Following the hearse were three black limousines: in the first Horton could see Barney, looking pale and drawn. His heart went out to him. Horton had no idea what it felt like to lose a father, never having had one, but he recalled the emotions he'd experienced when Bernard, his foster father had died, and understood something of how Cantelli must be feeling. He looked smaller and older than his brother Tony, who was three years his senior. With them were Barney's sisters: the dark-haired, olive-skinned and practical Isabella and the youngest, Marie. Horton hadn't seen her since she'd finished her postgraduate course in teacher training three years ago, but she hadn't changed much. At twenty-six she had been a raven-haired beauty and she was still a beauty. Beside her was Barney's mother; white-haired with a keen face, looking dignified yet solemn.
In the next car were Tony's wife, Emily, and his thirteen-year-old daughter, Michelle, and with them a young man of about twenty whom Horton recognized as Isabella's son, Johnny. Horton recalled the wild boy of sixteen who had got into trouble with the police after his father's death and how he had secured a place for him on the sailing trust. Now Johnny was skippering a rich man's yacht around the world. Horton was glad it had worked out for him.
In the third car was Charlotte, Barney's wife, wearing a wide-brimmed grey hat with a black felt band over her long dark hair, swept up, he noted, for the occasion. The sight of her always sent a warm glow through him. She was so different from Catherine both in looks and personality and yet to him Charlotte Cantelli personified everything a woman and mother should be and look like: warm, comforting, ample-proportioned, expansive and kind-hearted. A woman who had put her husband and children before her career, which if recalled had been nursing. OK, so the bra-waving feminist brigade would have him hanged, drawn and quartered for such outdated and male chauvinist thoughts, but he didn't care. Deep inside him he knew that Charlotte Cantelli represented something he'd never had, and which still caused an ache in the pit of his heart: a mother's warm and unquestioning love. Beside her were her five children: Ellen, Sadie, Marie and the twins, Joe and Molly.
As the cars drew to a halt in front of the church, Horton made to move forward when Gaye said, 'Here, take this.' She handed over the umbrella. 'You're taller than me and you're getting soaked.'
He held the umbrella aloft, wondering what it was she had to tell him. As the service progressed, Horton's thoughts flirted with the deaths of his final set of foster parents before turning to his mother. Was she dead? He had, of course, checked with the registrar, but there was no record of it. That didn't mean she wasn't dead, just that her body had either never been found or she'd changed her name because there was also no employment or NHS record for her. Had Irene Ebury known more about Jennifer's disappearance than she'd told the police? If so there was no way of knowing now.
He felt a sense of relief when the music finally played and they filed out. He nodded across to Barney, who gave a grim smile in return before climbing into the car. Horton had told Cantelli he wouldn't be attending the committal or the wake. Cantelli had understood.
As soon as the hearse pulled out of the car park, Horton turned to Gaye. 'So?'
'In my car.'
He folded himself into the Mini watching the rain stream down the window as people ran to their cars, doors slamming. One by one they pulled out of the car park, leaving his Harley and Gaye Clayton's Mini the only vehicles there.
'I took another look at the post-mortem report on Daniel Collins,' Gaye said. 'You seemed so certain that his death was suspicious that it bugged me. There is something-'
'What?' he asked eagerly with a quickening heartbeat.
'Take a look at these photographs taken before the autopsy.'
She reached over on to the back seat and retrieved a folder which she handed to him. He was staring at photographs of Daniel Collins on the mortuary slab. The final one was an enlarged picture of the back of Daniel's head.
'Three things,' she said, angling her body to face him. 'One, Daniel wasn't wearing a seat belt.'
Horton knew that from the firefighter's report. It hadn't properly registered with him when he'd read it earlier because that had been before he'd spoken to the people at the sub aqua club and learnt more about Daniel's nature. Now it smacked him in the face. Why would a cautious man like Daniel not put on his seat belt? Because he was too drunk to bother was the obvious answer, but Horton didn't go for it.
Gaye continued, 'Two, there is a large contusion on his forehead consistent with bashing it against the windscreen in the crash.' She indicated the area on another of the photographs.
Horton couldn't see where she was leading him. There was nothing odd about either of these things.
'And three…go back to photograph number two.'
He duly did as she asked. He was once again looking at the back of Daniel Collins head and neck.
'Anything strike you?'
Horton peered at it. 'There's bruising on the neck.'
'Yes, which could be consistent with not wearing a seat belt and being thrown forward hitting his head against the windscreen, which didn't shatter, and then being thrown back to bash his head against the car headrest, maybe as a result of the impact of the car on the seabed.'
'So?' Horton looked puzzled.
'When did headrests make marks like that?' She pointed to the sides of Daniel's neck.
Horton was staring at what looked like blurs on the right and the left almost indistinguishable from the myriad of other bruising. He still couldn't see what she was driving at.
'I've enlarged them on the computer,' she added. And she handed him another image. 'It's quite clear that there are deeper marks either side of that general bruising.'
At last he got it! He was staring at the pressure marks of fingers. His heart was doing somersaults whilst his mind was racing with this new information. He had been right and so too had Mrs Collins.
'Someone pushed his head against the windscreen,' he cried triumphantly.
'Looks like it to me, which means he wasn't alone in that car. Daniel's death was not an accident, it was murder. I'll stake my reputation on that.'
And that was good enough for Horton. Now all Gaye Clayton had to do was find some evidence to say the same for Irene Ebury and her son, Peter.
'Is she sure?' asked Uckfield, later that evening after Horton had told him about Dr Clayton's findings.
Horton lifted his Coke and nodded at Uckfield's sceptical expression. They were sitting in a quiet corner of the bar of the Rudmore Cellars on the edge of the continental ferry port. After studying the photographs again that afternoon and running through his theory until he was happy with it, Horton had gone to Uckfield's office. But Uckfield had forestalled him by suggesting they talk over a swift half in a nearby pub. Horton had been surprised by the invitation. Once having a drink together after work would have been a regular occurrence, but since Horton's suspension on a suspected rape charge and Uckfield's promotion to superintendent, it had been rare. Uckfield's invitation now confirmed Horton's suspicions that Uckfield knew about the Intelligence Directorate's operation and he didn't want anyone else eavesdropping, such as DC Lee who had drawn a blank from her trawl of the antique shops and pawnbrokers close to where Marion Keynes lived. She appeared stoical about her exploits, but Horton could detect frustration simmering beneath the surface. Tomorrow she would start talking to the relatives of the residents of the Rest Haven.
Horton said, 'Certain. Daniel was plied with drink by his killer and then helped into his car-'
'Into the passenger seat?'
'Yes. The killer then drove the car southwards along the dual carriageway, on to the wharf and into the sea, knowing that it would be high tide and relying on the fact there would be very few people about that late on Christmas Eve.'