'He might but I won't. You get the dog. I get the church,' Horton said firmly.
Seven
The last time he'd been inside a church, when it hadn't involved investigating vandalism, had been Emma's christening seven years ago. He brought the Harley to a stop in front of a red-bricked building sandwiched between two towering council blocks. It looked more like a barracks than a place of worship, and the large Christmas tree beside the heavy wooden doors did little to make the place look more welcoming.
There were no cars outside, so thankfully no service, and none about to start. Mr Gutner's wife, the man who claimed to have seen Tom Brundall, had told him when he had called on her ten minutes ago that her husband had left for the church where he would be practising for the carol service on Sunday.
Horton pushed open the heavy wooden door and shivered despite his leathers as he stepped inside the chilly interior, trying to adjust his eyes to the gloom. Dim lights hung low from a high ceiling. A torch might have been useful, but he caught a glimmer of brightness by the altar, where a Christmas tree, this time lit, attempted to throw some light into a dull, unattractive world. Surely to God, if there were a God, then He wouldn't have been as miserable as this? Far from uplifting, this place oozed depression.
There was no sign of Kenneth Gutner. Perhaps he was in the vestry, wherever that was.
Horton's shoes made little sound on the wooden floor as he headed up the airy nave between rows of pews that looked a little worse for wear with scratches and carvings. He wasn't quite sure what God would make of 'Julie loves Darren' scratched on one of them. Perhaps He didn't mind; after all it was better than saying that Darren was a scumbag and she hated him.
This place was giving him the willies. Horton hoped that Cantelli's Roman Catholic church was brighter and more welcoming than this. He couldn't help recalling another cavernous church like this one and another aisle where Catherine had walked on their wedding day, and where he had been forced to parade his complete lack of relatives. The only foster parents he had cared about had died by then, which was a shame because Bernard and Eileen would have delighted in his marriage. Fortunately some of his colleagues had filled up the groom's side, but it still looked totally inadequate and pathetic.
He had felt the stares of Catherine's relatives boring into his back and heard their whispers, making him feel like a leper. 'What do you mean he hasn't got anybody? Everybody has someone.' Not him. Not then.
Uckfield had been his best man. Horton wished now it had been Cantelli, who had proved himself far more of a best man than Uckfield.
The small nativity set beside the Christmas tree reminded him of Emma. This year would be the first he wouldn't be at home. God, how he missed her! He recalled her sad little face staring out at him from her bedroom window when he'd turned up unexpectedly on the doorstep in October. It tore at his heart and the only solace he had was that he knew his daughter loved him. And this was the place to utter a silent prayer, though he couldn't quite bring himself to do so. For years his prayers had gone unanswered. Please God bring my mum back to me. He hadn't, so that was the end of God.
Horton brought his mind back to the job, leaning over to read the cards on the flowers that were laid out on the steps up to the altar, beside the nativity scene. Someone had cared for the Reverend Gilmore.
'We'll miss you. God Bless. Elsie and Douglas Winnacott.'
'Thanks for always being there. May you Rest in Peace. Sharon Moore.'
And there were several others in the same strain.
He straightened up and stepped back, gazing around him. There was no sign of Mr Gutner. Perhaps he was in the gallery, which he could see running round the remaining three sides of the church. On his right, above him, was the organ and below this stone pillars. In the depths of the gloom he could make out the confessional box. This church must be High Anglican if the vicar heard confessions, he thought, crossing over to it. He found some steps to its left, which he swiftly climbed. Soon he was peering down on the nave. Still no Mr Gutner. Perhaps his wife had got it wrong and he hadn't come here.
How big would the congregation be in a church like this? It had been built for hundreds probably, in the days when this area of Portsmouth had been a slum teaming with little houses full of poverty-stricken working-class people, many of whom would have worked in the dockyard. Now he reckoned the reverend would be hard pushed to get a handful of people here. Had Tom Brundall been one of them on Tuesday afternoon attending a special service? Why come here though? This parish church was a long way from the area where he had been raised and even further from the marina.
Horton walked towards the far end of the gallery. Now he was above the door by which he had entered. From here he couldn't see anyone entering the church.
The sound of footsteps caught his attention. He headed back to the stairs to see a man in his late seventies with white hair and a creased and crumpled leathery face rather like a walnut, settle himself at the organ. Mr Gutner, Horton presumed.
'Struth, you gave me a fright,' the old man cried, clutching his heart.
Horton apologized and decided to postpone asking questions about Brundall. He was curious to find out more about the Reverend Gilmore. Without introducing himself, he said, 'I was sorry to hear of the vicar's death.'
'So were we all. We'll miss him.'
'He was well liked?'
'Never a bad word nor a cross one. He didn't ask for much and didn't get much. Not like the kids today. Grab, grab, grab.'
'How long had you known him?'
'Since he first came here in 1995.'
Horton was surprised and shaken. He had assumed that Gilmore had been the vicar here for years. He cursed himself silently for not getting more information from Anne Schofield, and for letting his emotions overwhelm his curiosity. He should have asked more questions. And now that first article that Gilmore had put a ring round and had written his mother's name in the margin began to make more sense. Gilmore had seen it on his arrival in Portsmouth. So where was Gilmore from? And more puzzling was how would he have known his mother and Tom Brundall?
The old man was saying, 'Reverend Gilmore did wonders for this place, and the community. Oh, you don't want to judge him or us by this gloomy old church; this wasn't what he was about.'
Horton didn't think he had shown any visible distaste for the church. Perhaps this man was so used to people criticizing it that he automatically went on the defensive.
'Reverend Gilmore knew what it was like to be poor. He had his fair share of tragedy too; lost his wife and daughter.' The old man's expression clouded over as he shook his head sadly.
'How?' Anne Schofield hadn't said, but then maybe she didn't know. She had told him that she was a stranger to the area.
The old man lowered his voice and looked warily about him, as if he was about to divulge a secret and was afraid that Gilmore, wherever he was now, would hear. 'His little girl was killed in a boating accident, on the Reverend's yacht. She was only eight. They were out sailing when she fell overboard. She was dead by the time the Reverend could reach her.'
Horton suppressed a shudder. The church felt colder and darker than before. He tried not to imagine how he would feel if it happened to Emma whilst she was on his boat. Catherine would never forgive him, and he would never forgive himself. He wondered if he would be able to continue living.
'The Reverend's wife never got over it. She was dead within six months. Committed suicide.'