The Headhunters (12 page)

‘Unlikely,’ Jo said. ‘She was trained in accountancy, you told me. He’s a geologist.’

‘Yes, and he gets his rocks off by drowning women.’

‘Oh, come on!’

‘It’s worth investigating. I may have a word in that inspector’s ear if she comes by again.’

‘Do that,’ Jo said, deciding to humour her.

‘I’d better go and put on some face. I’m meeting the gorgeous Rick tonight.’

‘It’s still on, then?’

‘Bubbling nicely. We had a slight falling-out over this woman he sees on Sundays, but we’re over it now.’

‘Sally.’

‘I call her his dinner lady, which irks him a bit, because she’s posh and very rich. Lives in a mansion overlooking the harbour at Bosham. It’s got a studio, a games room, and an indoor pool. I wondered why he was wasting his time with me until I found out Sally’s fifty-three.’

‘As old as that? I didn’t know.’

‘A mother-figure, you see. Some men have a lifelong need for them.’

‘He won’t get much mothering from you.’

‘Christ, no. And how’s yours?’

‘Mine? You mean Jake? I still like him, yes.’

‘Cool. Why don’t we all meet for a drink tonight, mend some fences?’

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘Just for an hour. We don’t have to spend the whole evening together. Rick and me are going clubbing, anyway, and that’s not Jake’s style. You two could go bowling after. He likes that. But it’s not for me to organise your evening. Let’s say we’ll be in the Slug & Lettuce between seven and eight and we’ll look out for you guys.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Go on. Give it a whirl. Jake won’t mind. I’ll call him if you like.’

‘No. Don’t.’ To fend off that possibility, Jo said, ‘If we can get there, we will, but don’t wait around.’ The right moment, she thought, to end the call. ‘Thanks for phoning, Gem. I don’t believe half of what you say, but you always cheer me up.’

After putting down the phone, she shook her head and smiled at the riot of fantasy she’d just heard. A lecturer not only drowns his alcoholic—or insane, or depressed—wife while skinny dipping, but is confirmed as a serial killer by drowning Fiona as well. All of this while he’s attending a conference in St Petersburg.

INSIDE THE terraced house Jake rented in Selsey, Hen Mallin picked a lump of stone off the top of a bookcase. ‘Tell me about this, Jake.’ She’d learned at the first interview that she’d get more out of the man when he relaxed a bit. The rocks on display weren’t things of beauty, so they had to hold some other appeal for their owner. ‘Looks to me like an oyster.’

He emitted a long, tense breath. Even in his own setting he was stumped for words.

Jake may have preferred to move on. Hen didn’t. ‘It’s not shell any more. It’s rock, so this is a fossil, yes?’

A definite nod this time.

She exchanged a glance with Stella, then pressed Jake harder. ‘You’re going to have to help me here. I suppose it has a Latin name?’

‘Gryphaea.’

‘Cop that, Stell. And it’s special, obviously. Very old?’

‘Hundred and fifty.’

‘Thou?’

A shake of the head.

‘Million? Hundred and fifty million? That’s prehistoric.’ She tossed it across the room to Stella, who made a one-handed catch. ‘Have you handled anything as ancient as that, Stell, not counting that sandwich in the police canteen today? And it looks just like a modern oyster to me.’

‘Me, too,’ Stella said. ‘Except this is a Gry—?’

‘—phaea,’ Jake said and volunteered something else. ‘Extinct.’

Now that he’d broken cover, he had to be pursued. ‘Ah,’ Hen said, ‘but it takes an expert to tell the difference. How can you tell it isn’t a common or garden oyster, a mere ten thousand years old?’

‘Thicker,’ he was moved to say. He retrieved the fossil from Stella and returned it to the bookcase. ‘The valve is thicker. In folklore . . . ’ His voice trailed off, as if he suddenly realised he’d been manoevured into uttering more than a couple of words.

‘Go on, Jake. We’re listening.’

‘In folklore these are devil’s toenails.’

‘So this innocent-looking oyster gets a bad name. I guess devil’s toenails are easier to remember than Gry— whatever.’ She eyed the rest of the exhibits, thinking there wouldn’t be much mileage in them. They were uninspiring. She wouldn’t have minded insects in amber or sharks’ teeth. These were plain old rocks, even if they had Latin names like the extinct oyster.

He was shaping to say something else.

‘Go on,’ she encouraged him. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘Good for arthritis.’

‘Are they, by all that’s wonderful? But how do you take them? Not swallowed, surely?’

‘Grind them to powder.’

‘When my joints start giving me gyp, I’ll know where to come. You’re an authority, obviously.’

‘Amateur.’

‘Shall we talk about the reason you texted me?’ she said, deciding that the confidence-giving had run its course. ‘You say you know the dead woman, Meredith Sentinel.’

‘Met her, yes.’

‘Well,
there’s
a thing. You’re pulled in for questioning for being close to the scene and having a record and now it turns out the victim is known to you.’

‘Coincidence,’ Jake said, reddening.

‘Really? Let’s look into that. Where did you meet?’

‘Natural History Museum.’

‘London? You visited there?’

‘A few times.’

‘I get the connection, I think. Mrs Sentinel had a part-time job in the fossil department. Not such a thumping great coincidence, then. Showing her some of your specimens, were you?’

He shook his head. ‘Looking at theirs.’

‘Did you meet Mrs Sentinel outside the museum?’

The question startled him. ‘No.’

‘But you knew her by name?’

‘She introduced herself.’

‘Bully for you. Pretty woman, wasn’t she, Jake?’

He didn’t answer that.

‘I thought we might agree on that,’ Hen said. ‘Most guys like a good-looking blonde. She must have made an impression, for you to remember her. How did you find out she was the dead woman on the beach? Saw her picture on TV?’

‘Radio.’

‘I follow you . . . I think. You recognised the name and decided to tell all before we kicked your front door in. Wise move, Jake.’

He lifted his shoulders a fraction.

‘Where were you when you heard this news?’

‘With a friend.’

‘I said where, not who with.’

‘Chichester.’

‘How long was it before you texted?’

‘Immediately.’

‘Aside from the discussions you and Meredith had about fossils, did you get to know the lady at all? Was she friendly?’

The inevitable nod.

Hen was annoyed with herself. She needed to phrase her questions better to get a response. ‘What did you learn about her life outside the museum?’

‘She cared.’

‘Cared about you?’

‘The rainforests.’

‘Conservation? She shared your opinions, then?’ She saved herself from another nod by saying, ‘You don’t need to answer that. I’m thinking aloud. I’m interested in where you talked about such matters. Must have been difficult in the fossil gallery, or whatever it’s known as.’

‘Over coffee in the restaurant.’

‘Ah—it got as friendly as that? I’m getting the picture now. And what did she have to say about personal matters?’

He frowned.

‘Like life at home?’ Hen prompted him.

‘Not much.’

‘But there was something?’

‘Her husband wasn’t in—’ The statement stopped there.

‘Are you saying you went to the house, Jake?’

‘No.’ He backtracked. ‘Wasn’t in agreement.’

‘With what?’

‘Climate change. He said it was cyclical.’

‘Right,’ she said, the disappointment obvious in her tone. She didn’t want to get into a debate on global warming. ‘Did she at any point talk about coming to Selsey?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t invite her down to see your fossils or go looking for them on the beach?’

Another shake of the head.

‘We don’t know why she was here and neither does her husband. Fossil-hunting seems as likely a reason as any. Do you have any suggestions? No? I wasn’t expecting any, but I had to ask.’

His small living room was pretty basic, emulsioned in the uni- versal off-white called magnolia, with a patch of blue carpet over brown-stained boards. Three-piece suite, vintage 1970, portable TV, bookcase stacked mainly with maps and magazines, coffee table with a bunch of Fair Trade bananas still in their wrapper. A Vernon Ward on the wall of wildfowl flying over water. Not a family photo in sight.

‘How long have you been living here?’

‘Four, five years.’

‘Get on with the neighbours, do you?’

‘No problems.’

‘Do you get out much?’

‘Got an outside job.’

‘Yes, but do you have a social life? Know what I mean?’

He lowered his eyes as if his large feet held the answer. Finally he said, ‘I’m okay.’

IN THE car, Stella said, ‘Am I missing something here, guv?’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘You don’t think we should pull him in?’

‘Why, do you?’

‘He’s our only suspect apart from the jogger we haven’t traced. And this links him to the victim.’

‘It was a voluntary statement.’

‘I know that, guv. If he’s our man, he’s made a smart move. We would soon have made the link. I happen to think he’s a whole lot brighter than we take him for. He can’t string six words together at a time, but when he does say anything, it’s measured.’

‘I don’t underrate him,’ Hen said. ‘He’s holding down a responsible job. The problem is that the custody clock starts ticking and what do we get out of him? We’ve been over his movements in the hours leading up to the murder. He isn’t fireproof, but any connection is circumstantial.’

‘This link to the victim has some clout, surely?’

‘Not enough to make a charge stand up. Next time I don’t want him to walk away.’

‘So you rate him as the killer?’

Hen tossed it back. ‘Do you?’

‘I was trained to look for motive, means, and opportunity. He had the means to hold her under. He’s a big, strong guy. He had the opportunity. She came to Selsey knowing he lived here. He takes her down to the beach on a fossil hunt. But what would have been his motive?’

‘The visit turned sour,’ Hen said. ‘He’s an ex-con trying to hide his past. Maybe she got wind of it and he panicked and attacked her. Or she told him his fossils are a heap of rubbish.’

‘She was supposed to be a charmer,’ Stella said. ‘I can’t see her treating him like that.’

‘All right. Here’s another angle. She was the first woman who’d agreed to go out with him in five or six years.’

‘She was married, guv.’

‘Yes, and we’ve both seen what the husband is like. Would you stay loyal to a self-regarding berk like Austen Sentinel? You’d find it a strain.’

‘To say the least.’

‘Let’s say Meredith was tempted to play away. She had interests in common with Jake and he was the opposite of her old man, the strong, silent type. But it turned out he wasn’t up for it. He was thinking fossils while she was thinking sex.’

‘Or the reverse.’

Hen frowned, thought about it and gave a nod. ‘I guess. Either way, there’s a fatal moment of discovery. He’s big and strong and violent in a crisis. All the frustrations of the past erupt in him. He grabs her and holds her under till she can’t struggle any more.’

‘I can believe that,’ Stella said.

‘I’ve only got one problem with it,’ Hen said.

‘What’s that?’

‘How come you and I just went to and his house and felt so safe with him?’

eleven

ON THEIR RETURN TO Chichester police station, Hen and Stella were met inside the entrance by DC Gary Pearce looking like the wildebeeste who couldn’t work out why the rest of the herd had bolted.

‘Something up, sunshine?’ Hen asked.

‘Don’t know, guv. The ACC was asking for you.’

‘The main man? What time is it? He’ll have left by now.’

‘I don’t think so. It sounded urgent,’ Gary said.

‘Got to be. I hope you told him I was out seeing a witness.’

‘I said you’d left the building, anyway.’

‘Oh, thanks a bunch.’

‘Not long after, he came downstairs.’

‘Got up from his chair to come looking for me? That’s a first.’

‘He asked me to call you.’

‘What stopped you?’

‘I tried. I kept trying.’ He shot her an apprehensive glance. ‘Is it possible your phone was switched off?’

‘When was this?’

‘Twenty minutes ago.’

‘Ten past six. It could have been. We were dealing with an incident, weren’t we, Stell? Did he say what the flap is about?’

‘No, but he wants to see you the minute you return.’

‘I’d better give him the pleasure, then.’

Stella waited until Hen was out of earshot and then told Gary, ‘The incident was a shortage of cigarillos. We had to find a pub that sold them. You did good, Gary.’

JUST WHEN she was resigned to not hearing anything, Jo’s mobile sounded and it was Jake. ‘Me again.’ His voice was strong. ‘I thought I’d better call.’

‘You sound okay,’ she said.

‘I am. It’s all right.’

‘It’s great to hear from you,’ she said. ‘I was spooked when I saw the police car. Are you at home?’

‘Actually, no. On the bus to Chichester. There was a message from Gemma about meeting in the Slug and Lettuce.’

That Gemma! Bloody nerve. ‘Was there indeed?’

‘You’re going to be there, aren’t you?’ Now the anxious note returned to his voice. ‘Gemma said you would.’

‘Em, of course. You bet I am.’

‘We don’t have to . . . ’

‘Spend the whole evening with them? No. That’s for sure.’

‘See you soon, then?’

‘Quick as I can make it.’

WHEN HEN came back from the ACC’s office, something had changed. She seemed smaller, less jaunty, more thoughtful. ‘Going outside for a smoke,’ she said. ‘No one is to leave. Mother Hen will address you shortly.’

There were some puzzled looks. ‘Trouble?’ one of the newest detectives said.

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Stella said.

Gary said, ‘Do you reckon she’ll be quick? I was hoping to go off duty. Pompey have an evening match.’

‘I wouldn’t bank on it.’

But in five minutes the boss was back and some nicotine-assisted bounce was back as well. ‘Listen up, people. Things have moved on. Eighteen days after Meredith Sentinel’s body was found, another woman drowned. Why the hell didn’t we find out? You may well ask. Two reasons. First, it looked like an accident. Second, it wasn’t on our patch. It was at Emsworth, over the county border. The woman was floating face down in the water in the Mill Pond, that big stretch where all the swans are. Why am I telling you this? Because the post mortem report is out and the pathologist noticed some pressure marks on the back of her neck and shoulders suggesting she was held under.’

Someone whistled.

‘Just like ours,’ Stella said.

‘Fainter than ours,’ Hen said. ‘The marks, I mean. The victim was wearing clothes, but you can still see bruising. Up to now the post mortem report hasn’t been made public. The incident hasn’t had much publicity, a paragraph on an inside page of the local paper. Our case, as you know, has had plenty of attention. Hampshire Police knew all about it and got in touch this afternoon. The assumption is that the two drownings are connected, that we have a double killing. Clearly it calls for cooperation across the county border. Seeing that our investigation is already under way, Hampshire have agreed to me being SIO in both cases. We’ll have two or three of their detectives on the team, but basically it’s our show. A double murder—unless it’s Sod’s Law that two similar drownings happened within twenty miles of each other.’

‘Sod’s Law?’ Gary Pearce queried softly.

‘Something that can go wrong will go wrong,’ the sergeant behind him said.

Hen had heard and said, ‘AKA Murphy’s law. Isn’t that right, Sergeant Murphy?’

‘Yes, guv,’ Paddy Murphy said, ‘but this should help us.’

‘Right. Good news and bad news,’ Hen said. ‘We’ve doubled our chance of learning something about the killer. But the bad news is that the pressure to make an arrest will more than double. The media will go bananas.’

‘A serial killer,’ Murphy said.

No one doubted this was how the press would portray the news, but Hen was a stickler for accuracy. ‘For my money, Paddy, a killer doesn’t rate as “serial” until he has at least three to his name. And before you tell me he could have killed in the past and no one spotted the signs, I’ve got a little job for you.’

DS Murphy gave a twisted grin, resigned to what was coming.

‘Check the drownings of all adult women in the past five years in Sussex, Hampshire, and adjacent counties. Accidental as well as homicidal. Get hold of the PM reports if you can. Anything remotely similar to these two cases, speak to the coroner.’

‘Do we change our focus now, guv?’ Stella asked.

‘In what way?’

‘I’ve spent a lot of time trying to establish if Dr Sentinel was in St Petersburg for the full three weeks he claimed. He’s unlikely to have killed this second woman as well.’

‘Let’s make no assumptions. How far have you got with the check?’

‘He definitely flew out on the day arranged and back three weeks later. The time between is less certain. He gave his lecture the first weekend. His hotel was paid for by the organisers. The hotel can’t or won’t tell me if his room was in use for the whole of his stay.’

‘Why not? The chambermaid must have noticed.’

‘I think they’re being cagey for their own reasons. If he was absent for some days they may not be entitled to claim full board from the conference people.’

‘God help us. It’s the same the world over—people on the make. Did you get the impression he wasn’t there?’

‘Something dodgy was going on. I’m not sure what.’

‘Keep at it, Stell. We need to know. Coming back to your question, we don’t change focus. Everyone in the frame remains there.’

Gary Pearce asked, ‘Do we know the identity of the Emsworth victim?’

‘Good question, and we do. She’s Fiona Halliday, aged twenty-four, and she couldn’t be more local. The house she rented faces onto the Mill Pond. She was found fifty yards from her front door. Everyone assumed it was an accident until the pathologist reported the marks.’

‘Who found her?’

‘Some old dear who feeds the swans. We can eliminate her as a suspect. Aged nearer to ninety than eighty, I’m told. The interesting thing about Fiona Halliday is that she went missing from work a week before she was found, and so did her boss, named Cartwright. I should explain that Fiona was divorced and had a four-year-old son.’

‘Poor kid.’

‘Yes. When the mother didn’t call in, some of the staff where she worked were worried that she’d collapsed or died and the boy was with her in the house. They’re a good bunch of people by the sound of things. They reported it and a patrol car was sent. The officers forced the door and took a look around. No sign of the child. It’s since been discovered that he was with the father by arrangement. His turn to have the boy for a week.’

‘Has Cartwright shown up yet?’

‘Not yet. Another mystery.’

‘Another victim, maybe?’ Stella said.

‘Or another suspect,’ Gary said.

‘What do we know about him?’ Stella asked.

‘Only what I’ve learned from the Emsworth police. He’s manager of the printing firm in Fishbourne where Fiona worked in accounts. The staff there had the impression he fancied Fiona. Last seen leaving the building with her mid-afternoon on the Friday. She was found six days later.’

‘We have to find this guy—and fast,’ Stella said. ‘Is he married?’

‘Divorced. Lives alone in Apuldram.’

‘Does he have form?’

‘Nothing known. But you’re right, and we’re putting out a description. We’ll need a warrant to search his house. That’s another job for you, Stell.’

‘Now, guv—at the weekend?’

‘You weren’t thinking of putting your feet up?’

‘It’s finding a magistrate to issue a warrant. Not easy on a Saturday night.’

‘Nonsense. They’ll be propping up the bar at the golf club. Droves of them. You need to be in Cartwright’s house tomorrow morning.’

‘I’ll get onto it.’

Hen knew she would. She could depend on Stella.

‘And we visit the print works and question the people there. That can’t be done till Monday, I guess. Right now I’m off to Emsworth to look at the scene and inside Fiona’s house. Gary.’

‘Guv?’ He looked as if the whistle had blown for a penalty against Pompey.

‘You can come with me.’

THE SLUG & Lettuce, in South Street, gets crowded on a Saturday night. The noise level is pretty high. But there was no problem hearing Gemma from the far side. ‘Over here, amigo.’

Jo went over. Rick and Gemma were sitting close together on the banquette opposite Jake, upright on a chair as if he was asking the bank manager for an overdraft. Something about Rick and Gem had changed. They gave the strong impression they had just shared a secret.

‘Check that outfit,’ Gemma said. ‘Doesn’t she look fabulous, Jake?’

A quick change after the phonecall, shimmery silver top over white leather skirt and ankle boots. Yes, it was dressy, but Jo could have done without the fanfare from Gemma.

Jake gave his customary nod.

‘Well, I know you’re a man of few words,’ Gemma said to him, ‘but you could show your appreciation by drumming on the table. She didn’t dress like that to please me or Rick.’

Jo said, ‘Gem, I’m sure you mean well, but do us all a favour and put the stopper in it. Who wants another drink? Don’t get up, anyone. My round.’ A tip she’d got from her canny father: always get your round in early. Then you can leave when you want with a clear conscience.

When Jo came back with the drinks Gemma was holding forth about some weird website she’d discovered. ‘It’s a bit like those African water holes where they have a camera rigged up permanently and anything coming to drink gets on the screen. If you’re patient and you get lucky you might see a lion. Well, this is outside a nightclub in Bristol, and you get to clock all the glam and glitz as people arrive. Of course you also get the bouncers turning away the troublemakers and the drunks coming out and the druggies dealing and the fights. Nonstop action.’

‘Who’d want to look at that?’ Rick said.

‘Maybe,’ Jake started to say, and everyone waited, ‘ . . . a lion.’

Bemused looks all round.

‘Nice one. Hey, I go for that,’ Rick said, and earned Jo’s approval. He’d remembered her appeal to be civil to Jake. ‘A lion with a computer.’

‘Surreal,’ Gemma said. ‘Comical, though, I must admit. I hope there isn’t a camera outside Jongleurs. I couldn’t get my hair right tonight. I wouldn’t want it on the world wide web.’

‘It looks fine to me,’ Jo said.

‘Liar. It’s like a cornfield a flock of sheep have been through. I can’t get anything right at the moment.’

‘Maybe you’re working too hard.’

‘Tell me about it!’

‘Any news of your boss coming back?’

‘Old Cartwright? He won’t be back.’

‘You sound very definite.’

‘I am. He’s history now.’

‘Wrong,’ Rick said. ‘He could be tomorrow’s news.’

‘I hope not,’ Gemma said. ‘That’s the last thing I want to hear. Ah!’ She started to giggle. ‘I get you. Tomorrow’s news. Wicked.’ She shook with laughter.

This was some kind of private joke between Gemma and Rick. Jake looked as mystified as Jo was.

‘Are you going to let us in on this?’ Jo said.

‘No chance,’ Rick said, so quickly that he almost cut her off.

‘Why not?’ Gemma said. ‘They were here when we first talked about it.’

‘They don’t need to know.’

‘Be like that. I think it was genius. Deserves to be appreciated.’

Rick didn’t want appreciation. He gave Gemma a look that could have drilled through concrete. ‘Let’s change the subject. Did you hear about the woman you found on the beach, Jo? She was American, married to some university lecturer.’

‘Yes, I heard on the radio.’

‘They’re London people. God knows what she was doing half-naked in Selsey.’

‘Being murdered,’ Gemma said.

‘Apart from that.’

‘Obviously she had a lover.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘Get with it, Rick. The husband was away at some conference, wasn’t he? We all know what conferences are for—tax-deductible sex. She thought she’d get a bit for herself.’

‘Who with—one of the locals?’ Jo said.

As always, Gemma had a whole storyline worked out. ‘I doubt if he was a Selsey guy. Some old flame of hers who lived in one of the grander places inland, like Arundel or Petworth. They meet up—the first time in years—and have a couple of drinks and at her suggestion he drives her down to the coast to look at the sea by moonlight, all Mills and Boon, she thinks, but he’s humouring her for old time’s sake. What she doesn’t realise is that she’s lost all the sex appeal she had and he’s lost the desire. When they get to the beach she starts coming onto him, flinging off her clothes. Jo, you and I know what blokes are like about their libido. They go in the sea for a midnight dip and she makes a grab for his popsicle. He panics, gets in a strop and pushes her under, simple as that.’