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.
But Horton couldn't let him do that.
'You might have to enter an Anglican place of worship, and I wouldn't want to offend your religion,' Horton joked uneasily. He could see Cantelli eyeing him with suspicion. Damn. But how could he tell Cantelli he'd been to the vicarage and seen those words 'Horsea Marina' on the dead vicar's blotter without revealing why he had been there? Besides, he wanted to know why Brundall had been to St Agnes's Church and on the day both he and the Reverend Gilmore had died. It was one hell of a coincidence and he smelt trouble with a capital T the size of the Eiffel Tower.
'St Agnes is a Catholic saint as well as an Anglican one,' Cantelli said. 'Did you know that she's the patron saint of chastity, engaged couples, rape victims and virgins, to name but a few? If I have to go inside the church I'm sure the good Lord will forgive me my sins.'
'He might but I won't. You get the dog. I get the church,' Horton said firmly.
Seven
The last time he'd been inside a church, when it hadn't involved investigating vandalism, had been Emma's christening seven years ago. He brought the Harley to a stop in front of a red-bricked building sandwiched between two towering council blocks. It looked more like a barracks than a place of worship, and the large Christmas tree beside the heavy wooden doors did little to make the place look more welcoming.
There were no cars outside, so thankfully no service, and none about to start. Mr Gutner's wife, the man who claimed to have seen Tom Brundall, had told him when he had called on her ten minutes ago that her husband had left for the church where he would be practising for the carol service on Sunday.
Horton pushed open the heavy wooden door and shivered despite his leathers as he stepped inside the chilly interior, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom. Dim lights hung low from a high ceiling. A torch might have been useful, but he caught a glimmer of brightness by the altar, where a Christmas tree, this time lit, attempted to throw some light into a dull, unattractive world. Surely to God, if there were a God, then He wouldn't have been as miserable as this? Far from uplifting, this place oozed depression.
There was no sign of Kenneth Gutner. Perhaps he was in the vestry, wherever that was.
Horton's shoes made little sound on the wooden floor as he headed up the airy nave between rows of pews that looked a little worse for wear with scratches and carvings. He wasn't quite sure what God would make of 'Julie loves Darren' scratched on one of them. Perhaps He didn't mind; after all it was better than saying that Darren was a scumbag and she hated him.
This place was giving him the willies. Horton hoped that Cantelli's Roman Catholic church was brighter and more welcoming than this. He couldn't help recalling another cavernous church like this one and another aisle where Catherine had walked on their wedding day, and where he had been forced to parade his complete lack of relatives. The only foster parents he had cared about had died by then, which was a shame because Bernard and Eileen would have delighted in his marriage. Fortunately some of his colleagues had filled up the groom's side, but it still looked totally inadequate and pathetic.
He had felt the stares of Catherine's relatives boring into his back and heard their whispers, making him feel like a leper. 'What do you mean he hasn't got anybody? Everybody has someone.' Not him. Not then.
Uckfield had been his best man. Horton wished now it had been Cantelli, who had proved himself far more of a best man than Uckfield.
The small nativity set beside the Christmas tree reminded him of Emma. This year would be the first he wouldn't be at home. God, how he missed her! He recalled her sad little face staring out at him from her bedroom window when he'd turned up unexpectedly on the doorstep in October. It tore at his heart and the only solace he had was that he knew his daughter loved him. And this was the place to utter a silent prayer, though he couldn't quite bring himself to do so. For years his prayers had gone unanswered. Please God bring my mum back to me. He hadn't, so that was the end of God.
