Suffocating Sea (9 page)

‘Sergeant,’ Uckfield bellowed.

Trueman was less than a foot behind him.

‘I want the passenger lists of all the flights from Southampton to Guernsey on Thursday morning. And you’d better check out flights from the other airports too, especially any flights that went late Wednesday evening.’ The door opened. ‘Inspector Dennings, what took you so bloody long?’

‘I got—’

‘Never mind. Trueman, as soon as you get that passenger list relay it to Inspector Dennings; he’ll be in Guernsey by then. Then I want you, Dennings; with the help of the Guernsey police, to go through it like it’s that racing paper you study so keenly. Check out all the runners. I want to know if there is anyone on that list who knows or knew Sherbourne or Brundall, and their exact movements from Sunday night until last night.’

Dennings looked puzzled and with an irritated frown Uckfield quickly relayed Horton’s theory, after which Horton said, ‘Of course it could be two killers and our pyromaniac here told his pyromaniac friend over there about Sherbourne’s visit.’

Uckfield spun round to face Horton. ‘In that case, you’d better start finding me some leads here.’ To Dennings, he said,

‘Get going if you’re to catch the—’

‘08:25 flight,’ interjected Trueman, obviously keen to push Dennings on to the earliest possible flight and volunteer to carry his luggage for him. ‘Otherwise you’ll have to wait for the 11:10.’

‘And that’s too bloody late.’ Uckfield snatched a glance at his watch. ‘Get a car to take you there. Blue lights all the way if necessary.’

Horton was glad to get Neanderthal Man out of the way, and Trueman, breaking with his usual habit of remaining implacable in the face of panic, bollockings and briefings, looked as if he’d received an early Christmas present.

Horton was surprised to find both Walters and Cantelli in the CID office. He could tell by Cantelli’s cheerful expression that it was good news and felt overwhelmingly relieved.

‘Recovered from your flu?’ Horton addressed Walters.

‘It wasn’t flu, just an iffy stomach. Couldn’t get off the toilet.’

‘It’s all those curries you eat.’

‘I don’t like curry,’ protested Walters.

‘Well, now that you’re back, pick up where you left off on the tourist mugging. Did you get copies of the CCTV tapes?’

‘No.’

‘Well get them, scrutinize them and ask around the local shopkeepers in Queen Street, see if you can pick up some clue as to where our muggers are before DCI Bliss has a coro-nary. Cantelli, you’re coming with me. How’s your dad?’

Horton asked as they swept out of the station, thankfully making it before DCI Bliss could grab them.

‘He’s chatting up the nurses, so he must be feeling better,’

Cantelli said brightly. ‘They reckon he’ll be home for Christmas.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Horsea Marina. I’ll fill you in on the way.’

By the time Cantelli pulled up in front of the pontoon where Brundall’s boat had been moored Horton had brought him up to speed with the case, but not about his visit to the vicarage and the words on the Reverend Gilmore’s blotter. In the chill grey morning, Horton stared across the calm surface of the marina. Opposite he could see the modern houses and apartments, to his right the boardwalk of shops, restaurants and pubs, and to his left rows of boats on blocks and the boat-moving crane. He had come here, as he had yesterday, hoping to find inspiration, but this time with those words on Gilmore’s blotter imprinted on his brain. Though they couldn’t have anything to do with the Brundall case, he felt that they had nudged something in his subconscious that was telling him there was something here they had all missed.

‘OK,’ he said, chaffing his hands in the cold morning air, ‘let’s go over the facts. Brundall arrives here on Monday. He takes a vacant berth. What was the weather like on Monday?’

‘It started raining in the evening. I had to pick Sadie up from Guides.’

‘Brundall is a sick man. He’d probably had a long day motoring across from Guernsey—’

‘How long would it have taken him?’ Cantelli unravelled a fresh piece of gum and offered the packet to Horton, who shook his head.

‘In that boat, with its powerful engine, and the weather fair, I’d say between three to four hours.’

Cantelli looked surprised. ‘That quick?’

In
Nutmeg
it would take me for ever, Horton thought, though he had done it several times with Catherine and Emma on his father-in-law’s yacht.

He continued. ‘Let’s say Brundall came here with a purpose.

He was a dying man yet he’d made a special effort. Why?’

‘He wanted to see someone for the last time?’

‘He’s got no relatives that we can find.’

‘He had unfinished business here?’

‘Like what?’

Cantelli shrugged. ‘Maybe he just wanted one last look at his hometown, or perhaps he came to visit his parents’ grave.’

Horton spun round. That was it, of course! Why hadn’t he made the connection when Marsden had mentioned the parents were dead? He said, ‘If he did then how did he get around?

He’d hardly have taken a bus, too awkward to get into the city from here, and he was ill and wealthy.’

‘He called a taxi or maybe—’

‘He hired a car,’ Horton finished, excited. ‘
And
he would have driven that car back here.’ He scanned the car park. ‘It will be parked near this pontoon, and it would have been here on Wednesday when we attended the fire, which leaves . . .’

Horton’s eyes fell on a dark blue Ford. ‘That one.’ He hurried across to it and peered in at the driver’s window, but there was nothing to see.

Cantelli was already calling in the registration number.

Horton was annoyed; he should have thought of this earlier.

They had a team of officers out here and a mobile incident suite and yet nobody had picked up on this. He didn’t think the vehicle itself would yield anything but they might get some sightings of it and Brundall, between Monday and Wednesday evening.

Cantelli rang off. ‘It’s registered in the name of Go Far Car Hire in Buckingham Street. It hasn’t been picked up for any speeding offence.’

‘Call them and ask if they hired the car to Brundall, and if so get Walters over there quickly. Tell him to bring someone from the company here right away with a set of keys. And phone Marsden and ask him to track down where Brundall’s parents are buried.’

Horton walked down to the pontoon and gazed across the water to where Brundall’s boat had been moored. He shuddered as the memory of that foggy night returned to haunt him. Once again he saw that charred body and felt a strong sense of foreboding. The wind stirred, rattling through the halyards for a moment, and then died down. If he had believed in ghosts he would have said that Brundall’s was haunting him. But he didn’t believe. And yet he felt something that he couldn’t explain. A medium would call it a presence. But he wasn’t any medium. He was a policeman. Facts were his stock in trade and yet . . .

Cantelli said, ‘Brundall hired it all right. Walters is on his way there now.’

Horton glanced at his watch. It was almost ten thirty.

Dennings would be in Guernsey talking to Inspector Guilbert.

Cantelli said, ‘Is there anything wrong, Andy?’

Horton regarded him keenly. There was only concern in the sergeant’s dark eyes. ‘Apart from a murder, you mean?’

‘You look . . . worried.’

‘I’m fine,’ Horton said, perhaps too sharply because Cantelli gave a slight lift of his eyebrows, but knew better than to push it. ‘Have you called the hospital?’ Horton asked to distract him.

‘No. I’ll do it now while we’re waiting.’

‘I’ll call into the mobile incident suite.’ Horton strode across the car park towards a large Portakabin facing the multiplex cinema complex. He spent a few minutes talking to the officer in charge and flicking through the reports but again no one reported having seen Brundall, and he hadn’t visited any of the pubs or restaurants. Neither had he eaten at the yacht club. He must have brought supplies with him.

Horton reckoned a dying man wouldn’t have fancied much to eat anyway.

By the time he returned to the car, Cantelli was just coming off the phone. His dark face was puckered with concern and Horton was fearful the old man might have had a relapse.

‘Marie’s with Dad,’ Cantelli said. ‘I managed to text her and she stepped outside and called me back. He’s not too bad, she says, though it seems strange to see him in bed and in-active. You know my dad – he’s usually a bundle of energy.

She’ll have a word with the consultant when he does his rounds. Isabella and Tony are at work, the cafés don’t run themselves, and Charlotte said she’d go in later this morning and take Mum. Charlotte will stay until she has to pick the twins up from school. I said I’d get up after work.’

Horton could see he was torn between wanting to be there all the time and being at work. He said, ‘I’m sure they’re looking after him, Barney.’

‘Yeah. You just feel so bloody helpless.’

A car swept into the car park and drew up beside them.

In the passenger seat next to Walters was a slim man in his thirties with gelled hair. Walters introduced him as Darren Trenchard.

‘He booked it for a week,’ Trenchard said in answer to Horton’s enquiry. Horton was surprised that Brundall had planned to stay that long, though there was no reason why he shouldn’t do so.

‘Could I have the keys, Mr Trenchard?’

Trenchard handed them across. Horton donned a pair of latex gloves, which he retrieved from his jacket pocket and zapped the car open. He walked around to the passenger side and flipped open the glove compartment. Inside was the paperwork relating to the car and nothing else. The boot yielded only the spare wheel and some tools.

‘Take a look at the mileage for me,’ Horton said to Trenchard.

‘Can you say how many miles your client has done?’

The man peered inside and then glanced at a copy of the agreement he’d brought with him. ‘Forty-three.’

‘And he hired it when?’

Another glance at the paperwork and Trenchard replied,

‘Tuesday morning, midday.’

Forty-three miles meant Brundall must have stayed fairly local. There was no satellite navigation on the car so no record of where he had gone.

‘Did Mr Brundall say anything to you when he hired the car?’

‘Like what?’ The man looked bewildered.

‘Where he was going? What he needed a car for? Nice weather? Anything?’

‘No, just that he wanted something basic and comfortable.’

‘Did he collect it from your premises?’

‘No. He called us and asked if we would deliver it and said he would do all the paperwork then.’

‘Is that usual?’

‘It happens, especially when people come here on their boats from abroad.’

He must have called from the public phone box near the cinema complex and perhaps that was where he had also summoned Sherbourne. Why hadn’t anyone seen him do so then?

‘Did he tell you where he had come from?’ Horton asked.

‘No. I checked his passport as a means of identification. It said he was British. He’s that man that got killed on his boat, isn’t he? Was he a drug runner?’ Trenchard’s eyes lit up.

‘You’ve been watching too much television. Are your cars cleaned before they’re hired out?’

‘Oh yes, inside and out.’

‘Good. We’ll need to take it away for examination. If it’s all right you’ll probably get it back cleaner than when you hired it. We’ll give you a receipt.’ He nodded at Walters to do the honours and drew Cantelli out of earshot. Horton hoped that the forensic team might be able to tell them something about where the car had travelled by the dust and mud in the tyre treads or under the wheel arches.

Cantelli said, ‘We might get sight of Brundall on the CCTV cameras around the city.’

Horton wondered if Dennings would have thought of that if he’d been here and doubted it. Why hadn’t Cantelli gone for promotion? He was far brighter than Dennings. But Horton already knew the answer to that question and he envied Cantelli. The sergeant was content with where he was and with what he had, and that, thought Horton, was a great gift.

‘I’ll ask Uckfield to make another statement to the press and get out a picture of this car.’

Horton left Walters to wait until the police vehicle recovery truck arrived and then to drop Darren back to Buckingham Street. His phone rang as Cantelli turned on to the motorway heading back to the station. It was Trueman.

‘There are a couple of possible sightings of Brundall that look hopeful in response to the superintendent’s statement to the press yesterday. A woman who was walking her dog on Portsdown Hill on Tuesday remembers speaking to a man who fits the description. It was just after midday.’

If it was Brundall then he must have driven straight there from hiring the car: it was only a few miles away and from Portsdown Hill, Brundall would have seen the city spread out beneath him. It was a spectacular and breathtaking view and might well have been the first place a man returning to his hometown would have visited; either there or the sea front.

‘And the other sighting?’ he asked.

‘St Agnes’s Church, Portsea, on the same afternoon.’

Horton started in surprise.
Horsea Marina
, the words on Reverend Gilmore’s blotter. Could Brundall have known Reverend Gilmore? How? Had he once been a member of St Agnes’s congregation or was there more to it than that? He felt his spine tingling not only with excitement but with a faint feeling of uneasiness and apprehension that he didn’t much care for. Was it some kind of intuition that had told him he should have taken that piece of blotting paper when he’d left the vicarage? And wasn’t it those two words that had driven him back here today to discover the hire car?

He got the details before ringing off. ‘I’ll talk to the parishioner,’ he said to Cantelli, ‘you tackle the woman with the dog.’

Cantelli pulled a face. Horton knew that Cantelli was about as good with dogs as he was on the sea.

‘Why don’t I take the parishioner and you take the woman with the dog?’ suggested Cantelli hopefully.