Horton winced inwardly. Vice squad tactics maybe, but not exactly appropriate for CID or the major crime team. He rapidly revised his opinion of Dennings' ailments; his flushed and perspiring face was due to increased blood pressure not fever. From his days spent with Dennings on surveillance, Horton knew he had a short fuse, as well as a coarse manner, and he didn't exactly excel in communications skills. Dennings had a lot to learn about modern and efficient policing, as DCI Bliss would have called it, and Horton wasn't convinced he was going to be a willing pupil. Still, Uckfield was Dennings' boss and maybe he didn't mind how his new DI behaved. Horton caught Trueman's glance. The sergeant's face was impassive, but Horton detected a flicker of desperation in his eyes.
He peeled back the plastic wrapper on the sandwiches and examined them. Why did they have to smother everything in mayonnaise? It was if it had just been discovered as a cure for all ills. He guessed it was used to hide the taste. Through a mouthful he said, 'Does she know why Sherbourne came to Portsmouth?'
'No. He just said he'd be out for the day. She didn't even know he'd flown here. Can you believe that? The snotty-nosed cow is covering for her boss. He's probably giving her one.'
'You've spoken to her then.'
'Too right I have. Inspector Guilbert didn't seem bothered so I thought sod it. I don't know what they feed them on in Guernsey, but they're too bloody laid back for my liking. For Christ's sake, don't they understand we're dealing with a murder investigation?'
Oh, I bet you've gone down a treat, Horton thought, wondering how John Guilbert, an officer he respected, would take that. Dennings' attitude was enough to make anyone instantly clam up. There was a time to get tough and individuals to get tough with and this was neither. 'It's a small island, with a very low crime rate. Things are done differently there.'
Dennings snorted his scepticism. 'Yeah, and Brundall was killed here, so they'd better get their arses in gear and do things my way.'
Horton now understood Trueman's glint of exasperation. He silenced the retort that bully-boy tactics wouldn't work. This kind of crime required using a brain, and although he'd always doubted Dennings had one, now he knew for certain that he didn't.
'What's Sherbourne's line of speciality — in law, that is?'
'Everything and anything according to Miss Snotty-Draws.'
Horton interpreted that as the secretary.
'You'd think the sun shone out of his backside,' Dennings continued. 'Mr Nigel Sherbourne can do anything except walk on water with a carrot stuck up his arse.'
Horton ignored Dennings' crudity. 'And 'anything' is?' This was getting to be like extracting evidence from a reluctant witness.
'Business, property, divorce, wills, you name it, Mr bloody Sherbourne can do it. He's been Brundall's lawyer for as long as the secretary can remember. At least for the thirteen years she's been there. She clammed up then tight as a nun's knees — wouldn't say any more except that Brundall was a very wealthy man. Guernsey police haven't found a will but they're hoping that Sherbourne's office has a copy. I mean, hoping! Can you credit it! By the time they get round to checking, our killer will have spent the bloody money.'
'You think someone killed him because he changed his will?'
'Why not? He was dying of cancer.'
'If Brundall made a new will at the marina then someone would have needed to witness it, so why didn't Brundall ask the taxi driver to do it?'
'Perhaps the cab driver forgot to mention it to you.'
'I don't think so.' Not Peter Kingston. He'd have been bursting with the news. 'Did Sherbourne give his secretary anything to type up this morning?'
'Not from his visit to Brundall, so she says,' Dennings said disbelievingly. 'He was in a meeting when she arrived at the office this morning and then he went straight out to this client. There was no tape left on her desk or in her in-tray.'
So Sherbourne must still have whatever it was on him, or perhaps there weren't any papers, or tape, and the meeting had been simply a discussion between the two men. It was useless to speculate without the facts.
'Have we got anything more on Brundall?' Horton asked, finishing his sandwiches and tossing the packet in the bin.
'We know that he moved to Guernsey in 1980.'
'From?'
Dennings beckoned to DC Jake Marsden, who scrambled up from his desk and hurried across to them. Horton wondered how Marsden was taking to working under his new boss DI Dennings.
'Portsmouth, sir.' Marsden said.
Horton hadn't expected that, though maybe he should have done. 'He was coming back to his roots then,' he murmured thoughtfully.
Marsden nodded. 'Born 1942, the only child of Rose Almay and Eric Brundall.'
So no brothers or sisters, nieces or nephews which ruled out a whole line of possible heirs if Brundall had intended writing or changing his will and been killed because of it.
'Eric was a fisherman and Rose a machinist in Vollers,' Marsden told him, 'A lingerie factory, which has now closed down. They married in 1941. Rose died in 1956 and Eric in 1975. They lived in Cranleigh Road after the war until 1975.'
Horton knew that to be a street of narrowed terraced houses, two-up, two-down and, when first built, with a toilet in the backyard. Brundall had come far since his childhood then: living in Guernsey, being photographed with bankers and owning an expensive motorboat.
Marsden went on. 'There aren't any Brundalls or Almays listed in the telephone directory, so it doesn't look like there are any cousins either. I'm still waiting for information on Brundall's employment record.'
'And his medical records?' Horton asked.
Dennings answered. 'Inspector Guilbert's applied for a warrant to gain access to them, but of course Brundall's GP has already confirmed that he had cancer. But that's all he would say.'
Trueman said, 'DNA is being matched and the police are searching the house now for a list of his contacts.'
Horton interpreted what Trueman had left unsaid: we can't go any faster no matter how much Dennings wants to steamroller events.
Trueman added, 'The forensic team are still working on the boat but they confirm Maidment's report that the gas cooker pipe was loosened. It could have happened during the fire, but they don't think so. They can't be one hundred per cent certain though because of the damage to the boat.'
Horton said, 'And that won't look very good as evidence when we take it to court, which is exactly what our killer wanted.'
Trueman nodded his agreement. 'It's as we thought: the build up of gas was ignited by a match or lighter. No evidence of any accelerant.'
Dennings chipped in, 'So Brundall could have lit the gas himself and caused the explosion.'
'Which is what any defence would claim. Our only evidence that it was murder comes from Dr Clayton, and that bang on Brundall's head,' Horton declared.
'And some smart-arse barrister could make that look like an accident,' Dennings rejoined.
Horton agreed. 'Gas can slowly seep out without being detected for some days. It's possible the pipe could have been loosened in Guernsey.'
Horton watched the thoughts chase themselves across Dennings' face until finally he caught the drift.
'You're saying the killer could have followed Brundall to Portsmouth?'
'Maybe our killer didn't want Brundall's death on his own doorstep.'
Dennings frowned with thought. 'Brundall might have been involved in some shady financial deal. He could have been financing drugs or arms, or even pornography.'
Horton thought it was possible, though they had no evidence to point that way. 'Maybe our killer didn't know that Brundall was already dying of cancer. Brundall could have started a business deal in Guernsey but it hadn't been concluded until after he'd left so he had to summon his solicitor.'
'Wouldn't he have stayed to see it through?' ventured Marsden.
'This is a man who didn't have time on his side. Or perhaps he wanted to see his home town one more time
