He quickly introduced himself and showed his warrant card. Her gentle, clear-skinned face broke into a smile. It lit her pale blue eyes and made her far more attractive, but Horton could still see the concern and bafflement in her expression.
He stepped inside, surprised to find that his heart was going like the clappers. Suddenly the sense of menace that he had experienced at Horsea Marina last night was back with a vengeance. But why? There was no fog here and there was no smell of burning bodies, just a miserable looking damp house with peeling and faded wallpaper and an electric light bulb hanging from the ceiling.
'It's not very homely, is it?' she said, reading his mind. He thought her Welsh accent not nearly so strong as when he'd spoken to her over the telephone.
Why had the church allowed the Reverend Gilmore to live like this? He hadn't known him but he didn't think it right that a clergyman should live in such dire conditions.
Anne Schofield answered his unspoken question with an accuracy that caused him a moment's unease. 'He wouldn't let anyone help him, you know. He refused to have the place decorated. I'm afraid he was a bit eccentric and a hoarder, as you'll see.'
'How well did you know him?'
'I'd met him a couple of times. His parishioners and the Dean speak very highly of him. Coffee, Inspector?'
'No. Thanks.' He wanted this over with as quickly as possible. But he also wanted to find out more about Gilmore and how he came to know his mother. 'How old was Reverend Gilmore when he died?'
'Fifty-five.'
Horton started with surprise. He had expected her to say at least seventy. His mind was racing. How old would his mother be now? God, it was hard to remember. He had her birth certificate, along with a photograph, in that Bluebird toffee tin under his bunk. He hadn't looked at it in years. He guessed that she must be about fifty-eight, if she was still alive. Could Gilmore and his mother have been lovers? Could he be Gilmore's son? But, no, that was ridiculous. Why? Horton had never known his father and his mother had never spoken of him. He wasn't named on his birth certificate. He'd learnt to despise the absent father for abandoning him. And he'd hardened his heart against his mother for deserting him. He didn't want to revise those opinions. It involved too much emotion. Think of practical matters, he urged himself.
'How did Reverend Gilmore die?'
'A massive stroke. He was taking the Candlelight Christmas Service last night when he collapsed.'
The church had moved quickly then to put in a replacement vicar and get her into the vicarage.
She pushed open a door on her left to reveal a forlorn-looking room with a musty smell.
'It's a bit of mess, see.'
That was a gross understatement, he thought, staring around at the chaos. He'd seen tidier rooms after they'd been ransacked by burglars.
Horton followed her as she picked her way through the books and papers that littered the floor. He couldn't help treading on most of them. Ahead, buried under an avalanche of papers, was a battered old desk and behind it a swivel leather chair.
Anne Schofield picked up a pile of yellowing newspapers which had been stacked on the floor behind the chair, and as she did so Horton glanced out of the window at the rear garden. It was tiny but seemed even smaller because of the high brick wall that gave on to the naval base. Then he caught sight of a concrete structure in the right-hand corner of the garden.
'It's an air-raid shelter left over from the war,' she explained, obviously following the direction of his glance. 'I don't know if there's anything inside it apart from rats. I haven't had the courage to look yet.'
He could see four concrete steps leading down to an entrance across which was a sheet of rusting corrugated iron.
'This is what I found.' Anne pointed at the newspaper on the Reverend Gilmore's desk.
There was a large part of him that didn't want to look, but his police training and conditioning overrode that. There, staring at him, was an article that had been written in the summer of 1995 and along with it a photograph of him holding a medal to mark the Queen's commendation for bravery. Little good it did him these days, he thought wryly. He had overpowered a thug waving a loaded gun at a postmaster on Hayling Island. He couldn't remember much about it. Instinct had taken over. He hadn't even been on duty. In the margin of the newspaper in neat rounded script were the words: "Jennifer Horton's boy?" just as Anne Schofield had told him.
It was a shock seeing his mother's name, and with it flooded back the painful memories of hurt and shame as acute as the first time he'd experienced them. It stole the breath from his body and the terrible ache of loneliness that had haunted him most of his life, which had been rekindled by his wrecked marriage, swamped him. He wanted to get out of here. He needed space and air. He wanted to seek refuge on the sea; to pit himself against the elements and let them decide if he should survive.
'There's more.' Anne Schofield's voice pierced his thoughts and with an effort he hauled himself back to the present.
His heart sank as he flicked through the rest of the newspapers. In every single one, the Reverend Gilmore had put a circle around an article and that article was about him. Jesus! It was as if he was reading a scrapbook on his career. At any moment he expected Michael Aspel to leap out from behind the curtains with a television crew and hand him a big red book, saying, 'This is your life.'
With curiosity now overcoming his emotions he began to examine the dates. The newspapers were all later than the one where Gilmore had written his mother's name. That had been the article that had sparked this interest in him. But why this obsession?
'What can you tell me about him?' he asked, making sure to hide the emotion in his voice.
'Nothing, I'm afraid. I've come from a parish in North Hampshire. You'll need to speak to his parishioners or the Dean.'
Would he though? He wanted to move on with his life. Emma was his future. It didn't matter that she didn't have paternal grandparents. It was probably for the best that she didn't know who they were. And, he reminded himself, he didn't have time to spare. He had a murderer to catch, and if not that then a pair of yobs who had attacked an American tourist, not to mention all the other thefts, assaults and burglaries piling up on his desk!
'Thank you for showing me these,' he said politely, with, he hoped, a voice devoid of emotion. 'They're of no interest to me. Reverend Gilmore obviously knew my mother, but I didn't know him.'
He wanted to get out of here quickly. The place was depressing him. He turned to leave when his eyes caught something written on the crowded blotter. Pushing the pile of newspapers further over, he saw quite clearly standing out from the other scribblings, the words, 'Horsea Marina'. Nothing unusual in that except the words were heavily under lined and appeared to have been written recently. The lettering wasn't as faded as the rest. It was just a coincidence, he told himself. Why then did something click inside him, which he couldn't put his finger on? It was a bit like a light switch going on but the bulb was missing.
'Did the Reverend Gilmore own a boat?' he asked, hoping that illumination would come with her answer.
'Not that I know of,' she said, surprised. 'Why?'
'He's written the name of a marina on his blotter, or perhaps you wrote it?'
'It wasn't me.' She frowned, puzzled by his line of questioning.
Why should Reverend Gilmore choose to write those words when his parish didn't extend to the marina some seven miles to the north and west of the city? Perhaps he had a friend or relative who lived at the marina. The explanation could be perfectly simple and probably was, but Horton couldn't help thinking it a coincidence. That was the policeman in him.