Twenty

Horton cursed silently. The station grapevine was working well. He could see that Cantelli was concerned and the last thing he wanted was him worrying. Light-heartedly he said, 'I was saving the best bit until last.'

'You should have called me.' Cantelli looked peeved.

'Barney, you've got enough to cope with at the moment—'

'That's no reason to neglect my friends.'

Horton was warmed by Cantelli's words. It was typical of him to consider others even in the depths of his own sorrow. And Horton knew how deep that was. He could see by the haunted look in his dark eyes, sunk like caverns in his lean face, that Cantelli had had little sleep and was grieving inside. He should be with his family; this wasn't the place for him but Horton could hardly order him home.

Cantelli said, 'I hear the boat's a write-off. So, where are you staying?'

Horton had to tell him. He trusted Cantelli more than anyone else. He glanced at his door; it was open but there was no one immediately outside. Nevertheless, he lowered his voice as he said, 'Elkins got me a billet on this boat in Gosport Marina. It's like living in Buckingham Palace after slumming it on poor little Nutmeg. No one knows except Elkins, PC Ripley, Uckfield and you. I'd rather it stay that way until I know who's after me.'

'But why, Andy? Why you? And don't give me all that stuff about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I know it's tosh.'

Horton sat back and frowned. He should have guessed that Cantelli would see through him, and that he would get to the nub of the matter before either Uckfield or Dennings. Yet, it was difficult for Horton to speak of his mother. He felt this was a defining moment. Should he tell Barney, or whitewash it? But Cantelli deserved more than waffle. This was the man who had stood by him no matter what had been said about his morals, behaviour and professional conduct. Cantelli deserved the truth. After a moment he said, 'Close the door, Barney.'

Cantelli did as he was told. When he was seated, Horton told him about the newspapers in Gilmore's study, the conversation that Gutner had overheard and his fears about his mother's involvement. He didn't find it easy. He tried to speak dispassionately, as though he was giving a report, and yet he couldn't ignore the tension inside him. Maybe it showed in his voice? If it did then Cantelli gave no sign he saw it. Cantelli was the first and only person inside the force he had ever spoken to about Jennifer.

The sergeant listened in silence, looking at first puzzled and then deeply concerned, but not pitying. Horton was glad; he couldn't have stomached that, but then he wouldn't have expected pity from Cantelli. Even though Cantelli had never known the kind of rejection that Horton had experienced, having been raised in a loving family, Horton knew from working with him over the years that he felt it and understood. He could see it in his expression, too. Cantelli was one of only a handful of people who already knew that he'd been raised in children's homes and with foster parents, though they rarely spoke of it. Why should they? Horton had consigned it to history until now . . .

Cantelli said, 'So we need to tackle Sebastian Gilmore and find out what the bastard knows. No more pussy-footing round gymnasiums and swimming pools.'

Horton was heartened by Cantelli's fervour and yet reigned in by it. Maybe that was what Cantelli had wanted to achieve. A kind of reverse psychology. Now he was beginning to think like a bloody shrink.

'Dennings is bringing him in this morning. If he'll come,' Horton added.

Knowing Sebastian, Horton reckoned it would only be in the company of his solicitor. Sebastian Gilmore was smart; they'd get nothing out of him. But before Horton could comment further his phone rang and he was surprised to hear Selina Gilmore's voice.

'My father's not come home. I'm worried.'

She should be telephoning Dennings, but she had asked for him, probably because he was the only detective she had met on the case.

'I didn't realize he hadn't come home until our housekeeper told me. She said that Dad had not been down for breakfast and he always is by six thirty sharp. I called his office and I've tried his mobile, but there's no answer.'

Horton didn't like the sound of this. Could Sebastian Gilmore have done a runner, believing the police to be on his tail? Had Dennings or someone else in the station warned him he was about to be brought in for questioning? But would a man like Gilmore run away? Horton doubted it. Would he leave his house, business and daughter? Perhaps he had wealth stashed away in some offshore account and Selina was in on this too? Should he tell Dennings? Like hell he would.

'We'll meet you at the office in ten minutes.' Replacing his phone he addressed Cantelli. 'That was Selina Gilmore. Her father's gone missing.'

On the way to Gilmore's offices Horton was tempted to tell Cantelli about Catherine taking Emma away but decided against it. He knew Cantelli would be upset and angry on his account and Horton didn't want to burden him with more of his problems. Instead, Horton wondered aloud if his interview with Janice Hassingham had spooked Gilmore.

Cantelli said, 'Maybe he's with a woman his daughter knows nothing about.'

It was possible, Horton thought, as Cantelli drew up outside the office. It was raining heavily, but the yard was humming with activity.

'Gilmore's car is here,' Horton said. It was parked next to Selina's Mercedes. 'Perhaps he's shown up.'

But Selina greeted them in her office, along the corridor from her father's, with a worried frown. 'Dad returned from his conference in London late yesterday afternoon. I left him here at seven o'clock,' she said, looking understandably concerned. 'He said he had some things to attend to. I went home, had a shower, changed and then went out with some friends for a meal. I didn't get back until midnight; I thought Dad had gone to bed. When I got up he wasn't in the house and his car had gone from the garage so I assumed he'd come to work. But he's not here. I've checked everywhere and asked around. No one's seen him.'

Horton saw the fear in her eyes and heard the concern in her voice. If her father had run out, and she was party to it, then she was a damn good actress.

'Was your father's car in the garage at home last night?'

'I don't know. I didn't look. I caught a taxi home. I'd been drinking.'

'Is there anywhere he could have gone?'

'I've tried all his friends and contacts. The manager at Cowes Marina said Dad's not there and his boat is still at Horsea Marina. Our housekeeper at our place in Portugal hasn't seen or heard from him. Do you think something could have happened to him? If it has then I blame you; you should have given him protection.'

Her voice was getting louder and angrier.

Horton said evenly, 'How did he seem yesterday?'

'He didn't seem worried or preoccupied about anything?'

'Only business matters, but that was normal.' Her phone rang. She snatched it up.

Horton crossed to the window and looked down into the yard. Across the car park he could see one of Gilmore's two warehouses. There was a forklift truck whizzing in and out with a flashing light and a bleeping sound. The rain swept in off the sea in a blanket of grey. He heard Selina say, 'Can't Bill deal with it?' Then Horton's attention was caught by a man rushing out of the warehouse. He was calling something out to a colleague who immediately dropped what he was holding and the two men ran back inside the warehouse. Horton spun round.

'Stay here,' he commanded. 'Sergeant.'

'What is it? What's happening?' Selina cried out after them, slamming down the phone.

Horton was aware that she was hurrying behind them as they raced down the stairs into reception. Whatever had caused the commotion Horton caught the tension of it here before sprinting across the yard.

He pushed back the heavy plastic curtain and stepped into the chilly warehouse with its huge tanks and its smell of fish. The radio was belting out rubbishy Christmas songs. There was no one to stop him. Even the forklift truck had been abandoned. He heard Selina's heavy breathing as she caught up with them. There were voices coming from a room further down and on their right.

'Cantelli, stay with Selina.'

But Selina pushed Cantelli away and Horton nodded at Cantelli to let her go.

He strode forward purposefully, in front of them, his heart hammering against his chest, praying that what he thought might be happening actually wasn't.

'Police,' he said forcefully. The crowd parted before him to reveal a door opening into a freezer. Horton stared down at the frozen giant on the floor, huddled in the foetal position, with icicles hanging off his hair and his eyelashes, his fists clenched around his chest, his eyes wide open, covered in frost.

Selina screamed and tried to push past him but Cantelli now took hold of her firmly. It was only a few seconds before the fight went out of her. Cantelli rapidly scanned the crowd, found a sympathetic and homely face on a woman and handed Selina into her care.

Horton said, 'Stop that music someone.' It didn't escape him that it was belting out the strains of 'Frosty the Snowman'. He doubted anyone else, except Cantelli, would notice the irony of the song though. That was policemen for you.

Cantelli began to clear the warehouse and Horton tentatively stepped into the freezer, not wanting to destroy any evidence. He didn't think there would be much to see, apart from signs of the desperate struggle of a man not wanting to freeze to death.

The music stopped. Thank God for that! Now all Horton could hear was the humming of the freezer and the water bubbling and running in the giant fish tanks. He pulled out a pair of latex gloves and stretched his fingers inside them. Then he crouched down on his haunches and gently closed Gilmore's eyes. That was better. He studied the body closely without touching it, shivering from the cold, despite the warmth of his sailing jacket. He could see no physical signs of attack. It would take a lot to assault a man the size and strength of Sebastian Gilmore and if he had put up a fight his assailant would have known it.

It didn't look as though there was anything in Gilmore's clenched fists, but he'd leave that for Dr Clayton to examine either here in situ or on the mortuary slab.

He felt annoyed with himself for not preventing this killing, but he was angrier still with Sebastian Gilmore. If the bloody fool had only told him the truth then he might be alive today, and Horton might also have got closer to the truth about his mother. Now, he wondered if the facts behind her disappearance would go to the grave with Sebastian Gilmore.

He tried to push such thoughts away and concentrate on the frozen corpse before him. It looked to him as though Gilmore had stepped inside the freezer and then someone had slammed the door on him. There would have been no way out, and no one would have heard his cries. Horton shuddered at the thought of such a slow and terrifying death.

Carefully, he patted the frozen pockets of Gilmore's trousers and loose-fitting casual jacket, and extracted a set of keys. There was no mobile phone. Not that it would have done the poor man much good if he'd had one; he probably wouldn't have been able to pick up a signal in here. Had his killer taken it? But no, he wouldn't have had time before slamming the door on Sebastian Gilmore. Maybe it was in Gilmore's car or office.

Horton stood up, took a further swift look around and then stepped outside. Cantelli had the crowd huddled under the awning of a second warehouse watching the scene. As a police car swept into the yard, Horton was pleased to see it contained PC Seaton and WPC Somerfield. He gave instructions for Seaton to seal off the warehouse and stand guard over it, and Somerfield to go and relieve Cantelli.

Horton crossed to Sebastian's car, and tried the doors. They were locked. Taking the keys that he'd removed from Gilmore's pocket he pressed the zapper and the doors opened with a clunk. He poked inside the glove compartment. Just the usual paperwork: insurance, service documents. No mobile phone. Zapping the car locked he looked up to see Dennings arrive and, in the car beside him, Uckfield.

'What the devil's going on?' Uckfield demanded, climbing out and surveying the activity with an irritated frown.

Horton told him. Uckfield looked surprised, then incredulous, and finally very angry. After cursing vehemently, he said, 'I hope you've got a bloody lead on this.'

Horton was very tempted to remark, 'It's not my case,' but instead said, 'No more than you or DI Dennings have.'

Uckfield glared at him, but Horton was immune to Uckfield's hostile stares, especially now he realized why Dennings had been appointed over him.

He dropped Gilmore's keys into a plastic evidence bag and pushed them into Dennings' hand. 'It's all yours, Tony. I've got enough outstanding cases in CID, which my boss wants solving...but there is one thing.' He turned to Uckfield and added, 'We need to know who that skeleton in the air-raid shelter is. This could be the result of someone seeking revenge for a relative or friend's death.'

Uckfield had thought the skeleton a distraction and now, holding Uckfield's glare, Horton saw his point had gone home.

'But why kill Anne Schofield?' Uckfield frowned, puzzled.

Yes, why? It was a flaw in his theory. Anne couldn't have had anything to do with the skeleton's death, and it didn't explain why the killer had also tried to roast him. The man in the air-raid shelter had died long after his mother had disappeared. Had the killer seen his name on the newspaper articles in Rowland Gilmore's study and assumed that his mother had been in on the murder? And, because he couldn't find Jennifer Horton, thought he'd take revenge on her son? It was a bit weak, but in a deranged mind it was possible.

When Horton didn't answer him, Uckfield continued. 'OK. Let's take a look at him.' He jerked his head at Dennings to follow. Over his shoulder to Horton he said, 'Call Dr Price and SOCO, and get some uniform back-up here.'

'Already done, sir,' Cantelli shouted back, and to reiterate his point another police vehicle on blue lights swept into the yard.

Horton turned to Cantelli. 'How's Selina?'

'Very angry. Blaming us for her father's death. I've left her with the personnel officer.'

Cantelli looked distant for a moment. Horton could see that this death and Selina's reaction had reminded him of his own bereavement. He had lost his usual bounce and wasn't even chewing his gum.

'Come on,' Horton said, 'there's someone I want to talk to before Dennings puts his oar in.'

With Gilmore dead, who did that leave as their killer? A relative of that skeleton as he'd suggested to Uckfield, or a hired killer, because Sebastian and the others had been, or were, involved in drug smuggling? If so, Horton reckoned they'd have little chance of catching him and his heart sank at that. He didn't fancy living with the prospect that his life might still be in danger, particularly if he pursued inquiries into his mother's disappearance. And then there was his future with Emma. Despite saying it wasn't his case, Horton knew he had to follow it through, either officially or unofficially, no matter what DCI Bliss might say.

In reception, Horton nodded at the worried-looking security officer. He'd noticed the CCTV cameras on Saturday when they'd come here, and now he said, 'Do those run twenty-four hours?'

'Let us have all the recordings for last night, early this morning, and for last Wednesday, and Friday evening. I'd also like the ones at the entrance and any others you have on the yard. We'll pick them up on our way out.'

Horton wondered if they'd get anything from them, but it was worth checking. With Cantelli following he made for Janice Hassingham's office, knocked briefly and entered. She was at her desk but she didn't appear to be doing any work. Horton thought she looked unwell. She was pale and her eyes were ringed with fatigue.

'Is it true that Sebastian is dead?' she asked.

She nodded sadly and waved them into seats across her desk.

'Were you working late last night?' Horton asked.

'Yes, but I didn't see anything or anyone. Seb returned from London at about four thirty. I know that because he came straight to my office to ask me about the accounts. It's our year end on thirty-first of December and there's always a lot to do this time of year. He stayed for about thirty minutes, whilst I ran through the final figures, which are showing a healthy profit. Then he returned to his office, or so I assumed. He wasn't in a very good mood, said the conference had been a complete waste of time organized and chaired by...well, incompetent people, although Seb was more coarse with his choice of language.'

Horton could imagine. 'Was he still here when you left?'

'Yes. His car was parked in its usual spot. I left here at eight o'clock, went straight home, had something to eat, watched TV and went to bed.'

And Horton guessed it was the same every night for Janice. 'Where is home?'

'I have an apartment in Admiralty Towers in Queens Street, not far from the harbour.'

Horton knew it. A whole rash of expensive and exclusive apartments had erupted on the site of the old brewery, cheek by jowl with council flats in one of the most deprived areas of Portsmouth – the one that Rowland Gilmore had administered over.

'Did you ever visit St Agnes's?' he asked casually.

She eyed him keenly. 'No. Wrong faith. I go to St John's Cathedral. But if you're asking did I ever see Rowland or come across him, then the answer is yes, very occasionally when I was walking to Mass or coming back from the shops. And before you ask, Inspector, no, we never spoke and I never so much as acknowledged him. Besides, I don't think he recognized me.'

'Why didn't you speak?'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'I didn't see any need to. Sebastian had nothing to do with his brother so I didn't think it was necessary or appropriate for me to strike up an acquaintance.'

Horton wondered if she blamed Rowland Gilmore for not saving her brother, and along with him Tom Brundall. Sebastian had been at the helm so perhaps he was absolved of any blame.

Horton left a short pause before asking the next question, a critical one. 'Ms Hassingham, when your brother was fishing with the Gilmores and Tom Brundall, did he ever say anything that made you think they might be doing something illegal?' He saw her stiffen.

Horton eyed her carefully. It appeared she was telling the truth. Her shock and surprise at his question seemed genuine.

'Did Sebastian see his brother after that encounter at the Town Camber?'

'He might have done. I don't know. I wonder what will happen now. I suppose Selina will take over the business.'

And how would Janice take that? From her frown, he guessed not well. They left her to her work. Horton noted that she didn't hurry along the corridor to comfort Selina.

'Sad woman,' Cantelli said when they were outside. 'It's as if you're staring at a world of missed opportunities and regrets when you look at her.'

And you were, Horton thought. 'Let's take a look in Sebastian's office.'

There was no police officer on the door and it wasn't locked. Dennings hadn't got round to that yet, which was rather remiss of him. He should at least have sent a uniformed officer up here to seal off the room. Maybe he thought they'd already covered that, Horton grudgingly admitted.

He crossed to Sebastian's gigantic desk, whilst Cantelli rummaged around in the filing cabinets. 'What are we looking for?'

'You don't need me to tell you that. But if you come across . . .' Horton paused as he tried to pull open one of the desk drawers. It had got stuck on something, a piece of paper right at the back. He stretched in and released it and the drawer opened easily. It was an itemized telephone bill for the last month. Horton didn't expect to find the killer's phone number on it – Sebastian Gilmore wouldn't be that stupid – but it would certainly be worthwhile checking out these numbers and talking to Gilmore's contacts and friends. Maybe, Horton thought, scanning the numbers, they'd discover that Sebastian had spoken to his brother more recently than twelve years ago. They'd also need to check his landline. But it was Dennings' job to organize this. Horton had to get on with those CID cases as no doubt DCI Bliss would soon remind him.

'I wonder where Gilmore's mobile phone is. It wasn't on his body or in his car.'

'Perhaps his killer threw it into the fish tank,' Cantelli said, peering inside. 'There are some ugly-looking buggers in here.'

'I don't expect they find you their pin-up of the month.' That got a small smile from Cantelli.

'It's surprising what ends up in these things; drugs seem to be popular. The number of poor bloody fish I've seen high.'

Finishing his search of the desk, Horton glanced out of the window as the SOCO van entered the yard.

'Get PC Johns, Barney. He can stand guard here.' Horton continued his swift search whilst waiting for Johns. It revealed nothing. He left Johns with instructions not to admit anyone, and joined Cantelli who had collected the CCTV recordings from the security officer. At the station Cantelli took the tapes to the CID office to view while Horton gave Sebastian Gilmore's itemized telephone bill to Trueman. Any news on Peter Croxton?' Horton asked.

'Which one? We've found twelve so far.'

'Lucky his name wasn't Smith then. I'll be in my office if you get anything new.'

Horton was pleased to see that DCI Bliss wasn't around. He would dearly love to get a piece of evidence before Dennings. He hoped that one of the recordings might show someone entering that warehouse after Sebastian Gilmore, though he couldn't really believe the killer would be that stupid or they'd be that lucky.

He groaned at the sight of his in-tray, which was overflowing on to his chair. There were pieces of paper with yellow Post-it notes stuck on them, urging him to attend to this report, or review this file, or call someone back, but there was one file that caught his eye. Ignoring all the others he picked it up and sat down.

It was thicker than he had anticipated. He could hardly breathe through fear of what he might be about to read on his mother and tried to steel his heart to repel the emotions that he felt sure were bound to assail him. Urging himself to consider this as just another missing person's case, and perhaps one which might provide him with some idea of what the Gilmores had been up to in 1977, he read on. Very soon, though, he found that his emotions were firmly in check and his police training had asserted itself. The investigation into Jennifer Horton's disappearance had been more thorough than he had expected.

A woman had formally reported Jennifer missing; she'd been listed as Horton's head teacher. He remembered her teasing the information out of him and went cold as he recalled that terrible day when he had eventually been taken from school by a social worker back to the flat and from there to a dismal house full of smells, other children and cold, tiny rooms. He shuddered and quickly turned his thoughts back to the file. There had followed a series of interviews with the people who had worked with Jennifer and her neighbours, including the lady that Horton had spoken to earlier at Jensen House, Mrs Cobden. There wasn't much more to add to the information that she'd already given him. Jennifer had left the flat at about one o'clock that day. She had been wearing her best clothes, and make-up, and was in good spirits. Mrs Cobden said she thought Jennifer was going to meet a man, though she had no real evidence to back that up.

Police officers then interviewed Jennifer's work colleagues. Horton flicked through the reports; there were no interviews with Jennifer's friends. Why not? Didn't she have any? And what about her family? Then his eye caught one report. No family. Both parents dead. Yet the report by a PC Stanley was inconclusive. It didn't say how her parents had died, when or where, and neither did it mention any relatives, save himself as next of kin.

His e-mail alert told him that the press cuttings agency had come through with the articles on Gilmore. Reluctantly he pushed the file on his mother aside and scrolled down them, clicking on the headline of one or two, opening the file and skim-reading the articles. He was disappointed to find no photograph of Warwick Hassingham. It seemed a waste of time, but he persisted.

It wasn't until he reached 1997 that he began to see a common factor. He sat up. With a racing heart he clicked back and then onwards again. Yes, several articles had been written by the same journalist: David Lynmor.

Onward Horton clicked and read, oblivious to the noises from outside his office. Then David Lynmor was no longer writing articles on the Gilmores. When did that happen? He checked back. The last one had been September 1997. Was that date significant?

Horton sat forward and steepled his fingers in thought, tapping them against his mouth. The timing was right for the skeleton in the air-raid shelter. But Lynmor could have changed jobs, or emigrated. He could have been run over by the number nine bus, joined a commune, or married an heiress, but Horton knew, by that feeling in his gut, that he hadn't done any of those things.

Lynmor had written extensively about the fishing industry and interviewed the Gilmores on several occasions – many more times, Horton guessed, than had finally appeared as articles in the newspaper and the fishing press. Perhaps he had become too curious? Had he discovered something that Sebastian Gilmore wanted kept quiet? Like drug smuggling? Was Lynmor's death, not Peter Croxton's, the secret that Tom Brundall had wanted to confess? He'd got the right theory, just the wrong dead man who had ended up a skeleton in the air-raid shelter.

Clearly, judging by one article Horton now read, David Lynmor had met Rowland Gilmore, because he'd written about the fisherman turned vicar. Had Lynmor discovered something that had made Rowland run to brother Sebastian who had summoned Tom Brundall? Had the three of them killed David Lynmor and stuffed his body in the air-raid shelter? And if so who were Lynmor's relatives?

Horton rose, his mind racing as he considered this new theory. It was possible. His phone rang and, irritated at being interrupted in his train of thought, Horton snatched it up.

'I've just got back from interviewing Russell Newton.'

It took Horton a moment to realize he was speaking to Inspector Guilbert from Guernsey. Now he gave him his full attention.

'He remembers the day on board his boat with Brundall quite well because their party was gatecrashed,' Guilbert continued.

Horton was ahead of him. 'Let me guess: by a journalist.'

'Yes, and a photographer who took that picture.'

'Of course.' Horton clicked his fingers. 'I knew there was something odd about that picture. Brundall isn't only looking surprised and shocked at having his photo taken, but he's not looking directly into camera, he's looking to the right of it, at the reporter.' And Horton wouldn't mind betting who that reporter was. 'Does Newton know the reporter's name?'

'No. The photographer was local though. I checked with the newspaper office. He was called Jacobs. He died in a car crash in August 1996, two weeks after that photograph was taken. His car veered off the road, went over the cliff and burst into flames. He'd been drinking heavily.'

'Or had drink poured down his throat,' rejoined Horton.

'You think it's suspicious?' Guilbert asked, surprised.

'Oh, yes, bloody suspicious. I think we've found his reporter friend dead in an air-raid shelter. He's been dead for some years.'

Guilbert gave a low whistle, then said, 'There's another thing. Newton says that after the incident he never saw Brundall again. He became more reclusive. Everything was done by phone, fax and latterly e-mail or through Brundall's solicitor, Nigel Sherbourne. Does this help, Andy? Do you know who Nigel's killer is?'

'Not yet.' But I will.

He told Guilbert about Sebastian's death and his theory of the relative seeking revenge.

Guilbert said, 'Right, I'll start looking into Jacobs' death and re-interview Newton to see if I can get anything further from him. Keep me posted.'

Horton stuffed the file on Jennifer into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and hurried along to the incident room as Trueman came off the phone.

'I was just trying to get you. Marsden's found a link between Anne Schofield and Rowland Gilmore. They attended the same seminar in 1996. He's finding out if their acquaintance developed after that. And I've got some news about Peter Croxton.'

'Never mind about him,' Horton said excitedly, crossing to the crime board and staring again at the photograph of Brundall. Of course, he could now see clearly the line of Brundall's vision and it wasn't into camera. Lynmor had discovered the fishermen's secret, and had to be killed. Jacobs was murdered because Lynmor might have told him that secret. Taking up a pen Horton began to write the information Guilbert had given him on to the board saying, 'I think I've got an ID on the skeleton. He's—'

'Andy, I think you'll want to know about Croxton.'

Horton paused in mid scribble and turned. The intonation in Trueman's voice told him this was vital information.

Trueman said, 'Croxton doesn't exist. At least not the one who was involved in that marine incident. None of the Peter Croxtons alive or dead matches the age profile of the rescued yachtsman and neither has a Peter Croxton ever lived at that address in Guildford. He gave the coastguards a false name.'

Horton stared at Trueman, his mind racing with this new information. Croxton had disappeared quickly after the incident and hadn't shown for Warwick's funeral. Why? Because he didn't want anyone nosing into his business, or discovering who he really was. So was Warwick's death an accident or had Croxton and the others killed him and now Croxton, or whatever his real name was, had finally silenced the last of those who knew his identity: Sebastian Gilmore. Correction, the last but one. There was him. But he had no idea who Croxton really was. And how the devil were they going to find Croxton? The trail was as cold as that freezer he'd found Sebastian in.

'We'd better see if we can track down any of the coastguards who rescued Croxton to get a description,' Horton said, not very hopeful. He didn't blame Trueman for looking at him incredulously.

'Inspector,' a voice hailed Horton, 'Sergeant Cantelli's on the phone for you.'

Horton took the receiver, but before speaking into it said to Trueman, 'Also see if you can find a missing persons report for a David Lynmor. I believe he's the skeleton in the air-raid shelter. He was a journalist. Yes?'