'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.