Nine

'Brundall told Mrs Davis that he used to live in Portsmouth years ago,' Cantelli said to Horton's enquiry. 'She claims he was much thinner than in the photograph I showed her, and which was on the television, but she can swear it was him and she described the car. This was at twelve fifteen. She walks the dog before she goes on duty. She's an agency nurse at the hospital.'

  'Did she see him drive off?'

  'Yes, when she came back about fifteen minutes later.'

  Horton thought for a moment before saying, 'He met Reverend Gilmore at St Agnes's at three thirty, and he called Sherbourne about four fifteen. So where did he go between twelve fifteen and three thirty?'

  'To his parents' grave? Marsden's discovered they're buried in Kingston Cemetery. I've contacted the CCTV control office and asked if we can check the tapes along Kingston Road. If he was heading for his parents' grave he might have driven into the city that way. And there's a camera on the corner of St Mary's Road leading to the cemetery. Seaton's picking up the tapes.'

  'There's another entrance into the cemetery from New Road and no CCTV there,' Horton remarked, then, turning to Marsden, 'Take a photograph of Brundall and ask around at the cemetery. Did anyone see him there at any time, but particularly between twelve thirty and three fifteen on Tuesday afternoon? If he went there then it would have been before going to St Agnes's because it gets dark at three thirty and the cemetery closes then. Are there any flowers on his parents' grave, if so who did he buy them from? Where did he park his car? Did anyone see it? You'd better hurry because it'll be dark soon. If you get no joy today, go back tomorrow morning.'

  Marsden rushed out looking relieved to escape the confines of the incident suite for a while.

  Horton said, 'There are several cameras along Queens Street; we might pick up Brundall on his way to St Agnes's.'

  'I'll get Walters to check.'

  'Where is he, by the way?'

  'Still interviewing the shopkeepers, I assume. I haven't seen him.'

  'He's taking his time.'

  'You know Walters, probably stopped for a three course lunch.'

  'Either that or he's meeting his girlfriend to make up for lost time Wednesday night. Obviously you didn't know about her?' Horton added, seeing Cantelli's startled look.

  'No, but I'd like to meet the woman who can put up with Walters. She must be quite a gal.'

  'Perhaps he'll bring her to the dinner and dance.' That would be a first, thought Horton. Maybe he could ask Dr Clayton if she'd go with him. Would she accept? She probably already had a boyfriend or even a partner for all he knew.

  Cantelli said, 'Talking of saints, how did you get on at the church?'

  Horton told him, leaving out the bit about his mother. He might tell Cantelli, later, when he was ready, and had made some sense of it himself, but not here and not now.

  Horton turned to Trueman. 'Is there anything from DI Dennings?'

  'If there is the super hasn't told me. I've e-mailed Inspector Guilbert the passenger lists of all the flights out of England to Guernsey on Thursday morning, but it'll take some time to work through them, unless someone's name automatically jumps out.'

  And Horton hoped it would but he didn't think they would be that lucky. He asked Trueman to get him all the information he could find on Sebastian Gilmore and to get an officer checking for links between Rowland Gilmore and Tom Brundall, then knocked on the superintendent's door.

  Looking up from his desk, Uckfield said, 'The Guernsey pathologist has confirmed Sherbourne was strangled; there is damage to the thyroid cartilage, and the hyoid bone, just above the Adam's apple. He claims it's difficult to tell how long Sherbourne had been dead before the fire but he reckons at least four hours, which ties in with when he went missing.'

  'So Sherbourne's killer is a man,' Horton said, taking the seat across the desk. 'A woman couldn't have lifted the dead weight of a tall man like Sherbourne and carried him into the building.'

  'Unless she's an all-in wrestler.'

  'Not many of those in Guernsey.' Horton quickly apprised Uckfield of his interview with Kenneth Gutner, again leaving out the reference to himself and his mother. Then he broke the news that Brundall's death could be linked with the Reverend Gilmore's.

  Uckfield stared at him incredulously. 'You've got to be joking!'

  'Do I look like I am? And before you ask, Gutner is a very reliable witness. He's not gaga. I believe him.'

  'What the hell am I going to tell the press?'

  'Nothing, yet. I need to talk to Gilmore's brother, Sebastian.'

  Uckfield's head came up. 'You don't mean the Sebastian Gilmore?'

  'There's more than one!' Horton said sarcastically.

  'Not of this man there ain't. Sebastian Gilmore has built up a hugely successful business. And he's an influential member of the Portsmouth Business Forum.' Uckfield frowned. 'He would have been on the phone before now if he'd thought his brother's death was suspicious. And Sebastian Gilmore doesn't mince words. He'd have told the chief constable to get his arse in gear and find out who killed his brother. Go careful with him, Andy.'

  Horton eyed Uckfield, knowing he meant he could stir things up for him if he didn't.

  'I'll treat him as if he was precious china.' Horton rose. 'I'll also notify the Dean that we're making inquiries into Reverend Gilmore's death.' That was if Yelford hadn't already told him.

  Uckfield groaned. 'That means I'll also have the Bishop on my back. For Christ's sake, Andy, tell him to keep it to himself. I can just see the headlines if this gets out. And we'll look pretty bloody silly if we're wrong.'

  You mean I will, thought Horton, noting with suspicion Uckfield's warming towards him. That's twice in one conversation he'd addressed him by his first name. Horton wondered what he was after.

  'Make an appointment to talk to Sebastian Gilmore,' Uckfield said. 'He's a busy man, as well as a grieving relative. I'll make another statement to the press giving out the car registration number and description.'

  Cantelli called the Dean and made an appointment for them to see him tomorrow, Saturday, and then went off to view the CCTV tapes for any sightings of Brundall's hire car.

  Horton tried Sebastian Gilmore's office only to be told that he was out and wouldn't be in again until Monday. Horton rang off without making an appointment. As he headed back to the CID office he wondered why Anne Schofield had been going through Gilmore's things when he had a brother. Was she living in the vicarage? He didn't envy her that, if she was. Or had the church accommodated her elsewhere?

  He found Walters munching a large baguette and drinking coffee.

  'On holiday are you, Constable?'

  'This is lunch, guv. It's taken me forever to get round the shopkeepers in Queens Street, complete waste of time, no one saw anything. We've done better with the CCTV though. There are a couple of youths, wearing dark hoodies, lingering outside the bookies. Don't know why the control operators didn't see them, perhaps they didn't think it relevant as they don't actually show up attacking the tourist. Then they disappear into Cross Street and a few minutes later they're walking down Queens Street. I've asked for the pictures to be enhanced; we might get enough of a description to put out.'

  'Check with Sergeant Cantelli, he might recognize them, and then see if they match anyone in our records. Oh, and Walters –' Horton called out on the way to his office – 'take another look at the recording and see if you can spot Brundall's car.'

  'Right ho.'

  Walters' reply was uncharacteristically cheerful. It was amazing what love could do, he thought with an edge of bitterness.

  Horton checked his messages, cleared some of his paperwork with half a mind on it, the other half on that conversation between Brundall and Gilmore, and then reported to DCI Bliss.

  Marsden returned from the cemetery, with the news that there were no flowers on the Brundalls' grave and no one had seen Tom Brundall there. He'd return tomorrow. Cantelli couldn't get a sighting of Brundall's car from the tapes either.

  Another day without getting any nearer to the killer, thought Horton, heading out of the station, but at least they had gained some new and valuable information. He had reached his Harley when his mobile rang. His heart skipped a beat when he saw who the caller was: Reverend Schofield. Did she have some further information on his mother?

  'I need to see you urgently,' she said without preamble.

  She sounded out of breath and anxious. It was just after seven. 'Where are you?'

  'In the church. Can you come now?'

  He tensed and said, 'OK.'

  It was wet, dark and windy and the traffic was thick with Christmas shoppers, and even though he was on the Harley, it still took him fifteen minutes to reach the church. He tried the front doors but they were locked so he hurried round to the back feeling a sense of danger so strong that his spine shivered and contracted. What had Anne discovered about his mother? Why had she sounded so upset?

  It was even darker in the backyard without any streetlights, and there didn't seem to be any lights on inside the church. Perhaps she had returned to the vicarage. But surely she would have called him if she had.

  As he pushed open the door his sense of menace heightened. He felt instinctively that something was wrong. He could have switched on the light but he didn't. Was it because he had the impression that someone or something was waiting for him, or had a noise alerted him? Perhaps it was just the rain beating against the grilled windows and the wind howling round the building sounding like a hundred dead souls wailing to be let in, or should that be out, he wondered. Whatever it was, it made his flesh crawl.

  Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. There was a sink on his right underneath the window, with a cupboard beneath it. He noted the two coffee mugs on the wooden draining board as he stepped around the table in the centre of the room towards a tall cupboard where he guessed the surplices were kept. To its left were three stone steps leading up to a door. It must open up into the church, he thought. Anne Schofield must be there.

  He tried the door. It was locked, and there was no key in it. He frowned. He felt cold. Leave the bloody place. She's not here. Get out now. He turned and something in the gloom caught his eye. The cupboard door was open a fraction and wedged in it was a piece of black fabric.

  With a pounding heart he twisted the handle, then cried out and leapt back as the body of Anne Schofield fell out. Revulsion and shock gave way to an upsurge of anger but he barely had time to register this when he heard a clunk. Swiftly he turned and raced to the outside door knowing already, with a sinking heart, that the noise he had heard was someone locking it. Shit!

  His senses heightened, he caught the soft shuffle of feet outside and with a flash of instinct knew what would happen next. He had to get out or he'd end up like poor Tom Brundall and Nigel Sherbourne.

  Desperately he scoured the room but saw no way out. Then came a shattering of glass; he leapt as far away from the window as possible as a bottle crashed on the stone floor, and exploded with a great whoosh and a searing heat.

  Horton dropped to the floor, choking and coughing. Think of a way out of here. There had to be one, he couldn't die here, now, like this. Gutner's words flashed into his mind as his lungs strained fit to burst and he felt as though his flesh was on fire. He'd said there was a door to the upper gallery that came up from the vestry. Yes, but where the bloody hell was it? Was it the one he had already tried? God, he hoped not.

  He inched along the floor with his nose to the ground, spluttering and coughing. His eyes were smarting, his lungs screaming fit to burst. He could smell roasting flesh as the crackling fire devoured poor Anne Schofield. Where the bloody hell was this other door?

  The room was filled with thick black smoke, which was hard to penetrate, but to the right of the cupboard a curtain was alight. It was the only place left. It had to conceal the door. As the flames licked around his ankles he leapt up and tore at it. The burning fabric fell on his back, and he thanked the Lord he was wearing his leathers. He'd found the bloody door. Please God don't let it be locked. He had to stand up to open it and fling it back before the black clawing smoke got to him. He had one chance and this was it.

  He reached up, and scrabbled for the handle ...where was it? His eyes were smarting, his lungs heaving...He had his fingers on it. He pushed against it and with an overwhelming sense of relief felt it open. Then he was through and slamming it behind him. He was stumbling, crawling and groping his way up a set of steps.

  There wasn't any time to waste. Onwards he went until he was high enough to escape the choking black monster of smoke below. At last he came out to the right of the organ. Fumbling inside his jacket for his mobile phone, he prayed it wouldn't have melted in the heat. He punched in a number, hardly registering that his fingers were burnt, and found himself hoarsely and miraculously speaking to the emergency services.

  Then he staggered on towards the far end of the gallery above the front door and collapsed on to the floor. His chest and throat were raw with pain, and his hand was stinging. When he coughed he brought up blackened phlegm and thought his ribs would be ripped apart. It seemed a lifetime until he heard the marvellous sound of the fire engines and saw the blue lights reflected in the windows. And in those minutes he saw a thousand times over the burning flesh of the once kind and gentle Anne Schofield and it sickened him.

  But he was safe. He'd escaped, but for how long? He knew now that there had been no news about his mother. He had just assumed it. Anne Schofield had sounded distressed, not anxious, on the telephone because someone had forced her to make that call to him. She hadn't been the intended victim. He had. Quite clearly he had been lured here with one purpose in mind: to kill him. The killer hadn't succeeded, but he would try again. Next time Horton guessed he might not be so lucky.