The Suffocating Sea

Horton's heart lurched. He hadn't expected this. No wonder Cantelli hadn't been at the station earlier that morning.

'When?'

'About six thirty this morning he complained about pains in his chest and arm and Mum called the ambulance. Thank God she did, because it saved his life.'

Cantelli's voice was uncharacteristically sombre and Horton thought he detected a shake in it as he spoke. He knew this would hit Barney hard as he was very close to his father. Horton felt anxious for him.

'How is he?' he asked, recalling the wiry little Italian who always had a smile on his face and a gleam in his old eyes.

'The next couple of hours are critical. I don't think I'll be able to make it into work.'

'Sod that,' Horton said crossly. 'Is there anything I can do?'

'Thanks, but no. I'm here with Mum, Isabella, Tony and Charlotte. The kids have gone to school. Marie's on her way from London.'

'Let me know how it goes. And Barney… all the best.' There didn't seem much else he could say.

Four

Horton reported Cantelli's news to Bliss as soon as he arrived back at the station, knowing that Cantelli wouldn't have told her. With Cantelli on compassionate leave, Walters off sick and DC Marsden transferred to the major crime team that left only him, and he was working on the Brundall investigation.

Bliss eyed him coldly as he pointed this out to her. She said she'd have a word with Superintendent Reine about drafting in some uniformed officers to help in CID.

Good luck to her, Horton thought. As far as he was concerned Reine was notoriously weak-willed when it came to fighting his corner with the head of the Operational Command Unit, Chief Superintendent Chievely. Still that was her problem.

He dived into the canteen, bought himself a packet of dubious looking ham and cheese sandwiches and made for the incident suite where he found Dennings frowning at the crime board as if it might suddenly reveal the answer to the mystery provided he stared at it hard and long enough.

'What did Sherbourne have to say?' Horton asked, settling himself at an empty desk opposite Sergeant Trueman who nodded sombrely at him.

'Nothing, because Nigel bloody Sherbourne isn't in his office,' complained Dennings, spinning round and glaring at him. 'His secretary claims he's at a client's, and she'll ask him to call the Guernsey police as soon as he returns. For fuck's sake who does she think she is? And what the hell is Guernsey playing at? I'd have hauled the bastard in, client or no bloody client.'

Horton winced inwardly. Vice squad tactics maybe, but not exactly appropriate for CID or the major crime team. He rapidly revised his opinion of Dennings' ailments; his flushed and perspiring face was due to increased blood pressure not fever. From his days spent with Dennings on surveillance, Horton knew he had a short fuse, as well as a coarse manner, and he didn't exactly excel in communications skills. Dennings had a lot to learn about modern and efficient policing, as DCI Bliss would have called it, and Horton wasn't convinced he was going to be a willing pupil. Still, Uckfield was Dennings' boss and maybe he didn't mind how his new DI behaved. Horton caught Trueman's glance. The sergeant's face was impassive, but Horton detected a flicker of desperation in his eyes.

He peeled back the plastic wrapper on the sandwiches and examined them. Why did they have to smother everything in mayonnaise? It was if it had just been discovered as a cure for all ills. He guessed it was used to hide the taste. Through a mouthful he said, 'Does she know why Sherbourne came to Portsmouth?'

'No. He just said he'd be out for the day. She didn't even know he'd flown here. Can you believe that? The snotty-nosed cow is covering for her boss. He's probably giving her one.'

'You've spoken to her then.'

'Too right I have. Inspector Guilbert didn't seem bothered so I thought sod it. I don't know what they feed them on in Guernsey, but they're too bloody laid back for my liking. For Christ's sake, don't they understand we're dealing with a murder investigation?'

Oh, I bet you've gone down a treat, Horton thought, wondering how John Guilbert, an officer he respected, would take that. Dennings' attitude was enough to make anyone instantly clam up. There was a time to get tough and individuals to get tough with and this was neither. 'It's a small island, with a very low crime rate. Things are done differently there.'

Dennings snorted his scepticism. 'Yeah, and Brundall was killed here, so they'd better get their arses in gear and do things my way.'

Horton now understood Trueman's glint of exasperation. He silenced the retort that bully-boy tactics wouldn't work. This kind of crime required using a brain, and although he'd always doubted Dennings had one, now he knew for certain that he didn't.

'What's Sherbourne's line of speciality — in law, that is?'

'Everything and anything according to Miss Snotty-Draws.'

Horton interpreted that as the secretary.

'You'd think the sun shone out of his backside,' Dennings continued. 'Mr Nigel Sherbourne can do anything except walk on water with a carrot stuck up his arse.'

Horton ignored Dennings' crudity. 'And "anything" is?' This was getting to be like extracting evidence from a reluctant witness.

'Business, property, divorce, wills, you name it, Mr bloody Sherbourne can do it. He's been Brundall's lawyer for as long as the secretary can remember. At least for the thirteen years she's been there. She clammed up then tight as a nun's knees — wouldn't say any more except that Brundall was a very wealthy man. Guernsey police haven't found a will but they're hoping that Sherbourne's office has a copy. I mean, hoping! Can you credit it! By the time they get round to checking, our killer will have spent the bloody money.'

'You think someone killed him because he changed his will?'

'Why not? He was dying of cancer.'

'If Brundall made a new will at the marina then someone would have needed to witness it, so why didn't Brundall ask the taxi driver to do it?'

'Perhaps the cab driver forgot to mention it to you.'

'I don't think so.' Not Peter Kingston. He'd have been bursting with the news. 'Did Sherbourne give his secretary anything to type up this morning?'

'Not from his visit to Brundall, so she says,' Dennings said disbelievingly. 'He was in a meeting when she arrived at the office this morning and then he went straight out to this client. There was no tape left on her desk or in her in-tray.'

So Sherbourne must still have whatever it was on him, or perhaps there weren't any papers, or tape, and the meeting had been simply a discussion between the two men. It was useless to speculate without the facts.

'Have we got anything more on Brundall?' Horton asked, finishing his sandwiches and tossing the packet in the bin.

'We know that he moved to Guernsey in 1980.'

'From?'

Dennings beckoned to DC Jake Marsden, who scrambled up from his desk and hurried across to them. Horton wondered how Marsden was taking to working under his new boss DI Dennings.

'Portsmouth, sir.' Marsden said.

Horton hadn't expected that, though maybe he should have done. 'He was coming back to his roots then,' he murmured thoughtfully.

Marsden nodded. 'Born 1942, the only child of Rose Almay and Eric Brundall.'

So no brothers or sisters, nieces or nephews which ruled out a whole line of possible heirs if Brundall had intended writing or changing his will and been killed because of it.

'Eric was a fisherman and Rose a machinist in Vollers,' Marsden told him, 'A lingerie factory, which has now closed down. They married in 1941. Rose died in 1956 and Eric in 1975. They lived in Cranleigh Road after the war until 1975.'

Horton knew that to be a street of narrowed terraced houses, two-up, two-down and, when first built, with a toilet in the backyard. Brundall had come far since his childhood then: living in Guernsey, being photographed with bankers and owning an expensive motorboat.