Gilmore finished his whisky and poured another. Horton wondered how many he had consumed over the lunchtime. Still, it was none of his business, and Gilmore gave no sign of being even the slightest bit intoxicated. Pity, because if he were, Horton wondered if he might get more out of him. Then he saw that Gilmore needed these drinks to be able to cope with recalling the horror of Warwick Hassingham's tragic death. Suddenly he was no longer the giant but a big teddy bear that had had all the stuffing pulled out of it.
'It was fifteenth August 1977,' Gilmore said, resuming his seat. 'When we left the harbour it was fairly calm, but there were storm warnings out for later that night. We reckoned, though, that we could get a good catch and return before the storm. But it came across quicker than anticipated.' He took a large gulp of whisky.
Horton heard a door slam somewhere in the house and a car drive away: Selina's he guessed.
Gilmore tossed back the remainder of his drink and sat forward, suddenly energized as though angry. 'The wind came up out of nowhere like a bloody tornado and the swell was fucking awful. We could barely keep on our feet. The sea was breaking over the vessel threatening to swamp us. Rowley was sick as a dog. Did I tell you he suffered from seasickness?'
No wonder the poor bugger hated being a fisherman. Yet he had bought himself a yacht. But Horton knew that different boats cause different movements; perhaps he wasn't seasick on his yacht, or maybe he grew out of it.
Gilmore continued. 'Then a distress call came over the radio. We weren't far from it, so we answered it to find a man alone on a motorboat. I could see immediately that his engine had gone. Bloody fool shouldn't have been out in that weather, but then some people are idiots.'
Horton knew that all too well, having had to go to the rescue of stranded sailors himself.
'We made an attempt to rescue him but a gigantic wave took hold of the bloody vessel and before we knew it the motorboat had been swamped and there was no sign of the man. Then Warwick saw him in the water. He threw him a line.'
Gilmore rose and poured himself another drink. He was weighing his words carefully now, as though reliving a painful memory.
'Warwick always was a mad sod. He leaned over the edge of the Frances May — that was our fishing boat — and tried to grab the other man…' Gilmore paused. His eyes seemed to stretch back down the years. He took a gulp of his whisky, and said, 'A wave took him. He wasn't clipped on and he wasn't wearing a life jacket. Warwick went over just as Rowley and Tom grabbed hold of the man. They didn't know what to do. But in fact there was nothing they could do. They hauled the man aboard and Warwick went. He was found some weeks later, I forget how many. What was left of him was buried in Kingston Cemetery. I don't think Tom or Rowley ever forgave themselves for it.'
And was that the wrong that Gilmore had referred to and Brundall wanted to confess to; that they had let Warwick Hassingham die? Horton would have believed it except for two things: the skeleton and the mention of his mother.
'Why didn't you tell me this yesterday, or this morning?'
'Why should I?' Gilmore glared at Horton. 'Warwick died a long time ago.'
Gilmore was right. And they had a skeleton in Rowland Gilmore's garden that, according to Kenneth Gutner, was a lot more recent.
'What happened to the man you rescued?'
'He was taken to hospital suffering from shock, hypothermia and some pretty nasty cuts. I've no idea where he went after that. He didn't even bother coming to Warwick's memorial service, the ungrateful sod.'
'And his name?'
'Don't know. If I did know it I've forgotten it. It happened a long time ago.'
Horton eyed Gilmore closely. The man's expression was impenetrable and yet Horton sensed something — a lie? Unease? Evasiveness? Surely Sebastian Gilmore would remember the name of the man who had effectively killed Warwick? Sebastian recalled exactly what this man had suffered when rescued, so why not remember the name? Horton had a funny feeling about this. Something didn't smell right.
'You said Warwick's body was washed up some weeks after the incident; how was he identified?' After weeks in the sea, Horton knew that there wouldn't have been much left of him.
'Warwick loved his rings. He always wore a gold sovereign ring on the third finger of his right hand and a signet ring with a diamond in it on the little finger. They were on what was left of his hands, and the police matched dental records.'
'I'm surprised he was buried. Being a fisherman I would have thought the sea-'
'His mother's wishes,' Gilmore interjected, with an expression of disgust. 'Old Ma Hassingham said the sea had claimed him but she was dammed sure she wasn't going to let it swallow up what remained of him. Poor old bitch. She died eight months later.'
Horton left a short pause before asking, 'Do you have a photograph of Mr Hassingham?'
Gilmore looked surprised. 'No. What would I need that for?'
He wouldn't, but Horton wouldn't mind seeing one to check if it had been the man with his mother on the Camber. Not that it really mattered now because Hassingham had nothing whatsoever to do with his mother's disappearance.
'You bought your brother out of the business in 1978. How much did you pay him for his share?'
Sebastian looked surprised and then angry. 'That's none of your bloody business.'
'Did you know he gave away half a million pounds to the church when he entered the ministry?'
Sebastian remained silent, glaring at Horton.
'Is that how much you paid him?' Horton persisted.
Sebastian Gilmore rose and made for the door, which he threw open. 'If you want to ask questions which have nothing whatsoever to do with my brother's death, then you can damn well do so with my solicitor present — that kind of information is personal.'
Oh no, it isn't, thought Horton, pausing before rising. 'Thank you for your co operation, Mr Gilmore,' he said pointedly.
Gilmore showed him out in silence. Horton wondered why he was so touchy about the money, as he ran to the car in the slanting rain and bad-tempered wind. Was there something there that Sebastian Gilmore wanted to hide?
With Warwick Hassingham dead, that left Sebastian Gilmore as the only surviving member of that crew. Was he in danger? Gilmore was nowhere in sight. Had Brundall and Rowland's death anything to do with when they had all been fishermen together? Or did it have something to do with his mother? And now there were more questions nagging at him: who was the rescued man and what the blazes had happened to him?
Sixteen
They were questions he put to Uckfield an hour later. 'Has that got anything to do with this case?' Uckfield declared with exasperation, his eyes flicking impatiently beyond Horton into the busy incident suite.
Horton's idea had grown and taken shape on the drive back to the station. He didn't much care for it, however, because he wasn't sure how or if his mother fitted into it. Still, he'd have to take a chance on that.
'I think we should spend some time looking closely at Sebastian Gilmore,' he said. 'There's a lot of money around him and I'm not convinced it all comes from fishing.'
'He's built up a big business, why shouldn't he be rich?' Uckfield said, surprised.
'But how did he build up that business and how much did he pay his brother for his share in it? We know that Rowland gave away half a million pounds in 1979 and that's a lot of money for a humble ex-fisherman. Somehow I just can't see it all coming from running a fishing fleet in Portsmouth; remember this was before those lucrative supermarket contracts. What if Sebastian Gilmore was smuggling drugs back in the late 1970s'
'How the hell did you arrive at that!'
Now Horton had Uckfield's full attention and he began to expound his theory. 'It could be the 'wrong' Gilmore had tried to put right by entering the church and giving them all his money after his wife and daughter died.'
'But why drugs?'
