Horton sat back deep in thought. Something in their conversation had sparked an idea. Guilbert had said there had been no computer in Brundall's house, so how had he kept track of his investments, and how had he moved his money around?
Horton supposed he could have done it through his bank. Was that Russell Newton's bank? That wouldn't surprise Horton. Or maybe he had used a broker. And if so then Horton was sure that Guilbert would find out, but like he said it took time. However, Horton had another idea. He rang Joliffe in the forensic department and a few minutes later had the answer to his question.
There had been the burnt-out remains of a laptop computer on Brundall's boat, but any data from it was irretrievable, Joliffe said. He also confirmed there had been no sign of a mobile phone.
Horton relayed by phone a digest of the conversation he'd just had with Guilbert to Sergeant Trueman, asking him to pass it on to Uckfield. He felt anxious and impatient for answers, but it couldn't be hurried. Instead he delegated as many CID tasks as he could to uniformed officers and then made a Herculean effort to concentrate on DCI Bliss's new reporting method which seemed to be more akin to writing a revised edition of War and Peace only longer. He sincerely hoped that Walters would be back tomorrow. If not then he needed Bliss to give him some manpower, as this was getting beyond a joke. Not that it was ever funny in the first place. How the hell was he supposed to deal with a serious incident if one occurred with a non-existent team? This was modern policing. Invisible.
His phone rang. He expected it to be Bliss. It was the front desk.
'There's a Reverend Anne Schofield asking for you, Inspector.'
'In reception?' he answered tetchily.
'No, on the line, sir.'
Not another attack of vandalism or theft in the church! The name wasn't familiar. He didn't have time for this but there didn't seem to be anyone left to delegate to.
'Can't you put her through to Inspector Warren?' He was head of Territorial Operations and although Horton had already pinched some of his officers, he felt sure Warren would have a few more to spare somewhere.
'She insisted on speaking to you personally.'
'OK,' Horton said grudgingly.
'Inspector, forgive me troubling you,' came a clear voice with a Welsh accent, as soon as he announced himself, 'but are you Jennifer Horton's boy?'
Horton froze. It was the first time in years he had heard anyone speak his mother's name. The breath caught in his throat. His heart skipped a beat. Maybe he hadn't heard correctly.
'Hello,' the woman's voice came down the line to him. 'Are you there?'
'Why do you want to know?' he asked rather harshly.
'I don't mean to be rude,' she said nervously, catching his tone. 'But there is a reference to a Jennifer Horton in the late Reverend's Gilmore's papers.'
Who on earth was the Reverend Gilmore? What was she talking about?
'I guess I'm not making much sense,' she continued, interpreting his silence. 'I'm Reverend Gilmore's temporary replacement at St Agnes's in Portsea. He sadly passed away yesterday evening. I've been going through the things in his study and I've found some papers that refer to you. In the margin of one there is a note in Reverend Gilmore's handwriting, which says, 'Jennifer Horton's boy'. I just wondered…'
Horton stared at the telephone with a mixture of incredulity and dismay. He didn't want to think about the woman who had abandoned him. She was the past, dead and forgotten. Or rather she had been until now. The small voice at the back of his mind was urging him to ignore this. He should leave the past alone and tell the vicar to burn the papers, but he found himself saying, 'Where are you?'
'At the vicarage in Benton Close.'
He glanced at his watch. It was already seven thirty. He was off duty and there was nothing he could do on the Brundall case. Plenty to do in CID though, whispered a little voice. Aloud he said, 'I'll be there in ten minutes.'
Five
It wasn't what he had expected. The vicarage was one of twelve council houses set around a straggly and forlorn piece of greenery that couldn't by any stretch of imagination be called grass. Horton parked the Harley outside the ugly semi-detached house typical of the 1960s and, as he gazed up at it, he wondered how the late Reverend Gilmore had known his mother. From his memory of her, he couldn't see her being friendly with a vicar. Bookmakers and gamblers maybe, he thought with bitterness. And yet what did he really know about her? She had walked out on him one winter morning when he was ten. He hadn't seen or heard of her since. He didn't know if the police had investigated her disappearance, he hadn't asked, and he had never made any enquiries himself. Why should he? He'd had years, before joining the police, to fill with bitterness.
The vicarage gate squeaked as he pushed it open. He'd covered this patch as a constable and had been called to the area many times before, but he couldn't remember a Reverend Gilmore, or this house. There was a Christmas tree in the window but without its lights shining it looked like someone who had arrived at the party wearing the wrong clothes.
The garden was overgrown and neglected like the house, which badly needed a lick of paint. Perhaps the church really had lost as much money as it purported to have done over the last sixteen years. He lifted his finger to press the bell. Before he could do so, however, the door swung open and a large, square-set, rather plain, middle- aged woman with short white hair and a dog collar smiled a little warily at him. Horton guessed she hadn't expected a policeman on a motorbike dressed in black leathers.
He quickly introduced himself and showed his warrant card. Her gentle, clear-skinned face broke into a smile. It lit her pale blue eyes and made her far more attractive, but Horton could still see the concern and bafflement in her expression.
He stepped inside, surprised to find that his heart was going like the clappers. Suddenly the sense of menace that he had experienced at Horsea Marina last night was back with a vengeance. But why? There was no fog here and there was no smell of burning bodies, just a miserable looking damp house with peeling and faded wallpaper and an electric light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
'It's not very homely, is it?' she said, reading his mind. He thought her Welsh accent not nearly so strong as when he'd spoken to her over the telephone.
Why had the church allowed the Reverend Gilmore to live like this? He hadn't known him but he didn't think it right that a clergyman should live in such dire conditions.
Anne Schofield answered his unspoken question with an accuracy that caused him a moment's unease. 'He wouldn't let anyone help him, you know. He refused to have the place decorated. I'm afraid he was a bit eccentric and a hoarder, as you'll see.'
'How well did you know him?'
'I'd met him a couple of times. His parishioners and the Dean speak very highly of him. Coffee, Inspector?'
'No. Thanks.' He wanted this over with as quickly as possible. But he also wanted to find out more about Gilmore and how he came to know his mother. 'How old was Reverend Gilmore when he died?'
'Fifty-five.'
Horton started with surprise. He had expected her to say at least seventy. His mind was racing. How old would his mother be now? God, it was hard to remember. He had her birth certificate, along with a photograph, in that Bluebird toffee tin under his bunk. He hadn't looked at it in years. He guessed that she must be about fifty- eight, if she was still alive. Could Gilmore and his mother have been lovers? Could he be Gilmore's son? But, no, that was ridiculous. Why? Horton had never known his father and his mother had never spoken of him. He wasn't named on his birth certificate. He'd learnt to despise the absent father for abandoning him. And he'd hardened his heart against his mother for deserting him. He didn't want to revise those opinions. It involved too much emotion. Think of practical matters, he urged himself.
'How did Reverend Gilmore die?'
