Turning right on to the Town Camber, Horton drew up on the quayside just past Gilmore's public fish market and in front of the Bridge Tavern. Switching off the engine he stared at the fishing boats and tugboats bobbing about in the basin. It was all so different from how he remembered it as a child. Then Lucas sail-makers would have been on his right, the old boat sheds had faced on to the Camber, one of which had still miraculously survived, and across the far side of the water there had been the ship-building engineering works instead of those new houses and apartments.
Suddenly, without warning, he was back here, as a child, sitting on the concrete quayside swinging his legs over the edge. It was summer. He was eating an ice-cream, which he now recalled his mother had bought from Cantelli's ice-cream van opposite the engineering works by the ancient harbour walls. There had always been, and still was in the summer months, a Cantelli ice-cream van there, and it was strange to think his link with the Cantellis went back so far, though he'd only met Barney through work. From that long-ago day he could hear the echoes of seagulls screaming overhead and smell the fish and seaweed mingling with the scent of beer.
With a racing heart he glanced behind him at the Bridge Tavern. It had hardly changed from the outside, but in his mind he saw his mother sitting on one of the wooden benches and beside her was a dark-haired man with a sharp-featured face. His mother looked upset; the man grabbed her arm, he leaned towards her talking earnestly.
Horton snatched his head away and stared at the fishing boats with an intense feeling of anger. They were the emotions he had experienced then, as a boy of what? Eight possibly. So why had he felt like that? Why hadn't he liked the man? What had he said to Horton, or his mother? Instead of being happy eating ice-cream on a bright sunny day Horton recollected only misery and loneliness.
After a moment he turned back to look at the pub again, trying to grab some more of the memory, but it had vanished. Had that man been the Reverend Gilmore? He wished he'd asked Anne Schofield or the slimy Yelford for a photograph of him now. Horton didn't think it was Tom Brundall but then he could be wrong. His child's mind could have exaggerated the man's countenance. But it probably had nothing to do with either Brundall or Gilmore, it could just have been one of his mother's boyfriends — he seemed to recall a few of them.
Jennifer Horton's boy's a copper. Why was this so noteworthy? What was the 'wrong' Gilmore had referred to and what did Brundall want to confess? Both men had mentioned Horton's occupation and that to his mind could only mean one thing: they had committed a crime, and they hadn't been discovered. Was it worth checking the computer for unsolved crimes? He doubted it when he didn't have any idea of the timescale. Also he had the feeling that this crime had probably gone unreported.
It began to rain so he started the Harley and headed out of Portsmouth towards the hospital on Portsdown Hill where he pulled up outside the mortuary. He found Gaye Clayton in her office and she beckoned him in with a weary smile.
'You look tired,' he said.
'It's a busy time of year for us and we've got a couple of people off sick.'
Horton sat down opposite her ancient battered desk and stretched out his long legs. 'I think I might be about to add to your burden.'
She raised her fair eyebrows. 'What is it this time — or should I say who?'
'Rowland Gilmore. He died on Wednesday evening, supposedly of a stroke.'
'I don't like the sound of this 'supposedly'.'
'And neither do I. I've just been talking to someone who witnessed his death, and before that the fact that Gilmore was seen talking to Tom Brundall before he was killed. I have a terrible feeling their deaths are connected and that Rowland Gilmore's might not be down to natural causes. I haven't checked the police report yet, but wondered what you could tell me. Did you do the PM?'
She was tapping into her computer before Horton had finished speaking. 'No. He's not on the system, so he must be in this pile.' She picked up a small stack of buff coloured folders and flicked through them. 'Ah, here he is. Rowland Gilmore, born the fifth of March, 1953.'
That confirmed the age Anne Schofield had given him, which made him young to be his father, though not impossible.
Gaye was saying, 'He was brought in at three minutes past seven on Wednesday night. He had all the symptoms of a stroke as far as the houseman was able to ascertain and from reports given to the ambulance man, he had trouble speaking and understanding, loss of balance and paralysis. He died at five minutes past seven.' She looked up. 'Didn't anyone come in with him?'
'I don't think so.' Gutner hadn't said.
Gaye continued. 'Because of this flu bug, and your body on the boat, his autopsy was put back. It's being done tomorrow morning. We're working overtime. I suppose you'd like me to do it.'
'Yes.'
She nodded and suppressed a yawn. 'Anything I should be looking for in particular?'
'My witness says Reverend Gilmore-'
'He was a vicar?'
'Yes. Why?'
'I'm surprised the church hasn't been on my back trying to hurry things along.'
'I rather get the impression that Gilmore wasn't one of their shining stars. His parish was in Portsea and he was a little eccentric. Apparently Gilmore was taking a service when he began to stumble over his words. He had convulsions and collapsed.' '
What time was this?'
'At six forty-five.'
She scribbled the time down. 'I'll do a thorough autopsy tomorrow.' 'Thanks. I appreciate it.'
Back at the station he looked up the incident log to see who had gone to the church, then lifted his phone and asked Sergeant Stride if PC Johns was on duty. He was. Two minutes later Johns knocked on Horton's door. He stood the other side of Horton's desk looking bloody cocksure of himself, just as he always did.
'You were called to an incident at St Agnes's Church in Portsea on Wednesday night. The vicar was taken ill,' Horton said crisply.
'Yes, sir.'
'Tell me about it.'
'I was in the patrol car with PC Allen. By the time we got to the church the ambulance had arrived. I spoke to a couple of parishioners-'
'Their names?' Horton knew that one was Kenneth Gutner, but he wasn't going to tell Johns that.
Johns retrieved his notebook and after a moment said, 'Mr Kenneth Gutner and Miss Alice Weekes.'
'And what did they say?'
Johns looked surprised. 'Just that the vicar suddenly took ill. He started slurring his words and then collapsed.'
'Nothing else.'
'No, sir.'
'Nothing about the vicar having convulsions?'
Horton saw a sneer of contempt in PC Johns' face accompanied by a knowing smile. 'Mr Gutner did mention something about the vicar having some kind of fit.'
'But you didn't note it.'
'I thought the old man was exaggerating. He seemed to be telling the paramedics how to do their job. One of those know-it-all types.' Johns smiled.
Horton thought he'd wipe that grin from Johns' face. 'Do you know what makes a good policeman, Constable, and an even better detective? Obviously not, so let me tell you. Never make instant decisions about anyone based on your own prejudices. Develop an instinct or a nose about them fine, but never rely on it, and always note every little detail no matter how insignificant because it might just make the difference between catching our criminal and letting him get away. Do you understand?'
'Yes, sir.' Johns tried to look contrite but Horton could see he was livid at being reprimanded.
'It is possible that the Reverend Gilmore's death is linked to the man who was killed in the explosion on his boat.' Johns looked amazed. 'OK, you can go, and Johns…' Horton stopped him as he reached the door. 'Just because someone is old it doesn't mean they are senile and that their evidence should be dismissed. And neither
