'That's Tom Brundall in 1996,' Trueman added over his shoulder whilst scrawling the information on the GP's confirmation of cancer on the crime board.
'Which one?'
'Him.' Trueman pointed to a slim man, in his mid fifties with an angular face and light brown hair. He seemed surprised — or even startled — at having his picture taken. Horton got the impression he wasn't too pleased about it either. He felt a brief frisson of excitement as if there was something important in what he'd just seen. Had he recognized Brundall? He didn't think so. It must be something else, but try as he might he couldn't think what it was. It had gone.
Brundall was dressed in light-coloured trousers and an open-neck checked shirt. Beside him, reclining on the sunlounger, was a casually but well-dressed man in his mid thirties with fair hair, sunglasses on his head and a glass of champagne in his hand, smiling into camera. The other people in the photograph were behind them and slightly out of focus. Horton tried to banish the memory of the shrivelled blackened corpse on the pontoon and replace it with this one of Brundall. He thought Brundall looked a fairly innocuous sort of man, instantly forgettable, the kind you might expect to meet in a bank or an accountant's office.
Trueman continued. 'It's the only photograph that the Guernsey police can find of him. They got it from the local newspaper archives, along with this cutting.'
Horton took the piece of paper on to which the press cutting had been scanned and then e-mailed from Guernsey. 'Top banker claims times are good,' said the headline and they certainly looked it, if the size of that boat was anything to go by. It must have cost at least a million back in 1996.
He read the article with the practised skill of a thousand-words-a-minute man. The banker referred to wasn't Brundall, but the head of a private Guernsey bank, a man called Russell Newton who was entertaining guests aboard his yacht, including financier Tom Brundall. So that's what the dead man had done for a living. Was Newton the man on the sunlounger? Horton guessed so.
'Harrison is ageing the photograph to bring it up to date,' Trueman informed him. 'You know, colouring the hair grey and adding a few lines to fit the description the marina staff gave you. I should have copies in half an hour.'
'Thanks.'
'Glad someone appreciates it.' Trueman jerked his head in the direction of Superintendent Uckfield's office. 'He's like a bear with a sore arse.'
'Don't you mean head?'
'And that judging by the amount of black coffee the super's putting away. It's DI Dennings who can't keep still.'
'I thought he was sick!' Horton said, surprised and annoyed. He didn't intend taking orders from Dennings, or playing second fiddle to the man. And neither did he intend being the DI stuck in the incident room overseeing the case; Sergeant Trueman was quite capable of that. If that was how it was going to be then he'd rather be in CID even if it did mean ploughing his way through DCI Bliss's new reporting system.
Trueman said, 'Dennings must have heard there was something going off. Doesn't want to miss his first big case.'
Bliss hadn't said anything about Dennings being back, but maybe she didn't know. He crossed to Uckfield's office, knocked once and pushed back the door. Immediately he saw that Trueman was right. Uckfield's eyes were bloodshot and his craggy face was grey.
Serve him right, Horton thought; that will teach him to go drinking with Catherine's boyfriend. Dennings didn't look too good either. His moon-like face was pale and his eyes red-rimmed and tired. Horton recalled what Cantelli had said about that film starring Paulette Goddard, and ghosts and zombies.
'Didn't expect to see you, Tony?' he said. 'You look like someone's just woken you up from a night out haunting.'
Dennings opened his mouth to reply but Uckfield got there first. 'I want you to follow up this taxi fare lead, Inspector, whilst Dennings collates things this end and liaises with Guernsey.'
Dennings face was solemn, but Horton could tell he was fuming. Like Horton, Dennings was an action man. Perhaps Uckfield thought Dennings still under par from his flu; he certainly looked it. Horton hoped the bastard wasn't gong to infect them all with his germs. It would be about all they'd ever get from Dennings, he thought cynically. He was notoriously tight-fisted.
But it wasn't like the superintendent to be considerate and it puzzled Horton. There was no time to dwell on it or discuss the matter though, because Uckfield rose and swept out of his office, leaving them to trail in his wake. The incident room immediately fell silent as Uckfield entered it. Horton looked for Cantelli but couldn't see him. Perhaps he was in the CID office.
Uckfield didn't have much to say, mainly because there was so little information. Guernsey were picking away at Brundall's past and still trying to locate a relative. They were hoping to find some papers in Brundall's house that would tell them more about him. Horton hoped so too.
Trueman had arranged for the mobile incident unit to be set up in Horsea Marina car park in case anyone remembered seeing Brundall or his visitor. And Uckfield ordered a team to go into the marina to question the businesses there.
Half an hour later, with still no sign of Cantelli or a message from him, which wasn't like the sergeant, Horton was glad to head out of the station into a clear morning with no trace of fog. It had a crisp bite to it, making it feel more seasonal. He felt rather foolish and annoyed with himself when he remembered his fears last night.
Trueman had given him the address of Acme Taxis but it still took him a few minutes to locate it in a side street just off the main thoroughfare.
A beanpole of a woman in her forties, with short blonde hair, and a sharp pointed face, looked up as he entered.
'Won't be a moment, luv.' She talked into a mouthpiece and tapped information into a computer. Horton heard her send a car to pick up someone from Southampton Parkway railway station. 'Now what can I do for you, dear?'
Horton showed his ID. 'One of your cars collected a fare yesterday morning at about eleven thirty a.m. and drove him to Horsea Marina. I'd like to talk to the cab driver.' Horton had calculated the time. On average, and outside rush hour, it took half an hour to travel from Eastleigh to Horsea Marina and Avril said she had spoken to the man just before midday.
The woman consulted her computer screen. 'That was Peter Kingston. He's on a run at the moment. He'll be back in about ten minutes.'
'Any idea who the fare was?' She checked her computer as Horton stared impatiently around the cramped office with its faded and worn armchairs, coffee machine and newspapers scattered on a low table. He only had to wait ten minutes for Kingston to show, yet that already felt ten minutes too long. You've got time, he told himself, this is no race. Why then did he feel it was important to act swiftly? It wasn't just because DI Dennings had returned to work either. No, there was more to this than feelings of rivalry and professional jealousy. What though? That was the question, and one he couldn't put his finger on. It was bloody irritating to say the least.
'The fare paid cash. I've no idea who he was.'
Damn. Horton could have traced a credit or debit card payment or a cheque.
There was nothing for it but to wait until Kingston showed up. When he did, he was a small barrel of a man in his late fifties, with thinning white hair stretched across his egg shaped head. Horton felt like a giant beside him. He didn't want to question him in front of the woman, and suggested they step outside.
Kingston went one further. 'I'm off the run now. How about a coffee? There's a cafe three doors down on the right. I'll just sign out and meet you there. You can order me a bacon sandwich.'
It was the all-day-breakfast type with steamed-up windows, a good old-fashioned clanging bell above the door and a portly unshaven man behind a tall counter wearing an overall that looked as though it had been rescued off the rubbish tip. Health and safety would have closed this place down, if they ever got within sniffing distance, but clearly its customers loved it. It was crowded.