'Can you talk?' Frances Greywell began. Horton heard the uncustomary hesitation in her voice and knew this was bad news. He steeled himself for what he was about to hear.
'What is it?'
'I've had a call from Catherine's solicitor.' The tension inside him hardened into a ball of pain.
'He says that Catherine is refusing you access to Emma on Wednesday on account of it being too dangerous for her to be with you at the moment. I understand that you're on a case where someone has tried to kill you by setting fire to your boat. Is it true?'
She sounded concerned but he ignored that, as disappointment and anger overwhelmed him.
'Hello, are you there?'
He must have grunted because she continued. 'I insisted that this had all been agreed and that Catherine couldn't go back on her word but I'm afraid she can if she has a legitimate reason to think your daughter's life might be in danger.'
Slowly Horton counted to ten, hoping to quell the anger inside him. It didn't help. The anger was still there only now he shifted the focus of it. Who the hell had told Catherine? If it was Uckfield, he'd have him by the balls, superintendent or not.
Finally he found his voice and said, 'Emma will be safe with me.'
'I said that of course, and told him that whatever case you were working on, it could be over by Wednesday, but, Andy…'
It was the first time she had used his Christian name. There was worse to come.
'Emma's gone away for Christmas with Catherine and her parents. They flew out from Gatwick to Cyprus at midday today. I've just got back into the office and found a message from her solicitor. I rang him straightaway. I'm really sorry.'
The bitch! Horton wouldn't mind betting she had planned this all along. Their flights had probably been booked ages ago. Catherine had had no intention of letting him see his daughter over Christmas. Christ, how it hurt.
'I'll get on to things the moment they get back from holiday,' Frances Greywell continued, 'and make sure you see Emma as soon as possible in the New Year. I know how disappointed you must be and how much this meant to you but we'll get something arranged.'
'You can arrange something now,' he said, tight-lipped.
'I can't-'
'I want to speak to my daughter on Christmas Day. You can manage that, can't you?'
He didn't mean to sound so curt; his anger wasn't directed at her.
After a moment she said, 'Leave it with me,' and rang off.
He thought about calling Catherine on her mobile and sounding off at her, but that would achieve nothing except make him more frustrated. If Frances couldn't get him permission to call and speak to his daughter on Christmas Day then he'd damn well do it anyway, all day and every ten minutes until someone answered the bloody phone. He couldn't bear the thought that Emma might think he had forgotten her.
He found it difficult to turn his mind to the case but now he was even more determined to resolve it by Christmas Eve and prove that Emma would have been safe with him. He toyed with the idea of trying to get a flight out to Cyprus. He knew where Catherine's parents' villa was. Yes, he could do that, and he could also find out who had told Catherine about the fire. The two thoughts kept him going while he trawled through the microfiche until he found what he had been looking for. Then he shelved his personal problems and concentrated on the articles in front of him.
The rescued man was mentioned by name, but unfortunately there was no photograph of him and neither was there one of Warwick Hassingham. Horton was disappointed. Instead the newspaper had used photographs of the Frances May, which they had obviously taken whilst she'd been moored up in the Town Camber.
Horton scrolled on to the coverage of the funeral. There was a photograph of the funeral procession with the hearse being pulled by two black horses. Walking behind the hearse was a hunched older woman, her hatless head lowered. Horton assumed her to be Warwick Hassingham's mother. Beside her, head held high, was a young Janice Hassingham with shoulder-length hair and wearing a black trouser suit. Behind them Horton saw a burly figure of an older man, and either side of him two young men: one clearly Sebastian and the other Rowland. The older man must be Terry Gilmore, their father. Rowland was smaller and thinner than his elder brother, not bad looking in a slightly feminine way with those neat features and long hair, which, of course, was fashionable then. Following them was a man and a woman, before the bulk of the mourners whom, unfortunately, Horton couldn't make out. The man he guessed was Tom Brundall and the woman possibly Teresa, Rowland Gilmore's wife. He made a note of the date the article appeared. There was no more information on Peter Croxton.
He found the obituary on Terry Gilmore. He'd died on 15 November 1978, ten days after Jennifer had disappeared and fifteen months after the tragedy that had taken Warwick Hassingham. Gilmore Senior was described as a driven man who had loved the sea; he'd seen a niche in the market for fishing in Portsmouth and established the thriving business in the Town Camber, which Sebastian had made even more successful. There was nothing there that Horton didn't already know.
He sat back, deep in thought. He wouldn't mind reading all the articles that had been written over the years on the Gilmores. Not only might it give him valuable background information on their business, but it might spark some ideas of the 'wrong' that Brundall had mentioned to Gilmore, other than it being drug running or that skeleton. And there might be an article that carried a photograph of the fishermen, including Warwick Hassingham. Before he checked that though there was something he had to do.
He returned to the station, and sought out Uckfield. Without knocking he burst into his office. 'Catherine's taken Emma to Cyprus for Christmas. You told her about the fire.'
'I didn't-'
'Don't lie to me, Steve,' Horton snapped, scrutinizing him carefully. 'You told Alison and she went squealing to Catherine. Don't you know how much it meant to me to see Emma, and you've bloody ruined it?'
Uckfield rose and closed his office door. Turning back to face Horton he said, 'I didn't say a word to either of them. Alison's father read the report and mentioned it to Alison. I tried to stop her telling Catherine but I was too late.'
'And you expect me to believe that!' Horton cried contemptuously.
'You can believe what you damn well like, it's the truth,' Uckfield snapped. Then more quietly he added, 'Perhaps if you'd told her yourself, you could have stopped her taking Emma away.'
'When I want your advice on my personal life I'll ask for it.' And Horton swept out, fury and disappointment eating into him.
He was glad no one stopped him on his way to his office and that DCI Bliss wasn't around. He closed his office door and sat for some time staring at nothing. Did he believe Steve Uckfield? He didn't know. Had Catherine planned all the time to take Emma away? He knew it was pointless rushing out to Cyprus; Catherine would call it harassment and use it to further prevent him seeing his daughter. Cantelli's theory was that Catherine was jealous of Emma's love for him. Horton couldn't believe that, but why was Catherine so against him seeing Emma? He needed to find a way of getting to the truth of that. For now, though, he had other mysteries to solve and they might help distract him from his personal anger and frustration.
He powered up his computer and logged on to the press cuttings service that the constabulary used and entered a request for all the articles that had been published on Gilmores over the last twenty years to be sent to him by e-mail. He might only get the ones scanned to computer but it was a start.
He searched amongst the steadily rising pile of papers on his desk for the file on Jennifer Horton, but it wasn't there. He was disappointed. He had hoped to take it home that night. His phone rang and he was surprised to hear Cantelli's voice.