Peter Lovesey - The Headhunters

‘I’m wetting my pants over this.’

‘Believe me, if it doesn’t hurt him where it matters, in his pocket, your Mr Cartwright is going to forgive and forget and Fiona will be sitting at your desk before the end of the year. Be strong, Gem.’

Gemma’s way of being strong was to bite her lip and flap her hand in front of her face, and Jo felt her own confidence falter, in spite of all she’d said. She’d set this up and people’s careers were at risk. Someone was going to suffer, whatever the justification for the thing.

Jo changed the subject. ‘How are you and Rick getting on? Have you been out with him again?’

‘A couple of times,’ Gemma said. ‘The lad is shaping up. We’ve got the same taste in films, which is good. But we haven’t had sex yet, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘D’you mind? I wouldn’t be so nosy.’

‘Did you sleep with him when you two were going out?’

Jo smiled. ‘I see. It’s all right to ask me. As a matter of fact, I didn’t. Things got a bit physical, if you get me, but I wasn’t ready for the main course.’

‘I bet he was.’

‘Possibly, but it takes two.’

‘He behaved like a gent, then? Adjusted his dress and wished you a polite good evening?’

‘Something like that.’

‘I don’t plan on telling him about my war with Fiona,’ Gemma said. ‘That’s between you and me, right?’

‘Fine.’

‘I know I can trust you not to blurt it out. Can’t count on Rick keeping it to himself. Know what I mean?’

‘Understood.’

‘I’ve nothing against him. He’s fun to be with, but I’ve got to keep this schtum. I mean, it doesn’t reflect very well on me. I don’t mind you knowing because it was all your idea.’

‘As you keep reminding me.’

‘That’s me accounted for, then,’ Gemma said. ‘How about you and old motormouth? Are you two an item yet?’

‘Hardly.’ Jo felt the colour rise. ‘Where did you get that idea?’

‘Come on, babe, it’s obvious you fancy him something wicked. Look at you now, a poinsettia in full bloom.’

‘You’re so wrong.’

‘Don’t mind me. Just because I call him names it doesn’t mean a thing. I’m always slagging off blokes. It’s a sport. You’ve got to make the first move, you know. He’s chronically shy. If you wait for him to ask, you’ll still be waiting when you get your bus pass. Fix a time and place and tell him to be there.’

Jo didn’t enlighten her about Selsey. ‘He isn’t interested.’

‘Bet he is. Want me to find out?’

‘No,’ Jo said sharply. ‘Absolutely not.’

‘Look at the state you’re in. Simmer down, babe. You’ve got it bad, haven’t you? All right, do it your way. I won’t interfere.’

‘You’ve got this all wrong.’

‘I’m sure. Be funny, wouldn’t it, if we swapped blokes?’

‘Oh, hilarious,’ Jo said.

Back home the light was winking on the answerphone. She pressed it before taking off her coat. The voice was not Jake’s. It was female. And familiar.

‘Miss Stevens? Hen Mallin-DCI Mallin. We spoke the other day. Give me a call directly you get back, would you?’ She gave the number.

What did they want now? Jo hung up her coat and looked at the mail. Junk, all of it. Nothing with a local postmark.

She went back to the phone.

‘Thank you for calling in, my dear,’ Hen Mallin said, all sweetness and light now. ‘I’ve got a favour to ask. When you told us about finding the body at Selsey you mentioned seeing a couple of men.’

‘Did I?’

‘The one in the tracksuit and the one with the dog. What I’d like is for you to see if you can recognise the jogger.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Pick him out from a line-up. An identification parade.’

Jo gasped and her mouth went dry. ‘I don’t think so. I didn’t see him well enough for that.’

‘When you get a proper look at him again, you might find it refreshes your memory. No pressure. It’s all done through one-way glass and you get a cup of tea if you want.’

‘But the people I saw just happened to be out for a walk that morning like me. They weren’t acting suspiciously or anything.’

‘Understood. They’re probably innocent, but we do need to eliminate them from our enquiry, and only you can help. I’ll send a car. It will take a couple of hours to set this up. We’ll pick you up about four-thirty.’

How could she refuse? She wished she’d left that beach without reporting what she’d found. You just don’t know what it will lead to when you help the police.

She was still trying to think of a get-out when the police car drew up outside the flat. She hated the idea of fingering someone who might be innocent.

They’d sent a chatty policewoman to fetch her. She was worse than some taxidrivers, on about the government and public sector pay rates and the price of housing and the problems of immigration. When Jo stepped out of the car in the police station yard she scattered umpteen shreds of paper tissue on the ground. She hadn’t noticed herself doing it.

Hen Mallin greeted her like an old friend and took her upstairs. ‘I won’t be at your side, I’m afraid,’ she said, as if that would disappoint. ‘The rules require that you’re taken in by an identification officer who isn’t on the investigation.’

‘I’ve given this a lot of thought-’ Jo started to say.

‘Not a good idea,’ Hen said. ‘Relax. You’ll know at once if you recognise the guy. The eyes have it, as they say-much better than trying to remember.’

‘I don’t want to do it.’

‘No one ever does. Look at it this way. It’s better than a visit to the mortuary. We’re not asking you to identify the corpse.’

There seemed to be no option. Hen introduced her to Sergeant Malcolm, a young man looking more anxious than Jo was. ‘My first time,’ he said.

‘Mine, too.’

‘There’s a gentleman in there already. He’s a solicitor. It’s important this is done properly or he’ll be down on me like the proverbial ton of bricks. The parade is also being videoed. When we go in you’ll be shown nine men, including the suspect.’

‘Suspect?’ Jo said. ‘Have you arrested someone?’

‘That’s the whole point of this.’

‘Then I don’t want to do it. Definitely.’

‘You can’t back out now,’ Sergeant Malcolm said in alarm. ‘All these people have given up their time. The solicitor came in specially. It isn’t scary at all, not for you. They can’t see you.’

‘What if I don’t recognise any of them?’

‘Not your problem. You’ll help me, won’t you, miss?’

‘If I must.’

‘Each of them has a number. When you identify anyone, you just say the number. But please take a really good look at each of them. Walk along the line twice, at least, and take as much time as you want. Ready?’ He opened a door.

It was almost dark in there. She was aware of a man in a suit standing at the opposite end, and someone with a camera. Then some lights came on and the area to her right was revealed through glass.

Her stomach lurched. She was facing a row of nine men, and the third one in was Jake.

Her eyes misted over. She blinked several times. She wasn’t mistaken.

‘You’re supposed to walk the line, miss,’ Sergeant Malcolm said.

Confused emotions bombarded her. Jake looked dreadful, as if he hadn’t slept for two days. He seemed to be dressed to make him an object of ridicule, in a skimpy grey fleece zipped to his throat and black tracksuit trousers that didn’t even reach to his socks. She wanted to speak to him, but they were divided by soundproof one-way glass.

‘Take a good look at each one.’