Suffocating Sea by Pauline Rowson Page A

necessarily, thought Horton, considering his own tiny yacht; that certainly wasn’t any millionaire’s pad. But the old man had given him a wealth of information, much of which he would be able to check, if he wanted to, though he didn’t see why he should and where it would take him except to that connection with Brundall. If , of course, Mr Gutner had really seen him here; his eyesight might not be a hundred per cent.
    ‘Do you know where the Reverend Gilmore lived before he came here?’ Horton asked.
    The old man eyed him keenly. ‘You’re a copper, aren’t you?’
    ‘Does it show?’ Horton smiled. He liked Gutner. Policemen can never ask questions casually, it seemed. This man was no fool.
    ‘Can smell them a mile away, even if they’re wearing leathers. You undercover?’
    ‘No, just riding a Harley.’
    ‘Saw it outside, nice bike. Hope it’s still there when you leave.’
    ‘So do I.’ Horton returned the old man’s smile. ‘How come you know I’m a policeman, apart from the smell?’
    ‘Because no one asks that many questions about someone they don’t know, in a church that’s off the beaten track, in a hole like this. Oh, and my wife phoned me on my mobile to say a handsome young copper in leathers was looking for me.’
    Horton laughed. There didn’t seem much that got past Kenneth Gutner.
    ‘Besides I knew that sooner or later one of you lot would wake up to the fact that the Reverend’s death was no accident, or a natural one.’
    The laughter died in Horton’s throat and the smile vanished in an instant. A chilling suspicion began to form in his mind.
    He tried to tell himself that the old man must be exaggerating, or that he was upset and needed someone to blame, but deep inside him he knew that wasn’t the case. Half afraid of where this might lead him, he said, ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I used to be an ambulance man and I’ve seen a lot of deaths in my time including stroke victims, and I’m telling you that weren’t no stroke the Reverend Gilmore had.’
    Horton didn’t like the sound of this. He eyed Gutner closely.
    Others might have dismissed the elderly man as being senile, but Horton wasn’t that rash or stupid. His copper’s antenna was radiating like it had just been struck by lightning.

    ‘What happened, Mr Gutner?’
    Gutner eyed him sharply for a couple of seconds, seemed to like what he saw and nodded. ‘Reverend Gilmore had only just started to welcome the congregation to the Candlelight Christmas Service when I could see that he was having trouble getting the words out. His mouth was moving but the words sort of got stuck. And before you say that’s what happens when you have a stroke, I know it does but not like this. A stroke victim doesn’t have convulsions and Gilmore convulsed before he collapsed. I rushed down to help. I was playing the organ as usual that night. There was a crowd around him by the time I got to him. I pushed them aside. His breathing was all wrong. I shouted for someone to call the ambulance and spoke to Gilmore gentle like until they arrived. An hour later he was dead.’ There were tears in the old man’s eyes.
    Horton thought he could hear the church creaking and groaning as if in sympathy with Gutner’s words. One part of him said, the old man is mad; it was a natural death. And yet Horton’s instincts were screaming the opposite. Why had Gilmore written Horsea Marina on his blotter? Why had Brundall come here? And why had both men died on the same night?
    ‘What time was this?’
    ‘The service started at six o’clock with a procession of adults and kiddies holding candles as they walked to their seats. The candles were extinguished, the congregation sat and the Reverend began the service at about six thirty. He was taken to hospital just on seven o’clock. The verger stepped in after that and we carried on with our worship, but nobody’s heart was in it.’
    The fire on Brundall’s boat had started at seven thirty,