The Suffocating Sea

'If I had the manpower it would have been,' he retorted.

Five minutes into the job and she was breathing down his neck and criticizing every decision he made. It hadn't taken him long to discover that she was a control freak. If one of his officers so much as sneezed she knew the time, decibel level and direction of the sneeze before he did himself.

'I don't want excuses, Inspector Horton, I want results.' And she rang off.

'And up yours too,' he mumbled. He'd heard on the grapevine that she didn't intend staying a DCI for very long, and as far as he was concerned the sooner she moved on the better.

Cantelli came off the phone. 'Dr Clayton's on her way.'

'Good.' Despite of, or maybe because of, Bliss's instructions that this was Uckfield's province, Horton said, 'I'll talk to the marina staff, Barney. You ask around on the pontoons: did anyone know our victim, when did they last see him?'

'Why don't I take the marina office, and you take the boats,' Cantelli suggested hopefully.

Horton knew that Cantelli was not one of the world's natural sailors. 'The pontoon's not going anywhere. You won't get seasick. Besides, I'll be quicker than you. I'll jog there.' He hoped he could dodge the reporters, if there were any, and the exercise would help to banish the remains of those uneasy feelings.

'I could take the car,' Cantelli said.

'And destroy the ozone layer unnecessarily for the sake of a few hundred yards! Heaven forbid.'

'Since when have you become environmentally friendly?'

'Barney, I live on a small boat with a little engine and use the wind to power it most of the time.'

'And the Harley?'

'It's less of a pollutant than the old banger you drive.' Cantelli held up his hands in submission. Horton broke into a jog, relieved to see that the crowd had dispersed. The Chandlery was closed, the offices surrounding it locked up for the night, and the boatyard was silent. The marina office gave on to Paulsgrove Lake, which fed into the northern end of Portsmouth Harbour.

Horton took the steps to the lock control room above the office two at a time and rapped on the door. Announcing himself with a flash of warrant card to a swarthy looking man in his thirties who answered the door, Horton stepped inside nodding at the slight, fair-haired woman at the controls, who introduced herself as Avril.

The run had helped to banish Horton's tensions and he scolded himself for being paranoid. God, he was glad he had said nothing to Cantelli. He asked the man, who had introduced himself as Kevin Gardner, for the victim's name.

Gardner reached for a clipboard, and after consulting papers on it, said, 'Tom Brundall. He's a visitor. Only came into the marina two days ago, on Monday afternoon.'

'From?'

'Guernsey. Is he OK?' Gardner said, concerned.

'Did he give an address?'

'No. He paid cash in advance.'

Damn. Horton might have known it wouldn't be that easy. Had Brundall lived in Guernsey or had he just motored across from visiting there? If it was the latter then Brundall could have lived anywhere. Still, Guernsey was a starting point, and Horton knew just the man to ask: his old friend, Inspector John Guilbert, of the States of Guernsey Police.

'Has he locked out of the marina whilst he's been here?' Horton addressed the young woman.

'No. Is he all right? He wasn't on his boat when…'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Holy shit!' exclaimed Gardner. 'Poor man.'

Avril shuddered.

Horton left a short pause, which was filled by the foghorns. The sense of danger returned as the image of that charred body flashed into his mind.

'What did he look like?' he asked. Think logically. Do what you are paid to do.

Gardner answered. 'About your height, but in his mid-sixties, short grey hair, very thin.'

'Did he say why he'd come here?' Horton wondered if there was a Mrs Brundall who was about to hear some tragic news. If there were he was glad he wouldn't be the one to break it to her.

'Not to me he didn't and I didn't ask. Did you speak to him, Avril?' 'No. He smiled up at me as he was going through the lock and waved. He looked a nice old man. What caused the fire?'

'We don't know yet. The fire investigation officer will make his report, but we are treating his death as suspicious.' Horton wasn't about to divulge the information he'd been given.

'The boss isn't going to like this. He's on his way over from Brighton.' Gardner was clearly agitated.

'When you reached the pontoon did you notice if the gate was open or shut?'

'Shut. I punched in the security code.' Which, thought Horton, confirmed his earlier impressions that Brundall's killer had to be either someone familiar with the marina, a boat owner or employee, or someone Brundall knew and had admitted.

'Did Mr Brundall have any visitors?'

'I wouldn't-'

'Yes, he did,' Avril interrupted.

Horton was suddenly alert. 'When?'

'Today. I was heading for the boardwalk to do a bit of Christmas shopping and I saw a man getting out of a taxi.'

'What time?'

'Just before midday.'

Disappointing, because it couldn't have been the person who threw the lighted match on board, but, if Maidment was right about this being suspicious, this visitor could have loosened the gas cooker pipe after he arrived.

'How do you know he was going to see Mr Brundall?'

'Because he asked me where pontoon G was, and said he was looking for Mr Brundall. He couldn't get on to the pontoon without the security code so I let him through and watched him until he got to Mr Brundall's boat. I saw Mr Brundall come on deck, smile and shake hands with him. Then the man climbed on board.'

So, the visitor had been expected and welcomed. That didn't eliminate him, however, from being a possible accessory to murder.

'Can you describe him?' Horton asked, hoping this might give them an early lead.

'He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and yellow tie. Quite distinguished looking, short thinning grey hair, about mid fifties.'

Not the usual profile of a killer, thought Horton with a flicker of disappointment, but then who could tell?

'Oh, and he was carrying a briefcase,' Avril added.

So Brundall had had some business to attend to. 'Do you know what time he left?'

'No. Sorry.'

'You don't happen to know which taxi firm dropped him off?' Horton asked hopefully.

'I do actually.'

Praise the Lord for an observant woman!

'It was Acme Cars,' she continued. 'It made me think of my young brother who's got acne.'

Horton didn't recognize the name. They couldn't be local. Outside he called the CID office and got DC Walters.

'Only just returned from interviewing Mr Belmont,' Walters said before Horton could speak.

'Leave the American tourist for now; I want you to contact the States of Guernsey Police.' Horton swiftly brought Walters up to speed with events, then added, 'See if they have a record of a resident called Tom Brundall. Call me as soon as you have anything.'

He rang off to the sound of Walters grumbling and ran back to the pontoon. If Brundall had been a Guernsey resident, then why had he been killed in Portsmouth? Had he arranged to meet his killer here? Was his killer the man in the suit? Why did Brundall bring his boat here in December? It was hardly the season for it. Who was Tom Brundall?

Horton drew up abruptly as a thought suddenly struck him and he cursed himself for being so stupid. How did he know those charred remains were Tom Brundall's? He'd committed one of the cardinal sins for a detective in assuming it was Brundall because it was his boat, but with Avril's evidence, the dead man could easily be this man in the suit. It was impossible to recognize either of the descriptions that Kevin Gardner and Avril had given him from those charred remains, and the clothing had been singed to oblivion. Had any of the firefighters found the remains of a briefcase?