going,’ Shawford mumbled and scuttled away like a startled crab.

Horton despised him even more than he thought he possibly could.

Uckfield drew Horton away from the bar and the proximity of the banqueting suite.

‘Don’t I even get offered a drink, Steve?’ Horton couldn’t resist saying. He’d been off alcohol for three months but a soft drink might have been welcomed.

‘You could have telephoned me,’ hissed Uckfield with a glance at the banqueting suite doors, which at that moment opened and let escape a blast of music.

Horton could see Uckfield was a little tight. He relayed the information that Dr Clayton had given him and brought Uckfield up to date with Guernsey’s findings, finishing with Trueman’s news that he’d located the taxi company that had taken the visitor to Brundall. ‘DI Dennings can talk to them in the morning.’

Uckfield said, ‘I’d like you to stick with it, Andy, for tomorrow at least.’

The function room doors burst open again and this time Horton saw Alison Uckfield tumble out laughing. Beside her, in a short midnight blue dress, was Catherine. Horton caught his breath and hardened his heart. Her eyes fell on him and the smile instantly vanished from her face. Alison Uckfield glanced at her husband like a frightened child and it made Horton wonder what Uckfield had said about him, or perhaps it was Catherine who had spread evil tales. Fury surged through him, which he controlled, calling on the techniques that he’d perfected over the years spent in children’s homes.

‘What are you doing here?’ Catherine demanded, hurrying towards him.

Uckfield answered. ‘He’s on duty.’

‘I’m not actually, but I am on a case,’ Horton corrected. He held Catherine’s icy cold stare and told himself it didn’t matter, but he felt a hard knot of pain inside his stomach.

Alison Uckfield’s pale-skinned face puckered up with concern as she said, ‘This doesn’t mean you’ve got to leave, does it, Steve?’

Fat lot of good Uckfield would be.

Horton said, ‘There’s not much that can be done tonight, Alison.’

She looked startled at being addressed in so familiar a manner, and dashed a look at her husband, but Horton was buggered if he was going to stand on ceremony with a woman he had danced and laughed with, seen drunk, and kissed.

Taking his wife’s arm and with a backward glance at Horton, Uckfield said, ‘I’ll clear it with Chief Superintendent Chievely tomorrow. You’re on the case.’

Horton turned to Catherine. ‘How’s Emma?’

‘Looking forward to seeing you on Christmas Eve. Don’t disappoint her, Andy.’

Horton forced himself to remain calm, though he was thinking how dare she say that when he had never disappointed his daughter in her life. ‘Who’s looking after her tonight?’

She hesitated. Her eyes flickered to the function room. He knew instantly why.

‘Your mother and father are here too.’

‘Yes. I’ve got a babysitter.’

‘Who?’ His stomach clenched at the thought of Emma being abandoned to a stranger.

‘A girl from the village called Michelle. She’s highly reliable,’ Catherine replied defensively.

He had to trust her he told himself. No matter what Catherine did to him he knew she wouldn’t endanger Emma, but part of him was thinking that she could have stayed with him. Yet how could she on his boat? It was totally inadequate for a child. It was inadequate for him. And then there was his job.

He didn’t need to be here working at midnight, but how could he have got away by seven or eight o’clock, which was probably when Catherine had wanted to leave for her function?

Admitting defeat, he said, ‘Enjoy your evening,’ and walked away. It wasn’t until he had reached reception that he paused and turned back. Catherine had vanished but he caught sight of another familiar face and he felt a tiny flicker of jealousy inside him. Staring up at an elegantly dressed dark-haired man in his late thirties was Frances Greywell. She didn’t look as though she was going to protest either when he placed his arm across her naked shoulders.

Outside Horton breathed in the night air hoping to banish his acute sensation of isolation, but the fog was as suffocating as ever. He climbed on his Harley and rode home carefully and slowly. His route took him along the mist-shrouded seafront where the sound of the booming foghorns filled the air. There were young people milling around outside the nightclubs, and a police wagon was parked in front of the pier.

Later, when club land spewed its contents on to the pavements, there would be drunken young people and scantily clad girls everywhere. He wondered if this would be Emma’s fate.

God, he hoped not. He wanted to play a part in her upbringing, and he knew deep in his heart that it had to be more than just a once-a-week visit.

Would the sleek, sophisticated Frances get him what he wanted? Or did she think him a loser? Had she spoken to Catherine at that dinner and dance? If so, what kind of picture had his estranged wife painted of him? With something akin to despair he climbed on board
Nutmeg
and gazed around it: two bunks, a small stove and portable toilet. It wasn’t much to show for a lifetime’s slog.

He lay back in the darkness, resting his hands behind his head, trying to blot out that picture at the hotel, of people laughing and drinking, of Catherine and Edward Shawford.

It wasn’t that he enjoyed that sort of event himself; on the contrary he’d loathed those parties and dances. But he was expected to attend the police dinner and dance which always took place in January and was seen as a bonding exercise by higher brass between all the units and stations across Portsmouth. Who was he going to take this year? He had thought briefly about asking Frances, but now that idea was scuppered. Once again he felt like the outsider and memories of his childhood came flooding back, the child standing alone.

It churned his guts.

Mentally he pulled himself together. There was still work, and with an effort he turned his thoughts instead to that burnt body. There were many questions bothering him but one more than all the others stood out: why had someone wanted to kill a man who was already dying of cancer?

Three

Thursday: 7.45 a.m.

The question was still troubling him the next morning when he fetched a coffee from the machine and weaved his way through the crowded incident room. Of course, one answer had sprung to mind last night and that was perhaps the murderer didn’t
know
that Brundall had cancer.

Uckfield had mobilized the troops quicker than Horton had believed physically possible. But when you’re wining and dining with the chief constable anything was feasible, like his secondment to the major crime team, which Bliss had told him about that morning through gritted teeth. She said that Walters had called in sick (probably suffering from a hangover or an excess of sexual activity) and that Cantelli was to run the CID

office. But Bliss had added that she still expected Horton to oversee it, handle his paperwork, and make sure the mugging case was properly investigated. Some secondment, he thought cynically. Perhaps he should have eaten spinach for breakfast!