Pauline Rowson: The Suffocating Sea

'It is murder, isn't it?' Trueman said when Horton reached the incident suite. 'Because I'd hate to think I've stayed behind for the sheer bloody fun of it. I've got the number of that taxi firm by the way. They're based in Eastleigh.'

Horton's ears pricked up at that because Eastleigh was not far from Southampton airport and there were regular flights to and from Guernsey. Was the man in the suit who'd visited Brundall from the Channel Islands? It was a guess but Horton wouldn't mind betting that he was right.

He glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it was nearly ten o'clock. He reckoned Walters' girlfriend would have given him up for the night by now, unless she was truly smitten and that was hard to imagine when it came to the overweight, irritating and slovenly DC. Still, there was no accounting for taste, which made him think of his estranged wife's lover.

He reached for a telephone dialled the taxi company's number. He let it ring for some time, drumming his fingers on the desk, before he was finally forced to accept that this particular taxi firm didn't work all night, or even late at night, leastways not from the number Trueman had given him. Still, there was little he could do now but first thing tomorrow morning he'd head out there. Then he remembered that he wouldn't be on the investigation.

Cantelli threw himself down into the seat opposite Horton. 'Guernsey has called to confirm that a Tom Brundall is a resident there and that he owns a boat called Enterprise. He kept it in St Peter Port Marina.'

So Brundall existed, and owned the boat that had gone up in flames. It was a step forward, but it didn't necessarily mean that Brundall was their burnt offering.

'There's no previous on him,' Cantelli continued, 'but Guernsey is checking out what he did for a living. The marina manager says Brundall left St Peter Port on Monday morning but didn't tell them when he would be back. There's no answer at his home and the Guernsey police can't locate any relatives. Apparently Brundall lived in a ruddy great mansion near a place called Petit Bot Bay. Did I pronounce that right?'

'Near enough. It's on the south coast of Guernsey.' Horton recalled it well. He'd moored not far from there in nearby Portelet a couple of times, with Catherine and Emma, on Catherine's father's yacht in the days that now seemed just a distant memory.

'What about a photograph?' Horton asked.

It wouldn't help with any identification but it could be used for the all-ports alert. Though he no longer thought that was necessary, as everything was pointing to the fact that their body was Tom Brundall.

'They haven't found any inside his house.'

Unusual but not necessarily suspicious. Irritating nevertheless. More delays. It couldn't be helped, but Horton felt uneasy, as though there was an underlying urgency to this case. He pushed away the edge of his premonition as it threatened once again to rear its ugly head.

'You'd better shoot off home, Barney. There's not much point in us both hanging around. I doubt we'll get more tonight. I'll wait for Dr Clayton's initial report. Sorry you've had to work late.'

'Don't be. It saved me from late night Christmas shopping with Charlotte,' Cantelli replied, pulling a face.

That reminded Horton he needed to make some time to go shopping himself, though he had no idea what Emma wanted for Christmas. He would have to ask Charlotte; with four daughters he was sure Cantelli's wife would be able to help.

Horton loitered about the incident room occasionally glancing at the clock. He wrote the information that Cantelli had given him on to the crime board. He didn't need to stay because Dr Clayton could call him on his mobile, if she couldn't reach him at the station, but unlike Cantelli, Horton didn't have anything to go home too, and it was warmer in the police station than on his boat.

How could he take his eight-year-old daughter to a tiny, freezing-cold boat? Simple answer — he couldn't. But where could he take her? The pantomime? The zoo? The shops? He didn't fancy any of them but it was Emma's treat. And that was another thing that bugged him, he thought, gazing out of the window at the foggy night: he didn't want to be the kind of father who only gave his child treats like some benevolent uncle. He wanted to be a proper father. He'd missed out on having one himself and he was damn sure that Emma wasn't going to. He wanted to make a home for her; somewhere she could stay, and bring her friends, which ruled out his boat.

He fetched a coffee from the machine in the corner of the room and turned his mind back to the case. What had the man in the dark suit to do with the victim? Why had he visited the victim? Who was he? Why had Brundall come to Portsmouth? All questions and no answers, not yet, but he'd get them. No, correction, DI Dennings would.

'Inspector, call for you. Dr Clayton.'

At last!

'He was alive when the fire broke out,' Gaye said peremptorily. 'I found carbon monoxide in his blood and fine particles of soot in his lungs. It's my belief he was struck forcibly. His skull is fractured and there is inflammation near the injury and blistering which contains proteins.'

Horton's heart quickened. 'We're definitely looking at murder then.'

'Yes. And I can confirm by the size and shape of the wound that he was hit with something smallish and round, as I said before, possibly a hammer.'

And Horton doubted they'd find that.

Gaye continued, her voice solemn. Horton heard the weariness in it. 'There is something else. He had cancer. He was riddled with it; it was in his spine and in the tissue I found in his skull. He hadn't got long to live.'

Then why come all the way across the Channel to Portsmouth? Was it a journey of nostalgia? Had he come to see someone for the last time? Did he have some unfinished business to attend to? Or had he just wanted to get away? Perhaps he had hoped to die at sea, but then that still didn't answer why he ended up in Horsea Marina.

'Could a woman have struck him?'

'With his being weakened by his illness it wouldn't have needed a lot of strength. Yes, a woman could have done it especially if he was crouching down or bending over when he was struck.'

'Any joy with his fingerprints?' Horton asked hopefully.

'Not enough skin left on the fingers, so you'll have to wait for DNA. I'll let you have the full report tomorrow. I'm off to bed now. I'm bushed.'

Horton didn't know how she could sleep after dissecting that corpse, but then that was her job. She had obviously perfected a technique of mentally switching off, much as he'd had to learn over the last eighteen years in the police force. Only he knew it didn't always work — he doubted it would tonight.

He could call Uckfield to tell him about the post-mortem but then decided it would be better to discuss this with him face to face. The duty sergeant gave him the location of the superintendent's charity function and half an hour later Horton was turning into the crowded car park of the Marriott Hotel on the edge of the city.

He consulted the function board in reception and saw that Uckfield's dinner and dance was located in the main banqueting suite. He had hardly gone a few paces though when he spotted Uckfield sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with a broad-set balding man in his late forties whom Horton instantly recognized as Edward Shawford, his estranged wife's boyfriend.

Horton stiffened. If Shawford was here then Catherine must be too. Alison Uckfield and Catherine were close friends, and Horton guessed they'd come as a foursome. If it hadn't been for Operation Extra and those accusations of rape he would have been in this party instead of bloody Edward Shawford. But that was all in the past. And Jesus did it still hurt! And there was him thinking he was moving on!