'I'll get on to things the moment they get back from holiday,' Frances Greywell continued, 'and make sure you see Emma as soon as possible in the New Year. I know how disappointed you must be and how much this meant to you but we'll get something arranged.'
'You can arrange something now,' he said, tight-lipped.
'I can't-'
'I want to speak to my daughter on Christmas Day. You can manage that, can't you?'
He didn't mean to sound so curt; his anger wasn't directed at her.
After a moment she said, 'Leave it with me,' and rang off.
He thought about calling Catherine on her mobile and sounding off at her, but that would achieve nothing except make him more frustrated. If Frances couldn't get him permission to call and speak to his daughter on Christmas Day then he'd damn well do it anyway, all day and every ten minutes until someone answered the bloody phone. He couldn't bear the thought that Emma might think he had forgotten her.
He found it difficult to turn his mind to the case but now he was even more determined to resolve it by Christmas Eve and prove that Emma would have been safe with him. He toyed with the idea of trying to get a flight out to Cyprus. He knew where Catherine's parents' villa was. Yes, he could do that, and he could also find out who had told Catherine about the fire. The two thoughts kept him going while he trawled through the microfiche until he found what he had been looking for. Then he shelved his personal problems and concentrated on the articles in front of him.
The rescued man was mentioned by name, but unfortunately there was no photograph of him and neither was there one of Warwick Hassingham. Horton was disappointed. Instead the newspaper had used photographs of the Frances May, which they had obviously taken whilst she'd been moored up in the Town Camber.
Horton scrolled on to the coverage of the funeral. There was a photograph of the funeral procession with the hearse being pulled by two black horses. Walking behind the hearse was a hunched older woman, her hatless head lowered. Horton assumed her to be Warwick Hassingham's mother. Beside her, head held high, was a young Janice Hassingham with shoulder-length hair and wearing a black trouser suit. Behind them Horton saw a burly figure of an older man, and either side of him two young men: one clearly Sebastian and the other Rowland. The older man must be Terry Gilmore, their father. Rowland was smaller and thinner than his elder brother, not bad looking in a slightly feminine way with those neat features and long hair, which, of course, was fashionable then. Following them was a man and a woman, before the bulk of the mourners whom, unfortunately, Horton couldn't make out. The man he guessed was Tom Brundall and the woman possibly Teresa, Rowland Gilmore's wife. He made a note of the date the article appeared. There was no more information on Peter Croxton.
He found the obituary on Terry Gilmore. He'd died on 15 November 1978, ten days after Jennifer had disappeared and fifteen months after the tragedy that had taken Warwick Hassingham. Gilmore Senior was described as a driven man who had loved the sea; he'd seen a niche in the market for fishing in Portsmouth and established the thriving business in the Town Camber, which Sebastian had made even more successful. There was nothing there that Horton didn't already know.
He sat back, deep in thought. He wouldn't mind reading all the articles that had been written over the years on the Gilmores. Not only might it give him valuable background information on their business, but it might spark some ideas of the 'wrong' that Brundall had mentioned to Gilmore, other than it being drug running or that skeleton. And there might be an article that carried a photograph of the fishermen, including Warwick Hassingham. Before he checked that though there was something he had to do.
He returned to the station, and sought out Uckfield. Without knocking he burst into his office. 'Catherine's taken Emma to Cyprus for Christmas. You told her about the fire.'
'I didn't-'
'Don't lie to me, Steve,' Horton snapped, scrutinizing him carefully. 'You told Alison and she went squealing to Catherine. Don't you know how much it meant to me to see Emma, and you've bloody ruined it?'
Uckfield rose and closed his office door. Turning back to face Horton he said, 'I didn't say a word to either of them. Alison's father read the report and mentioned it to Alison. I tried to stop her telling Catherine but I was too late.'
'And you expect me to believe that!' Horton cried contemptuously.
'You can believe what you damn well like, it's the truth,' Uckfield snapped. Then more quietly he added, 'Perhaps if you'd told her yourself, you could have stopped her taking Emma away.'
'When I want your advice on my personal life I'll ask for it.' And Horton swept out, fury and disappointment eating into him.
He was glad no one stopped him on his way to his office and that DCI Bliss wasn't around. He closed his office door and sat for some time staring at nothing. Did he believe Steve Uckfield? He didn't know. Had Catherine planned all the time to take Emma away? He knew it was pointless rushing out to Cyprus; Catherine would call it harassment and use it to further prevent him seeing his daughter. Cantelli's theory was that Catherine was jealous of Emma's love for him. Horton couldn't believe that, but why was Catherine so against him seeing Emma? He needed to find a way of getting to the truth of that. For now, though, he had other mysteries to solve and they might help distract him from his personal anger and frustration.
He powered up his computer and logged on to the press cuttings service that the constabulary used and entered a request for all the articles that had been published on Gilmores over the last twenty years to be sent to him by e-mail. He might only get the ones scanned to computer but it was a start.
He searched amongst the steadily rising pile of papers on his desk for the file on Jennifer Horton, but it wasn't there. He was disappointed. He had hoped to take it home that night. His phone rang and he was surprised to hear Cantelli's voice.
'How's the investigation going?'
Horton was tempted to tell him about the incident on his boat last night and Catherine's betrayal over Emma, but he didn't want to speak over the phone, and he guessed that Cantelli had enough on his plate. He said. 'I'll bring you up to date later.'
'Yeah, OK.' Cantelli hesitated.
'You've got enough to do, Barney.'
'Isabella and Tony have got it all pretty much sussed. If you don't mind, I'd like to come in tomorrow.'
Reading between the lines Horton thought Cantelli wasn't so much peeved that his older brother and sister had elbowed him out of making funeral arrangements, but that he was desperately looking for something to stop him brooding over his loss.
'I'll be glad to see you.' He rang off feeling that it wasn't right for Cantelli to work, but he knew that he couldn't prevent him from coming in. Cantelli's voice had sounded terse, and Horton recognized all too well the emotions behind it. The sergeant was in denial. He didn't want to believe or even think that his father had died, and he couldn't face talking about it or making funeral arrangements. Horton's heart went out to him and helped to ease his own pain over Emma. He made for the canteen where he found Dennings tucking into a Christmas dinner. Horton didn't really want to sit with him, but he didn't have much choice, as there wasn't anywhere else free.
'What did you get from Customs and Revenue and the Fishery Agency?' he asked, putting a plate of curry down in front of him.
'Gilmore is squeaky clean.'
'No one's that,' Horton replied.
'Well, the bugger's clever enough not to have got caught. I hear you had an accident last night on your boat.'
'Yeah.' Horton began to tackle the curry. It wasn't hot enough for his taste.
'And you think that it was Sebastian Gilmore?'
Uckfield had obviously been talking. Horton just hoped he hadn't told Dennings, or anyone else, where he was now living.
'No. Wrong build. I wouldn't be surprised though if he hired someone, just like he could have done to kill the others.'
Before Dennings could comment Horton's mobile rang. He listened for a while then rang off. 'That was Sergeant Elkins. The marina manager has confirmed that Gilmore's boat was moored up in Cowes marina on Tuesday night and he left Cowes Wednesday morning about ten thirty. Someone in the apartment block also saw Gilmore Wednesday morning just after nine thirty. He was alone.'
