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Authors: Pauline Rowson
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yesterday evening. I’ve been going through the things in his study and I’ve found some papers that refer to you. In the margin of one there is a note in Reverend Gilmore’s handwriting, which says, “Jennifer Horton’s boy”. I just wondered . . .’
Horton stared at the telephone with a mixture of incredulity and dismay. He didn’t want to think about the woman who had abandoned him. She was the past, dead and forgotten. Or rather she had been until now. The small voice at the back of his mind was urging him to ignore this. He should leave the past alone and tell the vicar to burn the papers, but he found himself saying, ‘Where are you?’
‘At the vicarage in Benton Close.’
He glanced at his watch. It was already seven thirty. He was off duty and there was nothing he could do on the Brundall case. Plenty to do in CID though, whispered a little voice.
Aloud he said, ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Five
It wasn’t what he had expected. The vicarage was one of twelve council houses set around a straggly and forlorn piece of greenery that couldn’t by any stretch of imagination be called grass. Horton parked the Harley outside the ugly semi-detached house typical of the 1960s and, as he gazed up at it, he wondered how the late Reverend Gilmore had known his mother. From his memory of her, he couldn’t see her being friendly with a vicar. Bookmakers and gamblers maybe, he thought with bitterness. And yet what did he really know about her? She had walked out on him one winter morning when he was ten. He hadn’t seen or heard of her since. He didn’t know if the police had investigated her disappearance, he hadn’t asked, and he had never made any enquiries himself.
Why should he? He’d had years, before joining the police, to fill with bitterness.
The vicarage gate squeaked as he pushed it open. He’d covered this patch as a constable and had been called to the area many times before, but he couldn’t remember a Reverend Gilmore, or this house. There was a Christmas tree in the window but without its lights shining it looked like someone who had arrived at the party wearing the wrong clothes.
The garden was overgrown and neglected like the house, which badly needed a lick of paint. Perhaps the church really had lost as much money as it purported to have done over the last sixteen years. He lifted his finger to press the bell. Before he could do so, however, the door swung open and a large, square-set, rather plain, middle-aged woman with short white hair and a dog collar smiled a little warily at him. Horton guessed she hadn’t expected a policeman on a motorbike dressed in black leathers.
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
Horton stared at the telephone with a mixture of incredulity and dismay. He didn’t want to think about the woman who had abandoned him. She was the past, dead and forgotten. Or rather she had been until now. The small voice at the back of his mind was urging him to ignore this. He should leave the past alone and tell the vicar to burn the papers, but he found himself saying, ‘Where are you?’
‘At the vicarage in Benton Close.’
He glanced at his watch. It was already seven thirty. He was off duty and there was nothing he could do on the Brundall case. Plenty to do in CID though, whispered a little voice.
Aloud he said, ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
Five
It wasn’t what he had expected. The vicarage was one of twelve council houses set around a straggly and forlorn piece of greenery that couldn’t by any stretch of imagination be called grass. Horton parked the Harley outside the ugly semi-detached house typical of the 1960s and, as he gazed up at it, he wondered how the late Reverend Gilmore had known his mother. From his memory of her, he couldn’t see her being friendly with a vicar. Bookmakers and gamblers maybe, he thought with bitterness. And yet what did he really know about her? She had walked out on him one winter morning when he was ten. He hadn’t seen or heard of her since. He didn’t know if the police had investigated her disappearance, he hadn’t asked, and he had never made any enquiries himself.
Why should he? He’d had years, before joining the police, to fill with bitterness.
The vicarage gate squeaked as he pushed it open. He’d covered this patch as a constable and had been called to the area many times before, but he couldn’t remember a Reverend Gilmore, or this house. There was a Christmas tree in the window but without its lights shining it looked like someone who had arrived at the party wearing the wrong clothes.
The garden was overgrown and neglected like the house, which badly needed a lick of paint. Perhaps the church really had lost as much money as it purported to have done over the last sixteen years. He lifted his finger to press the bell. Before he could do so, however, the door swung open and a large, square-set, rather plain, middle-aged woman with short white hair and a dog collar smiled a little warily at him. Horton guessed she hadn’t expected a policeman on a motorbike dressed in black leathers.
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
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