know. Or rather he did. Hadn't Uckfield told him Sebastian Gilmore was a very influential man? What Horton hadn't reckoned on was the reach of that influence; it obviously extended out of Portsmouth into wider Hampshire. Horton couldn't help but compare this with the Reverend's ex-council house and straggling grass. Had Sebastian Gilmore ever offered to help his brother? Had that help been refused? He was very curious to learn more about their relationship.
'I didn't think there was any money in fishing,' he said as Cantelli leaned out of the car window to press the intercom.
'I remember when Gilmore had ramshackle offices on the Town Camber. They pulled them down in the late 1990s to build those posh flats. That must have made him a bob or two. My dad used to know Gilmore senior.'
'Who is it?' demanded a crackly female voice of indeterminate age.
'Inspector Horton and Sergeant Cantelli. We'd like to talk to Mr Gilmore.'
'He's not here.'
'Can you tell us where we might find him?'
'In his office; at the ferry port. What do you want him for?'
'We'll contact him there,' Cantelli quietly asserted.
There was an irritable tut before the voice said, 'I'll let him know you're coming.'
Cantelli didn't even get the chance to say thank you. Horton felt mildly irritated that Sebastian Gilmore would now be prepared for them, though why it should irk him he didn't know.
'Friendly lot, aren't they?' Cantelli said, heading back to Portsmouth. 'Seems like we've had a wasted journey.'
Not quite, thought Horton. It had been illuminating to see how the other half of the Gilmores lived.
Twenty minutes later they were pulling into Fountain Quay at the Commercial Ferry Port. After scrutinizing their identification cards, a security guard directed them to a visitor's space outside a two-storey modern office block.
Horton climbed out and surveyed the area. There were a handful of cars in the car park, including a black Porsche Cayenne. He reckoned that must be Sebastian Gilmore's because of its personalized number plate. There were a couple of fishing vessels moored up alongside the quay and the bleeping of forklift trucks behind him told him that it was business as usual on a Saturday. He watched a lorry pull up in front of a large warehouse opposite. Gilmore's security was good too, he thought, noting the cameras.
'Where do Gilmore's export?' he asked Cantelli, as they waited in reception to be announced by another uniformed security man who was telephoning to the boss. He'd emerged from a room behind the reception counter where Horton guessed he could view the security monitors. Horton noted the camera in the far corner covering reception and another over the door.
'France and Spain mainly,' Cantelli answered. 'They do a big trade in crabs, lobsters and oysters all caught locally. Tony and Isabella buy from them for the cafes and restaurants. Sebastian Gilmore's got some lucrative supermarket contracts and has worked hard to build up the business.'
And was still working hard, Horton thought, a few minutes later when a large-boned man with short greying hair and a weather-beaten, rugged face rose from behind a desk that seemed like a child's against his size. Horton felt the energy radiating from the giant like a radioactive beacon. With two strides, Sebastian was around the desk but he stalled, staring down with a puzzled frown on his broad-featured face at Horton's bandaged hands.
'Had a bit of an accident,' Horton explained lightly in a hoarse voice.
Gilmore's lips twitched but there was no smile in the gesture or in his deep brown eyes. He waved them into a seat and returned to his own, throwing himself into the chair which groaned and creaked in protest.
'What can I do for you guys?' he said, his accent betraying his Portsmouth roots. It was very similar to a Londoner's.
Horton thought how completely out of place Gilmore seemed in this room: it was too small to accommodate the man's stature and vitality. Here was someone who, despite his fifty-odd years, was very fit and active, both in mind and body.
With its cheap, rough furniture the office was also in sharp contrast to the opulence of the Georgian manor house they'd just come from, though to the left of Horton was a rather large and splendid fish tank.
'It's about your brother's death,' Horton began and saw surprise register on Sebastian Gilmore's face.
'Rowley? What about him? He had a stroke.'
There was no adjustment of Sebastian's features to show sorrow or even anger. Horton detected puzzlement and, interestingly, irritation.
Cantelli said, 'We have new evidence that suggests his death could be suspicious.'
'That's absurd!' Sebastian Gilmore focused his intense gaze on Cantelli. 'You think my brother was killed?'
Cantelli, unfazed by the contemptuous stare, stoically replied, 'It's a possibility, sir, which is why a full post- mortem is being conducted.'
'Who on earth would want to kill Rowley? He was a vicar.'
Horton could tell by Sebastian Gilmore's tone of voice that vicars weren't particularly high on his list of revered occupations. Perhaps that was what had driven the brothers apart, though he only had Anne Schofield's word that they had been estranged.
Cantelli said, 'You may have heard on the news, sir, that your brother's replacement, the Reverend Anne Schofield, died in a fire last night in St Agnes's Church, your brother's parish.'
Horton watched the expressions chase across Sebastian's face: incredulity, puzzlement, wariness.
'Are you saying that this has some connection with my brother's death?'
Placidly Cantelli continued. 'We need to explore the possibility, sir.'
'You're not saying that Rowley knew her, are you?'
Horton remained silent and Cantelli simply looked blank. Gilmore clearly didn't like this and glared at them before shooting up from his desk and turning to stare out of the window. Horton threw Cantelli a glance, which he knew the sergeant would interpret as 'say nothing, and wait'.
After a moment Gilmore spun round. 'You're nuts. Why would anyone want to kill my brother and this other vicar?'
'When did you last see your brother, Mr Gilmore?' asked Horton.
Gilmore threw himself down in his chair, which groaned with his weight. 'Twelve years ago. He was at the Town Camber staring down at the fishing boats. My business was still there then. You can imagine my shock when I discovered he'd become a vicar.'
'Why should you be shocked?' asked Horton provocatively.
'We don't go in for religion in our family, Inspector.'
He said it as though it was something to be ashamed of. Horton heard the disgust in Gilmore's voice and felt rather sorry for Rowland Gilmore.
'Perhaps losing his wife and daughter so tragically contributed to his decision to enter the church.' Horton found himself defending the late Rowland Gilmore.
'He told me about that. But God, if there is one, which I doubt, couldn't bring them back so what's the point? What's done is done, you have to pick yourself up and move on. That's my motto anyway.'
And did you sympathize with him over his tragic loss? Like hell you did, Horton thought. He was getting the impression the brothers were like chalk and cheese.
'Was he older or younger than you, sir?'
'Younger by three years, though what that-'
'And you haven't seen him since then?'
'No.'
'Rather unusual that, for brothers,' ventured Cantelli.
'Rowley went his way and I went mine. We had nothing in common but we didn't fall out, if that's what you mean. What evidence do you have that my brother was killed?' he demanded, springing forward and glaring at Cantelli. A lesser man would have immediately pushed back his chair but Cantelli didn't budge an inch. Horton didn't even see him blink.
'We can't say, sir.'
'You mean won't say. All right, but I want to be the first to know what you find in the post-mortem,' he
