The Suffocating Sea

'France and Spain mainly,' Cantelli answered. 'They do a big trade in crabs, lobsters and oysters all caught locally. Tony and Isabella buy from them for the cafes and restaurants. Sebastian Gilmore's got some lucrative supermarket contracts and has worked hard to build up the business.'

And was still working hard, Horton thought, a few minutes later when a large-boned man with short greying hair and a weather-beaten, rugged face rose from behind a desk that seemed like a child's against his size. Horton felt the energy radiating from the giant like a radioactive beacon. With two strides, Sebastian was around the desk but he stalled, staring down with a puzzled frown on his broad-featured face at Horton's bandaged hands.

'Had a bit of an accident,' Horton explained lightly in a hoarse voice.

Gilmore's lips twitched but there was no smile in the gesture or in his deep brown eyes. He waved them into a seat and returned to his own, throwing himself into the chair which groaned and creaked in protest.

'What can I do for you guys?' he said, his accent betraying his Portsmouth roots. It was very similar to a Londoner's.

Horton thought how completely out of place Gilmore seemed in this room: it was too small to accommodate the man's stature and vitality. Here was someone who, despite his fifty-odd years, was very fit and active, both in mind and body.

With its cheap, rough furniture the office was also in sharp contrast to the opulence of the Georgian manor house they'd just come from, though to the left of Horton was a rather large and splendid fish tank.

'It's about your brother's death,' Horton began and saw surprise register on Sebastian Gilmore's face.

'Rowley? What about him? He had a stroke.'

There was no adjustment of Sebastian's features to show sorrow or even anger. Horton detected puzzlement and, interestingly, irritation.

Cantelli said, 'We have new evidence that suggests his death could be suspicious.'

'That's absurd!' Sebastian Gilmore focused his intense gaze on Cantelli. 'You think my brother was killed?'

Cantelli, unfazed by the contemptuous stare, stoically replied, 'It's a possibility, sir, which is why a full post-mortem is being conducted.'

'Who on earth would want to kill Rowley? He was a vicar.'

Horton could tell by Sebastian Gilmore's tone of voice that vicars weren't particularly high on his list of revered occupations. Perhaps that was what had driven the brothers apart, though he only had Anne Schofield's word that they had been estranged.

Cantelli said, 'You may have heard on the news, sir, that your brother's replacement, the Reverend Anne Schofield, died in a fire last night in St Agnes's Church, your brother's parish.'

Horton watched the expressions chase across Sebastian's face: incredulity, puzzlement, wariness.

'Are you saying that this has some connection with my brother's death?'

Placidly Cantelli continued. 'We need to explore the possibility, sir.'

'You're not saying that Rowley knew her, are you?'

Horton remained silent and Cantelli simply looked blank. Gilmore clearly didn't like this and glared at them before shooting up from his desk and turning to stare out of the window. Horton threw Cantelli a glance, which he knew the sergeant would interpret as 'say nothing, and wait'.

After a moment Gilmore spun round. 'You're nuts. Why would anyone want to kill my brother and this other vicar?'

'When did you last see your brother, Mr Gilmore?' asked Horton.

Gilmore threw himself down in his chair, which groaned with his weight. 'Twelve years ago. He was at the Town Camber staring down at the fishing boats. My business was still there then. You can imagine my shock when I discovered he'd become a vicar.'

'Why should you be shocked?' asked Horton provocatively.

'We don't go in for religion in our family, Inspector.'

He said it as though it was something to be ashamed of. Horton heard the disgust in Gilmore's voice and felt rather sorry for Rowland Gilmore.

'Perhaps losing his wife and daughter so tragically contributed to his decision to enter the church.' Horton found himself defending the late Rowland Gilmore.

'He told me about that. But God, if there is one, which I doubt, couldn't bring them back so what's the point? What's done is done, you have to pick yourself up and move on. That's my motto anyway.'

And did you sympathize with him over his tragic loss? Like hell you did, Horton thought. He was getting the impression the brothers were like chalk and cheese.

'Was he older or younger than you, sir?'

'Younger by three years, though what that-'

'And you haven't seen him since then?'

'No.'

'Rather unusual that, for brothers,' ventured Cantelli.

'Rowley went his way and I went mine. We had nothing in common but we didn't fall out, if that's what you mean. What evidence do you have that my brother was killed?' he demanded, springing forward and glaring at Cantelli. A lesser man would have immediately pushed back his chair but Cantelli didn't budge an inch. Horton didn't even see him blink.

'We can't say, sir.'

'You mean won't say. All right, but I want to be the first to know what you find in the post-mortem,' he demanded, his tone brooking no objections.

'Of course,' Cantelli replied easily. Horton knew it wasn't strictly a lie. Sebastian Gilmore would be the first person outside of the investigation to be told the results.

After a moment's silence, Horton said, 'We believe your brother knew a man called Tom Brundall-'

'God, there's a name I haven't heard for years!'

'You know him?' Horton asked, surprised.

'Of course. We all worked together: Tom, Rowley and me. We were fishermen. Didn't you know?'

Ignoring the sneering tone, Horton recalled that DC Marsden had said Tom Brundall's father had been a fisherman so Tom must have followed in his father's footsteps, but he'd had no idea that Rowland Gilmore had also been one. Now, looking at Sebastian Gilmore, he could see that only the ocean could be big enough to encompass this giant of a man, and he wouldn't mind betting that that was where Sebastian Gilmore's heart really lay. Here was a definite connection but he didn't see how it could help him. He didn't recall his mother talking about fishing or fishermen.

He said, 'Did you know that Tom Brundall was killed in a fire on his boat in Horsea Marina on Wednesday night?'

Sebastian's eyes tightened. There was something behind them that Horton couldn't quite read. It wasn't fear and it wasn't shock. Neither was it sorrow. Before he could analyse it though the door was thrust open, and Sebastian's rugged face lit up.

'My daughter, Selina,' he introduced.

Horton swivelled round to see a slender woman in her mid twenties. His eyes followed her as she swiftly crossed to her father's side. There was a petulant confidence in her stance and, Horton noted with interest, some hostility. She was fashionably dressed in tight jeans and a low-cut T-shirt underneath a leather jacket. She had her father's determined set of the chin, and swiftness of movement, but not his build. It was a neat little figure made taller by her high-heeled boots over her jeans.

'Selina, these are policeman. They think your Uncle Rowley was murdered.'

'Bloody hell!' She looked understandably shocked, but whether it was at the abruptness of her father's announcement or the fact that Rowley had been murdered, Horton couldn't tell. A bit of both he guessed, which he found rather odd if Sebastian Gilmore was telling the truth about not seeing his brother for twelve years. How old would Selina have been then: fifteen? Sixteen? And if that was the first time Sebastian had seen Rowland since leaving Portsmouth then Selina couldn't have known her uncle very well.

Gilmore looked up at her and said, 'A man called Tom Brundall was killed in a fire on his boat and he and Rowley used to work with me years ago. I hope I'm not about to be bumped off, Inspector.'